by Rye Hart
CHAPTER THREE - QUINN
The park was already starting to fill up with booths and people by the time we got there. It was a warmer than usual fall for us, and it still felt like summer during the day – especially with all the damn humidity in the South. But, warm or not, the leaves were changing and there were already big red and orange piles of them all over the ground.
“South Carolina apparently didn't get the memo that it's October,” I muttered to myself.
I wiped the sweat from my brow as we finished setting up the grill behind the food truck Bennett brought over. Most of the cooking happened out back, on the massive grill we brought out for special occasions. Good BBQ couldn't be made inside a piddly little food truck.
Cason and I were working the grill, and I wasn't too thrilled about the idea of standing outside in the damn sun all day. Bennett would be in the nice, cold air conditioning of the truck – taking orders, handling the cash and doing whatever else needed to be done.
As soon as we were done with the hard stuff, Ben drove up in his truck and parked alongside ours. Climbing out, I noticed he was dressed nicer than the two of us. He was in dress slacks and a button-up shirt. His hair, darker than ours – a chestnut brown opposed to the reddish-brown color most of the McCormicks are born with – was neatly combed and styled. He took after our mother in the face, but his build was all McCormick. Clocking in at six-foot-three, he had the same wide shoulders and chest that we all had.
“Where the hell have you been?” Cason called out.
“As usual, he waits until the hard stuff is over to show up,” I teased. “Probably had to get his hair done.”
Bennett McCormick was the brother who cared most about appearances – specifically, his appearance. He always took care to make sure he looked his best, right down to his freshly shaven babyface and meticulously trimmed hair.
“Business isn't all about what goes on behind the grill, boys” he said. “Someone has to make sure the bills get paid.”
And that was Bennett. Cason was the chef, Bennett was the numbers guy. I still wasn't sure where I fit in, but I helped where needed. Sometimes marketing and advertising, other times alongside Cason on the grill. I was the more jack-of-all trades type.
“And those bills just had to be paid this morning, huh?” Cason teased, wiping sweat from his forehead with his t-shirt, which was covered in charcoal and dust.
Ben shook his head, an almost condescending look on his face – an expression that never failed to make me want to smack him right in the mouth.
“Not like you'll understand it,” he said, his tone matching his smug expression, “but I was meeting with the banker this morning to discuss our expansion.”
“Explains the suit,” I said.
“And the haircut,” Cason added. “But still not why it had to be done this morning when we could have used another set of hands to put this all together.”
“Hey now, I'm not the one sleeping with my ex still,” Ben said, turning the attention back on me.
I shrugged. “At least I'm getting laid these days. One of us has to keep the genes alive.”
“And besides,” Carson said, “Quinn got up and busted his ass this morning.”
While I gave them shit right back, the mention of Shelly reminded me of what happened the night before. For the first time since we started hooking up, starting way back in high school, I knew it was the end. Hell, we hadn't even slept together last night. At least not in the sexual sense. We shared a bed one last time before she left for the bright lights of the big city.
And this morning, when I asked her again if she was sure she wanted to end this, she made it perfectly clear that we were over.
She also called me a selfish prick in the process.
And while her words stung, being outside with my brothers made me almost forget about her and that whole scene entirely. Almost. I tried to remind myself that it wasn't like we were ever going to settle down and get married or some shit like that. I knew it, she knew it. But, most of the time, I liked spending time with her. My brothers didn't like Shelly for a lot of reasons. And while it was hard for me to fully understand why they hated her so much, deep down, I knew they were right in some of the things they'd said. I was too close to the situation, obviously, and didn't see some of what they saw.
Both Cason and Ben still enjoyed playing the field a bit, and since I was officially free from Shelly, I thought that maybe I'd join them. It'd be like old times – the McCormick brothers back out on the prowl together.
Except for the fact that we knew most of the women in Black Oak – and very few of them seemed enticing. Everyone knew everyone else, and at times, the whole town felt almost incestuous. A lot of people were distantly related to others by marriage. Not to mention the fact that, in a graduating class of sixty-five students that you pretty much grew up with from day one, many of them felt like family.
If the brothers McCormick were going to go out and conquer women together, we were going to need to find a new fishing hole to dip our poles into.
CHAPTER FOUR - BENNETT
My brothers just don't understand what it actually takes to run a business. To them, it's all about grilling up the food and serving it. And yeah, that's a big part of it. But there's so much that goes on behind the scenes – payroll, the bills that have to be paid to keep us afloat, licenses, and all. There's a million things I do that they don't see, that if I didn't do them, the Driftwood would have closed down long ago.
But, I think that's what makes us strong; we all have our defined roles within the business.
Cason is the grill master. He's the one old man Dierks passed the recipe down to, and it was his idea to buy the Driftwood in the first place. I'm the brains behind the operation – I keep the books and do most of the advertising. I'm the face of the Driftwood. And Quinn is kind of our Jack-of-all-trades. He does a little bit of everything, helping out here and there.
“Hey, pretty boy,” Quinn said. “Can you make yourself useful and grab those boxes out of the truck?”
