Why does it always seem so much windier in Old Town than anywhere else in New Jersey? It even feels windier here than lower Manhattan, which is a feat. The way the wind often howls around the financial district, you’d think it was haunted.
I can’t believe I’m back in Old Town. When I got a job on Wall Street, I swore I’d never come back. The last time I set foot in Old Town was about six months ago, for my father’s
funeral. Six months before that, it was for my mother’s.
I told my brother, Jake, I’d only stay for two weeks tops. That’s every bit of vacation time I’ve earned to date. Then I’m going to back to Manhattan and back to my life in the city.
The last thing I want is to be a hick from the sticks again. I’ve worked too hard to rid myself of that stigma. I’m never going to be that guy again.
I’m an Ivy League graduate. I work on Wall Street. I have an apartment in lower Manhattan. I drive a BMW 6-Series convertible. And I’m well on my way to making my first million before I turn thirty, which is four years from now.
I’m not a country kid anymore.
And no matter what my brothers say, there’s no way in hell I’m ever going to be a Wilde Rider again. When I left home, I packed up my guitar and sealed away any musical aspirations I may have had right along with it. Being in a small town country band is fun when you’re a teenager but it doesn’t pay the bills and it certainly doesn’t pay for a Manhattan lifestyle.
Not unless you’re really good, and really lucky…and the Wilde Riders were neither.
I park my convertible on the street outside of Haymakers. It’s only eleven. The bar doesn’t open until noon. The only vehicle in the bar’s dirt lot is my brother Jake’s old Dodge Ram Pick Up. He’s been driving the thing since I left for college. I bet the vehicle has well over a
hundred thousand miles on it. The way it looks, like it’s on its last legs, you’d think it had double that amount.
Even though it’s late August, there’s a bit of a chill in the air. The wind feels wet, like it’s going to rain. I put the top up on my convertible just in case. It’s the first car I’ve ever owned that wasn’t a junker and I’m proud as hell of it.
My stomach tightens as I approach the front door of the bar. The last time I was here was the night after we laid my father to rest. His final wish was for all the regulars to have a drink on the house in his honor. I made a promise to myself that was the last time I was ever going to set foot in the place.
Yet here I am getting ready to walk back inside again. I made it clear to Jake that coming here to help him doesn’t mean I’m walking back into my old life. That’s a life that I’ve worked desperately to leave behind. But when Jake phoned, he sounded scared, which isn’t like him at all. He’s Mr. Carefree. Troubles slide off his back like syrup glides off pancakes.
I’m here because Jake asked for my help. He said he might lose the bar, everything our dad ever worked for, if I didn’t give him a hand.
Being the oldest, Jake followed in our dad’s footsteps. He was the gregarious one of the Wilde boys, so it only made sense that he’d take over and run the town’s one and only bar.
Jake has always been Mr. Personality. He’s great with people. But from the little he told me on the phone, he’s apparently not as great with money.
That’s where I come in. I guess having a degree in finance from Columbia and a job on Wall Street means that I’m like emergency services in a financial shit storm. I just hope it’s
not too late to fix whatever mess Jake has found himself in.
I inhale and let out a deep breath before I push open the large wooden doors.
The first thing I see when I enter the bar are pink cowboy boots. They’re apparently
attached to a female who is also wearing extremely tight black jeans. The rest of her body is hidden under a table. It looks like she’s trying to retrieve something.
I clear my throat so she realizes she’s not alone.
I hear a loud thump, followed by, “Oh, shit!”
As she extricates herself from below the table, the young woman rubs the side of her head.
It takes me a moment to realize that it’s Harley Davis. She looks a lot different than the little blond girl she was when I left home.
She stops dead in her tracks when she realizes it’s me. She gulps. “Coop?”
Harley has definitely grown up. She’s still thin but she’s not a tomboy anymore. She has curves in all the right places and full rack, which I’m having trouble keeping my eyes off
of.
“What are you doing here?” she asks, her blue eyes are filled with concern. “Is everything okay?”
“Yeah,” I lie. “What are you doing here?”
She laughs. “I work here now. Jake gave me a job.”
“Aren’t you still in high school?”
She rolls her eyes at me. “I graduated two years ago.”
How is it possible that little Harley Davis, the girl who has had a self-proclaimed crush on me since she was twelve, is now an adult?
