Barreled Over

by Jenna Sutton

  Some people might assume Chuck hadn’t told Ava Grace about his disease because he didn’t want her to worry. But those people would be wrong. He hadn’t told his only child about his dire diagnosis because it never crossed his mind … just like she never crossed his mind.

  When Ava Grace had been two years old, her mother died in a car accident. Chuck took a week off from his job as a roughneck on an offshore oil rig to bury his wife, pack up their home, and dump his daughter on his mother, June.

  Chuck had promised he’d support Ava Grace financially. He also promised to visit every chance he got.

  He’d lied.

  Payments from Chuck had been infrequent, and his visits had been even more infrequent. Before he moved in with Ava Grace, she could’ve counted on both hands the number of times she’d seen her father.

  She’d tried to understand his choice to leave her. She’d told herself a million times his job had taken him away from Electra for months at a stretch, and he’d needed to make a living.

  But she really didn’t understand. Even though jobs hadn’t been plentiful in their small town, he could have found something there if he’d wanted to.

  And that was the whole point—he hadn’t wanted to.

  “At least you don’t need to worry or feel guilty when you’re not here,” Mercy said. “Chuck doesn’t notice you’re gone. He doesn’t miss you.”

  Mercy wasn’t being cruel. She was just telling the truth. Nonetheless, a spear of pain pierced Ava Grace because it was a reminder that her father had never missed her. Not even when she’d missed him.

  Ava Grace and Mercy nibbled on their snack for a while before the screen door squeaked again. Chuck emerged with Kyle close behind him. To Ava Grace’s relief, her father looked calm and refreshed, his silver hair combed neatly.

  For most of his life, Chuck had worn oil-stained jeans, faded button-down shirts, and boots. But now his wardrobe consisted of shirts and trousers in soft, stretchy fabrics and slip-on shoes.

  Both Ava Grace and Mercy stood, and Chuck looked back and forth between them. He zeroed in on Ava Grace, his eyes filling with recognition. Hope sparked inside her.

  “I know you,” Chuck stated. “You won that singing competition.”

  Despite the despair choking her, she smiled. “You’re right, I did. My name is Ava Grace.”

  “That’s a pretty name. I’m Chuck.” He paused, confusion filling his face as he looked toward Kyle. “That big fella … What’s your name again?”

  “Kyle,” the former Marine answered.

  It was a question Kyle answered several times a day. He had an endless supply of patience and not just with Chuck. He’d told Ava Grace it was because he was a sniper, and snipers had to “lie on their bellies for hours, sometimes days, to take out the target.”

  Chuck nodded. “Kyle says I live here.”

  “Yes,” Ava Grace confirmed. “You live here with me. This is my house.”

  His light blue eyes darted around the porch and landed on her guitar case. “Is that your guitar?” he asked, a hint of excitement in his voice.

  “Yes.” She walked over to the case, unlatched it, and pulled out her baby. Cradling it carefully, she scooted onto the porch swing. “Would you like to hear a song?”

  Chuck nodded. Kyle guided him to a patio chair before taking the seat she’d vacated at the café table.

  “Do you have a favorite?” she asked, even though she knew the answer. This was a scene repeated too many times to count.

  “I like Johnny Cash,” Chuck replied.

  As she played the first notes of “I Walk the Line,” a smile blossomed on his lips. He began to sway in his seat, like the thousands of people who attended her concerts.

  But this was a private concert just for her dad. The dad who’d never attended any of her high school choir performances. The dad who hadn’t been in the audience when she won American Star, even though she asked him to come.

  The dad who didn’t even know who she was.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Leaning over the pool table, Beck lined up his cue stick and took his shot. The cue ball shot across the green wool, ricocheted off the side rail, and slammed into the blue two ball, propelling it forward. The ball teetered on the edge of the pocket before falling in.

  “Nice shot,” Gabe praised. “But you’re still going to lose.”

  Beck flipped him off, and Gabe chuckled before taking a swig of his beer. He pointed to Beck with the bottle. “Fifty bucks says you lose this rack.”

  “Forget it. I’m not taking your bet.”

  “A hundred bucks,” Gabe offered.