I look down at my slacks and shirt. The last thing I want is to get myself dirty. Cason and Quinn might not care if they were filthy and grimy, but I sure as hell did.
It's always been that way though. Cason has always been pretty tidy, but not anywhere near as fastidious as I was. And Quinn has more or less always been a slob. I loved my brothers, but it's one of the things that's always driven me the craziest about them – especially given that we share a house.
“Come on, bro,” Cason called from the back of the truck. “You've been playing businessman while we've been busting our asses out here all morning.”
I sigh and unbutton my shirt. Taking it off, I laid it neatly on the passenger seat in my truck. Stripping out of my slacks, I laid them over the shirt. People were milling about, getting their booths set up and ready for the bonfire, but I was still in a t-shirt and my boxers, so I didn't care. I grew up playing sports and spent my fair share of time in the locker room, so my sense of modesty isn't all that high.
Grabbing my gym bag off the floor of the cab, I threw on my shorts and changed out my shoes. If I'm going to be getting sweaty and dirty doing manual labor in that heat, I sure as hell wasn't going to do it in my nice clothes. My brothers may be the kind of animals who are going to wear the same clothes they're in now to the bonfire, but I'm not.
As I'm tying my shoes, I look over at Cason and Quinn, who are laughing and joking with one another. And as I looked at them, I was struck – not for the first time – by how similar, and yet, how different we all were.
Although we all had that McCormick build, Cason and Quinn took more after our mother in the looks department. My hair and complexion were a little darker than theirs – more like our dad's. Although we were all athletic, to an extent, Quinn was always the best of us when it came to sports. I was good, but he was the natural athlete – a skill that earned him a scholarship to Notre Dame.
It always bothered me that Cason wa
s naturally smarter than me and Quinn was always the better athlete. But, as I got older, I learned to appreciate the fact that I was good in both areas. While maybe not as exceptional in one area or the other like my brothers, I was still well above average in both.
Not that either of them let me ever forget they were better than me. If there's one thing we all got from our family's genepool, it's that healthy McCormick ego. Growing up, everything had been a competition between us. Our father believed sibling rivalry and competition was good for the soul. Good for developing a young man. And so, he nurtured that sense of rivalry and competition between us.
It one thing that's never changed between us – although, as we've gotten older, it's more about fun and bragging rights than it was the bloodsport it had been growing up. But my brothers and I still find ourselves competing over one stupid thing or another all the time.
Of course, given that I'm the only one who's actually done something to continue honing my body and my brains, I'd have to say that I've pulled ahead in the game. Yeah, Quinn is still in great shape and he still kicks my ass down at the gym, but his days as an athlete are over. I still play ball whenever and where ever I can. Quinn just seems content to work out, and not really do anything with his life.
And Cason – always the smartest of the three of us – hasn't done a damn thing to better himself. He never went to college. Hasn't done anything but work at the Driftwood for most of his life now. And yeah, we own the place and we're doing pretty well, but back in the day, I'd always expected bigger and better things out of Cason.
“Seriously, bro,” Cason called again. “You gonna do any actual work today?”
“Nah,” Quinn said. “He's probably got a hair and manicure appointment.”
“Probably booked himself a spa day,” Cason said.
They laughed together like they thought they were the funniest guys on Earth. What those clowns know about running a business though, I could probably squeeze into a thimble. Without me, we would have been out of business a long time ago – not planning for expansion.
And part of running a business was having a face to put to it. Public relations. Looking and acting like a professional. Neither of those two clowns could pull it off. That responsibility fell to me. And yet, they're going to sit there and bust my balls about me doing my job? It's shit like that, that pissed me off about them.
Walking over to the truck, I grabbed a couple of boxes and walked over, tossing them into the back of the food truck at Cason's feet without a word. Both of them looked at me, a surprised look on their faces.
“What's up with you?” Quinn asked.
“I'm just doing a little actual work,” I snapped. “Gotta help out before my spa appointment, right?”
“Dude,” Cason said. “What's your deal? We're just giving you shit.”
I turned back to them, my anger flaring. “Yeah, well maybe I'm getting sick of you two giving me shit,” I say. “Maybe, I'm sick and tired of you assholes walking around acting like you do all the work around here and I don't do shit.”
“Dude, c'mon,” Quinn said. “It's not like that –”
“No?” I turn on him. “Then how is it exactly?”
“C'mon, bro,” Cason said. “We're just screwin' around like we always do. We know you work hard to keep the Driftwood going.”
I look at both of them and see that my little outburst bothered them. Good. I get sick and tired of the both of them acting like I'm not doing anything just because I'm not lugging shit around to one event or another. The work I do for the Driftwood is important. And it's every bit as critical to keep it alive as Cason's cooking is. And it's high time both of them realize that – and appreciate all the shit I do for all of us.
“C'mon, man,” Quinn said, wrapping his arm around my neck. “Don't be such a whiny little bitch. Not today. Today's supposed to be fun!”
“Seriously, bro,” Cason said. “It's all good, man. We're just bustin' your balls.”
Slowly, the anger dissipated and then faded away completely. I couldn't stay mad at these assholes for long. It's just how we were wired – the Three Musketeers. We were always there for one another, through thick and thin. “Yeah, fine,” I said. “Just stop being such douchebags for a change.”
