Feisty Red (Three Chicks Brewery 2)

Clara agreed with a nod as the alarm on her cell phone beeped. She headed back around her desk and turned it off. “I need to grab Mason from school, but let’s think on this. We need to push ahead. We need to make this work for all of us.” Even if Maisie agreed to a lesser share of profit now that she only did graphic design for the company, they all needed this company to succeed. “This is it, our one chance to take our little company and make it big.” She moved to the door and looked back at her sisters. “Until we get what we want, we can’t stop. Got it?”

“Got it,” her sisters said in unison.

Clara took a step out the door when Maisie added, “But you’re going to think of something, right? I mean, this is your wheelhouse Clara, not ours.”

Clara smiled back at her. “I’ll come up with something brilliant. I promise.”

Late into the morning, Sullivan arrived at the office of Dr. Elizabeth Stevens. Determined to deal with his past and be a better man by the time he left River Rock and to leave all his trauma there, behind him, he figured a therapist was his best way forward. The office was located in an old Victorian home a block off Main Street. He climbed the porch steps, opened the front door, and was greeted by a surprise. Working behind the desk was Gloria Winters, the mother of a player from his old baseball team.

“Sullivan Keene, as I live and breathe,” she said, her wise brown eyes just as he remembered them. “My goodness, it’s so nice to see you.”

Sullivan shut the door behind him. “You as well, Mrs. Winters. How’s Kenny doing?”

She grabbed a picture off her desk, flipped it around, and showed him Kenny with his wife and three young children. “He’s a busy family man now, not playing much baseball these days. But he’s got my oldest grandson playing local tee-ball.”

“Good stuff,” Sullivan said.

Before he could even sit down, the door next to Mrs. Winters’ desk opened. Dr. Elizabeth Stevens was younger than he was expecting, but still older than him. He guessed mid-to-late forties, with shoulder-length brown hair that was lighter on the ends and hazel eyes that seemed far too clever for her years. “Mr. Keene, please come on in.” Elizabeth moved aside for Sullivan to enter the room consisting of a large desk with a computer and telephone, along with a seating area.

Sullivan waited for her to close the door, feeling ready to climb out of his skin. “Listen, Doc, I’m new to all this.”

“That’s all right,” Elizabeth said with a gentle smile, moving to the far seat next to the beige leather sofa. She picked up her notepad and then kindly but firmly pointed to the couch. “Please take a seat, Mr. Keene. I’m here to listen. It’s really as simple as that.”

He took his seat, forcing himself not to fidget as they shared quick niceties. Then a beat passed. Her stare was patient and calm and intrusive. They stayed that way for a good minute until the silence became dauntingly heavy. “I have no idea where to start,” he admitted.

Elizabeth’s trusting eyes warmed. “Why don’t you tell me about why you decided to move away from River Rock?”

Sullivan considered her carefully, even if everything told him to look away. Small towns had a way of spreading gossip at hyper speed. A few talks with the local mothers around town, and Elizabeth had likely heard his history. He just hoped she had a code of conduct and didn’t talk about her clients. “You haven’t already heard about me?”

She held his gaze. “The story from your mouth is the only one I care about.”

Her answer gave immediate comfort, and he felt his muscles slowly relax. “Why do you want to know about why I decided to move away?” he asked, honestly curious.

No emotion showed on her face. “I figured it’s a good place to start, but feel free to begin wherever you feel more c

omfortable.”

Either her intuition was spot on, or his former concern about gossip was true. He drew in a deep breath, wondering what would be an easier place to start. As he glanced to the window behind her desk, his mind drifted to a long-ago memory.

The sun was just beginning to set as Sullivan walked toward his house. He left his bicycle in the front yard long-past needing mowing. Two days ago, he’d turned twenty-one, and on his birthday, a day after graduating from the University of Denver on a full baseball scholarship, a scout had approached him. He hadn’t been home for years now, staying with the local police chief and his son, Hayes, but he figured the news needed to be shared in person. Part of him hoped the good news would bring back a glimpse of the father Sullivan had once loved, the man who’d been at every game, cheering him on.

The house his mother had once loved was unrecognizable now. Her beloved gardens were dead, weeds overrunning everything. He headed up the porch steps and knocked on the door. “Dad?” he called.

A loud bang followed by a few more echoed in the house before the door whisked open. His father stumbled into the doorway, and Sullivan had to brace himself against the shock. He barely recognized this man. His father had to have lost fifty pounds, and his face was sunken in and hollow. He smelled like rotten tequila and had dirt covering his hands and face. His brown hair was greasy and long, and his once-brown eyes now looked nearly gray and lost. So damn lost. A quick look inside the house, and Sullivan spotted glass on the floor, the smashed family pictures in the hallway.

“Why don’t you fucking listen?” his father roared, snapping Sullivan’s gaze up. “I told you to stop coming here. You’re not fucking welcome.” Spittle formed at the corners of his mouth.

Sullivan knew why. He took after his mother’s side of the family, and he suspected when his father looked at him, he saw a painful reminder of all he’d lost. “I’ve got some good news—”

“Get off my property.”

Sullivan took a step forward. “Dad, I—”

“You never fucking listen.”

His father lunged then, and completely caught off guard, Sullivan took a direct punch right under his eye. He went soaring back to land on the grass below the porch steps, feeling the blood flowing down his face.

“Was that the first time your father hit you?”