Kandy giggled.
Mindy laughed. “Well, what would you like, Frankie?”
“The chocolate-caramel cheesecake will do.” Frankie looked at me, batted her eyelashes, and put on a bright, wide smile. “I’ll eat every bite, Mr. Cane. I promise.”
I bobbed my head with a smirk and followed Derek to the gate that was only a few steps away. He was quiet for a few seconds. He knew what this was about. All three of us knew—Derek, myself, and Mindy.
“She’s overreacting,” he said before we could make it down the second set of stairs.
“After seeing you have four beers in less than an hour, I wouldn’t call that overreacting. I’d call that being careful.”
“Nah.” Derek sighed and stopped, focused on the ocean. I looked with him, watching the tide come in, the waves crashing to shore. The water was darker beneath the multi-colored sky. Perfection. “I’m years past what I was, Cane. You know I am.”
“You are, but as your best friend, I have to be honest with you.” I put my focus on him again, taking a step back. “Ever since the shooting, you’ve been drinking more. Mindy has mentioned it to me a few times because she’s worried. At first she was understanding. She felt you needed a drink or two after you recovered, just to feel like yourself again, but you went from buying a pack of beer once or twice a month, to buying one every other day, D. You’re spiraling. You need to talk to someone.”
“What?” he snapped. “I’m talking to you, ain’t I?” He gave me a serious glare, his throat bobbing. He was revealing his defensive side. I knew all about that side, too. It was rooted deep—the part of him that wasn’t proper or well-spoken. His Georgia accent only showed when he was angry, agitated, or fed up. “I don’t need a fucking shrink, man. I’m good.”
“You’re not good. You’re drinking to escape. Plus there’s nothing wrong with seeing a shrink.” I peered over my shoulder. Kelly had taken Mindy to the bar for drinks. Kandy and Frankie were showing each other their phones, most likely gossiping. “Look at your girls, D. They count on you. This vacation isn’t just about you. It’s your chance to heal and bond—to forget about that shit and live a little with your family, you know?”
Derek scoffed. “I don’t expect you to understand, Cane. You’re the fucking CEO of a million-dollar company—”
“A company I built from the ground up,” I added, cocking a brow. “A company that I sacrificed everything for.”
“I know. Shit, I know. I didn’t mean it like that. It’s just…being a cop is rough,” he continued. “I love my job, I truly do. Since I was a boy, I always knew I wanted to be a good guy. The kind that helped people and saved them, you know? I mean, we’re supposed to be the good guys—the ones the world is supposed to trust. But most of us get such a bad rep now because of a few fuck-ups who are way too trigger-happy.” He stopped talking for a moment, giving me a sideways glance. “Fuck, I can’t believe I’m about to tell you this. I haven’t even told Mindy about it,” he mumbled.
“Told her what?”
“Why that guy really shot me that night.”
“Why did he?”
“Because I was black.” Derek scratched at the scar on his neck, as if he could still feel the pain, remember the burn of its graze as it passed by. “The guy was high as hell. I don’t know what he was on—probably meth or some shit. His daughter was on the front lawn when I arrived, and she had bruises all over her body and blood was between her legs. She wasn’t breathing, so I tried to help her—give her CPR or something. Her dad was yelling at me the whole time and kept telling me to back off, that he didn’t want me on his property. Calling me a boy, shit like that. I couldn’t keep an eye on the girl and him, and that’s probably where I fucked up. I should have been watching him. Before I knew it, he’d pulled a gun on me. Told me he’d be damned if he let a nigger put his mouth on his daughter—that he’d rather her die than be tainted by someone like me.”
“Damn, D. Shit—I’m so sorry, man.” I didn’t even know what to say to that. Fuck, what could I possibly say?
“I ran toward the car, but he got my neck. My thigh. But the bullet wounds aren’t what hurt the most. It was his words. They brought back memories, for sure,” he said through a painful laugh. “Really bad ones.” He scratched his head.
I knew all about the memories. Derek was abused as a child. His mom married a man who was, inexplicably, a bigot. Derek’s birth father was black and had died when he was two. I’d seen pictures of his mom, and she was a beautiful biracial woman, but her skin was fair and many shades lighter than Derek’s.