Enemies on Tap (Sweet Salvation Brewery 1)
“Well, whatever you’re not doing, make sure it’s nothing stupid. And if it is…call me. It’s been a while since I knocked heads together.”
“You got it.” Logan ended the call and backed into a spot in the corner. The position gave him an unobstructed view of the bar’s tinted glass doo
rs framed by two ten-feet-tall hogs dressed in cowboy hats and silver belt buckles.
Nothing would feel as good as pounding Carl’s face in right about now, but that wouldn’t help Miranda in the long run. Carl’s family had a long history in Salvation. If the sheriff’s deputies even believed Miranda’s story, the gossips would say she’d driven Carl to act out. If Logan smashed the shithead’s nose into a bloody mess, they’d blame his action on a Sweet’s bad influence. Either way, Tyrell would use it to get more county council votes to outlaw alcohol manufacturing at the next meeting.
That couldn’t happen. Like it or not, he had to keep his fists back for this one. But that didn’t mean he couldn’t have a friendly word with Carl.
He scanned the lot, looking for Carl’s distinctive truck. There were other camouflaged vehicles, including one puke green subcompact, which made his head hurt with its ugliness, but none were Carl’s. He could wait for his prey inside the bar, but that would start talk about why a Martin would be hanging out in a honky-tonk on the other side of town from the country club. So he opted to sit and wait in the oppressive silence of his truck.
An hour ticked by, and his frustration grew while he watched a line of vehicles pull into the parking lot. None of them were the right one. The longer he waited, the less his plan made sense. He was about to turn the key in the ignition when Carl’s truck pulled in with its oversized tires and undersized driver. The truck circled the parking lot before backing into the last spot near the door.
Logan pushed open his door and was halfway across the parking lot by the time Carl had gotten out of his truck.
“Hey, Brennan,” he hollered.
Carl swiveled around. A snide smirk formed when he spotted Logan. “I was wondering how long it would take you to show up here.”
Logan stopped and slid a sideways glance at the front of Carl’s truck, noting the small scratches on the mud-covered grill. “Let’s say it took me a while to see your side of things.”
“Welcome to the light.”
“Can we talk?” He covertly pressed the record button on his phone and slipped it into the front pocket of his shirt.
Carl nodded toward the Spotted Pig’s entrance. “Come on in, I’ll let you buy the first round.”
A couple stumbled out the front door of the bar, the blaring sound of the jukebox following them out. There was no way he’d be able to get a clear recording on his phone. “I’d rather talk out here.”
“Too good for a brew when it’s not served at the golf course?” A thread of contempt weaved into the other man’s tone, matching the snarl curling his lip.
Rather than deny the man’s assumption, Logan played into the whole lord of the manor stereotype, brushing a speck of dirt from his sleeve. “Does it matter?”
“Guess not.” Carl eyeballed him for a minute, then spit a stream of tobacco onto the pavement. “So talk.”
He had to play this carefully if he wanted the state troopers to accept the covert confession. “I wanted to follow up on that offer you made me at the brewery.”
“So you got your little piece of Sweet goodness and now you’re ready to send her packing, huh?”
Heat blazed its way up his spine, and his hands curled into fists, but he couldn’t give into the urge to pummel the man who’d run Miranda off the road. First, he had to get the bastard to spill his guts. Pulling from his reserve of Martin family control, he uncurled his fingers and forced his body into a casual stance.
“Something like that.”
“Well, like I said, there are a million things that can go wrong at the brewery.” He shrugged. “All it takes is a little loosening here or a little too much tightening there.”
Logan’s gut clenched. A few years ago, an employee at the nearby Gulch City Breweries had been seriously burned while cleaning the beer kegs. One of the kegs hadn’t been purged of the internal pressure, and when the man had opened the valve from the hot water heater, the boiling water had overflowed the tank and showered down on him, leaving third degree burns covering 25 percent of his body. The idea of that happening to Miranda—or anyone else at Sweet Salvation Brewery—sent a cold rush of fear through Logan.
“Would anyone get hurt?”
“Depends.” He paused. “Do you want them to?”
Logan shoved his hands into his pockets before he ruined everything by turning the shithead’s face into hamburger meat. “Speaking of which, I hear Miranda had a car accident this afternoon.”
Carl rocked back on his heels and tilted his head skyward. “You don’t say.”
God, he couldn’t wait to smack the Who, me? look right off the other man’s face. “You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that would you?”
Rolling slowly back to the balls of his feet, Carl shot him a look with dead eyes that sent ice down Logan’s spine. “Sometimes folks are in the right place at the right time.”