Chapter Forty
The heavy wooden doors of the clubhouse swung open, cutting through the thick layer of morning fog that clung to the compound. It had been three days since the disaster at the restaurant, three days since the last physical piece of Jake’s past had been dragged kicking and screaming out of the state line.
I stood behind the massive, scarred oak counter of the main bar, a damp rag tightly gripped in my hand.
The clubhouse was dead quiet at 8:00 AM. The sticky, stale smell of cheap beer, floor wax, and tobacco smoke from the night before hung heavy in the air. Sunlight cut through the high, dirt-streaked windows in long, pale beams, illuminating the dust motes dancing over the empty pool tables.
I took a deep breath, pressing the rag onto the wood and scrubbing a stubborn, d
