Wood: A True Lover's Story

Thankfully it wasn’t crowded for a Sunday night. A few couples occupied the outside tables near the stage, and three couples were slowly winding against each other on the dance floor as the band played a slower rendition of “They Say It’s Wonderful.” Trent recognized the song immediately, and it was already soothing his wounded soul as he followed the man in front of him.

Marcus stopped at the end of the bar before a set of double doors that Trent knew led to the kitchen. Or as it was well known. Mama’s house. “What can I get you to drink?” Marcus asked, leaning against the bar facing him.

Now that they were inside and under the bar lights, Trent could see that Marcus’s eyes were practically onyx, and his long black lashes made them appear made up. Blinding. Trent turned away and glanced toward the beer selection. “I’ll have a Heineken,” he said just loud enough to be heard over the music.

Marcus’s dark eyes scanned down Trent’s body, and instantly his thoughts went to Wood. Was Trent about to have a drink with another man who was clearly showing he was interested in him? Did he even have a boyfriend anymore?

“It looks like you can use something a little stronger than that,” Marcus said, his devilish grin remaining in place. He kept his body toward Trent as he returned his attention to the cute bartender who was waiting to take their order. “Liza, get Trent a double shot of Hennessey.”

Trent was about to refuse, but the drink was in front of him before he could open his mouth. He was mindful he still had to drive home, but he planned to be there a few more hours. One drink wouldn’t hurt. Casting Wood and his heartache to the back of his mind, Trent downed the shot, welcoming the burning sensation in the pit of his stomach.

“There you go,” Marcus said creepily, having somehow moved closer. “You feel better already, don’t you? How about one more?”

Trent glared. Marcus looked to be a few years older than him, maybe, but Trent didn’t appreciate the ply-him-with-hard-liquor approach. “No, thanks,” he said, slamming the glass down on top of the bar. Thankfully there were no customers on that side, but the bartender still took notice.

“All right. Cool.” Marcus eyed him again, smirking as if he found him amusing. An interesting toy to play with. “I’ve heard a lot about you, Trent. Mama’s long-lost son.”

Trent felt a twinge of guilt for not coming to see the woman that’d helped raise him when his own mother wanted nothing to do with him. “Heard what.”

“That she loved you harder than she loved any of her other boys, but it was never enough. And that when you got locked up you broke her heart,” Marcus said seriously as if he no longer needed to flirt after receiving Trent’s hard brush-off. “Then you just never came back, like a spoiled, unappreciative—”

“But he’s here now,” Mama said, coming through the set of doors like the queen she was. Marcus didn’t finish his insult. Instead he got up and placed a few bills in the tip jar. “I manage this place now. Come back anytime, Trent. Your name has always been on the VIP list.”

“My son is home,” Mama said, opening her arms the same way she used to, and Trent fell into the embrace, damn near weeping on her shoulder right there in the club. She looked as if she hadn’t aged a day since he’d last seen her almost six years ago. He squeezed her tightly, inhaling the scent of Southern comfort cooking and her lingering Chantilly perfume.

“I’m so sorry,” Trent said agonizingly. “I was ashamed.”

She leaned back and cupped his cheek. “If Miles could see you now,” she said softly, her gentle voice and faint Mississippi accent washing over him like a soothing balm. “Come on in the back, son. You hungry?”

Trent was healing already.

Chapter Forty-Eight

Wood

Wood was drinking his third cup of coffee when Mike came through his front door like a wrecking ball without so much as a tap first. Wood slowly lifted his head, ready to mount some kind of defense when his eyes caught the glint of metal in Mike’s right hand. Shit. Wood carefully got to his feet, keeping the dining table between them and his back to the wall.

Mike expertly flipped the switchblade over the back of his hand, snapping it open and pointing it in his direction. “I told you what I’d do if you hurt my boy, didn’t I.”

“Mike,” Wood warned. “Think about where I’ve been the last seventeen years. Do you really think I’m just gonna let you stick that blade inside of me?”

Mike stopped short, staring at Wood as if he was stupid. “Of course not. That’s why I brought backup.” More men filed into his house through the front and back doors. The same men from Mike and Manny’s concrete crew, the ones he’d worked with on a couple occasions. “Sorry it took me a little while, but Trent’s brothers insisted on coming.”