by Tawna Fenske
“This Clay,” the fire marshal interrupted. “Is he the same gentleman who spotted the fire and called 911 that night?”
“You’re right!” Larissa gasped in mock horror. “I’m sure that means he started the fire!”
Reese rolled her eyes. “That’s not what I said. And who appointed you his defender, anyway?”
“Well, someone has to do it.”
“And you’re always eager to do it, aren’t you, ’Riss?”
Larissa narrowed her eyes. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing,” Reese said, hating herself for being such a bitch but unable to put a cap on the hurt and anger that had been simmering since yesterday. “Can we just move on?”
“No!” Larissa snapped. “I want to know what you meant by that. Let’s get this out on the table now.”
Reese gritted her teeth, knowing she should just shut up. Knowing she was going to regret whatever came out of her mouth next but somehow not finding the strength to care. She took a breath.
“Fine,” she bit out. “You want to go there? We’ll go there. I think you’re letting the fact that you slept with Clay cloud your judgment.”
“Yeah?” Larissa said. “That’s funny. I was going to say the same thing to you.”
Eric sat up in his chair. “Wait, what?”
“Woo-hoo!” Axl hooted. “This is getting good.”
The fire marshal frowned. “Um, ladies, if we could just get back to—”
“And what the hell are you talking about anyway?” Larissa hurled at Reese. “I never slept with Clay. I might’ve given him a hand job once, but that was ages ago and we were both so wasted I don’t even remember—”
“So, honey,” June interrupted, reaching over to pat Reese’s knee. “I didn’t realize you and Clay had been seeing each other, but that’s wonderful to hear. You know your father and I would love it if you’d find someone special. When did this happen?”
“Kinda what I’m wondering,” Eric said. “Care to fill me in?”
Reese whirled on him. “No! Why the hell is it any of your business who I sleep with? We’re not married anymore, in case you missed the memo. You have no claim on me.”
“No, but I do have a vested interest in making sure you and my best friend don’t fuck up each other’s lives.”
“Clay and I are adults, Eric!” she yelled. “We can make our own decisions.”
“Yeah? How’s that working out for you?”
Larissa frowned. “Wait, maybe I did sleep with Clay. Was this at that party over in—”
The fire marshal cupped his hands around his mouth to form a makeshift megaphone. “Can we please get back to the topic of the investigation?”
“No!” Axl shouted back. “Are you kidding me? This is the most interesting thing that’s happened here since Leon ate pot.”
The fire marshal raised an eyebrow. “Leon?” He clicked his pen. “Does Leon have any other history of drug use or criminal activity?”
Reese put her head in her hands and wished like hell the ground would swallow her up.
Clay worked outside for the rest of the afternoon, wishing he could be there for the fire marshal’s talk with the family. He wondered what was happening, what sort of evidence they had of arson.
He was so lost in his thoughts that he didn’t even hear Eric approach.
“Hey, you’re still here.”
Clay turned to see Eric standing there with the familiar blue bandana holding back his ponytail. His expression was grim.
“Hey,” Clay said. “Are you just getting out of the meeting with the fire marshal?”
Eric nodded. “Pretty brutal.”
“Did they say what caused the fire?”
“Lighter fluid in a trash can. He didn’t actually tell us a lot. I guess they like to keep a lid on the details when there’s an investigation going.”
“And when there are suspects in the room?” Clay guessed.
Eric shrugged. “Doesn’t take a rocket scientist to guess they’d look at the family first, but they’ve gotta know that’s a dumb theory. It’s not like the insurance money is worth risking the whole damn vineyard.”
“You don’t think they had anything to do with it, do you?”
“Hell no.”
“So who else? Outside the family, who else?”
“Larchwood Vineyards, maybe. Dick’s been a thorn in everyone’s side for a long time, and his property is right over there.”
“And he’s a jerk?”
“There’s that.”
Clay scuffed his toe in the dirt and waited. Eric had something else to say, Clay could tell. He had an idea what it was, and the thought made his gut clench. He stood quietly, holding his breath, waiting for his best friend to look him in the eye and say it.
Eric wasn’t looking him in the eye. He was looking out over the vineyard, his expression somber.
“Eric?”
“Yeah?”
“Who else?” Clay asked. “Who else are they looking at for suspects?”
Eric sighed. “Let’s go grab a beer.”
Clay frowned. “Very funny.”
“Sorry. I forget sometimes.”
“No one else seems to be able to. That’s why they’re accusing me, isn’t it?”
Eric shook his head and looked away. “I don’t know.”
Clay felt something in his gut sink. Part of him had been hoping Eric would deny it, would tell him it was crazy to think his name would make the list of suspects.
And part of him really wanted that beer.
“It’s probably just a formality,” Eric assured him. “The fact that they want to talk to you—I doubt it means anything.”
Clay nodded. “What did the family say? Do they think I set the fire?”
“No,” Eric said. “I don’t think that’s the real issue here.”
“Do you think I did it? Do you think I’m capable of that?”
