by Olivia Chase
But I can’t feel sorry for her, even if it makes me a little selfish. “I’m sorry. I don’t want to get into this on the phone.” It really isn’t the appropriate time or place. Not that I think there ever will be. And I have to accept that.
I’m mad at Hudson and taking it out on my mom.
“I’m really tired, Mom. I need to go.”
“Okay,” she says in a hesitant tone. “I didn’t text you back because I got busy, and then my phone died, and I had to help Stanley with a bunch of repairs around the house.”
Excuses. Always excuses. “It’s fine. Talk to you later.”
“Bye.”
We hang up, and I drop the phone and stare at the ceiling. I’m so tired. Tonight, I’ll get lots of rest. In the morning, I’ll get on my way and drive west. I’m ready to leave this place behind.
It takes me a bit to rouse out of bed. As opposed to the other night, I actually got a bit of decent sleep last night. Probably because my poor body took pity on me and helped me shut off my brain. I have a long drive ahead of me today.
I already checked out with the motel manager, and almost all of my stuff is packed. So I do one last look over the place to make sure it’s decent, then drag my stuff toward the door.
There’s an envelope just inside the doorway that looks like it was slid under the door.
I pick it up and open it. Inside is a first-class plane ticket to San Francisco with my name on it, plus a wad of cash. I gasp. Then I see a handwritten note right behind it.
Marissa,
I wish I’d been a good enough man to deserve you. You were right—you should have better than what I can give. I sold the car. Here’s the money from the sale so you can buy a new one when you get there. We both know yours won’t make it that far.
H
I read the note over and over again, my heart feeling like it’s being squeezed by a tight fist. Hudson bought me a ticket. That has to mean something, doesn’t it? I’m torn for a moment. Stay, or go? Should I drive to the bar and try to find him? Call his number and see if we can talk?
I press a hand to my fluttering stomach and inhale, exhale. Clear my mind. I know Hudson loves me. But this note is a goodbye note, not a please-take-me-back note. He loves me, yes, but he doesn’t have the strength to live as though he does.
And I want it all.
I still need to go.
I fly to San Francisco. Find a small motel to put me up until I get a job, and I hunt for apartments in the meantime. I go grocery shopping, purchase a couple of suits for interviews.
Meet with Suzie at a coffee shop and fill her in on the dramatic soap opera that my life has been in recent weeks.
She can’t believe everything I’ve been through, but she’s not judging my choices. She supports me, and that’s something.
Later, I polish my resume and print multiple copies.
I move in a daze, unable to feel a thing. I’m numb, just barely wandering through this city. A ghost. Thousands of miles away from where I left my stupid heart behind.
This city is massive. I spend a lot of time wandering around, trying to get a feel for my new home. I can’t believe I’m actually here. I just wish I enjoyed it more.
It takes a few days of aggressive job hunting, but I get a call back for an interview with a graphic design firm. The position has potential. The morning of my interview, I slide into my dark gray suit pants and silky white blouse. Suddenly I’m reminded of how Hudson would tell me how to dress. My body gets a hot flush all over.
This is going to happen, I tell myself. I know I’ll get weird, random reminders of him. Of how things were before.
I don’t feel strong, but I know I am. I just have to get through this dark funk. I’ll come out of it with my dream job, in my dream city. I’m moving forward, not letting anyone or anything hold me back. I have enough money to live off of until I find the job I want.
I can do this.
Even if my mind is still spinning, still wondering every five seconds—what is Hudson doing, is he okay, how’s the bar?
I try to shake it off—I have a life to lead and a job to get before I’m dead broke again. This city is freaking expensive.
I apply a slick of gloss, smooth my hair, then head out the door of the motel. I haven’t gotten a car yet, deciding to use public transportation to make my way around as I become familiar with the city.
The building where I’m interviewing is several stories tall and covered in glass windows. People rush by, women in business suits with tennis shoes talking on their phones, men holding briefcases and flagging cars down. It’s so different than the quieter pace of Rock Bridge.
