by Karen Cimms
Kate dropped the worn SpongeBob SquarePants beach towel she’d wrapped around herself, slipped into her robe, and raced downstairs.
She yanked open the door to find a sullen young man with heavy-framed glasses and a smattering of leopard spots tattooed on his neck, holding a large gift basket filled with fruit and an assortment of snacks. Her hand drifted to her own neck as she took in the painful-looking artwork.
“I guess these are for you.” He thrust the basket toward her. The card attached to the cellophane read: With Sympathy.
“Ha-ha. Someone’s a real comedian.”
He looked confused.
“‘With sympathy?’” She frowned. “Today’s my birthday. Someone thinks they’re funny.”
He shook his head. “I don’t think so. Aren’t you Beulah Howard?”
“Do I look like a Beulah?” She scanned the card again. “Wait! Beulah Howard? Did something happen to Shorty?”
The young man shrugged. “I dunno. All I know is this goes to Beulah Howard.” Given his tone, you would have thought she was the one wasting his time.
“The Howards live at 200 Park Street. This is 200 River Street. That’s the back of their house right there.” She pointed to a small, neat yard that backed up to her driveway, and started to explain that their house had been built in the early 1800s, and then as property had been sold off, other houses had been built, leaving them facing the backs of the newer homes. Given the look on his face he clearly wasn’t interested in any fun facts about early Belleville.
“Sorry.” He tugged the gift basket from her hands and headed for his van.
“You sure you don’t have anything for me?” she called after him.
He gave her a suspicious look. “Who are you?”
“Kate Donaldson. Or maybe Kate McDonald?”
“Which is it?” he asked sarcastically.
“Either, actually. My name is Donaldson, but my husband also goes by Billy McDonald. So . . .” The look he was giving her was sour, and her smile began to slip. Why was she letting this hipster wannabe make her feel uncomfortable in her own home?
She cleared her throat. “Do you have anything in your truck for me?”
“Um, no. Pretty sure I don’t.” More sarcasm. He plodded back toward the van.
“Nope, nope, nope,” Kate said as she closed the door. “I’m not gonna let this ruin my day.”
Chapter Three
The Hilltop Tavern was dark and cool. It also hadn’t changed in twenty years. Hard to believe they’d squeezed a four-piece up on a stage barely big enough for a duo. Compared to last night in Miami, it was damn depressing. Billy had come a long way, and it sucked balls to think he might be heading back to places like this.
He settled onto the rickety stool. Elbows on the bar, he massaged his temples and tried to dissolve the gnawing melancholy weaving its way into his gut. If he could just shake this hangover.
The barmaid dropped napkins in front of him and Eddie. Tanned like a leather saddle, she was probably in her mid-sixties. Bleached blond hair was piled high atop her head, and her neon pink lips matched her shirt. Good thing he was wearing shades.
“What can I get ya, sugar?” Her voice rasped like a rusty hinge.
Here was his salvation, even if she wasn’t easy on the eyes. Or the ears.
“What’ve you got on tap?”
“Miller and Bud.”
He made a face. “Nah. Jack Daniels, rocks.”
She looked at Eddie.
“Budweiser.”
The old broad pulled a frosted mug from a freezer beneath the bar and slid it under the tap.
“I used to play here, back in the day,” Billy told Eddie as he watched the golden liquid rise in the mug, wishing she’d hurry the fuck up.
“No shit? Think they’d remember you?”
“Doubtful. That was over twenty years ago.”
The barmaid set Eddie’s beer in front of him, then picked up the bottle of Jack. Amber liquid splashed over the ice, and his mouth watered.
“Thanks, hon.” He tossed a twenty on the bar and raised the glass to his lips. The alcohol hadn’t had time to chill, but it felt good going down.
“You said you played here?” Her voice was like nails on a chalkboard.
He chewed on an ice cube. “Long time ago.”
“Take off the glasses.” It was more of an order than a request.
He slid the shades partway down his nose.
“All the way.”
Eddie snorted. “That’s what she said.”
Billy slipped off his glasses.
