Chapter 1
Mackenzie Draper woke up with a throbbing head, a dry mouth, and an ache in his neck that hurt like hell.
Vague memories of the Coach House, his buddies Cain and Jake, some loud, crazy band, and a bottle of tequila floated in his mind.
Or maybe it was two bottles of tequila.
Not that it mattered. Mac was sporting the worst hangover ever, and even though it had nothing to do with Crystal Lake—and everything to do with his weakness for tequila—his first thought was that he shouldn’t have come home.
Things never went well when he came back to Crystal Lake, and after all this time—and with his bastard father in jail—it was still hard.
With a groan, Mac rolled out of bed and wondered why the hell he did it.
It was late morning, Friday of the Memorial Day long weekend, and Mac had arrived home the night before, hence the catching up with his buddies and the endless shots of tequila.
Damn. He knew better. Tequila always knocked him on his ass.
His nose wrinkled. He smelled like a brewery and was still in his clothes from the night before—he was pretty damn sure he looked like crap. Mac stumbled down the hall, wincing and cursing when he stubbed his toe on an uneven floorboard.
He ran fingers over the two-day-old stubble on his chin, rolled his shoulders, and groaned. The muscles were tight, but then again, everything was tight and sore.
With a scowl, he glanced back toward his room. Damn mattress. He was used to sleeping on the king-sized dream at his place in New York City, not the IKEA crap from his teen years.
“Shit,” he murmured, wincing again as his neck creaked. There was a time when the floor between the Edwards twins’ beds had been good enough for him. Hell, he’d spent many a night sleeping there when things got out of hand at home.
God, is this what it felt like to be old?
The family homestead was a modest bungalow with three bedrooms, a kitchen, a small dining room, and a TV room finishing off the main floor. The place hadn’t seen a fresh coat of paint in years, and the wallpaper in the hall was curling in the corners. The roof needed done and if the windows weren’t replaced soon, the frames would rot.
It was a mess, and he doubted the additional three bedrooms in the basement or the small recreational room was faring any better.
When he was a kid, he spent most of his time down there—anything to avoid his father, or rather, his father’s fists. Back then, the house had seemed so damn small—so damn suffocating—it was hard to believe that anything could grow or thrive inside the four walls that made up the Draper residence.
No wonder he escaped as much as he could. Hanging with the Edwards twins and Cain Black had been his salvation.
He glanced around the house, feeling as tired as it looked.
With only his mother puttering about, the place seemed empty and quiet. Too quiet. Mac needed noise, the hustle and bustle of the city, the sounds of people, music, and cabs.
He needed noise to shut out the quiet moments, because when it was quiet, it was way too easy to think and remember. And Mac didn’t want to remember.
He wasn’t alone in that sentiment. His five siblings were gone. They’d all left as soon as they could, and other than his younger sister, Becca, he was the only one who came home to visit. The long distance thing seemed to work for everyone else.
Mac paused and leaned against the door frame that led to the kitchen, watching his mother roll out dough. She wore simple clothes—a white cotton blouse, with faded blue and red roses, tucked into plain white shorts that fell exactly one inch above the knee. The colors had faded, but they were clean and pressed, with no creases.
Her long hair, as blond as Mac’s and showing no sign of gray, was knotted loosely at her nape. She was petite—trim—and from this angle, she looked exactly like the mother he remembered from his youth. It wasn’t until she glanced up and he caught sight of the sadness in her eyes, the wrinkles of worry etched into her brow, that he saw her age.
Age and heartache that had been put there by his father.
Just thinking of Ben Draper made Mac’s gut clench, and it took some effort for him to ease out of the anger that ate at him. He breathed in and out, nice and easylike, and managed a half-assed smile for his mother.
She smiled back, but it quickly faded when her eyes narrowed and she pursed her lips. She continued to roll her dough.
“Late night, Mackenzie?” There was disapproval in her voice and, dammit, even after all this time—he was thirty-five for Christ’s sake—he felt like that kid who’d just got caught with his hand in the cookie jar.
Her husband was a mean drunk, and he got that she didn’t like Mac overindulging, but still…it was kind of ironic that she would call him out for having a bit too much tequila when she never said a word to Ben.
Mind you, if she did, she’d see the back of Ben’s hand, but there must have been a point in their relationship when she could have stopped him.
Heat swirled in his gut as a bunch of memories ran through him and none of them were good. Jesus, he needed to shut this shit down right now. There was no point in rehashing the past. He shoved it all aside and crossed to the fridge, grabbing a carton of juice.
“Is that for the Edwardses’?” he asked.
He poured himself a large glass and turned around to lean
against the kitchen counter, his gaze on his mother as she methodically kneaded the dough.
“Yes. I’m making a raspberry pie for you to take when you go.”
He waited a few seconds. He’d spent every Friday before Memorial Day at the Edwardses’ for their annual friends and family barbecue. He always asked his mother to join him.
“So, you’re not coming with me.” It was a statement, because he already knew the answer.
She continued kneading the dough, her movements slow and precise. “No, honey. I’ve got more baking to do for the church bazaar, and I promised Mrs. Linden that I’d help her clean her house.” She glanced up, though her smile didn’t quite reach her eyes. “She’s getting on and needs an extra set of hands. I’ve been helping her out ever since Maggie left town.”