“I bet you’ll look terrific in a red tie.”
“Ethan’s snoring again.”
Callie listened for a moment. “Just a little bit. It’s a quiet snore.”
“It sounds like an angry dog.”
She gave James a hug. “Your brother’s not an angry dog.”
“Okay. You’re smarter than Grandma.”
“I’m glad you think I’m smart.” Callie came to her feet. She couldn’t help but be warmed by the compliment. She also couldn’t help but be curious about the scale James was using to make his assessment.
“Grandma gets mixed up,” James said.
“About what?”
“She calls Ethan Beau.”
Callie stilled, unnerved, but not completely sure why. “Ethan looks like Uncle Beau did when he was little.”
“Uncle Beau looks like an angry dog. He frowns all the time.”
“Does Uncle Beau frighten you?”
“No.” James sounded completely unconcerned. “I bet he snores.”
Callie breathed a sigh of relief. “Good night, James.”
“Good night, Mommy.”
She left the door partway open as she walked into the hall.
She’d heard Deacon come in while she was reading the boys a story. He was home earlier than usual. She toyed with the idea of going straight to bed. It would be better if she didn’t see him tonight. It was emotionally safer to keep her distance.
But she’d left some dishes in the sink, her book was on the table in the family room and she’d been looking forward to a cup of tea. She might struggle with her feelings around him, but she didn’t want to hide in her room either.
She started down the stairs.
Deacon was talking, she assumed on the phone. But then she heard another voice. It was oddly familiar, but she couldn’t place it.
She followed the sounds into the living room to find the two men standing, facing each other.
Deacon saw her.
The man turned. He was shorter than Deacon, stockier, his hair was long, straggly, and he wore a pair of wrinkled jeans, scuffed black boots and a navy blue T-shirt. The skin of his face looked soft. He had a stubble beard and familiar blue eyes.
“Hello, Callie.” His voice sent a shiver down her spine, and she flinched as she recognized him.
“Trevor?” It was her oldest brother, but he sounded frighteningly like her father.
“Long time, no see, baby sister.”
“What are you doing here?” She hadn’t seen or heard from him since the day he stormed out of their tacky little house in Grainwall.
He’d been eighteen. She’d been only nine.
“Is that any way to greet your brother?” He moved toward her.
She was too stunned to move, and he gave her a hug.
She was suddenly transported back to her childhood, to the screaming matches between her brothers and father, to the barked orders for her to bring them beer, make them sandwiches and to clean that kitchen the hell up. Everything inside her cringed.
After what seemed like an eternity, he stepped back. “I hear you got married.”
She struggled to find her voice. “How did you find me?”
Why had he looked?
After her father had died, one by one, her three brothers had left home, until she was alone with her mother. None of them had ever come back. None of them had helped, not when her mother got sick, not when her mother had died. None of them ever cared that Callie had been orphaned at sixteen.
“Social media. It’s a wonderful thing.”
“Can I offer you a drink?” Deacon asked. “Please, sit down.”
Callie wanted to shout no. If Trevor started drinking, he’d never stop.
“Don’t mind if I do.” Trevor popped himself down on a sofa and patted the seat next to him.
She took an armchair.
“What would you like?” Deacon asked.
“A brew if you’ve got one.” Trevor glanced around the room.
“Merlot, Callie?” Deacon asked, knowing it was one of her favorites.
“I was going to make tea.”
“Sure.” Deacon left for the kitchen.
“Done real well for yourself, Callie,” Trevor drawled.
Now that Deacon was out of the room, Trevor’s eyes hardened in appraisal.
Callie’s stomach started to hurt. The sights and sounds and smells of her childhood swelled up inside her head. She hadn’t thought about her father in years, or her brothers, or even her mother for that matter. But now she pictured her father yelling, her mother sobbing in the corner and Trevor laughing drunkenly.
She couldn’t remember who hit whom. There were frequent fistfights amongst the boys, and her dad was quick to slap her mother. Callie herself hadn’t been a target. They yelled at her and shoved her, but she didn’t remember getting hit.
She did remember being terrified.
“Cat got your tongue?” Trevor asked.
She swallowed. She wanted to tell him to leave, to go away, to never come back. But she couldn’t bring herself to do it. The frightened little girl inside her didn’t have the courage to stand up.
“Never mind.” Trevor looked her up and down. “You don’t have to say anything for me to get how it is. You’ve landed on your feet. I’ve got my trouble, but you landed on your feet.”
Deacon came back, and Callie was incredibly grateful to see him. He carried a mug of tea in one hand and two bottles of beer in the other. He set her tea down beside her, then handed Trevor a beer.
“Are you visiting Hale Harbor?” Deacon asked Trevor. Deacon chose the armchair opposite Callie and twisted the cap off his beer.
“Came to look in on Callie,” Trevor said. “Been kicking around Alabama for a while now.” He guzzled half his beer.
“Oh. What is it you do?”
“Little of this, little of that.”
Deacon glanced at Callie.
