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“No, I should make sure everything’s okay. I’d drive myself crazy if I lived here. I’d look out the window all the damn time to check the traffic going in and out of the shop.”
“I’ll pull the shades when you’re here.”
As they went out, Avery hooked her arm through Hope’s. “I love having you so close. And I’ve been so obsessed about Clare and Sam Asshole Freemont I didn’t even ask how things went today.”
“They had everything reasonably organized.”
“But not Hope organized.”
Hope smiled. “It will be. I’ve been spending most of my time at the storage unit. It’s coming along. And so’s the tile work. I was in there today.” She glanced back, pleased to see the exterior lights beaming. “They’re working in The Penthouse. You should see the tile on the tub side of the floating wall. They’ve finished the main level, except for the backsplash in the kitchen. They’re doing the cabinet install next week. We had a delay.”
“Listen to you, all in the know.”
“Owen keeps me in the loop. I barely get a grunt out of Ryder.”
“A man of few words.”
“Straight through,” Hope said at Vesta’s front door. “If you need to deal with anything, you can do it after you talk to Beckett.”
“Right, straight through.”
Decent enough crowd, Avery decided, and waved to her night manager with a be-right-back signal. When she glanced toward the kitchen, Hope steered her to the stairwell door.
“After.”
“I wouldn’t think about checking if I wasn’t right here.” They went out and up the stairs. “I don’t even know how to put this. I should’ve practiced something.”
“Oh, for—” Hope knocked briskly on the door.
“You know Clare’s going to be mad at me—no, at us, because I’m telling her you insisted.”
“We’re doing this because we care about her, and we’re worried. She won’t stay mad.”
“I don’t think he’s home. He could be over at his mother’s, working in the shop. Hell, he could be over at Clare’s. Maybe she’ll break down and tell him and we won’t have to. Maybe I should—”
She broke off at the sound of footsteps.
“Sounds like he’s back,” Hope observed, then adjusted her thoughts and attitude when she saw Ryder.
She didn’t know why the man always seemed mildly annoyed with her.
“Hey. Beckett’s having a party and didn’t invite me.”
“No.” Avery tried a laugh, but it sounded false and lame even to her ears. “I just wanted—that is, Hope wanted to ask something about—something. Since we were right here . . .” She hated to lie, Avery thought, because she so totally sucked at it. “Anyway, he’s not home.”
“I was wondering if I could look for a coffee urn for the dining room. And chafing dishes. I’ll need two.”
Ryder spared Hope a glance. “You’re good at it, she’s not.”
“Excuse me?”
“Coming up with bullshit. Talk to my mother about coffeepots. Now, what’s up?” he asked Avery.
“Nothing.”
“How long have I known you?”
“Look, it’s just . . .”
“Oh, for God’s sake,” Hope said impatiently, then spoke directly to Ryder. “Do you have a key?”
“Yeah.”
“If you don’t think Beckett would mind, can we go inside? We really shouldn’t discuss this in the stairwell.”
He nudged by her, pulled out his key ring.
“Want a beer?”
“No.” Avery folded her arms over her chest as she followed him inside.
“I’m getting a beer.” Making himself at home, Ryder switched on lights as he walked back to the kitchen. “Now, spill it.”
“Do you want me to tell him?” Hope suggested when Avery stayed silent.
“No.” She dragged a hand through her hair. “I have to. Okay, look, it’s about Sam Freemont.”
“That asshole?”
“Yeah, that asshole. I saw his car outside TTP this morning, before opening.”
Hope studied Ryder as Avery told the story. He didn’t react, just nodded, sipped at his beer. If you weren’t looking closely, she realized, you wouldn’t notice how tight his jaw got, how his eyes chilled.
She’d expected heat—a flash and boom—and found the ice more lethal.
“And I decided Hope was right,” Avery finished. “If—on the off chance, the slim chance I really think—anything happened, I couldn’t stand it. So we were going to tell Beckett.”
“Okay, we’ll take care of it.”