Different is better.
I rally my nerves and step in.
The interview goes well. The woman who interviews me, the manager of the department where I’d be working, is all smiles and handshakes. She shows me around the building and explains what my work would entail. I get lots of friendly head nods, and I notice a couple of guys checking me out.
I can’t seem to do more than muster a smile at them.
They look like such pale imitations of the man I was falling for. Every guy I see, I think instead of Hudson’s eyes, his intensity, his masculinity.
My belly aches and I want to cry from the missing of him.
After my potential boss shows me around and we do a little initial talk about my ideal salary, she tells me she’ll be in contact soon and leads me to the door. I’m getting good vibes from her about the position.
I wander down the street aimlessly, checking out the large city buildings. I should be more excited. I’m so close to achieving everything I want. Well, everything I wanted before I met the man who would give me everything…and then destroy me.
Ugh. I’m being so dramatic. I need to knock that shit off. This isn’t going to help me heal. I stop and get a coffee and send Suzie a few pictures of me as I go about my day. She’s been cheering me on about my interviews. Nice to know someone is thinking of me. Helps me feel a little less alone, like a small fish in a very, very big pond.
I can’t help but wonder what Hudson is doing. Does he think about me at all? Does he regret letting me go—no, sending me away? I’d like to think he does.
My phone buzzes—it’s a number I don’t recognize. I read the text.
Hey, it’s Axel. Sorry we didn’t get a chance to say goodbye before you moved on. You left a necklace behind the bar here. I think the clasp is broken. Can I get a mailing address so I can send it to you? Thx.
Strangely enough, the message makes me want to cry. He’s being so nice, and I miss him and Hale too, even if they were kind of nutty.
What necklace? I ask him.
Gold with fancy swirls and the letter M in the middle.
Oh God, the necklace my dad got me right before he died. In all the suddenness of me leaving, I didn’t even notice it was gone. Must have fallen off at work and someone tucked it behind the bar. I fire off a text with the address where I’m staying and thank him profusely for sending it to me.
It doesn’t miss my attention that he’s the one who texted me, not Hudson. I guess Hudson really is done with me. The finality of everything socks me in the stomach, and it all sinks in again. Falling in love is so painful. Do I regret it? Even though it ended up with me being bruised and battered emotionally?
I think about the moments we had together, the ways I grew and changed as a person. How being with him helped me learn to be a stronger person.
No, I don’t regret it.
I just wish things had turned out better. For both of us.
Hudson
“Bro.” Hale hammers his massive fist on my bedroom door. “Get the fuck up. We gotta go to work. I’m not leaving ‘til you get your ass out here.”
I plod over to the door and open it before he rips it off the hinges.
“You look like shit,” he says delicately, wrinkling his nose. “Take a shower, and let’s go. We gotta open the bar.”
“For all those customers stomp
ing to get in,” I say flatly. “Makes perfect sense.”
Hale shoves me toward the bathroom. “And shave that pubic hair off your face. You look like crap with a beard.”
I flip him the middle finger, and he laughs and turns away. Ass. But I do as he says—I clean myself up, looking semi-presentable.
Marissa left several days ago. Which, coincidentally, is when I stopped giving a fuck about anything. My brothers let me hide out in my room for a couple of days, but they’re making me get out of bed now.
I don’t understand why we’re bothering to go to work. The bar is going to be empty. Again. We’ve literally had four customers since we reopened. Four.
And that was three days ago. They were out-of-towners, already drunk. Even they only stayed a half hour before moving on, complaining about our lack of “ambiance.” Maybe I should have shown them where the bullet holes were in the wall.
I move on auto pilot, making a sandwich to tide me over at the bar and then getting in the car with my brothers. We wind our way to the bar, go through the motions of opening, as if we’re going to be flooded with customers.
