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Huh. As long as Hudson remembered the owner of the Coach House could always be found behind his bar, serving up drinks (which was the reason you’d be there) and advice (whether you wanted it or not).
“He okay?”
The bartender took his time answering, wiping up the edge of the bar though his eyes never left Hudson. “As good as you’d expect. Now what will you have?”
Hudson considered digging deeper but something told him he probably wouldn’t like what he’d find. “Cold beer would be good.”
“Draft or bottle?”
“Draft.”
Less than a minute later Hudson cradled a cold mug of Guinness and settled in to watch the game. With the MLB pennant race on it was as good a way as any to pass the afternoon, and the fact that he’d rather watch it here than at the house said something. What that something was he didn’t want to dwell on. No sense in going there just yet.
He was well into his second Guinness when someone took the stool a few places down from him. A quick glance in the mirror behind the bar told him it was a male, early to mid thirties, an A’s ball cap pulled low over clipped dark hair. The length of his arms told Hudson he was tall and the tattoos told him ex military. His clothes were on the dirty side, as if he’d been working outdoors, but the watch on his wrist was a Rolex.
The fact they were close in age told Hudson there was a good chance he knew the guy, but he paid him no mind. At the moment he was content to sip his beer and watch the Red Sox get their asses kicked. He wasn’t ready to head down memory lane just yet. Hudson lifted his mug and took a good long drink, eyes on the pitcher as he squared up at the mound.
“How’s Sal doing?” The man spoke and Hudson’s hand froze mid-air.
“Not good, Jake.” Hulking bartender guy leaned forward, shaking his head.
Hudson’s eyes widened. He knew the voice right away. Jake Edwards was a few years older than Hudson and while they hadn’t exactly been friends—Jake had been pretty tight with his own crew back then—they’d hung out a time or two. It sure as hell explained the Rolex. The Edwards family came from old money, not as old as the Blackwells, but still their privileged asses were part of Crystal Lake’s elite.
Hudson looked down at his beer, his face dark as he thought of family and the reason he’d come back here. For a moment his vision blurred and he slammed his eyes shut, because just like that, it felt as if he
’d never left.
“You leave here now boy, don’t expect a welcome if you change your mind. You’re on your own and good luck with that.”
His eyes flew open and for a second he was disoriented. Like a ghost from the past his father’s voice sliced through his head, tugging something ugly and dark from deep inside him. Hudson clutched his hands together, fisting them so tight his fingers cramped. His gaze landed on a ring, the one that didn’t belong anymore, and with a curse he tugged it off, sliding the gold band into his front pocket. Should have left it back in DC. A slim white tan line cut across his finger and he wondered how long that reminder would stare him in the face.
A reminder of what he’d lost and most likely never deserved.
With a sigh he pushed back the unfinished beer, not really feeling the Guinness anymore and stood to leave. He tossed a couple bills onto the bar, nodded at the bartender, and had every intention of leaving without saying a word to Jake Edwards, but the man in question saw things differently.
“Holy shit. Hudson Blackwell.” Jake slid from his barstool, pushing back the brim of his cap and offering up his hand. His smile was genuine, his handshake firm. “I can’t remember the last time we were together.”
Hudson shook Jake’s hand and took a step back, feeling sheepish as he remembered the tragedy the Edwards family had faced a few years back. “Sorry to hear about your brother.”
Jake’s smile faltered a bit. “Thanks.” He glanced around the Coach House. “It’s weird. Being back here without him. I stop in for a beer, meet up with the guys, and expect Jesse to walk in and join us.” Jake lifted his chin. “You back visiting the old man? I hear he’s not doing too good.”
Tight lipped, Hudson nodded. “He’s in Grandview.” And just like that he wasn’t in the mood to talk. “I haven’t been out to the house yet. I should get going.”
Something flickered in Jake’s eyes at about the same time Hudson’s internal radar erupted, hitting him square in the chest and pumping boatloads of adrenaline into his system. Jake was talking but he ignored the man, taking a step back as he scanned the Coach House. In his capacity as an FBI agent this feeling, this ‘sixth sense’, had saved his ass more times than he cared to count. He didn’t sense danger or anything like that, but something was coming for him.
The door to the bar opened and the late afternoon sun filtered in, haloing dust and dirt into beams of hazy light. It camouflaged the person standing in the doorway chatting to one of the customers, who was on his way out, but he could tell it was a woman.
“She’s been back for a couple months now.”
Eyes still on the door, Hudson frowned. “What was that?”
“Rebecca.”
Hudson swung his gaze back to Jake, the entirety of his world narrowing down to this one man.
“Rebecca.” It was a name he hadn’t uttered in years.
Jake was silent for a few moments and then nodded toward the door. “Yeah. Rebecca Draper is back in Crystal Lake. Didn’t you guys date back in the day?”
