Poor Devil Saloon の小説・ストーリー

"But if she is then we should thank luck for being on our side today." After two hours of following them around, they finally came to a stop at a local restaurant named Mari Vanna. They entered the vintage white building, with flowers and winter decorations portrayed outside. A mini staircase leads inside and a bored is displayed near the door, advertising the specials for today. "Should we go inside?" Marcello questions unbuckling his seat belt and tucking his gun inside his coat. I raise my hand and shake my head. "Not yet." "Abree, do you read?"

“I’d rather be a bitch than an asshole cheating on my sick wife.” Ah, was a good one. She rolled her eyes. “Sorry, I don’t have time to stand here and argue with an ignorant woman who makes minimum wage working at a strip joint, and besides, I don’t touch underage women old enough to be my kids.” He grabbed his change through the window slot, walked away. Heading to the bar, Dale took an unoccupied stool, whirling toward the barkeeper. “What’ll you have, Dale?” “Gin on the rocks, Paul.”

“Oh wow, come this way to the club house.” We both followed Cherry to the back of the club and up the stairs to the second floor. The club house reminded me of a very over lavish bachelor penthouse. As we walked through the door we were met by a small petite blonde, with light green blue eyes, and looking very sexy even for her size. “Hi Mr. Baphomet, Mr. Demogorgon, my name is Tequila and Angel will be right back with the cigarettes. So, are there any drinks that either of you would like to start off with this evening?”

And that is losing hope. “What happened in Devil’s Moon?” I asked him. He looked at me in shock, or so I thought because the second time I looked at him. The expression was already gone. “You all know that Devil’s Moon is the home of the worst rogues in the region,” he started to say, “We may be the worst wolves out there, well in the eyes of a ‘normal’ person. But even the worst people can create a piece of small heaven for themselves right?” I look at him and this was the first time that he was not snickering nor was he saying a joke. He was serious.

Then he leaned back, draping one arm over the back of the vinyl booth. “Damn, Olivia,” he said, dragging out my name as if he were tasting something rotten. “I thought the guys were talking shit when they said you were back in the Creek. Long time no see, huh? Or should I say... long time no shit?” I dropped the tray onto the table with a clatter, then pulled a small notepad and a cheap plastic pen from my apron pocket. I clicked the pen, my knuckles were white. “That’s your order, Dickson. A double burger and a domestic beer. Is there anything else you would like, or are we done here?”

“Yeah?” “You know that new guy I’ve been seeing? He works at the bathhouse, and he overheard some cartel guys talking.” Her eyes were wide, a mix of excitement and fear. “There’s going to be a drug trade tonight at that new club—and it’s going to get messy. Like, a bloodbath.” “What new club?” I asked. “Uh… what’s it called again? Yeah—Ortega.” Something prickled at the back of my mind. Where had I heard that name before?

Martha said warmly, handing out the silverware. The meal was loud and lively. The tension of the city felt a world away as they laughed and shared stories. Midway through the meal, Silas stood up with a grin and pulled a dusty glass jar from a shelf. It was filled with a dark, murky liquid and various roots. “Home-brewed herbal moonshine!” he announced proudly, pouring three small glasses. “You city boys have probably never had the real stuff. Try it. It’s good for what ails you. Especially you, Aaron—it’ll get the blood moving and help that arm heal faster.”

“I snuck away.” “Always the rebel.” He chimes, his eyes not meeting mine, but something off to the left of me. “You know it.” I spin around on the barstool to take in the shabby bar. “I couldn’t pass up saying hi to my old friends.” It’s in worse shape than the manor and only has gotten worse over the years. The walls are dirty with sweat and stained with vomit, the padded seats to the stools and benches are cracked and brittle, and the people here are as shady as demons themselves.

I wasn’t staring at a man I called my brother or my best friend either, I was staring into the eyes of the devil himself and the devil wanted everything I had. During one of the few moments I had with my father, I remember him telling me a story about the time he made a deal with the devil himself. I never believed him because I felt it was a lie, a fairytale he was telling me to make himself feel exalted in my eyes. The old, dimly lit tavern was the kind of place where only the most desperate of souls dared to tread. It was a place where the lines between good and evil were blurred, where the patrons were as likely to be demons as they were to be men. My father began.