The Summer He Came Home (Bad Boys of Crystal Lake 1)

Sal brought over a plate filled to the brim with a large burger and fries—total heart attack on a plate—and Cain dug in hungrily while Jake ordered a couple more beers. What the hell, he was on vacation. Sort of.

“So, how did it go with the kid? You guys have better luck than we did?”

Cain nodded, swallowed, and washed down his food with a large gulp of cold brew. “It was good. We caught a full bucket of perch.” He smiled. “For a little guy, he has stamina. Lasted nearly the entire day out on the water.”

“Yeah, and his mother looks great in a bikini.”

The rough voice came from nowhere, and they both looked at Mac in surprise. The entire right side of his face was swollen, while his chin was a mess of purple and black. Dried blood coated the corners of his mouth and crusted near his nose.

He stretched out his arm and groaned, then cursed when his frown caused even more pain. “I feel like shit,” he announced to no one in particular.

Jake cocked his head and laughed. “Sorry to say, buddy, but you look even worse.”

Mac leaned back into the corner of the booth and scowled at them. “I need a drink.”

Cain arched his eyebrow and grinned at Jake as he motioned toward Mac. “You sure you want to go down that road?”

“Hell, yeah.” Mac signaled to Sal. “I’m still drunk, so the way I see it, the only direction is up.”

“That makes no sense whatsoever.” Jake snorted and called for the bartender too. “But I think I’d like to go wherever the hell you’re headed.” He grinned at Cain. “When was the last time we got out of hand?”

“Hell if I know. It’s been so long, I don’t remember.”

Mac leaned forward, his face dead serious. “It’s time to make some new memories, my friends.”

Salvatore came over with some cold ones, a look they knew all too well on his face—a cross between fear and trepidation, with a bit of anxiety tossed in for the ride.

“Now boys,” he began as he set the beers on the table.

They echoed his words in perfect harmony but weren’t able to coax a smile from the round Italian.

Sal cleared his throat and stood, arms crossed, eyebrows furled. “Let’s not have a repeat of the last time you were together, all right?”

“Last time?” Jake glanced at Mac, and the two of them burst into laughter. It took a few seconds for the fog to lift, and when it did, Cain threw his head back and joined in. The memory wasn’t exactly clear, but he did recall Jesse and Jake riding into the bar on the back of a black-and-white Holstein cow.

“I’m serious now. If I think things are going south, your butts are outta here.” He turned to Cain. “I don’t care that you’re all Hollywood these days.”

“Don’t worry ’bout us, Sal.” Jake winked. “We’ll make sure to clean up any mess we leave behind.”

Sal’s eyes narrowed, though the ghost of a smile lifted the corners of his mouth. “Sure you will…but I swear, if I step into anything that remotely resembles a flaming pile of shit…” Sal shook his head and muttered all the way back to the bar.

The three of them sat in silence for a few moments, each lost in a memory that was both comical and bittersweet. Cain shoved his empty plate away and grabbed his drink.

He stared at Mac, marveled at the mess that was his face, and lifted his beer in salute. Blood wasn’t everything. He and Mac knew that better than most. As far as Cain was concerned, these two men were his family, and it felt damn good to be home again. Jake followed suit, and then Mac.

“To Jesse,” Jake said softly. “May there be lots of beer, whiskey, Holsteins, and a big-ass pile of shit wherever the hell he is.”

They emptied their bottles and ordered another round.

The sound of a drop D slid through the night and drew Cain’s attention. It was a heavy note, an aggressive punch that signaled the band was definitely not country music. As always, it electrified him—the sound of a guitar—and his body thrummed with energy.

The band was on stage, setting up their guitars, making sure their mikes were in place, and generally doing a last check before showtime. A large mountain of a man had slid in behind the sound board set up behind the dance floor, and they did a quick sound check—nothing intense, just enough to get the levels right.

The band was a young bunch—Shady Aces, the banner behind them said. They were decked out in skinny jeans that hung halfway down their asses, a look Cain just didn’t get. Who the hell walked around with their boxers on display? Their hair was greased up something good, their ears and faces covered in piercings and their arms adorned with tattoos. Total badass.

Their cocky attitude and arrogance fit the whole rock thing, but he knew from experience all the posturing in the world wouldn’t help if the talent wasn’t there.

Cain watched from the shadows, enjoying his relative anonymity and the easy comfort of Mac and Jake. Five minutes later, when the band struck the first note of a raunchy, rocking blues tune, he was right there with them and down for the ride.