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I push off the bar and cross my arms over my chest. “I honestly don’t care what you do, Jordan,” I tell her, my heart slowly icing over, “but I’m not stupid, either. Cole may be distracted, but I’m not. Whoever picked you up last night didn’t bring you home, so if you’re screwing around on my son, I’ll take offense to that,” I warn her. “And then I’ll ask you to leave my goddamn house. I’m not paying to support someone like that. You understand? Don’t you ever lie to me again.”
Her jaw flexes like she’s as angry as I am. I expect her sharp tongue to come flying back at me, and I think it will for a moment, but then it doesn’t. Instead her eyes start to water, and her chin trembles as she breathes small, shallow breaths. She looks away, blinking.
“Yeah, got it,” she says quietly. And then she puts the towel down and lifts up the partition, leaving the bar. “Excuse me, please.”
She walks away down the hallway and out of sight. I stare after her.
I might be wrong. I could be wrong.
But I’ve ignored my gut so many times, and I know better now. I thought she was one of the good ones, but I’m not going to be made a fool of again. If she wasn’t doing anything, she would’ve answered the question.
Turning around, I head back down the bar toward the door. But a voice stops me.
“Screwing around on your son…” a female voice mocks my words. “Your precious son.”
I stop and look at Shel Foley, the owner, who stands behind the bar, a cigarette in her hand and smoke billowing in front of her face.
“You got something to say?”
She pushes off the back counter and sucks in another drag before snuffing the cigarette out in the ashtray and planting her hands on the bar. She glares at me. “Your dumbass kid was supposed to pick her up from work last night after she worked a ten-hour shift,” she tells me. “He got drunk at a party, and guess who came to get her in his stead? Jay McCabe—her ex—who thought it was fun back in high school to smack her around after he lost a game.”
What?
“She refused to be in a car with him,” Shel snarls at me. “Instead, I found her curled up, sleeping on the filthy pool table this morning, because she didn’t have anyone else to call last night.” And then she narrows her eyes. “She didn’t want you to find out what a loser your son is.”
I remain still, unable to move.
I don’t breathe, and I can’t blink, rage threatening to overflow.
He hit her. He fucking hit her? My fists curl, and my lungs ache. Every muscle burns.
Motherfucker.
And Cole was at the same party? Did he send him to pick her up? What the fuck? How can he stand to be anywhere near a shitbag like that?
A vision of some cowardly little punk grabbing Jordan, hurting her, making her cry… I…
I close my eyes.
I just made her cry.
“She’s a good kid with a really good heart,” Shel continues. “And she deserves a hell of a lot more than the assholes in this town, including your son. I hope she leaves you all to it and never looks back.”
Jesus Christ. What was I thinking?
I spin around and follow to where Jordan disappeared down the hallway. I have to talk to her now. Everything in my gut that made sense minutes ago now seems ridiculous. Why would I jump to conclusions I have no proof of?
Dammit, Cole! I can’t believe him.
I trail down the hallway, seeing the restrooms, an office, and another room with the door slightly ajar. She’s probably in the bathroom, but before I decide to wait, I inch open the other door to check there first.
She stands in the center of the small room with her back to me, but I can tell she’s wiping her eyes. Floor-to-ceiling shelves line the walls, stocking bottles of liquor, mixers, and juices, and other supplies like napkins, straws, and candles.
I stand in the doorway and hear her sniffle.
“Jordan?” I say hesitantly.
She instantly straightens, turning just enough for me to see the side of her face. “Seriously?” she says, trying hard to harden her voice. “Just leave. You want me gone? You got it, okay? I’m gone.”