“Cooper,” I hear my brother call from the other end of the bar.
As I head over to him, I take a good look at the place. Some things are exactly the same as when dad ran the place. The old wooden bar that my dad liked to brag he built with his father hasn’t changed. And neither have the matching wooden bar stools. Even some of the liquor bottles behind the bar are dusty and don’t look like they’ve been touched in years.
There are also brand new tables and chairs scattered throughout the place. And what looks like a semi-professional stage has been installed for whatever band decides to play
on Friday and Saturday nights. Back in the days when I played with my brothers in the Wilde Riders we’d just move a few tables out of the way to set up our gear. This new performance area looks expensive.
I put a hand out for Jake to shake but he pulls me in for a hug instead. I’ve seen my oldest brother twice in the last year—at our parents’ funerals. He refuses to set foot in the city
and I refused to come back to Old Town, so it’s been kind of a stale mate.
Jake is two years older than me but he still looks like my younger brother. Maybe it’s his boyish round face or the glint of mischief he always seems to have in his eyes. Or it could
just be because he’s always been such an easy-going and carefree guy that the stress of life
hasn’t managed to age him yet.
Today Jake looks a lot less carefree than I’ve ever seen him. He’s got a few deep creases in his forehead that I’ve never noticed before.
“Thanks for coming,” Jake says. “I know how you feel about being here.”
I don’t think he has any idea how I feel about being here. He’s never left rural New Jersey—he’s never lived anywhere but Old Town.
“So, what’s up?” I ask. I’m not much for small talk. I’d rather get down to business.
He eyes Harley and then says quietly, “I think we should talk in my office.”
I nod and we head toward the back of the place, near the kitchen area, into what used to be a storage closet. Jake has set up a small desk with a computer, monitor and printer.
That’s about all that will fit in the cramped space. Jake sits on the edge of the desk and motions for me to take the chair.
“I’d rather stand. It was a long drive out here.”
Jake runs his fingers through his thick brown hair. It’s shaggy and looks like it hasn’t
been trimmed in a while. “I really messed things up,” he says.
Jake has never had a problem speaking his mind. Sometimes he may be a bit too blunt.
“Can you be a little more specific?”
He bites the inside of his cheek. It was a bad habit he had as a kid. Mom hated it and would tell him to quit doing it whenever she caught him. I thought he’d gotten over it years ago.
“You know Mom always kept the books for Haymakers. I didn’t know how much Dad
depended on her until she died. He had no idea how to handle any of the accounting for the
business. I guess Mom tried to teach him about accounts payable and receivable and all that stuff but it just didn’t sink in. Plus, I think he was kind of in denial that she was actually dying.
Anyway, things started to fall apart but he was too proud to ask for help. I inherited a mess that I’ve made even worse because I don’t know what I’m doing either.”
I take in a deep breath. My mom died almost a year ago and my dad died six months ago. If the finances have been deteriorating for a year, things could potentially be in really bad shape.
He opens the top drawer of the desk and pulls out a certified envelope. Anything sent certified mail usually isn’t good news.
He hands me the letter. It’s from H & C Bank. “I thought Dad had the place paid off,” I say as I take the letter from Jake’s hand.
“He took out a loan for some improvements. We needed a new roof and he put in new tables and the stage area.”
“Why did he need a new stage?” I ask. I know I probably sound bitter but I don’t care. “Did you talk him into it?”
My brother always had dreams of being a country singer. He’s got a great voice and a lot of musical talent but he never had the drive or ambition to make his dream a reality.
Because Jake was the most like my dad, and his first born, my dad would have done anything to make Jake happy.
“It wasn’t me,” Jake insists.
I glare at him.
“Okay, it wasn’t just me,” he admits. “Dad felt like he was losing business because of the competition. Some of the new places that have opened up recently have live bands every
weekend. And not just bands like Wilde Riders—bands with CDs and deals with real record
labels on actual tours.”
“I didn’t see any new bars when I drove through town.”
“Not in Old Town. In some of the other towns around the county. They’ve been drawing some big name groups. Dad felt like he needed to do something to attract a younger
crowd.”
“Are you still playing?” I ask.
Jake shrugs. “Off and on. You know it’s never been the same without you. We keep trying to find a guitar player that’s even half as good as you and it still hasn’t happened. We lost
another one last week.”