Cason shrugged. “It's in the McCormick blood, man,” he said. “I don't know what to tell ya.”
“Yeah, and Ben here seems to have gotten a double dose of it.”
I gave him the finger, but laughed, the tension that had saturated the air between us completely evaporating. I punched Quinn in the shoulder and shook my head.
“Come on,” I said. “Let's finish unloading the truck already. I have an appointment to get my hair cut in an hour.”
“I knew it,” Quinn said. “Such a prissy little bitch.”
CHAPTER FIVE – HAILEY
At the Bonfire...
The incredible aroma of the Driftwood BBQ filled my nostrils and made my mouth water. And my tummy growled loud enough that Jenn turned and looked at me with an amused expression on her face.
“Hungry?” she asked. “Maybe you should get you some good old-fashioned Driftwood BBQ.”
“Maybe, I should,” I said, taking a long sip from my sweet tea – something else I'd missed when I was in California. “Maybe, I'll do that.”
I looked over at the food truck, and as delightful as it sounded, the idea of running into familiar faces – other than Jenn's – filled me with a deep sense of unease. Especially, if those familiar faces belonged to the brothers who now owned the truck.
The McCormick brothers had never been mean to me – not like some of the others in my little hometown had been. We'd just never been exactly close. Cason was my age and had been my lab partner in Biology my sophomore year – not that I expected he'd remember that. And I'd had brief interactions with all three of them over my high school years.
But, it's not like we'd ever been friends. They ran in different circles than I had. They were the popular boys and I was the invisible girl. Hell, if I walked over to the truck and put in my order, they probably wouldn't even remember me. That's what I said to reassure myself once the hunger pangs got to be too much for me to bear any longer.
“Want anything?” I asked Jenn.
“Nah, I already ate,” she said. There was a mischievous twinkle in her eye and her lips were pulled back in a salacious little grin. “But help yourself, darling.”
“What's that supposed to mean?”
“You'll see,” she said giving me a suggestive little wink.
Shaking my head and chuckling to myself, I walked over and got into the long line of people waiting to place their order. Keeping my head down, I did my very best to avoid making eye contact with anybody or drawing attention to myself. I simply kept to myself with my hands in my pockets, and I slowly made my way to the front of the line.
The smell from the grill got stronger as I stepped closer to the window of the food truck and my stomach growled even louder and was more persistent than before. I was dying for some authentic Driftwood BBQ – yet, still a little reticent about seeing my old schoolmates. But I did my best to keep my emotions in check – and stop myself from bolting at the first sign of somebody I knew from back in the day.
I glanced over the heads of the people in front of me and saw two of the brothers working hard inside the truck. I could tell it was them just from the dark reddish-brown hair. The overhead fluorescent lights in the truck, danced off their hair, making the red stand out more than in natural light. One of them – I assumed it was Cason – had short clipped hair. It was almost a buzz cut really, with just a little on top. The other, which I thought had to be Quinn, had shaggy, choppy chin length hair that he had to keep pushing behind his ear – the same hairstyle he'd had back in high school.
I only saw them in profile at first and was staring pretty intently, trying to determine who was who. But then, Cason looked up from what he was doing and caught me staring at them. I quickly looked away,
feeling my cheeks flushing, but it was too late. He'd caught me. Dammit.
When I turned my head, trying to salvage something of my dignity, my heart sank when another familiar face caught my eye. This time, it was a woman that called out to me from the crowd.
“Hailey Roberts?” she called. “Is that really you?”
I cringed at the familiar, sing-songy, saccharine-sweet voice of Rebekah Henderson.
She came toward me with a full head of springy blonde curls bouncing around her still perfect face. She grabbed my hands in hers and stared deep into my eyes – her striking blue eyes appearing kinder than they ever had when we were teens. She was wearing a sundress that clung to her very pregnant belly, and a silver cross laid flat against her neck.
She was still every bit as gorgeous as she'd been back in our high school years. I hated her back then and I didn't see that changing anytime soon.
“My lord,” she chirped and then laughed. “I thought my eyes were playing tricks on me. Where have you been all these years, Hailey? You're like the girl who just – poof – disappeared one day.”
“Uhh well,” I said, desperately trying to come up with something on the fly.
Rebekah was bright, chipper, and seemed nice. Like, genuinely nice. Which of course, is the polar opposite of what she'd been back in high school. She'd been the stereotypical mean girl – sugary-sweet to your face, and then she'd stab you right in the back a moment later.
Back then, it had been easy for me to see through her forced bubbliness. But standing there with her, I didn't get a sense of that mean girl she used to be. She'd either gotten really good at hiding it, or she'd actually changed. If she had, it might be the very first case of a tiger changing its stripes in human history.
I scratched my head waiting for the other shoe to drop when, all of the sudden, I realized that everyone was looking at me. Or at least it felt that way. The knots already in my stomach constricted painfully and I grew increasingly uncomfortable beneath their scrutiny. Almost as if operating of their own volition, my eyes darted this way and that, looking for an avenue of escape.