She was frozen. She couldn’t speak, and she couldn’t move. A part of her knew it was ridiculous to be afraid of Trevor. He couldn’t do anything, especially not with Deacon here. But she couldn’t shake the visceral fear.
Deacon guzzled a good measure of his beer, and Trevor grinned at him in a way that said he’d met a kindred spirit.
“You married my sister,” Trevor said.
“I did.”
“Didn’t get a wedding invitation.”
“It was a small wedding.”
“Really.” Trevor seemed surprised. “I thought you well-to-do people put on posh parties.”
“Sometimes,” Deacon said politely.
Callie ordered herself to speak up, to say something. It wasn’t fair to force Deacon to carry on this conversation with her brother.
Trevor took another long guzzle of his beer.
Callie asked, “Are you married?”
Trevor swung his gaze to her. “Never met the right gal.”
Callie was silently grateful on behalf of womenkind. If Trevor had turned out anything like her father—which it seemed he had—then no woman deserved to end up with him.
“No kids either,” Trevor said.
Callie did not want to talk about her sons. “Have you heard from Joe or Manny?”
She lifted her mug of tea, willing her hand not to shake.
“Can’t say that I have. But maybe we should look them up. Maybe we should have ourselves a family reunion.”
Callie immediately regretted asking the question.
Deacon polished off his beer and pointedly set down the bottle. “It was nice of you to drop by,” he said to Trevor and came to his feet. He glanced at his watch. “Why don’t you leave your number, and we’ll be in touch.”
Trevor looked flummoxed and then annoyed. “Well...” He looked
to Callie, but she focused on her tea. “I was...” He didn’t seem to know how to counter Deacon’s dismissal.
Callie was immensely grateful.
“Sure,” Trevor said, polishing off his beer.
He set the bottle on the end table with a thud and rose to his feet.
Deacon walked to a side table and produced a pen and paper. “Just write it down,” he said to Trevor.
Trevor scrutinized Callie as he passed, but thankfully he didn’t say anything to her.
She was vaguely aware of Deacon seeing Trevor out, and then Deacon was back.
He dropped to one knee in front of her, concern in his expression. “What on earth?”
“They’re awful.” The words burst out of her, and she started to shake.
Deacon quickly took the mug from her hands and set it aside.
“All of them,” she said. “They’re mean and violent.”
“Did he hurt you?”
“Not me. Not physically. Not much.”
Deacon pulled her into his arms, holding her close.
She couldn’t help herself. She tucked her head against his shoulder and closed her eyes, absorbing his strength as fear and dismay shuddered through her.
“I thought I was over it,” she said.
“Tell me what happened.”
* * *
Everything inside Deacon told him to go after Trevor. Whatever it was that Trevor had done to Callie in the past had hurt her badly. He should be held responsible. Deacon wanted justice for the way Callie was shaking in his arms.
But Callie needed him.
He eased her to one side of the big chair and sat down himself, drawing her into his lap, cradling her close and rubbing her arms.
“Tell me,” he gently urged.
Whatever it was, he was going to make it better. Somehow, some way, he was going to make it better.
“How could they do that?” she asked, her voice a rasp. “How could they be so cruel? I was just a little girl.”
He listened while she told him about the family’s abject poverty. There was never enough money for food and clothes. She’d gone to school in castoffs from the church rummage sale. Their electricity was often turned off. They barely had heat, never mind air conditioning in the summer. And she’d slept for years on a damp mattress on the floor.
Meanwhile, she and her mother had waited on her father and brothers hand and foot, enduring shouts, curses and shoves. She told Deacon about the terror she felt when her parents fought, how her father slapped her mother, and how she’d been relieved when her father had died of a heart attack.
But her brothers hadn’t let up. It wasn’t until they finally left home, one by one, that she had any peace. Money was still tight, and then her mother got sick. At fourteen, she’d found a part-time job and tried desperately to hold it together financially. But then her mom died, and the hospital bills came due, and Callie had quit school.
While she spoke, her shaking slowly subsided. “Frederick was the first person to care for me. He was so kind. He was so gentle. I was never afraid of him.”
She was a limp bundle of heat in Deacon’s arms. Twin tear tracks glistened on her cheeks. Her hair was tousled, her legs were curled up.
“Have you ever told anyone about this?” he asked gently.
“There was no one to tell. Frederick had more problems than I could imagine.”
“He had different problems.”
“I couldn’t tell him. I didn’t want to tell him. It was in the past by then.” She gave a shaky laugh. “I wanted to pretend it had happened to someone else. I wasn’t her anymore, that defenseless little girl, exploited like a servant.” She fell silent.
“I’m glad you told me.” Deacon kissed her temple.
She sighed and rested her head against his shoulder.
He kissed away the tear track on her cheek. Her lips were dark and soft and sweet, and he gave in to temptation, kissing her tenderly, trying to will away her pain and heartache.
She kissed him back.
But then she gasped and turned her head away. “Deacon.”
“I know,” he said, wrapping his arms fully around her, holding her desperately close. “I won’t let it get away from us. I promise.”
“We can’t.”
“We won’t.” He rocked her. “Just let me hold you.”
