Hendrix

HENDRIX PITTSBURGH TITANS BySAWYER BENNETT All Rights Reserved. Copyright © 2023 by Sawyer Bennett Kindle Edition Published by Big Dog Books This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. No part of this book can be reproduced in any form or by electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without the express written permission of the author. The only exception is by a reviewer who may quote short excerpts in a review. Find Sawyer on the web! sawyerbennett.com www.twitter.com/bennettbooks www.facebook.com/bennettbooks Table of Contents Title Page Copyright Page Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15 Chapter 16 Chapter 17 Chapter 18 Chapter 19 Chapter 20 Chapter 21 Chapter 22 Chapter 23 Chapter 24 Chapter 25 Chapter 26 Chapter 27 Chapter 28 About the Author CHAPTER 1 Stevie I heft a case of Michelob from the floor to the top of the back bar in one fell swoop. I might be on the small side, but I’m strong. I’m also stubborn and prideful and don’t know how to ask for help even though there’s at least one burly man in the shop next door I could ask to do this for me. But why should I? This is my pub and I’m responsible for everything that goes into running it. So if my opening bartender is running late this morning, I’m not above moving some cases of beer from the stockroom. After that, there’s not a lot that goes in to opening this place. We don’t open until eleven a.m. so I set up the register, filling the till with enough ones, fives, tens, twenties, and rolls of coins to make change until the evening switchover. I note the amounts on my balance form and the day bartender will update it before shift change. After that, I pull all the stools off the main bar where they’re put each night when the floors are mopped, walk around to turn on the neon signs hanging along the walls and then I’m ready for business. Terry will be here any minute and I’ll leave it up to her to unlock the front doors to let in the trickle of early patrons. I don’t serve a lot in the way of food. It’s basically frozen pizzas I can cook in a toaster oven, chips, beef jerky, and pickled eggs my dad makes every week. I sell those for seventy-five cents apiece and they’re not worth the time or effort, but it’s tradition. My grandfather started it back in 1979 when he opened this place and while my dad never had any ownership interest, he was and still is involved in its success, so he makes the pickled eggs. Most of the people who come into Jerry’s Lounge—named after my grandpap—come in for the beer and liquor. My day patrons are a mix of old retirees from back in Grandpap’s day and bikers who ride with my dad. At night, the old guys wobble out and more bikers come in, but I wouldn’t have it any other way. I love my customers just the way they are. With nothing left to do until we open, I head next door to my dad’s tattoo shop. While he grew up in this place under his father’s eye, he had no desire to sling beer for a living. He instead went into the army, wanting to travel the world. As happens, plans didn’t work out for him because I came along and being in the military is a hard thing to handle as a single dad. Instead, he developed a new passion enabled by insane natural artistic talent and opened his tattoo shop—Hard Ink—right next door to Jerry’s Lounge. The landlord even let us connect the two spaces via a doorway so we could freely move back and forth to help each other out. If Jerry’s is slow and my bartender has things covered, I might pop over to my dad’s and help check customers in or clean up. My dad does the same for me. The adjoining door from my stockroom leads right into his break room. During business hours we keep the door unlocked and since it’s my first pass through of the day, I pull my keys out to open the dead bolt. I find my dad sitting at the table, one large hand wrapped around a steaming mug of coffee. He’s chatting with two of his artists. Roy is a linebacker of a dude who rides with my dad’s motorcycle club and has been doing ink with him for the last four years. Sienna, who started working here a few weeks ago, is quite the talented artist, but she’s also a vapid skank. It’s evident in the way she dresses—today, it’s a bustier that’s barely holding in her breasts and fake-leather skinny pants that sit so low on her hips I can see the top of her ass crack as she pours a cup of coffee. She moves to the table, sitting next to my dad, and angles his way. Crossing one leg over the other, she leans toward him—boobs just about to pop free—trying to catch his eye. Eww… gross. While my dad is by no means old—he’s forty-eight and looks far younger—Sienna is only twenty-five, same as me, and it skeeves me out the way she flirts with him in a hypersexualized way. Although, in fairness to my dad, he’s not interested. I know this from his demeanor as he ignores Sienna and listens to Roy talking. Not to say John “Bear” Kisner’s bed is empty, but he prefers his women a little more mature. Not to say he hasn’t dated younger women, but he likes them confident