  “No.”

  Gabe shrugged and threw a handful of nuts into his mouth. The man was always hungry, and he ate constantly, kind of like a cow grazing in a grassy pasture. It was a miracle he didn’t weigh eight hundred pounds.

  Beck took advantage of the silence and scoped out his next shot. Maybe the orange five ball.

  Beck and his two best friends always spent Thursday nights at The Tweed Trilby, an old-fashioned bar near Trinity’s headquarters in SoMa. Sometimes they played pool, sometimes they took in a game, and sometimes they just talked.

  Tonight they were celebrating the partnership with Ava Grace Landy. They’d planned to meet at seven, but Ren was running late, something that rarely happened.

  Beck had been shocked yesterday when Wally notified him that she was willing to work with Trinity. When Beck told Gabe the good news, the man nearly hurdled his desk to give him a high five. And Ren, the most stoic of all, let out a high-pitched noise that sounded remarkably like a preteen girl’s excited squeal.

  Lining up his stick, Beck took the shot. The cue ball slid into the yellow-striped nine ball, which pushed the orange five ball into the pocket.

  Gabe whistled. “Well done.”

  As Beck walked around the table to get an alternate view, Gabe said, “Fifty bucks says you miss your next shot.”

  “How ’bout I give you fifty bucks just to shut up?” Beck asked, keeping his eyes on the pool table.

  Gabe laughed. “A hundred bucks says you miss it.”

  Beck shook his head. “You’re such a hustler.”

  “In this particular instance, I’m not hustling. I’m sharking. By definition, hustling is disguising one’s skill with the intent of luring someone of lesser skill into gambling. We’ve played together before, and you’re well aware of my skill. Therefore, I cannot hustle you. Sharking, on the other hand, is the process of distracting, disheartening, and enraging opponents so they’ll play poorly, lose the game, and thus lose the bet.”

  “Thanks for the clarification,” Beck replied.

  “Happy to help, brother.” Gabe grinned. “You can always count on me to explain complex subjects in a way your underdeveloped brain can understand.”

  Beck knew he could count on Gabe for more than that. He was one of the few people in the world who hadn’t let Beck down. From the day they’d met as freshmen in high school, Gabe was there for him. He’d proven his loyalty time and again.

  Ren and Gabe were more than just his best friends. He wasn’t ashamed to admit he loved them like brothers. They’d had each other’s backs since high school.

  Gabe and Ren stood beside Beck like sentinels when his dad was accused of embezzlement. Their friendship never wavered even as the whole world turned against Beck and his mother, seemingly overnight.

  Beck’s girlfriend, Callie, broke up with him the day after the Feds arrived to investigate. Her beautiful exterior hid a malicious spirit, but he was too enthralled by her sultry good looks to notice, at least until she ended things in the cafeteria in full view of the entire school.

  “Everyone is talking about what your dad did,” she’d said loudly, her voice carrying to every corner of the room. “I don’t want to be with the son of a criminal.”

  She’d sniffed, as if his smell offended her. Yet she’d been on her knees in front of him the day before, his hands fisted in her inky-black h
air and his dick in her mouth.

  And she swallowed, thank you very much.

  “You’re poor now,” she’d added, referring to the government freezing all of Law Beck’s bank accounts and investments. “You don’t even have a place to live because Jonah Beck Distillery owns your house. My mom told me the board of directors hired movers to throw out all your stuff.”

  He’d been young and stupid enough to love Callie, and she’d broken his heart. She mocked his personal tragedy and humiliated him, but even then, he hadn’t realized how hateful she truly was.

  Unfortunately, he found out several months later when she accused him of assaulting her. That was the first and only time he’d been arrested. He spent a night in jail before making bail the next day.

  “Are you going to take your next shot or just stand there playing with your stick?”

  Gabe’s jeer startled Beck so much he dropped his cue stick. He’d totally forgotten where he was. Instead of playing pool and drinking beer with Gabe at the Trilby, he’d been back in Kentucky, scared shitless his life was over before it’d even begun.

  Bending down, he grabbed his cue stick from the floor. He gave the pool table a brief glance before he took his shot. His aim was off, and the cue ball missed the target by a good nine inches.