Two hours tick by. I sit behind the bar, drumming my fingertips on the surface. I’m so glad I left the comfort of my bed to come here.
I’m eyeing the bottle of Glenfiddich when the door swings open. And fuck me, in swaggers Conor McAllister, followed by his moronic goon squad.
Hale stands and stalks toward him. “What the fuck.”
Axel moves right behind him.
Conor holds up his hands in an easy gesture. “Whoa, cowboys. Don’t go punchy there. I came to discuss business…with the boss.” He throws me a wink.
A hot flush of fury spreads down my throat. “Fuck off. We have nothing else to discuss. Unless you want to go to the cops and admit that you did the shooting.”
Conor’s eyes go wide. “There was a shooting here? I’m glad I wasn’t here when that happened. No wonder you have no customers.” He gives an exaggerated look around, ducking down to his knees. “Nope, none hiding under the tables, either. Well, that sucks, doesn’t it.” When he straightens, he approaches the bar. “I just wanted to tell you that I feel bad for your situation, so I have an offer for you.”
“Not interested.”
His friendly smile wavers, and his eyes go hard. “You should be. It’s the fairest deal you’ll get. And you don’t have to put your family home up at all.” With that, he gives a side glance to my brothers. A subtle way to poke at me. Conor then rattles off an offer to buy the bar for a pittance.
“Are you high?” Axel says in shock. “That’s a fraction of what it’s worth.”
“Oh, how much is it worth if you’re not selling product, huh?” Conor raises a brow. “You’re not making shit right now. You need to sell and get out from under this rock. I can help you. This is the most generous offer you’re going to get from anyone for a dead bar, trust me.”
I scrub my jaw. “And what happens if we decline your ‘generous’ offer?”
He turns that flat gaze straight to me, the deadness in his eyes showing the true asshole he is. “I think you probably shouldn’t test me on that.” A threat. Extortion. It’s clear there will be more violence soon if I don’t do as told. He lightens up, a sudden mood shift. “Well, I’d stay and have a drink, but I have better places to be. Good luck. I’ll be in touch.” With that, Conor and his crew leave, taking all the oxygen from the room with them.
My brothers and I stand there in silence for a moment.
“We’re fucked,” Hale says, working his jaw in anger. “If we don’t sell him the bar, he’ll kill someone else.”
We’re quiet for a moment.
“I have an idea,” I say.
“Are you actually going to tell us or just go off and handle it on your own?” Hale asks, snarkiness evident in his tone.
I start to snap back at him, but the shot was well deserved on my part. I’ve been a victim of my own ego and I lost everything as a result. But the biggest thing I lost was Marissa. The woman I love. Deeply. Passionately.
I have to get her back, somehow. I hurt her and pushed her away. I mistreated her. I don’t deserve another chance, but she has all of me, and I’m not whole without her. These last few days have been misery.
But first, I have to make things right with my family.
So I tell my brothers my plan. They’re a little sketchy about it, but I ask them to give it a chance. I’m not sure if they agree because they’re out of ideas, or if they’re just happy I included them in it, but I nod my thanks and then grab that cheap bottle of wine Smith got me on our opening day.
I head out the front door and cross the street to Outlaws. There are a few scattered cars in their parking lot—evidently, they still haven’t made up for the lost business from our bar competition.
I go right inside and up to the office door, rapping on it.
“Come in,” Smith’s gruff voice says. When I open the door, he blinks. “What are you doing here?”
I plop the bottle on his desk. “I need your help.”
His face is so incredulous it’s almost funny. “Are you fucking kidding me? Because of you and your antics, Outlaws is also failing. You drove my business into the ground, along with yours, but you come here asking me to help you.”
I drop into the seat across from his desk. “And here I thought a nice bottle of wine might get you in the mood.”
He doesn’t find me funny.
