Yet Dr. Stanton’s research had given him doubts. Doubts on the one topic he’d been absolutely certain about since he was nine years old.
Finally, he rolled himself out of bed, showered, and headed for Ace’s, the pool hall and bar that had been his dad’s hangout when he last went looking for him two years ago.
The inside of Ace’s was dark and dingy, even though the Florida sun pounded every other corner of the state with its unrelenting glare. A wall of stale odor made him pause at the door, evidence that Ace had gotten around the state’s “no smoking” ban that covered most food-and-beverage establishments.
“Hey, hey. Landon Vista.” The bartender, a dark-haired man with his hair pulled back in a slick braid, smiled with recognition. “I’ve seen that face on TV a thousand times.”
He nodded an acknowledgment as he approached the scarred wooden bar. “How’s it going?”
The bartender tossed a cardboard coaster in front of him. “You looking for your dad?”
“He around?”
“Went down the street for some breakfast. He’s looking pretty rough this morning.”
My dad? Hung over? Say it ain’t so. But he kept his sarcasm to himself.
“Been gone awhile, so he should get back any minute,” the other man continued.
Landon pulled out a bar stool. Yellowish stuffing peeked out of slices in the faux leather cushion. “Maybe I’ll hang here and wait for him.”
“Get you a brew?”
Landon shook his head. Did the guy really think he’d drink a beer at nine o’clock in the morning? “Sweet tea, if you’ve got it.”
The bartender turned to the counter behind him as the front door scraped open. A tall, thin silhouette stepped inside, the only shield from the ray of sunlight that tried to barge its way into the dank room.
“You got a visitor, Martin.” The bartender’s gaze went from his dad to Landon.
His dad squinted, as if trying to let his eyes adjust to the dark interior. A look of realization spread across his face. He hesitated a couple more seconds, then shuffled to the bar and plopped down two stools away from Landon. “What brings you to the dark side?” he said, not making eye contact with his son.
The bartender set a glass of sweet tea in front of Landon and a pint of beer in front of Martin. Landon snatched the beer, suddenly needing to calm his frayed nerves, and downed most of it. Not a great example, considering that one thing he’d always wanted was for his dad to stop drinking. But after the last few days, he felt like getting drunker than he’d ever been. To forget. To dull the pain. To try to believe his mom could remain at peace, her memory not mired in a total screwup with the wrong man in prison.
His dad motioned for the bartender to get him another beer. The guy set another draft in front of Martin and then ambled off to a back room.
Landon wiped his mouth on the sleeve of his T-shirt. “I’m here to ask you some more questions about Mama’s murder.”
The corner of his dad’s mouth tensed. Martin still didn’t face him. “Son, it ain’t my fault if the Florida court system screwed it all up.”
The back of Landon’s neck tightened with anger. “That’s all you have to say?” A faint crinkling sound filled the silence between them as he peeled his forearms off the sticky bar. “All you can do is criticize the court system?”
“What do you want me to say?” Martin asked.
“I don’t know. Have a reaction. Act like you care. Act like it affects you in some minor way.”
“That was almost twenty years ago. We weren’t married. Once they realized I didn’t do it, they didn’t want me to have anything to do with it.”
“She was the mother of your child.” Landon hated the pleading tone in his voice, as if all the years he’d wished his dad would care were focused into this one moment.
His dad finally turned to face him, surveying him from his shoes to his head. “You seem to do pretty good for yourself.”
And this was what bothered Landon most about his dad. Not that Martin hated his son. Not that he was mean to him. Hell, a couple of beatings would have meant he’d been around a few times. No, what hurt most of all was the indifference, to both him and his mother.
“It doesn’t bother you that it’s all coming back? That Cyrus Alexander may have spent fifteen years in prison for something he didn’t do?” That your son might be pretty messed up in the head if he helped convict the wrong man?
His dad raised his mug to his mouth and drained the beer. “Good thing he didn’t get the death penalty, huh?”
“He’s been taken away from his family”—Landon’s gaze locked on his father’s—“just like I was.”
His dad broke the eye contact by taking a pack of cigarettes from his shirt pocket. He tapped it on the back of his other hand, then slid one out and inserted it between his dry, cracked lips.
“If Cyrus is innocent,” Landon said, “the guy who did it is still out there.”
Martin lit his cigarette and took a long drag. “But the courts have ruled him guilty.”
“I may have helped put an innocent man in prison.” Landon rested his elbows on the bar and cradled his forehead in his outstretched fingertips. “And if he didn’t do it, then there will be another investigation. Another period of not knowing.”
“Ain’t gonna make her any less dead.”
Landon’s head shot up as his jaw locked and his body stiffened. “Don’t talk about her like she’s a”—his mind spun—“a side of beef or some possum that somebody ran over in the middle of the road.”
“Why don’t you tell me how you want me to act?” His dad’s eyes narrowed. “Then it’ll be easier on both of us.”
“Act like you have some inkling that this is important. You sit over there”—he swept his arm toward Martin—“like we’re talking about the weather or the stock market or something.”
