Noemie's Journey

By Victoria Saccenti

B.R.A.G. Medallion honoree.

A man running from his past. A woman fighting for her future.

In what world could the two of them ever connect? Not this one.

Richard is certain small-town Summitville, North Carolina is a safe haven from his demons…until a woman with stunning green eyes resurrects the protective instinct that once cost him everything. And rattles the walls of his armored heart.

Noémie knows her place in this prejudiced town, but Richard is temptation on two wheels. Despite their best intentions, attraction—and trouble—finds them both. Can love bloom where it's planted, or will hate rip out their love by the roots?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Essence Publishing
• Release date: Sep 15, 2018
• ISBN: 9780998950433

Victoria Saccenti

Award-winning and bestselling author Victoria Saccenti writes contemporary romance, paranormal romance, and romantic women's fiction. Not one for heart and flower stories, she explores the edgy twists and turns of human interaction, the many facets of love, and all possible happy endings.  After thirty years of traveling the world, she’s settled in Central Florida, where she splits her busy schedule between family and her active muse at Essence Publishing. However, if she could convince her husband to sell their home, she would pack up her computer and move to Scotland, a land she adores.

Book preview

PROLOGUE

MOUNT VERNON, NEW YORK. APRIL 1968

Dickey entered his apartment, and before he could flip the light switch, the memories—feral beasts lying in wait—pounced from every direction.

Dammit. Stop. Stop. He stabbed his fingers into his face, but the self-inflicted pain had no effect on the barrage of angry whispers circling him. Taunting him, they grew louder…intensified to a roar of screams and jeers.

He’d done everything to break the pattern, had changed his routine, rearranged the sequence and time of his actions and nothing worked. As soon as he was alone, the scene and participants came to life, clawing at him whether he played music, listened to the radio, or watched TV. No distraction, no entertainment on earth could end the torment or silence the voices. No. They pulled him, yanked him back to the moment…the God-awful moment.

No more.

It was late, close to midnight, and still he reached for the phone—a pathetic jerk, a slave of the past. He loathed the lack of control, the outright weakness the call would reveal.

Hey, Skip. Sorry to wake you.

Hmmm…yeah. Dickey?

Got a moment, pal?

Shoot. I’m awake now.

You once offered to buy my share of the business. Are you still interested in going solo?

It was a passing interest. But…why bring it up now?

Because I’m getting out of Dodge. I refuse to spend another hour in this state. I’m done. Finito.

Hold on, man. Vivian again? It’s been years.

I can’t shake it. I see her…them… No more.

What about that sweet young thing? She likes you.

And she was getting too clingy. I don’t do girlfriends. Mind’s made up.

Wait, Dickey—

Nah, I’m packing. I’ll head west or maybe south. Not sure. When I stop, wherever I stop, I’ll call. Hopefully, a drastic change will do the trick. And, Skip, when you see that girl, please tell her I wish her the best.

He dropped the phone on the cradle and swept through his place, tossing a few rolled items into the smallest duffel he owned. He didn’t need much. He’d tear into the road, travel light and long with a single purpose in mind: leave good old Dickey behind and forgotten. Hello, world, meet Richard Winters.

In a few strides, he closed the door to his last home in New York, mounted his bike, and, with a deep rumble, sped into the night.

Ill or fair, he’d meet the wind head-on.

CHAPTER ONE

Noémie shut the door of the station wagon harder than she intended. The worn-out Rambler she’d affectionately named Mimi clanged and bounced side to side, indicating the shock absorbers were about to give up. She shuddered. This vehicle, with an overloaded U-Haul trailer in tow, had safely moved the Bellerose family from Louisiana to North Carolina and had been a helpful friend ever since. She’d better treat Mimi with a little more care; otherwise, the car wouldn’t last.

Please, dear heaven, she needed Mimi to last.

With a light pat to the roof in silent apology, she tucked the umbrella under her arm and walked as quickly as the wet sidewalk and scattered puddles would allow. It had rained buckets last night. She didn’t need a twisted ankle or a nasty fall to compound her tardiness.

She turned right at the corner of Pine and Maple, entering Summitville’s commerce district, a charming four-block stretch lined with old-fashioned buildings—businesses and shops occupied the bottom half, residences the top section. Noémie remembered reading an article in a local magazine about a devastating fire in February 1905. The conflagration had razed the original wooden edifices. But the gutsy residents didn’t give up or move away. They dug in and rebuilt their town with sturdier brick structures while preserving the original design and quaint atmosphere. Their success had been so great that in 1911, the Summitville Clarion had raved about the Wonderful Growth of Summitville.