  “Shit.”

  Gabe laughed. “Good thing you didn’t take my bet.”

  Gabe’s phone buzzed, and he snatched it up. He stared at the screen for a moment before returning it to the table.

  “Was that Ren?” Beck asked.

  Gabe shook his head, his shaggy brown hair falling over his forehead. “No.”

  Their eyes met, and Beck could read the worry in Gabe’s gaze. He was worried too. Neither of them had seen Ren since he’d left the office three hours ago, and they hadn’t been able to reach him via phone or text.

  Beck wouldn’t be so worried if Ren was unreliable. But the man was like a military precision watch. He was never late.

  “Do you think we should go to his apartment?” Gabe asked, concern shading his voice.

  “Maybe.”

  Beck didn’t want to be an alarmist, but the thought of something happening to Gabe or Ren sent a stab of fear through him. “I’ll take care of the check while you get your truck.”

  As Gabe gathered his jacket and phone, Beck returned their sticks to the wall-mounted storage rack. Behind him, he heard Gabe say, “Ren’s here.”

  The knots in Beck’s gut immediately unraveled. But when he got a good look at Ren’s face, they pulled tight again. Even from several feet away, Ren’s face was waxy, his eyes glazed.

  Gabe noticed the same thing. “Oh, shit. Something must’ve happened to his dad.”

  The moment Ren reached them, he blurted out, “I have to go to Atlanta.”

  “Atlanta?” Gabe echoed. “Your dad lives in Louisville.”

  Ren frowned. “I know.”

  “Then why do you have to go to Atlanta?”

  “Because…” Ren swallowed noisily. “Because I have a nine-year-old daughter, and she’s in Atlanta.”

  It took a moment for Beck to digest Ren’s words. He glanced at Gabe to see if maybe he’d misunderstood, but Gabe’s eyes were wide with shock.

  “What the hell?” Beck exclaimed. “You have a daughter, and you never told us about her?”

  “I didn’t even know she existed,” Ren snapped. “I just found out about her.”

  “Jesus Christ,” Gabe swore.

  Beck tilted his head toward an empty booth near the back of the bar. “Let’s sit down. It looks like you could use a drink.”

  Gabe disappeared, presumably to find some liquor, and Ren dropped down into the black leather booth. Beck slid into the seat opposite him.

  Ren pushed a hand through his tawny hair, and Beck noticed it was shaking. His hands probably would be shaking too, if he’d just discovered he was a daddy. He couldn’t imagine how awful it would be to realize you’d missed out on nine years of your kid’s life.

  Beck and Ren sat silently until Gabe returned to the booth, a bottle of premium vodka in one hand and three shot glasses in the other.

  Frowning, Ren asked, “Why didn’t you get Trinity?”

  “They’re out,” Gabe explained as he placed the liquor bottle on the scarred table. “I didn’t want to support our competition, so it was either vodka or tequila.”

  Gabe slid into the booth beside Beck before deftly pouring the shots. They swallowed them in a nearly synchronized movement, and then Gabe filled Ren’s glass again before setting aside the bottle.

  “Start at the beginning,” Gabe ordered.

  Ren threw back his second shot. “God, I hate vodka almost as much as I hate tequila,” he groused, his face contorting.

  “What’s her name?” Beck asked.

  Ren laughed mirthlessly. “Gatsby. Her name is Gatsby. As in The Great Gatsby.” He shook his head in disgust. “What a ridiculous name for a little girl.”

  Beck agreed wholeheartedly with Ren, but chose not to voice his opinion. “And her mother?” he prompted.

  “Corinne Nolan.”

  “Corinne Nolan,” Gabe repeated slowly. “That doesn’t sound familiar.”

  Ren pressed his thumb into his eyebrow as if pain had settled there. “I didn’t recognize it either.”

  “Did we go to school with her?” Gabe asked.

  Although they’d planned to attend college far from home, all three of them ended up at the University of Kentucky in Lexington. They lived in dorms during freshman year and then moved into a shabby apartment near campus.

  “Yeah. She went by Corie in college.”