His father leaned toward him. “How come what I do is never good enough for you?”
“I just want you to care.” Landon ran his fingers through his hair. “Care about whether or not the right guy’s in prison. Care about how this affects other people.”
“Why do you need me involved in this? Why do I all of a sudden have to change because of all this?”
Landon felt his eyes mist up. Damn if he was going to let his dad see how much this meant to him. “Because I’m tired of being the son of a drunk.” The kid whose mom got murdered and whose dad wouldn’t even take him in.
Martin shook his head and chuckled. “Those football fans fed you a bunch of hooey. Sure they loved you while you was playing ball, but where are they now?” He looked around the empty bar. “Don’t you go thinking you’re so much better than me.”
Landon’s bar stool toppled backward as he stood. He couldn’t say another word. Couldn’t face his father anymore.
He’d known for a long time that while he was some guy with quick feet and a good arm, he would always be the son of a murdered woman, the son shipped off to live with an aunt and uncle, raised in a place where he never felt like he actually belonged.
He knew he was an imposter. Someone who’d been touted as important, but who—in the end—didn’t really matter.
He hated that his dad was right.
Gina had known something was wrong by the tone of Landon’s voice on the phone. She’d agreed he could come over, but she wasn’t prepared for the disheveled way he looked. The dark circles under his eyes told her he hadn’t slept much since they’d returned from Tampa last night.
“I want to ask you some questions,” he said as soon as she opened the door.
His normal, casual posture had been replaced by a combative stance—shoulders squared, arms bowed wide beside his body.
“About your mom’s case?”
His jaw twitched. “About my dad.”
Gina swallowed. “You wa
nt to come in?”
He stood there silently for too long. She watched the rise and fall of his chest under his faded T-shirt. “Yeah,” he finally said, his voice a whisper. “I do.”
This was the first time he’d been inside her apartment and he looked around. He picked up a framed picture of her family from the table next to the couch—the one with her, Mom, Dad, and Tommy snow-skiing, right before they all went down their first black-diamond slope.
“That was the year before he died.” If he was here to talk about his mom’s murder, then maybe it would be good for her to open up, too.
“The Rockies?”
She nodded. “Breckenridge.” Then she remembered his upbringing had been far less privileged than her own. “Colorado.”
“You must miss him.”
“I do.” Tommy had been the one she built forts with in the living room. And told ghost stories with at night. The one who’d challenged her at running and jumping and climbing trees, all of which helped her become the athlete she’d been in high school and college. “Every single day.”
He set the frame back on the table and turned to her. “I know what you mean.”
“You want to sit down?” She motioned to the couch.
He hesitated, but soon made his way to the sofa. He rested his elbows on his knees.
“You want to talk about your dad?” she asked.
“I think he knows something.” His words rushed out as if he’d been holding them in too long.
“About the case?”
Landon nodded.
“How long have you thought this?” Or had Landon been a nine-year-old child afraid to tell the truth because of what his father might say or do? Her mind whirled. Martin Vista had been questioned by police and had been cleared as a suspect. Surely Landon knew that.
“He’s just too . . . evasive. He won’t even talk about the time frame when it happened.”
“He had an alibi. He was out of town with the guy who owned the sawmill next door.”
“The guy was fifteen or twenty years older than he was. Why’d they even hang out together?”
“The police verified it with the man’s daughter. She was home from college. Your dad and Grady Buchanan liked to gamble together. Your dad would go with him whenever a load of wood had to be delivered near a casino—Biloxi, Mississippi. Cherokee, North Carolina. They’d done that a few times before.” She wondered if she should be sharing that information.
“He just . . .” His voice cracked. “He won’t even enter into a conversation with me about it.”
She didn’t have an answer, but assumed he didn’t expect one from her. She walked over and sat on the chair next to the couch. Her knees touched Landon’s. She knew from Tommy’s death that sometimes words just got in the way. Sometimes the best comfort was a friend who was just . . . there.
She rested her hand on his knee and caressed his skin with her thumb. Landon let his long torso fall against the back of the couch and covered his eyes with the backs of his hands.
Still, she sat there. Making her presence known. Letting him decide when the time was right for them to talk.
After several minutes, he lowered his arms and let out a big sigh. “I don’t understand how he can be so detached from it all. Like he doesn’t even care.”
She thought of how she might respond, but everything sounded so lame. She slid onto the couch next to Landon. “Maybe that’s a defense mechanism. His way of dealing with it.”
“I got used to him not being around much. I learned never to expect anything from him.” His chest shuddered. “But that was about me. The kid he never wanted and didn’t take care of. I’d have thought he’d at least give a damn about who killed my mom.” He braced his elbows on his thighs and rested his head in the palms of his hands. “But he doesn’t care if Cyrus Alexander’s the guy or not.”
“So you go on without him,” Gina pulled her knees to her chest. “You’ve made it this far. Why do you need him now?”