Nevertheless, whenever she walked along this section of Maple Street, she couldn’t help the eerie sensation of entering an ancient era, or maybe a shadow world, where specters of shop owners, dressed in black garb and white aprons—clinging stubbornly to this earthly plane—watched as she passed by.

She picked up her pace as she rummaged one-handed inside her bottomless purse. Her set of store keys loved playing hide-and-seek among the countless doodahs she carried. She arrived at the front door of Stories Forever and stopped dead. Mr. Thornton had beaten her to the punch. The bookstore’s lights were on, and the OPEN sign faced outward. Controlling her rapid breaths, she walked inside.

Bonjour, chère.

The raspy voice of Mr. Thornton, the owner of Stories Forever, came from behind a tall pile of books on his desk. A disembodied hand appeared, waving a pencil.

Good morning, Mr. Thornton.

Heavens, child. Fred, the name is Fred. As Mr. Thornton’s weathered face popped up from the mound of paperbacks, a lock of silver hair fell over his forehead. I didn’t realize you had such a tough, stubborn streak. We’ve known each other too long. Formalities are for strangers.

Noémie hung her jacket on the coat-tree, hooked her umbrella on top, and walked toward him.

I know. I know. You and your wife, Diane, assumed the role of grandparents when I needed help the most. I’ll never be able to repay the love and support you’ve offered Gerry and me. But using your first name during business hours, especially when customers are present, don’t feel right. Some folks might object. Find the familiarity between us offensive. It’s the way of things.

Pshaw. Ridiculous. I don’t believe in that nonsense, and neither should you. ’Sides, times are changing. The old customs are dying, and it’s about time. Most people in town share my views.

Uh…your friends do. The rest of Summitville ain’t as open-minded. Your crazy ideas amuse the townsfolk, and that’s why they tolerate you. And don’t you forget, Maple Street is the way north and south. Not everyone who comes shopping is from these parts. Fred. She whispered the last, leaning close to his face. Are these the latest arrivals? Changing topics, she picked up a thick recipe book.

"Yes, my dear. And today, you’re going to be quite busy restocking the shelves. A box full of DC and Marvel comics is next to my feet, which means a throng of kids will invade the store after school. Vogue and Good Housekeeping issues are in the back room. We received an assortment of New York Times’ fiction best sellers. Take a look at the stack, from detective stories to thrillers and spies. I haven’t unpacked all the boxes yet. And…ta-da…" He beamed, holding up a paperback with an unusual blue-and-white cover.

Mr. Thornton, the title is in Spanish. And what the heck is that on the cover? She squinted at the junglelike design. It…looks like… Is that the skeleton of a Spanish galleon?

Yes to both, chère. Sort of a confusing, mishmash drawing, I’ll admit. Still, I’ve died and gone to Heaven. This…this beauty right here is a treasure, one of the most important works to come out of Latin America in recent years.

She snickered at the reverence in his tone.

Mr. Thornton frowned. Make fun of an old man if you like. The literary world has gone gaga over this book. I’ll give you my flawed interpretation of the title. ‘A hundred years of solitude.’ Marvelous concept. I could wait until it’s officially translated, but I’m going to test my Spanish skills and dive right in. Might as well, since you won’t help with French.

Now who’s being stubborn? I’ve told you, but you won’t listen. I speak a few words of French. That’s it. Gram was the expert, not me.

Here’s one you might find interesting and compelling.

He lifted a different book as if she hadn’t spoken. "The Confessions of Nat Turner by William Styron. It’s about the 1831 slave revolt in Virginia. I think you’ll find it interesting. However, you’re not reading it until you’ve finished with Shakespeare’s King Richard the Second."

Aha. John of Gaunt’s immortal speech.

Noémie dropped the cookbook on the desk and extended her arms wide. Gliding in exaggerated dance-like steps, she slipped to the center of the room. Inhaling dramatically, she spoke. ‘This fortress built by Nature for herself…this blessed plot, this earth, this realm…this England.’ Act two, scene one. She bowed and laughed.

Brava. Encore, encore. Fred applauded. So, I guess you’re finished?

"I’m halfway through. Confession time. I remember the words from watching Sherlock Holmes and the Secret Weapon. My mother loved the film. Every time it came on TV, we’d sit together and watch. He cheated, you know, Basil Rathbone. In the movie’s epilogue, he skips around Gaunt’s speech. But I’m going to memorize it the right way. At least the famous parts, for Mom…"

Aww. Don’t get upset, chère. I know you miss her.