Eric hesitated, then shook his head. “You’re capable of a lot, but not that. I think you’re a guy who’s gotten a shitty deal here. You’ve screwed up a lot in the past, that’s for damn sure. But you’re trying, and maybe you’re due for a break.”
Clay didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Instead, he stared down the hill as Leon came ambling toward them, ears pricked at attention.
Eric saw him coming and stepped back, covering his groin. “Shit. Not what I need right now.”
Clay reached out and began to scratch behind the alpaca’s ears. Leon made a rumbling sound in his throat and leaned into Clay’s hand, eyes closed in bliss. Eric took a step closer and Leon opened his eyes, lowering his head to crotch level.
“Dumb animal,” Eric muttered without venom as he stepped back again.
“He’s just fickle,” Clay said. “There’s no rhyme or reason to who animals decide they like.”
“Pretty much like women,” Eric said, turning back to Clay. “There anything you want to tell me?”
Clay stopped scratching Leon and looked at him. “About the fire?”
“About anything.”
Clay frowned and went back to scratching. “Nothing I can think of.”
Eric nodded once. “Okay, then.” He turned and started to walk away, giving Leon a wide berth. Then he stopped and turned back around. “I always knew you loved her.”
“What?” Clay stared at his best friend, pretty sure he hadn’t heard right.
“Reese.” Clay watched Eric swallow, watched him breathe deeply the way he always had when he needed to say something important and didn’t know how to get it out. “When we were in college. I knew you loved her first, but I didn’t care. I wanted to date her, I wanted to marry her, and I didn’t give much thought to anything beyond that.”
Clay looked at Leon, not trusting himself to m
eet Eric’s eyes right then. He concentrated on scratching the delicate spot right on the back of the alpaca’s ear.
“Obviously, Reese wanted to marry you, too,” Clay said.
“We both knew it wouldn’t work. Deep down, we both knew. It was safe and friendly, and we thought that’s all it took. I shouldn’t have gone after her. That’s part of guy code, too, you know.”
Clay swallowed. “It was a long time ago.”
“Not really.”
“Things are different now.”
Eric shook his head. “No. You’re still the same guy you always were, but you’ve muzzled yourself now. You spend half your time trying not to offend anyone, and the other half trying to make up for past offenses, but otherwise you’re still the same. So is Reese, you know. And that’s not such a bad thing.”
Clay shook his head and met Eric’s eyes again. “Thanks, Freud.”
“I’m serious. I don’t know what happened with Reese or how you’re going to fix it, but I do know you’ve got to get over this pansy-ass thing you’ve been doing.”
“Pansy-ass?”
“That’s the most important part of the guy code,” Eric said, his tone softer now. “The need to tell your friend when he’s being a pansy-ass.”
“I appreciate it.”
The weird thing was, he did.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Clay knew he should stick close to the vineyard. Eric had already told him the fire marshal had questions and wanted to talk to him as soon as possible.
But here he was parked on a barstool at Finnigan’s nursing a Coke and picking at a plate of French fries as he replayed the conversation with Eric.
He wasn’t sure which was more upsetting—the fact that he was a suspect in an arson investigation or the fact that his best friend knew he’d slept with his ex.
He took another sip of his Coke and then picked up the ketchup, pouring a healthy dollop of it on the side of his plate. He traced a French fry through it and was just about to shove it in his mouth when he heard a familiar voice.
“Clay!”
He turned to see Patrick ambling in, his shirtsleeves rolled to display the misspelled tattoos.
“Hey, Patrick, good to see you.”
“Whatcha doing?”
“Getting wasted on Coca-Cola and French fries, how about you?”
Patrick glanced at Clay’s glass, looking visibly relieved. “That’s just Coke?”
“Want a taste?”
“No, no—I trust you.”
“That’s good. I was starting to think you implanted a tracking device in my forearm so you know when I come within ten feet of a bar. Have a seat.”
Patrick eased himself onto the stool and folded his hands on the bar. Clay tried not to stare at the tattoos.
Your stronger than you think you are.
Strength threw sobriety.
“So how have things been going, Clay?”
“Okay,” Clay said. “I’ve been better.”
“You want to talk about it?”
“I wouldn’t know where to start.”
“Try me.”
“Okay. Turns out I slept with the girl of my dreams fifteen years ago and didn’t remember it because I was a drunk idiot, but I do remember sleeping with her cousin, which I also did because I was a drunk idiot. Now I’m about to lose the dream girl to a veterinarian who’s such a nice guy I’d probably date him if I swung that way. On top of that, I’m being accused of arson for a fire I helped extinguish, and the construction project I moved out here for is about to go belly up.”
Clay picked up a fry and shoved it in his mouth, hardly noticing it was cold.
“Wow,” Patrick said. “Not your best week, huh?”
“No.”
“Is it your worst?”
Clay thought about that as he grabbed another fry. “Probably not. The week my dad died was pretty rough.”
“When did your dad die?”
“When I was a junior in college.”
“How did you handle that?”
Clay looked down at the plate. “I dropped out of college, got wasted for a week on Jack and Coke, and ended up in jail on a DUI charge.”