“Okay. Look. You’re right. Our bars are both in trouble, and it’s because of me. But now, all our fates are tied together. We’re all Becketts, and like it or not, your reputation is tied to mine.” Briefly, I fill him in on Conor coming to the bar to buy me out…at the threat of more violence.
He’s disdainful as he listens at first, but eventually his features lose a touch of their hardness as he nods.
“We have to deal with Conor McAllister, and that can only be done if we’re all working together,” I finish. Even then, it’ll still be dangerous. It’s possible this won’t work. But we need to take a chance.
Smith scratches the back of his neck. “Have you talked to your brothers about this yet?”
I nod. “Hale and Axel both think this could work.”
“I mean your other brothers.”
I thin my lips, pausing before speaking. “No. But I’m sure they’re aware of what’s going on.”
Smith stands and opens the door, waving his brother Jax over. He whispers in Jax’s ear, and then Jax takes off.
Not long after, Smith’s two younger brothers, and my two older brothers, join us in the office.
Smith and I explain what’s happening, and I fill them in on my plan.
Jax looks skeptical as hell. “Seems really fucking risky,” he says. “He might not go for it.”
“If you have a better idea, I’m listening,” I say.
Jamison frowns at me. “I wish you’d listened to me before.”
I swallow back my irritation. “I’m sure you do. As do I. But I’m here now. I can’t change the past. I just want to fix this shit once and for all before it spirals out of control and more people end up dead.”
Smith thinks for a long moment. I can see his distaste for me clear on his face. But he nods. “I agree. We’re all going to have to fix this shit with Conor. Count me in.”
His brothers give a hesitant nod. Mine are quiet for a moment, and I stare at them. Then Zack and Jamison reluctantly agree.
It’s not the best of truces, but it’s a truce. A step in the right direction.
“I’ll be in touch as soon as I reach out to Conor,” I tell them, standing. I leave the bar, then head back to Fugitives to fill my brothers in on the rest of the plan. They look as questionable about it still as the others did, but no one had anything better in mind, so we’re going to run with it.
And fucking pray that it works.
If not, there will be more blood—and it will probably be mine.
I send word through one of Conor
’s meatheads that we’re ready to talk about a deal. The guy looks smug as fuck. I just keep my face neutral. Let him think what he wants. He has no idea what they’re walking into. Conor has one of his men send me a message that he’ll meet me at the bar tonight right before opening.
I tell my brothers, all of them, and my cousins.
And we wait.
I go about the business of prepping the bar as usual for opening. I don’t want him to sense anything when he comes in. I position myself right in front of the bar, leaning casually on it with my hip.
Ten minutes to five, the door opens, and in comes Conor, trailed by several muscled men.
And then my brothers and cousins pour right toward them.
Fists start flying as the men are all fighting. Jax slugs one of the guys in the nose. Conor barely manages to dodge Smith’s fist, but he does get punched in the side by Zack. I throw a punch at a guy, working my way into the middle of the fight to grab Conor’s collar and force him down to his knees.
The fight doesn’t take long. They were outnumbered and out smarted by us, not expecting to get trouble from me. Certainly not expecting our two families—notoriously feuding—to pair up against him.
“Fuck.” Conor wipes his brow, which got a cut on it as he fell and hit the table, blood dribbling down the side of his face. I squeeze his collar to cut off his oxygen, and he starts to turn red.
Smith moves to stand in front of Conor, looking down at him. “You got away with going after the Becketts once, but next time, there’s no reprieve.”
“Fuck you,” Conor spits, a little blood coming out with the saliva.
I yank him to his feet and punch him in the kidney, which gets him howling. His meathead lackeys are slowly rising to their feet.
“Butch has been told about the situation,” Smith says, lying through his teeth, according to our plan.
Conor stills and holds up his hands at his men to stay in place. I release him, and he sways then stands upright. The redness that was in his face earlier drains, and he’s a sheet of white.
Butch’s reputation precedes him. My father is a dangerous man, well respected, well feared. I was hoping that his name might help us out.