Tears stung her eyes. She pulled her brows together, trying to hold them back. I miss them both, Gram and Mom.

Uh-oh. She’s heading this way. Mr. Thornton’s disconnected comment and worried grimace erased her sad thoughts.

Who?

Serena and her two suck-ups, your alleged friends. I saw them go into Bart’s drugstore. Eventually, they’ll come here. I don’t understand why you humor them.

Humor? I can’t avoid her. Noémie glanced across the street. She is the county’s social queen and official gossip. Gotta stay on her good side, even if it’s nothing but pretense. Otherwise… Ah, why bother talking about it. How do I look? ’Cause she’s gonna check me up and down. I’m not in the mood to give her more ammo than she already has.

You look fine to me. But I’m a reading man and not a fashion expert, as my wife will tell you. A week will pass before I notice she’s cut her hair or changed her color. Better check in the mirror. Mr. Thornton pointed his thumb to the archway connecting the store to the back room.

Noémie rushed to the tiny warehouse. One side was packed full with unopened boxes, the contents waiting to be sorted and distributed. To her left, next to the shop’s bathroom, a full-length mirror had been installed when the office space was remodeled into a storage area.

Staring at her image, she smoothed down the cotton aquamarine dress with capped sleeves. Not exactly the height of fashion, although the hemline followed the trend, two inches above the knee, and the color worked with her golden café au lait skin tone. Gram had sewn it for her, and she would wear it until she could see through the fabric. So far, her long mane behaved. It had a mind of its own and could get unruly with rain and humidity. She’d pinned up her curly tresses at both sides, keeping the hair out of her face and eyes for work. The rest, as she’d hoped, cascaded in soft coils to the middle of her back. Makeup checked out, not too much, not too little. Serena’s catty nitpicking might be stymied today. She nodded in approval and returned to the store just as the terrible trio—whose remarks instilled terror in the hearts of Summitville females—entered Stories Forever.

Belly, girl… There you are, Serena murmured, signaling for the two women behind her to follow. A monarch in her domain—her regal bouffant perfectly coiffed—she surveyed the room and the occupants, smiled, then nodded, once. She continued toward the bookcases, adding a slight shift of hips to her step. She trailed a finger from one shelf to the next. The smooth, oily drawl and condescending attitude gave Noémie the creeps.

Mr. Thornton groaned, hiding his disapproving face behind the books he’d stacked. Noémie stood at his back.

Good morning, Serena. What brings you around? Noémie asked.

"Oh, nothing much. I thought Vogue might have arrived."

"Glamour is always the first to come out. I don’t see it." Betty—sycophant number two and the most ill-mannered—pouted. She stood next to the empty shelf that was usually overloaded with every conceivable magazine in the country, from Seventeen to Popular Mechanics.

If you come back later, ladies, Mr. Thornton intervened. All the fashion mags will be out and available. Everything was delivered this morning. Noémie and I haven’t had a moment to sort them out yet.

Shame, shame. Belly girl getting lazy on you, Mr. Thornton? Serena tapped a finger at the corner of her lips.

Young lady, that’s no—

Not lazy, Serena. I was late, that’s all. Gerry’s school bus was running behind, and I drove him. Noémie spoke before Mr. Thornton got involved in a useless verbal tussle with Serena.

Why, sugar… I was only joshing. No need to get all huffy and stuff. Right, ladies?

With perfect synchronicity, Serena’s entourage stretched their necks, turned to Serena, and nodded.

Huffy? Not me. I know you like to kid around. Noémie agreed for the sake of peace. She could almost see steam streaming out of Mr. Thornton’s ears.

You haven’t told her yet, Serena, Sue said, moving to the cookbook section.

I’ll bet she doesn’t know. Betty winked, last month’s Harlequin novel in hand.

Noémie wanted to roll her eyes. Serena’s minions did their best, but the temptation campaign didn’t work. Whatever held their interest, she didn’t care one whit.

I declare. You’re both so right. I guess…

Serena left the sentence hanging while she continued sashaying from shelf to shelf—her strange way to attract attention and build suspense.

Noémie’s bored mind wandered off. Two weeks ago, an unfortunate woman had worn the wrong dress to church, an outfit a little too risqué in a style that belonged in the previous decade. Serena’s gossip machine ran full tilt. No one saw the lady in question again. Then last week, Serena discovered an upcoming betrothal before the Summitville Daily had a chance to publish the event. The couple quarreled, postponed the wedding, and the editor of the social pages threatened to sue. Serena shrugged it off. What could the paper do when Dan Long was a member of the board of directors? Today’s target could be anything just as inconsequential. Had anyone been jilted? Had a drunk been spotted stumbling within the town limits?