“That’s too bad.”
“Now that you’re back in town, maybe—”
I cut Jake off. “I’m back in town to help you get this straightened out.” I hold up the letter. “I’m not back for any other reason. And I’m definitely not back to play with the Wilde
Riders again.”
“We sounded really good the last time we played.”
“That was a onetime thing. I did it for Dad.”
Jake throws up his hands. “Okay, I get it. You don’t want to be part of the band. I can respect that.”
“And we’ve got bigger problems,” I say as I open the letter.
My heart sinks when I read the contents. Things really are as bad as I imagined.
Chapter Two
Riley
I can’t believe I have to make a trip to New Jersey. And rural New Jersey to boot.
Would someone just shoot me now and put me out of my misery?
“Riley!” I hear a voice yell from behind me. It’s a voice I recognize and don’t really want to deal with right now. I contemplate speeding up my pace but I have a feeling Patti will
just quicken her stride to catch up to me so what’s the point?
Patti is almost breathless when she finally manages to grab my elbow. “Where are you going so fast?”
I can’t believe she’s been running in Jimmy Choos and a business suit. Patti is 5 feet 9 inches and towers over me. She probably could have been a model with her gorgeous
blond hair and flawless complexion. I’m petite with dark hair and eyes to match. We’re almost complete opposites in the looks department. And probably every other department if the truth be told.
“New Jersey.” I spit. I know I sound bitter but I can hardly contain my contempt for the state. Well, maybe not the entire state. I’ll give Atlantic City a pass but only because you can get drunk and gamble and it doesn’t require a plane flight like Las Vegas.
Patti and I work together at H &C Bank but we’ve known each other for years.
We were college roommates. I don’t have siblings so Patti is the closest thing I’ve ever had to a sister.
Patti frowns. “Why are you going to Jersey?” The way she says Jersey makes it sounds like I’m going to garbage dump or a toxic waste site. Those options might be a few steps
up from a trip to rural New Jersey.
“I have to conduct a fraud investigation on a business loan. It shouldn’t take very long.” Oh, God, I hope it doesn’t. “I plan to be back tonight.”
Patti smiles. “Good because we’ve got a double date.”
“With who?” I sigh. Patti manages to fix me up with worst guys in the city. I don’t know how she does it. They’re all Wall Street wannabes and the only things they talk about are
their 6 Series BWMs and the first million they’re going to make before they turn thirty. Most of them are so impressed with themselves they’re actually offended that I don’t want to jump into bed with them on the first date.
“These guys are different,” she says.
Patti always says they’re different and they never are. They’re the same guys over and over again just in different suits and shoes.
“No,” I state adamantly. “I’m not going out with one more Wall Street wannabe.
Forget it.”
“Please,” Patti begs. She’s got a look in her eye that says she’s not going to stop until I agree to go.
“Fine,” I say. “But if the guy drops one hint about his six figure salary or the fantastic view from his brand new apartment, I’m out of there. And I get to throw a drink in his lap if he
mentions making his first million before thirty. Got it?”
“I don’t know why stuff like that upsets you so much. You have an MBA from Columbia and you just bought your first BMW.”
“And I’m well on my way to making my first million. But I don’t throw it in people’s faces when I first meet them. I want to know who the guy really is—what makes him tick. I don’t want to hear his impressive resume and a list of everything he owns.”
Patti shrugs. “I just want to know if a guy’s good in bed. But I usually don’t find that out until after dinner. I don’t care what we talk about in between.”
I shake my head. “You’re like a guy trapped in a gorgeous girl’s body.”
She laughs. “So I’ve been told.”
“Is the double date really that important to you?”
She looks at me like I’m from another planet. “I haven’t gotten laid in almost two weeks. I’d say it’s nearing emergency level.”
I don’t want to tell her that it’s been months since I’ve been with someone. Six months to be exact.
“Fine, I’ll try to get back to the city as fast as I can.”
She grins. “That’s why you’re my best friend.”
“I’m your only friend,” I correct.
“Best. Only. Semantics. I’ll see you tonight.”
***
The drive into New Jersey is exhausting. My only saving grace is that most of the traffic is going into the city instead of out of the city like I am. You’ve got to love those bridge and tunnel guys. I wouldn’t date one but I have a little bit of respect for them. The commute into Manhattan turns a nine hour work day into an eleven hour one, if you’re lucky.
