“You ought to save yourself a lot of time and work and take your dad back to Santa Rosa,” Austin said at Trace’s back, his voice low and threatening. “You can make that old bar as pretty as you want, call it a café or a bakery or a fuckin’ museum, but it’ll always be the ratty Bad Seed to everyone around here. Avery is never going to make a go of a business in that building, and you’re stealing money from her by working on it.”
Trace turned on Austin. “Just because you’ve got a fucked-up way of looking at things doesn’t mean others do. The people in this town love Avery, and they’d support her even if she opened a stand on the street corner.”
A deep, brewing anger lived in Austin’s dark eyes. He may be Ethan’s brother by blood, but the two men were nothing alike. Ethan was all light to Austin’s dark.
“She’d be better off on a street corner,” Austin said, “because I’m watching you, and the first time I get even a whiff of stink coming from your direction, I’m gonna be all over it. If I have to shut down that bar and Avery’s business with it, I will.”
Trace didn’t blame the Hayeses for their contempt for the old bar Avery’s father had left to his daughters when he died. If a member of Trace’s family had been killed there, he’d hold a grudge, too. It was Austin’s abuse of power and attempted manipulation that pissed Trace off.
Austin was nothing but a bully with a badge, and everything inside Trace fought to lash out. He was caught in a battle between emotion and common sense when Austin’s radio crackled then hummed with the dispatcher’s voice, issuing a call.
Austin pressed the mic on his shoulder and responded to the dispatcher, then smiled at Trace. “I’ll be seeing you.”
Trace’s nerves were still rattling even after Austin left the building. He took a deep breath and turned back to his father—only to find him asleep again.
“Jesus, Dad, come on.”
When George came around again, his gaze sharpened on Trace. “Did you get it?” he asked, voice lowered to a tone so familiar Trace would have recognized it over the phone. “The stuff. The good stuff. None of that generic crap.”
“Yeah, got it.” Lying had always been easy for Trace, probably because his father had coached him so young. But now the lies spilled out as easily as water from a faucet, because reality and truth meant nothing to people with dementia. More often than not, reality and truth caused arguments and anxiety. So in this case, he told his father he had the drugs George was asking for, because Trace knew that by the time they got home, his father would forget he’d asked. “I’ve got to go pick it up before he sells it to someone else. Let’s go.”
A fatigued grin turned his father’s mouth. “That’s my boy.”
Trace took his father’s elbow and walked him from the jail with a familiar darkness spreading inside him like spilled ink.
On the way home, he picked up his voice mail.
“Hey, Trace, this is your old buddy JT, from Folsom.”
>
The raspy voice turned Trace’s stomach to ice.
“I’m free as a bird can be with a ball and chain around its leg. You know how those POs can be. Old nags. Gotta find me a job, and I remember us talking about your contracting work. I ain’t got much experience, but I been lifting and running, so I got a strong back, and I’m willin’ to do anything you need. No job, no pay too small. Promise I won’t give you no trouble. Give me a call. Let’s catch up. Later, buddy.”
Trace disconnected and immediately erased the message. Suddenly cold, he dropped his phone into the console and turned up the heat.
“Was that Chip?” his dad asked, half-asleep.
Trace cut a look at his father. He hadn’t heard George mention the main drug dealer they’d bought from in a long time. “Who?”
“You know, Chip. The guy who’s dating Joe’s daughter, the oldest one. Can’t remember her name.”
“Delaney?”
“Yeah, that’s her. Her daddy says she’s a wild little thing, that one. Chip’s always got the best stuff.”
Trace ran a hand over his damp forehead. God, he was glad his dad hadn’t said that in front of Austin. Talk about dredging up ugly memories. Mention of the man who’d killed Austin’s brother could have sent the bully into meltdown mode. And that wouldn’t be pretty. “Yeah.” Trace hadn’t been this shaken since one of his nightmares of being thrown back into prison. “Go back to sleep, I’ve got it handled.”
Ten seconds later, his father started snoring.
Trace took a deep breath and let it out slowly. He’d definitely done the right thing with Avery tonight. What happened between them was nothing. It had to be nothing. Because he was his father’s son. A man wholly unworthy of a woman like Avery Hart.
THREE
Avery threaded her fingers on the linen tablecloth and bit the inside of her cheek to keep herself from butting into the animated conversation between mother and daughter across the table. Avery could suggest and guide, but she believed the final decision on a wedding cake belonged to the client.
She glanced around at the other three dozen family and friends who’d come for the bridal shower. Each guest had already cast a vote for which flavor combination they preferred for Tiffany’s ginormous cake. But judging by the continued mother-daughter tug-of-war, it appeared that exercise had been more of a game than a true poll, because Nancy had her mind set on a very specific, very elegant creation with no visible intention of compromise. In that way, mother and daughter were very much alike.