“No way!” She slapped her palm down on the surface of the bar so hard it had to have stung. “Earl! Earl! Get the hell out here!”
Billy’s hangover roared back to life. “Shit,” he muttered.
The door to the kitchen swung open, and a monster of a man emerged—Earl, Billy assumed. Thick around the middle, he wore an apron so stained and dirty it looked as if he’d been butchering hogs instead of flipping burgers.
“Chrissakes, Doris, what the hell you hollerin’ about?”
“Look.” She pointed at Billy.
“Look at what?”
“Look!” She wagged a gnarled finger in Billy’s face.
“What am I looking at?”
“Who! Who are you looking at!”
“I dunno,” Earl yelled back, clearly annoyed at the interruption. “Who am I looking at?”
“Look!”
Earl zeroed in for a closer look, frowning, while Billy leaned away from the scrutiny. Earl turned to Doris, about to speak, but then turned back for another look.
“No fuckin’ way!” His mouth unhinged, and he gaped at Billy.
“I told you!”
“You didn’t tell me nothin’.” Earl’s attention snapped back to Doris. “You asked me. You didn’t tell me. I woulda figured it out myself.”
Eddie leaned over. “What the hell are they talking about?”
“Who the hell knows?” Actually, that was a lie. Billy knew there was a damn good chance she recognized him. The sick feeling seeping into his stomach echoed the one already in his head. All he’d wanted was a quiet drink, something to dull the sharp edges of his hangover.
Doris waved her hand in Earl’s face, dismissing his ignorance.
“I can’t believe it.” Earl gaped at Billy like he was witnessing the second coming, or at the very least, a member of the advance team.
“I’ll bite,” Billy said after a fortifying sip. “You don’t believe what?” These two were irritating the piss out of him.
“Billy McDonald, right?” Doris asked.
He nodded.
“I’ll be damned,” Earl said.
Eddie brayed like a donkey. “Maybe they were at the concert last night.”
“Call him on the cellular phone,” Doris demanded. “Get him down here.” She turned and gave Billy a look that was probably meant to be seductive but instead caused the hair on the back of his neck to stand up. “You boys ain’t in a hurry, are ya?”
“Well . . .” He didn’t know what she wanted, but he was pretty sure he wanted no part of it.
“C’mon, you can wait. Drinks are on the house. Make yourselves comfortable. We gotta get our boy here.”
“Hey, if drinks are on the house . . .” Eddie drained his mug, then pushed it forward. With a wink, Doris snatched it up and hurried to refill it.
Billy lifted his glass in a toast. He didn’t know to what, but a free drink was a free drink. Besides, it was exactly what he needed.
“He’s on his way,” Earl said, bustling back in from the kitchen.
“Did ya tell him?” Doris asked.
“No! I don’t wanna ruin the surprise.”
“What surprise?” Eddie whispered.
This time Billy was clueless. “Your guess is as good as mine.” He drained his glass and pushed it forward. It was refilled immediately.
The comfortable numbness that accompanied the free drinks was doubly
appreciated once Billy realized that he was the surprise.
He was polishing off his second Jack when a doughy ginger came in through a back door and joined the woman behind the bar.
“Well?” she said.
Billy glanced from the newcomer to Doris.
“You remember our son Chris, don’t you? Of course he was only in high school the last time you saw him, but we never forgot how you used to let him sit in with the band.” She beamed up at her son.
“Of course.” Not a clue. “Bass player, right?”
“Keyboard.”
“Right.” Billy clicked his tongue and triggered an index finger.
No fucking clue.
“Chris is a musician, too,” Doris added. Billy eyed the ham hocks at the end of the guy’s wrists. “Teaches down at the elementary center.”
Teaching music to fourth-graders?
“That’s terrific, man. Keeping the dream alive. Love it.”
Kill me now.
Doris had been ignoring Billy’s empty glass since her progeny arrived. He pushed it closer. A firm but gentle reminder: Free booze, remember?
Chris stepped behind the bar and filled Billy’s glass with ice.
“Jack Daniels, right?” He grinned. “See? I remembered.”