Had anyone slighted Serena?

Woe to the soul who snubbed or disrespected her royal highness, Serena Long. Noémie included herself in that observation. Serena flaunted Noémie Bellerose as her token colored friend, and as much as she hated being used, she had to swallow the treatment under a meek smile and lowered humble eyes.

Mr. Thornton’s optimistic statements were not as popular and widespread as he claimed, and life’s unkind lessons had taught her a little pragmatism. A measure of level-headedness she hoped would keep her afloat in these troubled times. She lived south of the Mason-Dixon line, where the racial divide was still an abyss. The big wheels in Washington DC could pass a ton of well-intended civil rights acts, but a piece of paper with fancy lettering and impressive seals didn’t sway minds or unlock hearts.

Change couldn’t be forced. It had to sprout from within—a natural process in fertilized soil. Sadly, the clear voice of a much-admired man who’d inspired crowds of all races had been brutally silenced last month, plunging the nation into racial chaos. Mistrust and resentment on all sides was rampant. Communities retreated to their corners, clinging to beliefs and conventions three centuries old.

Tradition forced Noémie’s behavior. She couldn’t reject a white woman’s favor, especially one as popular and powerful as Serena, as it carried serious consequences. Serena would never willingly release her.

Noémie’s friendship bolstered Serena’s righteous façade as the genteel lady with a generous spirit, a practicing Christian who’d befriended a woman from the other side. When, in reality, Serena had the soul of a viper. Icy disdain, plus an indefinable ugly emotion, shifted within Serena’s pale-blue eyes whenever she looked at Noémie.

Well, well, our Belly ain’t curious.

Serena breaks the silence. Should I bow?

Pursing her perfectly outlined dark-pink lips, Serena trailed her index finger from Noémie’s shoulder to her arm.

Ain’t that so, sweetums?

The need to squirm away from the unpleasant touch was close to unbearable. Noémie managed to hold still, reveal nothing. Folding her hands, she prepared to play the game and humor her best enemy with her well-rehearsed I’m listening face.

Heck, go ahead and tell me already. It appears important. At least to Sue and Betty. They can barely contain themselves, Noémie said.

Because…it’s drool…worthy.

Betty’s expression had a dreamy quality. Something in her tone did the trick. Noémie was suddenly all ears.

Hush. Don’t spoil my fun, Serena huffed.

Noémie waited. She didn’t breathe or move a muscle.

A stranger arrived in town a few days ago. Word has it he came from somewhere up north, a Yankee, and he’s planning on staying. Woo…girl. I saw him speed by yesterday. Serena sashayed toward the magazine display case. She trailed a finger along each shelf. He’s got that dangerous bad-boy air that’s right up my alley. Tall, dark, and delicious. Add a Harley to that package, and I’m a goner. I see lots of motorcycle rides in my future. Once I’ve had my fill of him, one of my girls can have a taste.

Poor guy, he doesn’t know what’s coming his way. A she-reptile intends to swallow him whole.

So you’ve divvied up the Yankee. What does Travis say about this?

Travis? Don’t be silly, Belly girl. Serena chuckled. Her minions joined a second later. The ugly cacophony of cackles made Noémie’s skin erupt with goosebumps.

"You’re so naïve, daahling. Placing two fingers over her lips, Serena turned to her girls. Their laughter ceased. Travis can complain to the heavens for all the good it’ll do. He has to marry me. When we were children, our parents decided to join our families’ fortunes and purdy genes. But that don’t mean I can’t play, before and after."

Serena pulled Betty’s arm and gestured to Sue. Come on, girls, let’s head to Raleigh. I need new threads to lure that cute devil. Show him some good ole Southern hospitality. She glanced from Noémie to Mr. Thornton. If we don’t get the magazines in town, we’ll stop by later. Now, get a move on and help Mr. Thornton, Belly. Don’t you be lazy like the rest of your kind.

Noémie exhaled, watching the three women leave the shop. Whew. That is a relief. Serena and company can take up all the space and suck up all the oxygen in the store.

Indeed. Of all the ironies in the world, a bully with the face of an angel. I don’t know how you do it, chère.