Sure, she’d reread the file tomorrow, focusing on Martin Vista’s testimony, but Landon didn’t need to know that.
“I’ve just always wanted—” Landon stopped, as if he didn’t have the power to go on. “Never mind.”
She smoothed one of the dark curls on his head. Sure, he was someone involved in one of her cases, but somehow touching him this way felt . . . natural. “I’m always here if you want to talk.”
“Yeah. How sad is that? Being consoled by the opposition because my dad lets me down again.”
“But I’m a good listener. About anything.” Her gaze rose to his and held there. A growling sound gurgled in his midsection. His palm clapped against his belly.
She laughed. “Was that your stomach?”
“I might have forgotten to eat the last couple of days.” They’d stopped for burgers on the drive home from Tampa last night, but he hadn’t eaten much of his.
“Yeah?” She popped up off the couch. “Well, it’s a good thing you’re with one of the best omelet makers in Tallahassee.”
He held his hands up and shook his head. “No. I didn’t come here to mooch a meal off you.”
She grabbed one of his arms and pulled it, encouraging him to get up and come with her. “Come on. I never cook for myself. It doesn’t make sense when there’s only one person. And I love a big breakfast.”
He hesitated.
“Sausage links,” she said in a singsong voice. She’d bought a packet of them a few days ago, thinking they’d keep forever in the freezer. “Fried potatoes. Omelets.”
He laughed as he stood. “How many people are coming over?”
He now stood inches from her, almost nose to nose. The closeness of him made her feel giddy. “I told you—I like breakfast.”
“I just never knew a girl who could eat more than I can,” he teased.
She grinned. She’d always been grateful for her physicality and strength. Had never gone through the body hang-ups that some girls had. She tilted her head playfully. “Are you calling me fat?”
His hands traveled to her hips as his eyes met hers. The fun, flirty atmosphere was replaced by a silent connection between them. “I’m definitely not calling you fat.”
She took a deep breath. Her gaze fell to his lips as the manly smell of him swirled around her. She immediately jerked her gaze back up to his olive-green eyes. God, would he think she wanted him to kiss her? This was all so . . . inappropriate. She couldn’t be making out in her apartment with someone involved in one of her cases. She could almost hear Dr. Howard’s class lecture on conflicts of interest. Still, she didn’t want the moment to end. “Then what are you saying?”
He took a tiny step forward, drawing their bodies even closer together. “What I’m saying . . .”
Landon’s mind whirred as he stood with his hands on Gina’s hips. He’d come here to talk about his dad, yet here he was, unable to keep from touching her. “What I’m saying is . . . that you confuse me.”
She seemed to know what he was talking about. “Because you don’t know whether to run me over in the parking lot . . . ?”
He nodded, waiting for her to finish her sentence. The only sound in the room was the pounding of his heart in his ears.
“. . . or kiss me?”
He nodded again.
“I think the kissing would be a bad idea.” Her soft whisper filled the few inches between them. Despite her words, she didn’t pull away.
“Because of the case?”
“And because I confuse you.”
“Maybe the kissing would help.” He was for damn sure willing to give it a try.
“But I could lose my job.”
The sweet scent of her beckoned him closer. “It’s just a summer gig anyway.”
Her mouth fell open in mock surprise. “You want me to risk my career to kiss you?”
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“It would probably be worth your while.” And if it led to other things . . . well, he’d definitely make sure she enjoyed that, too.
She covered his hands with hers and gently pulled them away from her hips. “Maybe we should stick with breakfast.”
She turned and walked toward the kitchen, giving him a great view of that sweet ass in tiny yellow shorts. He stood for a minute, wishing that little scene had turned out differently, then followed her into the kitchen.
She handed him a cutting board and two potatoes. “You’re in charge of these. Wash them first, then cut them into thin slices. Leave the skin on.” She opened the fridge and bent over to rummage through one of the drawers.
Again, the yellow shorts caught his attention, but he needed to stop staring and keep up with his end of the conversation. “You’re kind of bossy.”
“You want to help or do you want to complain?”
What he wanted to do was stay right here with her, whatever that took. And he hated himself for it. He hated that he’d started out wanting to find out more about his mother’s case and ended up enjoying—way more than he wanted to—his time with Gina.
He turned on the water to wash the potatoes as she pulled something from the fridge and closed the door. She walked over beside him and stuck a green pepper under the stream of water. There she was, close again. Leaning against him. Her breast grazed the back of his arm.
“This okay in your omelet?” she asked as she stepped away from him.
“Sure.” His throat was thick. He cleared it, feeling like a horny eighth grader who got all flustered at the thought of a boob touching him. “Sure,” he said again, with more conviction this time.
“Mozzarella or cheddar?”
“Are you always this prepared to fix a guy breakfast?” He didn’t want to think about another man standing in her kitchen. And he really didn’t want to think about what they might have done the night before.
She paused and grinned at him, as if she was on to his little tinge of jealousy. “I haven’t fixed breakfast for any guys since I’ve been in Tallahassee.”
The Truth About Love Page 8