Wow—and that wasn’t creepy at all. Billy responded with the cool-guy chin tip.
Chris refilled Eddie’s mug, then grabbed another frosted mug from the freezer and filled it half-full with root beer.
Doris cackled, sending a chill down Billy’s spine. “Can you believe it? Practically grew up in a barroom and he doesn’t even drink.”
“Hard to believe,” Billy answered, eyeing up Chris. He certainly looked as if he liked to eat.
Doris stepped away to wait on some other customers but returned in a flash, carrying a picture she’d snatched off the wall back from when he’d “made it big,” as she put it.
“Would you mind?” she asked.
“Certainly, darlin’.” He manufactured a grin, mostly because she’d finally lowered her voice. Other than the epic hangover, he sure as hell didn’t feel like a star, but he obliged her. As long as she kept pouring, he’d sign her droopy left tit if she wanted.
Mother and son kept the drinks flowing for the next hour. By the time Chris invited them back to his house to jam, Billy’s headache had retreated somewhat. That, or he was too numb to care. He glanced at his watch. Two o’clock. They could jam for an hour or two, and he would still get home before Kate. Besides, Eddie, who couldn’t sit still for very long anyway, already had one foot out the door. The kid needed Ritalin or something.
Chris lived less than a mile from the bar, and since he wasn’t drinking, he drove. He pulled up in front of a small ranch-style house just off the highway. It was dark and musty inside. Judging by the early dorm room décor and the fine layer of dust, he wasn’t married. Probably didn’t even have a girlfriend.
Billy took in the depressing surroundings. What the hell was he doing? He had someone waiting for him at home. Someone he hadn’t seen in over two months.
He hung back. “Maybe we should get going,” he said to Eddie. “Katie’s going to be home in a couple hours—”
“C’mon, man, you said yourself she doesn’t get home until six.” Eddie picked up an old Ovation leaning against the sofa and handed it to him. “Let’s just jam for a few, then we’ll head out.” He leaned closer. “You polished off a half bottle of Jack back there. It’s payback time, bro.”
Truthfully? He didn’t give a fuck. The only strings attached to those drinks were the ones that had kept him tied to his barstool until he’d met Doris’s son. Mission accomplished.
“Half hour, then we’ll go. Promise.”
Eddie had the wheels, so Billy had no choice. He plucked a chord on the Ovation and cringed. He tightened the strings. After one song, they’d slipped again. There was no snap, no crispness. They probably hadn’t been changed this decade; rubber bands would have made a better sound. This was frustrating. He wanted a shower and to lie down in his own bed, with a naked Katie beside him.
He leaned the guitar against the edge of the couch and stood.
“Dude.” He gave Eddie a pointed look. “Now. Okay?”
Eddie’s eyes flickered to their host, who was rolling a joint. Chris lit up, took a hit, and handed it to the drummer.
“You don’t drink, but you smoke weed?” Eddie asked in a tight voice, holding his breath and passing the joint to Billy.
“Nah. Don’t like the way it makes me feel.” Chris winked. “But that’s not all I got.” He pulled a metal tin from a shelf over the sofa and dumped out several rocks of cocaine and a razor. He cut them into six neat, thin lines on the glass-topped coffee table.
Billy’s brain was saying no. The rest of him was still in rock-star party mode.
“What the fuck,” he grumbled, giving in way too easily. “Won’t be getting much of this once I get home.”
He’d promised to quit the hard stuff a few years ago when Katie had caught wind of his dabbling with some serious shit and had all but packed her bags. He had quit, more or less, other than a little pot now and then. And that shit was practically legal. This last tour? Yeah, that was such a clusterfuck, it shouldn’t count at all. He would hit rewind. Just as soon as he got home.
He snorted a couple of lines, but the rush was temporary. His lack of sleep conspired with the weed and JD, and he could barely keep his eyes open. Figured. Two months on the road, half of it sleeping on a cushy tour bus and the other half in five-star hotels, and he couldn’t sleep worth a damn. Now he was nodding off on some stranger’s disgusting couch. Such a bad idea.