Because I have to. Angry, she spun around. Her body trembled with repressed fury. Proper customs don’t allow me to fight back. I have to endure her nasty remarks. Her act is excellent, pretending she supports equal rights, that she’s part of the new South. Ha! Serena don’t believe any of it. Deep inside that woman, the hateful old ways burn as fierce as ever. She’s white and by rights superior. Never wastes the opportunity to drive the message home whenever I’m around.

But, chère, you’re not—

A colored person? Is that what you mean?

Well, yes… Fred admitted, lowering his dark-blue eyes to the floor. He pushed his chair back, then bent over to pull out the box under the desk. You’re not disgustingly pasty-white like some of us. Your skin has a lovely tanned hue, and your hair has blond streaks. I wouldn’t place you under the Negro column.

I don’t get it, Mr. Thornton. For all your reading smarts and your extensive education, haven’t you heard about the one-drop rule?

Fred stiffened upright. Of course I know that rule. I call it trash. Only ignorant people support it. So what if you have one, five, or ten drops of Negro blood in your veins? He whacked the table with his palm. That means you’re mixed like we all are. From the very beginning of time, human tribes have migrated, conquered, and mingled with each other. There isn’t a single person alive today—unless he or she has lived in the Amazonian rain forest, or in a remote African jungle—who can claim a pure bloodline. The last idiot who did threw the world into a bloody war.

You move in intellectual circles, with same-minded people. But other folks believe the rule is an accurate yardstick. You can show them all kinds of proof and test results. Noémie started picking up the mess Serena and entourage had left behind. It won’t change a thing. I grew up in a small town close to New Orleans. The neighbors were a little of everything. We all got along. I learned all about prejudice and bigotry when Dad brought us east. Do you realize how many faces both have?

Chère, I…

Infinite, she said, aligning the scattered books back in the correct location. A line of endless bigoted and prejudiced faces in all shades and variations. My brother and I are Creole, so we fall under a different category, and that’s our problem. We ain’t black enough, or white enough. Neither camp will embrace us. We’re isolated in our uniqueness. I wish we’d never moved.

And I’m selfish because I’m glad you did. I had the privilege of meeting the Bellerose family. Grabbing several comics at once, he created a new pile. Your Gram Elise was a queen, your mother Mireille a princess, your father… We’ll keep Raoul out of the conversation. I meant to ask, why does Serena call you by that hideous name, Belly?"

Gram hated it. Noémie sighed.

Noémie returned to the desk and picked up the book about Nat Turner, Mr. Thornton had suggested. As she opened the book to the title page, her thoughts traveled to the challenging days in the twelfth grade, the lingering demonstrations, the offending chants, the insults, the occasional shove, and the rare gesture of friendship.

It started in school. Bellerose was too complicated, too foreign sounding for the kids and some of the teachers. With all the forced and undesirable social changes, my name was one more raindrop falling on soggy ground. A classmate had the bright idea to shorten it, and Belly stuck. Serena and her minions were in my homeroom. The rest is history.

Unbelievable. Children can be so cruel.

Kids start out blank canvases. They become their parents’ creation.

Cary isn’t far. I remember the protests. Your last year in high school must have been difficult. Fred spoke without interrupting his job. The comics stack grew higher.

The system was screwed up. The colored kids didn’t have a proper high school. You know that.

Yes. Mr. Thornton’s expression saddened. Summitville United, the designated colored school, stopped at the eleventh grade. Kids traveled to Raleigh in their senior year.

Summitville United was no walk in the park either, Noémie scoffed. Bless their hearts, the kids and their parents got real confused when a white-looking girl appeared in the classroom.

That bad? Frowning, Mr. Thornton pressed his elbow on the table.

I was so desperate to fit in. She shook her head. Initially, they tolerated my presence. They were nicer after they learned about my family’s background. I made no friends, though.

Oh, chère, I didn’t realize… And later, in Cary?

The throngs had spent most of their fury the year before. She folded the Nat Turner book under her arm and sat. The fall of sixty-three was awful bad. Cary High School invited six colored girls to enroll in an all-white school, and they accepted. Yikes, I call that gutsy.

Fred pointed his pencil at her. So was Henry Adams, the white pharmacist. He fought against his own people to desegregate the county’s schools.

Which shows how a simple man can change the world, she said.

And the beautiful name of Bellerose will remain forever destroyed.

Not forever, as I don’t intend to remain in this town the rest of my life. My classmates in Raleigh call me Noémie. As soon as I get my accounting degree and a job, I’m packing our stuff and moving to a decent place. Where to, I’m not sure yet.

She opened her hand, and the book thudded to the table. The tower of comics wobbled. Should we get started?

