Feisty Red (Three Chicks Brewery 2)

Sullivan was on the road soon after. River Rock’s streets were never busy, especially compared to the streets of Boston. It had taken some time getting used to a big city. Sure, Sullivan had spent a lot of time in Denver while in college, but Boston felt like a world away from River Rock. The people were different, the smells, the scenery. Nothing felt the same, and for a long time, Sullivan had preferred that.

When he finally reached River Rock’s downtown, he pulled over at the curb in front of a 2-hour parking sign and got out. Downtown River Rock held none of the riches of a big city, but it doubled in charm. Quaint brick storefronts hugged the street. Owners decorated their shop’s doors, drawing in the visitors who came for the views of the Colorado mountains, the western country life, and the quiet countryside. All the things Sullivan had been more than happy to leave behind in his early twenties.

Now, as he crossed the road, he felt more at home than he ever did in Boston, but it surprised him how much had changed here. Not the familiar scents of a mix between fresh-cut flowers and sunshine, but the modernized stores. Long gone were all the old shops Sullivan remembered. He came to a stop outside River Rock’s police station. Years back, the police had taken ownership of the old courthouse on Main Street with its big white columns in front. Inside the station, the space had been modernized, with the reception desk at the front, near the waiting room, where he found the receptionist, Phillis, working. She had black-dyed hair, a face full of wrinkles, and bright nail polish and lipstick.

She whistled, setting her phone back on the receiver. “My word, Sullivan Keene. It’s been a long time since you’ve been home.”

She’d worked there for as long as Sullivan could remember and was well past retirement age. He smiled at her. “It’s been far too long.”

“Indeed,” Phillis said. “What can I do for you today?”

“Is the chief in?”

“He is,” Phillis reported. “Here, I’ll buzz you in. Go on back and see him. He’s in the same office.”

Seven years ago, Sullivan had spent a lot of time at the station. Not from getting in trouble. John Taylor, the chief of police, had taken him in at sixteen when Ronnie had declined to step up as Sullivan’s guardian due to his busy work schedule. Sullivan had lived with John until he headed off for college.

On his way down the hallway, Sullivan waved to a few cops looking his way. He finally stopped outside the corner office. “Still working too late, I see,” he said by way of greeting.

The chief’s head snapped up. “Well, well, so the gossip around town is actually right this time. You’re back?”

Sullivan nodded. “I am. Just for a month.”

John rose and came around the desk to give Sullivan a rough hug. “It’s damn good to see you.”

“You too,” Sullivan said, stepping out of the embrace. John and Sullivan talked often, and he always came to Denver whenever Sullivan had a game. He’d always been more of an uncle to Sullivan than Ronnie had even been. Even more of a father figure than Kurtis. “Listen, I can’t stay long. I’m meeting Hayes for drinks. Can we catch up over breakfast?” With the chief, it was always meeting over breakfast. His days were too busy for anything else.

John nodded. “There’s a great little place a block down called The Kitchen. Shoot me your schedule, and we’ll fit it in.”

“Will do.” Sullivan moved to the door then glanced back. “You know it’s a little after seven o’clock, right?”

The chief swatted at the air. “Work is work. Enjoy those drinks, Sullivan.”

Thoroughly dismissed, Sullivan shook his head with a laugh then headed back outside. He headed back down Main Street until he slowed in front of the bar with the KINKY SPURS signage. Suddenly, A kid ran toward him.

“Sully. Sully. Can I get an autograph?”

He’d never liked the nickname the media gave him, but felt rude correcting anyone who used it. “Hey, now, that would be my pleasure.” He accepted the pen and a notepad and went down to one knee. “What’s your name?”

“Dakota,” the kid said, beaming.

When he scribbled his signature, he took a guess and asked, “You look like you’ve got strong arms. Do you play baseball?”

Dakota’s grin widened. He gave a fierce nod. “I’m a pitcher too.”

Sullivan handed over the notebook along with the pen. “Keep at it, kid. You’ll be in the major leagues before you know it.”

“Yeah?” The kid’s eyes sparkled.

“Oh, yeah,” Sullivan said, rising. “All it takes is hard work and practice.” He smiled at the kid and then at his mother, who had joined them.

“Thank you so much,” she said, her hand pressed to her chest. “He’s such a fan of yours.”

Sullivan felt a world of guilt fall on his shoulders. He forced another smile before walking away. The last thing he should be to anyone was a role model. He entered the bar, finding a classic country western décor, only this one felt like the real deal, unlike the ones he’d seen on the East Coast. Wood paneling covered the walls, and tables were spread out between two stages, one holding the band’s equipment and the other supporting a mechanical bull. By that bull, he spotted his buddies, Hayes Taylor and Beckett Stone, sitting at a table with beers in front of them. Beckett was Hayes’ closest friend, and even though they were three years older, they’d welcomed Sullivan into their fold. He never forgot their kindness.

Before joining them, Sullivan said to the pretty brunette behind the bar with a name tag that read Megan, “I’ll take a Foxy Diva, if you’ve got one.” He remembered her from high school, but she’d never run in his circle of friends.

“Coming right up,” she said, turning away to fetch his drink.