“You’re not going to go beat him up.” Now Avery pulled at her hair. “Not that he doesn’t deserve an ass-kicking for scaring her, but if you do that, she’ll only be more upset. And people are bound to hear about it, and talk about it. Talk about her. She’ll hate that.”
“He doesn’t care about any of that,” Hope observed. “He cares about kicking this jerk’s ass for scaring Clare. And I agree with him, on principle.”
“Common sense and a quick mind for bullshit. Not bad,” Ryder commented.
“In principle. What I’d worry about, and I don’t know this guy, but I’d worry that he’d take it out on Clare. That pounding on him might make the situation worse for her. So you’d have the satisfaction of making him pay, and risk her paying more.”
Ryder took a contemplative pull on his beer. “We’ll take care of it,” he repeated, “one way or the other.”
“Ryder—”
“Avery. You’re a good friend, and you did the right thing, the smart thing. Now you can stop worrying. We’ll look out for Clare.”
They would, Avery thought. Of course they would. “All right. If you get arrested for assault over this, I’ll get your bail.”
“Always good to know. Why don’t you send up a Warrior’s pizza.”
“Sure. Well, okay.”
He waited until they’d gone out to take out his phone. “Need you at Beck’s,” he told Owen. “No, I don’t care what you’re doing.”
He hung up, settled down to wait.
BECKETT JOGGED UP the stairs, light on his feet. Damn good day, he decided—and a most excellent funeral. When Clare got home, she’d called the coffins gruesome little works of art, and he’d earned a very nice chicken dinner.
He decided he’d cap off the very good day with a little work, a little ESPN.
The minute he opened the door, he smelled the pizza.
“Jesus, make yourselves the fuck at home. Is that my beer?”
“It’s ours now. One slice left.” Ryder indicated the pizza box. “If you want it.”
“I had dinner at Clare’s. What’s going on?”
“Why don’t you sit down?” Owen suggested.
He did. “If something was wrong with Mom, you wouldn’t be having pizza and beer, but something’s wrong.”
“Here’s the deal. I found Avery and the brunette at your door earlier. After a little dancing around, Avery told me what she’d come to tell you. Sam Freemont talked himself into the bookstore this morning before Clare opened. He got pushy.”
Beckett’s eyes narrowed. “What do you mean, he got pushy? Be specific.”
“I wasn’t there, but according to Avery, when she looked in—spotted his car outside and decided to check—he had Clare pinned against the counter.”
Beckett got to his feet, slowly. “He put his hands on her?”
“He scared her,” Owen said. “Wouldn’t leave when she told him t
o leave, wouldn’t back off when she told him to back off. Then Avery pounded on the door, faked like she was calling me over, and he took off. Hold it!” he ordered when Beckett turned back toward the door. “Do you even know where he lives?”
He couldn’t think, not with the red haze in front and in back of his eyes.
“I found his address.” Owen tapped his phone. “But I don’t think going over there and smashing his face into bloody pulp is the best idea.”
“I do,” Ryder put in.
“You would. And if that’s what Beckett wants after we talk this through, well, majority rules, and I’m in.”
“Give me the fucking address.”
“I’ll give you the fucking address after you give me five minutes. If you kick his ass, he’s the type who’ll charge you with assault.”
“Avery said she’d make the bail.”
“Shut up, Ry. You’re not worried about that now because kicking his ass is what you want. Can’t blame you,” Owen added with a glint in his eye that belied the mild tone.
“But you’ll be in jail or facing charges, and Clare’s going to be more upset. The kids, too. He’s also the type—I’ve always hated that smug bastard—to take it out on Clare. Scare her again, or threaten her, or just badmouth her like he did to Darla back in the day.”
“Ry kicked his ass over that, didn’t he?” Beckett demanded.
“Yeah, but Darla didn’t have kids who’d end up hearing the kind of crap he might spread about their mother. You know that’s just the sort of thing he’d do.”
“And you expect me to do nothing?”