I can feel my stomach start to knot as I get further away from the city and further away from civilization. Pretty soon I’ll be in the sticks surrounded by woods and farmland. I can
almost smell the manure that will no doubt take days to completely rid from my nasal passages.
I pray that I don’t run into any animals, especially cows, which are huge, smelly and completely freak me out. The only live animals I ever care to see have to fit comfortably in a handbag, like a Chihuahua or Teacup Poodle, for example.
I have an appointment with a man named Jake Wilde. He asked me to come early, before the place opened at noon, so he could give me his full attention. I try to imagine what someone named Jake Wilde would look like and all I can come up with is an old gunslinger like Clint Eastwood in Unforgiven.
As I pull into Old Town the place looks exactly like I thought it would. The buildings in the town square are old and I image the place hasn’t changed much in the last hundred years
or so.
Haymakers is just past the town square, down the hill from the deli, next to the gas
station. Those were the exact directions I was given, in those words. I take that to mean the town only has one gas station and one deli.
When I pull into the parking lot, there’s only one other vehicle sitting there. It’s an old beat-up Dodge Ram. Nothing like fitting the country bumpkin stereotype like a glove. Then
I have a brief moment of panic and wonder if it’s safe to park my BMW in the dirt lot. Then I remind myself where I am. Who is going to mess with it in the middle of the day? A stray deer from the woods out back? The only thing I probably have to worry about is it getting dusty.
I take in a deep breath. I have to be thankful there’s no manure smell yet. The quicker you do this, I remind myself, the quicker you can get back to the lovely asphalt jungle you call home.
I’m hit with a gust of wind as soon as I get out of my car. How is it possible that Old Town is even windier than lower Manhattan? I didn’t think I’d ever find a place windier than Wall Street. Even the Windy City didn’t seem this windy when I had business in Chicago.
When I enter the bar, I try to smooth down my thick hair, which I know is probably a complete mess from the gust. I’m surprised by the homey feel of the place. How could someone like me possibly feel at home in a country bar? Even if I was wearing jeans and cowboy boots, if I even owned jeans and cowboy boots, I wouldn’t fit in at a place like this.
I hear someone clear his throat and I turn to see a guy about my age, mid-twenties, standing next to me. I can’t help my surprise when I see he’s wearing khakis and a polo shirt, like he just stepped off a golf course. He looks as out of place in this country bar as I feel.
“Are you Jake Wilde?” I ask.
The guy gives me the faintest hint of a smile but it’s almost as if it pains him to give that much. His deep brown eyes look even more distressed and I can’t help but wonder what’s
behind those sad eyes.
He rakes his fingers through his thick dark hair. “A little windy out, isn’t it?”
My hand automatically goes to my hair and I try to casually flatten it down again. I imagine I must look like I just stepped out of a wind tunnel.
“Your hair looks fine,” the guy tries to assure me. But he’s got that hint of a smile on his face again and it makes me wonder if he’s lying just to make me feel better.
“I’m Cooper Wilde,” the guy says as he offers a hand.
I don’t know why I suddenly feel nervous about shaking it. It’s a business meeting.
That’s what people do. But the way this guy is looking at me gives me the feeling that he might be interested in more than just business.
But I’m not, I remind myself. Not only because I’ve all but sworn off men, I’m here to do a job. I’ve been working for H & C Bank for two years and this is my first solo assignment as a lead investigator. If I continue to do well, I’ll be well on my way to becoming a Vice President before I turn thirty. I don’t need a man to throw me off my career trajectory. And definitely not some guy in a country bar in rural New Jersey.
I take his hand and give it a quick shake but I can’t bring myself to look into his smoldering eyes again. “I’m Riley Smith.”
“I figured that,” Cooper says.
“Why is that?”
That hint of a smile has returned to his face again. “We don’t often get women in business suits in the bar.”
I’m not sure why I’m suddenly overcome with the urge to get a real smile out of Cooper Wilde. I don’t know even know the guy but it somehow seems important. I get the feeling he hasn’t really smiled in a while and it’s long overdue.
Cooper rubs his temple and says, “I was just telling Miss Smith that we’re willing to