Patrick reached over and grabbed a fry. “And look at you now.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, you’re sitting here at a bar on what is arguably the second-worst day of your life, and if you’re telling me the truth, there’s nothing in that glass but Coke.”
Clay shoved the glass in front of him. “Taste it.”
Patrick shoved the glass back. “I believe you. My point is that you’re dealing with it. Your life is going to hell right now, and you’re handling it like a mature, sober adult.”
Clay picked up the Coke glass and took a slow sip. Then he shook his head. “I’ve been trying so damn hard to get it right this time. I’ve been working the steps, trying to be a good guy, trying to make it up to all the people I screwed over. But somehow I just keep making it worse.”
“You ever think you’re trying too hard to earn forgiveness from everyone else and not hard enough to forgive yourself?”
Clay looked at him. “No.”
“Good you’re keeping an open mind about it.”
He sighed. “I don’t know what to do.”
“Yes, you do. Don’t drink. That’s the hardest part, and you’ve already got that down.”
“That’s not the hardest part,” Clay said, then stifled the urge to crack a crude joke. Hardest part.
“What?” Patrick asked.
“What do you mean?”
“You got a funny look just then.”
Clay shrugged. “It’s dumb.”
“Dumber than sleeping with your dream girl’s cousin?”
“Good point.” He sighed. “Okay, my best buddy and I used to do this thing where we’d turn everything into a dirty joke. Everything was an innuendo of some sort. It’s stupid. I stopped doing it when I got sober.”
“Why?”
“Same reason I stopped drinking, I guess. I wanted to show I’d grown up. That I’d changed.”
“You don’t think not drinking was enough?”
He shrugged. “I’m not sure it’ll ever be enough.”
“Tell me a dirty joke.”
“What?”
“You heard me. Tell me a dirty joke.”
Clay raised an eyebrow at him. “Is this one of the twelve steps I missed?”
“Come on. Do it.”
Clay thought about it for a minute. “Fine. Two guys are sitting in a bar and one turns to the other and says, ‘If I slept with your wife, would that make us family?’ The other guy looks at him for a minute and says, ‘No, but it would make us even.’”
Patrick grinned. “Nice. I like it. Tell me another.”
Clay glanced over at the bartender, who was drying the same beer glass he’d been drying for the last five minutes. He was smiling just a little.
“All right. Two nuns are riding their bicycles down an alley in Rome. One turns to the other. ‘I’ve never come this way before,’ she says. The other one nods, smiles. ‘It’s the cobblestones.’”
Patrick hooted and smacked his hand on the bar. Clay grinned in spite of himself.
“There you go,” Patrick said. “You’re smiling. That can’t be a bad thing, right?”
Clay raised an eyebrow. “Well, I’d also be smiling if this glass were full of Jack and Coke.”
“Yeah, but you’d be puking in an hour. When was the last time you puked from a dirty joke?”
Clay grinned. “Well, I know an old guy in a biker gang who tells jokes filthy enough to make me queasy. He may have learned them in prison.”
“Save ’em for later.” Patrick slapped his hand on the bar again. “You’re going to be
okay, right? No matter what happens with this girl or the construction or the investigation—you’ve got this.”
Clay nodded, then stuck out his hand. “Thanks, Patrick. I owe you one.”
“You don’t owe me anything. Pay it forward sometime. You’ll have the chance eventually.”
Clay nodded. “I’ll do that. How’d you know I was here, anyway?”
“Dumb luck. I was meeting friends for dinner across the street and I saw your truck. Thought I’d see if you needed anything.”
“So it wasn’t the tracking device?”
“Not this time.” Patrick stood up. “I’d better get going. Be well, okay?”
“Thanks, man. Have a good night.”
Clay watched as Patrick ambled off, then looked down at his empty plate.
“You want more fries?”
He looked up to see the bartender holding a plate piled high with greasy goodness.
“This a new thing?” Clay asked. “Free French fry refills?”
“Nah, but the lady in the corner just ordered ’em and now she says she doesn’t want ’em. She’s a little messed up. Not drunk or nothin’—she’s just drinking root beer, but still. I just called a cab to come get her, but now I got these goddamn fries to get rid of.”
Clay reached up to take the steaming plate, daring a quick glance at the table in the corner to see the pitiful soul who’d given up her French fries.
He almost dropped the plate.
“Sheila?”
She looked up, swaying a little in her chair. Her eyes were red and ringed with mascara, her face streaked with dried tears and snot. The top of her table was littered with soggy tissues and a half-empty glass of root beer.
He stood up and took two steps toward her. “Sheila? What’s going on?”
She dissolved into sobs, her shoulders shaking so hard Clay thought she might topple to the floor.
“Oh, Clay,” she sniffed. “This is bad. This is really, really bad.”
“What’s bad? Are you hurt? Did something happen to Eric?”
She was sobbing too hard to answer, so Clay looked at the bartender. “How much has she had to drink?”
“Not a thing. I wouldn’t serve her.”
“I came here to get wasted,” Sheila sobbed. “To forget. Only he thought I was already drunk because I can’t stop crying, so he wouldn’t let me order anything. But that’s not why I can’t stop crying. Oh, Clay. I don’t know what to do.”