Minutes ticked past before he felt her relax.
He wanted to kiss her again, but he knew he’d be lost. And he couldn’t let himself do that. She needed his comfort, not his lust.
He sat for an hour.
He didn’t know exactly when she fell asleep, but she did.
He didn’t want to put her down. He didn’t want to let her go. But he had something to do, and he wasn’t going to let it wait.
He carried her upstairs, laid her gently on her bed and pulled a comforter overtop of her.
Then he set his jaw, trotted down the stairs and took the paper with Trevor’s phone number. He dialed as he walked to his car and opened the driver’s door.
“Yo,” Trevor answered, music twanging in the background.
“It’s Deacon Holt.” Deacon climbed in and shut the door, pressing the ignition button.
There was a brief pause on the line. “Well, Mr. Holt. That didn’t take long.”
“I want to meet,” Deacon said, an adrenalin buzz energizing his system. He pictured Trevor in a seedy bar.
“Sure. Can do. When would you like this meeting?”
“Now. Where are you?”
There was another pause and a muttered voice. “It’s called The Waterstreet Grill.”
Deacon knew the place. It wasn’t a dive. Too bad.
“I’ll be there in ten minutes.”
“You got it,” Trevor said.
Deacon hung up the phone and pulled out of the driveway. It was after ten o’clock, so the roads were mostly clear. He lowered the windows and let the breeze flow in, trying to cool his temper. He kept picturing Trevor, who was six feet tall, shouting at a miniature Callie, her lugging cans of beer, and him chugging them down.
He smacked his hands on the steering wheel, swore out loud and pressed his foot on the accelerator. He made it to The Waterstreet Grill and swung into the curb out front. It was a no parking zone, but he really didn’t care if they towed him.
He left the car, crossed the sidewalk and shoved open the heavy door.
It was dim inside the grill. The restaurant section was almost empty, but the bar was full. Country-pop came out of ceiling speakers, and cigarette smoke wafted in through an open door to the side alley.
He spotted Trevor talking with two other men at the bar. He made his way over.
“Yo, Deacon,” Trevor said with a wide smile. He held up his hand to shake.
Deacon ignored it. He cocked his head toward the open door.
“You can talk in front of my friends,” Trevor said. He clapped one of the men on the back. “This here’s—”
“I don’t want to talk in front of your friends,” Deacon said.
Trevor’s expression fell. “Chill, bro.”
Deacon grimaced. “Shall we step outside?”
“Is this a fight?” Trevor asked with an uncomfortable laugh.
“No. But it can be.” Deacon turned for the side door, confident that Trevor would follow.
Deacon passed two groups of smokers in the alley and went a few feet further.
“You’re the one who called me,” Trevor said as he caught up.
Deacon pivoted. “Callie is not your gravy train.”
Trevor’s eyes narrowed and crackled, his passive demeanor vanishing. “She’s my sister. We’re family.”
“What you were to her isn’t family.”
“Got a birth certificate that says different.”
“Let her tell me that.”
Deacon stepped forward into Trevor’s space. “You’re never speaking to her again.”
“Are you threatening me?”
Deacon reached into his jacket pocket and withdrew a check. He knew exactly why Trevor had come back into Callie’s life, and he was taking the most direct route to sending him away.
“Consider this the carrot,” he said, planting the check against Trevor’s chest. “If it doesn’t work, I’ve got a stick.”
Trevor stepped back, grabbing at the check. He looked down, his widening eyes giving away his surprise at the amount.
“You’re gone,” Deacon said. “And you’re never coming back.”
“Is this good?” Trevor asked.
“Gone,” Deacon repeated and turned to walk away.
He hoped he’d made his point.
Ten
James and Ethan looked adorable in their matching tuxes. James wore a red bowtie, while Ethan’s was royal blue. Callie was a ridiculously proud mom.
Deacon looked magnificent, while Callie couldn’t help but feel beautiful in her designer gown, with its glittering bodice, peekaboo back and flowing chiffon skirt. Deacon had insisted she buy it. And she’d been inclined to make him happy, since he’d been so supportive about Trevor.
Deacon said he had spoken to Trevor and promised her that her brother wouldn’t be back. She hadn’t asked Deacon what he’d said. She didn’t care. It was enough that she didn’t have the weight of her family hanging over her head.
“Mommy, Grandma gave us pudding,” James said with excitement as he arrived holding Dee’s hand.
“Mousse,” Dee told Callie.
“Chocolate?” Callie asked.
“We were careful of their white shirts.”
“It’s nearly eight o’clock,” Callie said. She didn’t give the boys sugar, never mind chocolate, after five.
“Oh, don’t worry so much,” Margo said, arriving with a fluttery wave of her hand.
“We should probably take them home soon.” Callie looked around for Deacon. She didn’t mind driving the boys home on her own if he wanted to stay.
“What’s the rush?” Margo asked.
“They’ll be getting tired,” Callie said.
The Illegitimate Billionaire (Whiskey Bay Brides Book 4; Billionaire & Babies) Page 15
