I know she was out there drinking, and probably with that firestarter kid Clark.
Little goddamn punk.
She’s slowly relaxed, at least over awkward dinners where she spends half the time pretending to ignore me with her sketchbook at the table and the other half drawing furiously, applying the lessons Haley’s shown her. That’s the one thing I’ll relent on—letting her spend two evenings a week at the Charming Inn.
I have to be her dad.
I’m not going to be her prison guard.
Can’t stand seeing her grow up feeling crushed, stifled, run down.
Not the way I did.
By Saturday she’s more animated, though—maybe because her grounding’s lifted, and after dinner I finally give her permission to go out and find her friends.
She’s been pretty pissed at them. Mad enough that making up between classes hasn’t been possible, but she never stays angry at them for long. Small-town life gets even smaller when you’re a teenager.
So she mostly saves her hellfire for me, I guess.
I’m shocked she actually kisses my cheek as she bounces toward the door. “I’ll be home before midnight,” she says, slinging her messenger bag over her shoulder.
“Ten thirty,” I growl after her, and she lets out an exaggerated sigh.
Not really mad at me.
Just putting on a show. I hide my grin.
“Compromise,” she says. “Eleven.”
I stroke my beard, pretending to consider, then nod. “Eleven it is.”
Rolling her eyes, tossing her head back, she groans, “God, you’re such a dad,” before bouncing out into the night.
Leaving me alone, in the quiet of my house.
I don’t usually notice the emptiness when I have the rare evening to myself—no fires to put out, no cats to rescue from trees, no other crises, no call-in show, my growing daughter out having a life of her own. I’m usually too tired to think about anything but resting my feet and getting some shut-eye.
I’ve been trying to read the same book—Gone Girl—for nearly six damn months. Doc’s idea. I get two pages in and then pass out, even if he’s right about it being a fast-paced thriller.
But I’m not that tired now.
Maybe it’s the ghost of my ma, riding in Holt’s wake. Or maybe it’s the lingering memory of Abby, her shadow haunting us all week, but hell.
I don’t think I want to be alone right now.
It’s not hard to know where I’ll find the guys. Unless it’s Warren’s turn with a cranky kid or two—Doc also, now, damn all my friends are settled in with kids and wives, but one out of two ain’t bad—they’re always at Brody’s.
It’s a clear sky tonight. No fresh snow, though it smells like it’s biting cold, the kind that makes the air feel thinner. With my leg not acting up, it’s almost relaxing to make the drive under the bright full moon, everything gone silver under the snow.
I can get a beer in with enough time for it to wear off and leave me safe to drive home to see if Little Violet listens to my curfew.
The flashing sign at Brody’s draws me in.
I park and head into the long, low weathered building, a classic roadhouse style pub that looks like it was put together from driftwood some thirty or forty years ago. Inside, it’s still rowdy, even at just after nine. Mostly ’cause the college kids come in from a couple towns over.
They know the bartenders don’t check IDs as often as they should and they love going up to the cliff to make out and throw flowers over the edge.
No flowers for me tonight.
Looks like the whole crew’s here. I home in on Warren, Doc, and Leo, settled at their own table—and the moment Warren catches sight of me, my name echoes over the bar in a hearty boom.
“Blake!” he calls, waving. “Get over here!”
I catch a fast-moving waitress’ eye and signal for a beer, then cross the room to sling myself into a chair in their booth. We’re four big men, and it’s a tighter fit than it used to be, especially with Leo being a new addition.
Or I should say a new old addition. We used to play together as kids, and my dumb ass called him Tiger, mixing up my Latin. Only for him to disappear, then show up again years later as the monster-turned-hero of Heart’s Edge, formerly known as Nine.
I almost don’t belong here with these brave damned men who keep risking it all for this town.
Peace’s voice resonates in the back of my mind. That soft sweet girl, all vivid eyes and fire and charm, asking me to tell her those stories.
They ain’t mine to tell.
I’m not here for grand showdowns and attention.
I’m just trying to raise my daughter in one piece and stay alive.
“Hey, man,” Warren says, clapping me on the shoulder as I settle into the creaking wood. “Been a while.”
I groan, folding my arms on the table. “Had to stay home with Andrea to make sure she stays grounded. Girl’s better than old Mozart at sneaking out.”