Here’s a project I’m working on (in all my spare time, ha!), a new romantic suspense series in the vein of my Smithson Group.
The last-call crowd in the Pitch and Roll was grating on Nate Elder’s last nerve. The dozen drunks were all one party and had been at it four hours at least. Someone’s birthday or some shit. He didn’t care. He poured the shots, mixed the drinks, filled the pitchers, took the money.
But he was ready for them to get out.
It was the noise. The voices. The girls screaming when laughing would do. The guys trying to one-up each other with loudly told tales and bullshit machismo. He didn’t know who they were trying to impress except each other. Not a one of them had the right-sized balls—Nate could tell—to survive a night on these streets. His streets. The grit. The grime. The gunshots.
Add to the human noise, the screech and boom of their music choices had clawed its way under his skin, burrowing deep, setting up an itch he couldn’t reach to scratch. His ears burned and echoed as if he’d had bullhorns suctioned to either side of his head. Usually, the tunes weren’t a bother. He enjoyed the bass slamming into him, the guitar stroking, the drums pounding.
Why the hell they had to drink here…
The Pitch and Roll had a rep for a lot of things, most of them not so good. But the burger baskets were almost better than a blowjob, even though they arrived with grease to harden more arteries than Viagra did dicks. The fries had gotten the place rated on Yelp. The reviews brought these uptown assholes to the hood for the food to go with their cold beer, loud music, and pool.
This bunch, however… They weren’t here to eat. A good thing since Junior had the night off and Nate wasn’t allowed near his grill. No, these assholes were slumming.
If they only knew…