It couldn’t have been more than a few minutes. Eddie was shaking him awake. “C’mon, man. It’s almost five. We gotta get the car and hit the road.”
“Shit,” Billy groaned. He couldn’t focus, let alone stand and walk.
Chris was bent over the table, snorting another line.
“We gotta split,” Eddie said. “You gotta take us back to my car. Now.”
Chris dropped onto his ample ass and laughed. “I can’t drive, dude. If my parents saw me right now, they’d kill me.”
“What are you? Forty? Who gives a fuck what they think? C’mon man, we gotta get back to my car. His old lady’s gonna kill him if I don’t get him home.”
As enamored as he’d originally been of seeing Billy, Chris no longer seemed to care.
Eddie helped Billy to his feet. “Fucking little shit!” he yelled over his shoulder as he guided Billy to the door.
By the time they reached Eddie’s car, Billy had sobered up enough to realize he’d better call Kate. He dug into the pockets of his jeans but came up empty.
“Shit.”
“What?” Eddie asked, unlocking the SUV.
“I think I left my phone on the bar.” The parking lot was full now. Happy hour. “I’ll be right back.” He needed to get in and out without Doris and Earl telling everyone who he was.
No such luck.
“There he is,” Doris called out as soon as he stepped into the packed barroom.
Billy gave her a tense smile. He ducked his head and stepped toward the bar. “Did I leave my phone here?”
“You sure did, honey. Got it right here.” She scanned the shelves behind her, looking puzzled. “It was here a minute ago.”
Earl stood at the end of the bar, surrounded by several patrons.
“Earl!” she yelled. “You seen Billy’s phone?”
The big man turned, looking like he was about to shoot off his mouth to his wife, but when his eyes fell on Billy, he froze. Probably because Billy’s cell phone was in his hands. And if Billy wasn’t mistaken, he was currently scrolling through his contact list.
“What the fuck you doing?”
“We was just looking to see if you got any famous phone numbers in here,” Earl confessed.
“Give me the damn phone.”
Before Earl could respond, a blonde in her mid-
twenties snatched it from his hands and tucked it down the front of her blouse.
“Come and get it,” she teased, taking a step toward him and squeezing her shoulders together.
Unsmiling, Billy held out his hand. He wasn’t in the mood for games. “May I please have my phone?”
“I said come get it.” She leaned forward, giving her breasts a little shake while the crowd gathered around her egged her on.
He continued holding out his hand. “My phone. Now.”
Eddie burst through the front door. “What the hell are you doin’? We gotta get goin’ if you’re gonna get home in time.”
“Give me my phone,” Billy repeated. If this chick couldn’t tell he wasn’t fooling around, there was something seriously wrong with her. He knew how this could go. He could just smile, play along. Then he could reach in, cop a feel, and probably sign her tits or something. It wouldn’t be the first time. He just wasn’t in the mood.
Apparently, she wasn’t very good at reading people, because she just laughed.
“Come and get it. You know you wanna.” She was inches from him now, taunting him.
“She have your phone?” Eddie asked, getting up to speed.
If Billy had turned to answer, he might have been able to stop him. But he hadn’t; he’d continued glaring down at the blonde. Eddie’s hand sliced through the air, yanking the front of the chick’s blouse and tearing it nearly in half. The glass face of the phone shattered as it crashed to the floor.
“What the fuck?” The girl screeched and clutched at the two halves of her shredded shirt.
It wasn’t clear who threw the first punch—not that it mattered. Some tank with a shaved head and a sick amount of ink tackled Eddie from behind. Someone else jumped into the fray, knocking Billy into the bar. Not cool. Billy spun, grabbed him around the neck, then kneed the bastard in the groin when he wouldn’t go down.
From the corner of his eye, he saw someone about to pounce from atop the bar. Billy reached around and used the dude’s own momentum to swing him forward. Then he pulled back, landing his fist just under the Neanderthal’s jaw and sending him backward through a large plate glass window. The man lay motionless and bleeding, his legs still in the bar and his torso outside, cradled by the boxwood hedge. It didn’t look like he was breathing.