Yes, chère. But…packing? Diane and I would be devastated if you left.

Noémie smiled as she headed for the connecting archway. Don’t worry, it ain’t happening right away. I need one more year of night school in addition to summer courses to speed things along. Gerry is my only priority. I wanna give him every opportunity to succeed. He won’t get any with Dad. She paused, unable to sustain the smile. ’Sides he can’t defend himself.

No, he’s too young. You’ve earned the right to spread your wings, go where your heart leads you, even though I hate the idea. Speaking of school, do you need a babysitter tonight?

How did I get so lucky? You and Diane are my guardian angels. No class tonight. After we close the store, I’m swinging by Butch’s place. I need to pick up the ledgers Dad is supposed to reconcile. Tomorrow night, yes, may I count on you?

Of course. We love to take care of Gerry. He’s so polite and smart. It’s a pleasure to watch him.

What matters to me the most is that he’s safe with you. I couldn’t concentrate in school if I knew he was alone with Dad.

Fred stood and nodded as he settled magazines and comics on his forearm. You can always count on us, child. We’re here for you. Since your Gram departed, God rest her soul, your plate has been filled to the edge. Meantime, we need to start shelving the fashion magazines. Before your nasty friends return.

Noémie flicked two fingers to her forehead in salute. Aye, aye, sir.

She entered the storage room.

CHAPTER TWO

Fifth day on the job, Richard was running late, and all because of manners. He should have gone west instead of south. However, the idea of settling in a small, out-of-the-way town where no one knew him had its advantages. It seemed a good place to hide for a while and forget.

Now he wasn’t so sure.

Homing in on the multicolored lights far ahead, he opened the throttle. The chopper roared in response. Yeah, he could always count on his baby. Barring any hidden patrol cars, she’d slice the delay in half.

As the bike gobbled up the road, his thoughts returned to Mrs. Birch, the sweet landlady who reminded him so much of his grandmother. Unlike his grandmother, Mrs. Birch loved to chat, jumping from one topic to the next without taking a breath, or giving a person the opportunity to cut in.

Huge lung capacity for a tiny woman, he grumbled despite the wall of wind flattening his lips.

He hated being rude, but when he realized she’d started enumerating the ingredients for banana-nut bread, he panicked. I’m late for work, he blurted and dashed out leaving her midsentence.

The twilight gloom deepened around him. Pedal to the metal time. At this hour—the span between sunset and night—the road disappeared within the darkness. A strange optical illusion the bike’s single headlight couldn’t break through. These shadowy country routes built within dense pine forests on each side and scant, unreadable markers were an adjustment for someone like him, a long-time resident of New York’s metropolitan area. Thank goodness, Butch Williams illuminated his watering hole Monday through Saturday.

Richard had listened to the full account of the bar’s origins several times during his job interview. At one point, he nearly guffawed when Butch related his grand inspiration, I decided to call it Highway 64. Ain’t that perfect?

Silly name or not, Richard admired Butch’s ability to push obstacles aside. North Carolina alcohol laws were severe. The ex-biker owned the only state-sanctioned private club and bar combination—the one place where members could bring their own booze and beer and wine could be served—along this segment of US Highway 64. An ideal spot, as the thoroughfare connecting Summitville, Apex, and Cary to Raleigh weaved between the outskirts of all three towns. Close enough but not too close—accessible to parched commuters who’d like a drink before going home, and distant enough to stay out of the crosshairs of teetotaling folks.

In addition, his one-percenter Devil’s Minions friends had approved the venture, and more significantly, his retirement. The bosses posed a single stipulation: the senior management of the motorcycle club would enjoy free beer for the life of the business.

Butch agreed and went to work. He covered all his bases. He purchased an abandoned structure at a bargain price. Had it rebuilt from the ground up, then set up an easy-to-join member list—satisfying the state’s pesky liquor requirements. He ensured the staff was courteous but with a little roughness around the edges, enough to handle a variety of patrons. He bought a jukebox and contracted vendors for beer, wine, and nonalcoholic mixers—keeping in mind folks who brought their own brown-bagged booze.

Months later, the joint was ready to roll. However, on opening night as he prepared to receive his first clients, he watched, mouth open, as potential club members sped by his establishment. He’d overlooked lights, the most basic element. The road was absolutely dark, and the bar’s internal illumination wasn’t powerful enough to attract anyone’s attention. By the time customers noticed his place, if they noticed his place, they’d already passed his entrance.

Butch went crazy sorting through options, from garish neon signs to beam projectors. A