  Gabe shook his head. “I don’t remember any girl named Corie.”

  Ren dug around in his jacket and pulled out two pictures. He stared at one before turning it facedown on the table. He held up the other one, and both Beck and Gabe leaned forward to get a better look.

  It was a graduation photo, and the young woman wore the royal blue cap and gown of UK. She was neither pretty nor ugly. Her dark brown hair wasn’t particularly thick or shiny, and her brown eyes were nothing special. She had a nice smile though.

  Beck lifted his gaze from the picture to meet Ren’s eyes. “Never seen her.”

  “Me neither,” Gabe chimed in.

  Ren rolled his lips inward. “Remember that party we went to a couple of days before graduation … the one in that old, rundown mansion on the western edge of campus?”

  “Vaguely,” Beck answered. “That was ten years ago.”

  Ren rubbed the back of his neck. “She was there. Supposedly we had sex in the pantry. I was drunk. I don’t remember.”

  Beck frowned. “What do you mean supposedly?”

  “The PI told me.”

  “PI?” Gabe asked.

  “Yeah. He was waiting for me when I got home.”

  “Corinne Nolan hired a PI to find you?” Beck asked. “Why now, after all these years? Why didn’t she bother to track you down when she found out she was pregnant? And why did she hire a PI? It’s not like you’re hard to find. She could’ve just done a web search.”

  “She’s dead,” Ren muttered . “She died in a car accident three months ago. Gatsby has been living with Corinne’s aunt, but she’s old and sick. Really sick. Corinne didn’t have any other family, and the aunt didn’t want Gatsby to become a ward of the state. She’s the one who hired the PI. Corinne didn’t name a father on Gatsby’s birth certificate, and she never told her aunt who Gatsby’s father was.”

  Gabe grabbed the vodka and filled their glasses to the rim. They threw them back, gasping at the burn.

  When Beck got his breath back, he asked, “How did the PI find you?”

  “The aunt had a box of Corinne’s old journals in the attic, and he read them for clues. He said she wrote about everything. Every guy she’d been with. When, where, how.”

  “Did the bitch also write about why she didn’t bother to tell you that you had a daughter?” Beck asked sarcastically.
>
  Gabe kicked him in the shin. “Not now,” he hissed under his breath before saying in a louder voice, “Just because Corinne wrote about you doesn’t mean you’re Gatsby’s father. You need to take a DNA test.”

  “She’s mine,” Ren stated flatly. “I have no doubt.”

  “How do you know?” Beck asked.

  Ren flipped over the facedown picture and pushed it across the table with his forefinger. Beck and Gabe peered down at the image of a little girl. She had bright blond hair, big silvery eyes, and a cute bow at the top of her pink mouth.

  “Damn,” Gabe breathed, “she looks just like you, Ren. Except for the long hair and the dolphin earrings.”

  “I know.” Ren brought Gatsby’s picture back to his side of the table and traced her little face with his fingertip. “I have a daughter,” he whispered, “and I want her with me.”

  Beck nodded. If he had a daughter, he’d want her with him too. But he’d be scared shitless in Ren’s position.

  Ren looked up. “I couldn’t get a flight to Atlanta until tomorrow morning. I don’t know how long I’ll be gone. I can’t force Gatsby to come back to San Francisco when she doesn’t even know me.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” Beck said. “We can handle things here. Take as long as you need.”

  “What are we going to do about Ava Grace?” Ren asked.

  Earlier, Beck asked Ren to be Ava Grace’s main point of contact within Trinity. It made sense for him to work with her since he was in charge of marketing.

  “She can wait until you get back,” Beck answered.

  Gabe shook his head. “I disagree. We’re damn lucky she agreed to work with us in the first place, and we need to make the most of our time.”

  “She can wait,” Beck repeated. “Ren has more important things to think about.”

  “She’s on a plane right now, flying here,” Ren announced. “When I talked to her yesterday, she said she was eager to get started. We were going to meet tomorrow afternoon. She doesn’t know much about bourbon, so I was going to give her a lesson on bourbon basics, and then we were going to brainstorm ideas for our marketing campaign.”