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He scratched his chin. It had been a hot summer night not unlike this one.
Christ, it seemed a lifetime ago.
He slid from the truck and stood for a few moments as his mind wandered to Maggie and the evening that could have been. Damn, he’d looked forward to spending the night with her.
His cell phone vibrated, shaking him from his thoughts, but he ignored it and made his way to the entrance. He knew who was on the line and quickly disappeared inside the bar, wondering how bad things were.
It was dark, but the smell of grease and beer hit him in the gut with all the subtlety of a brick wall. Cain could have been blind and deaf or half-asleep, yet he’d know where the hell he was. His mouth watered at the thought of a cold beer, burger, and fries. It was hours since he’d eaten.
?
??Cain Black! Holy shit, it’s been a while.”
He turned and shook the enthusiastic hand offered to him by Salvatore Nuno, owner of the Coach House. The man’s head was as bald as he remembered, though his belly had grown…a lot. The jovial glint in his eye and the warmth that was reflected in his voice, however, was the same.
“It’s good to be home, Sal.”
The man’s smile fled as he nodded toward the back of the bar. The place was half-full, a bit of a dinner crowd before the band took to the stage in a few hours.
“He’s back there.”
Cain’s eyes narrowed, but he couldn’t see shit. The dark corners were impenetrable, had always been, which was why they’d generally ended up hidden among the shadows. Old habits die hard.
“I’ll bring you a cold one and some food, no?”
“Thanks, that sounds great.” He patted Sal on the back and moved past him. Whispers followed in his wake, eyes clung to his back, as he threaded a path through the chaotic mess of tables that really had no rhyme or reason. Somehow it all worked.
By now his eyes had adjusted somewhat, and his mouth tensed as he made his way over to the last booth. Jake glanced up, and Cain slid in across from him.
“Sorry to tear you away from the little redhead.” Jake’s tone was teasing, but Cain ignored him, his eyes settling on the prone body next to him. Mac’s head rested on his arms, though he faced the wall and Cain couldn’t see shit.
“How is he?”
Jake took a long drink from his beer and carefully set the now-empty bottle on the table. He stared down at his hands and shook his head. “Not good. Though from what I hear, his father looks way worse.”
“He got into it with Ben?” Cain grimaced. “He should have gone back to New York on Monday like he’d planned.”
Jake winced. “No kidding, but he wanted to see his mother one more time. I guess his dad came home unexpectedly, and that’s when all hell broke loose. The cops were called in, but Nick… You remember the running back from our team? Nick Torrent?”
An image of a large teenager with bad skin and an even badder attitude tugged his memory. The guy had been built like a Mack truck.
At Cain’s nod, Jake continued. “Well, he was called to the scene, and Mackenzie convinced Torrent to bring him here instead of the hotel he’s been staying at.” Jake frowned. “That was around noon, and from what I can tell, he proceeded to get loaded until he passed out. Sal called me an hour ago.”
Sal set a beer on the table in front of Cain. “Food’s on its way.” The bar owner’s gaze rested on Mac. “His old man is the worst kind of bastard there is. I don’t understand why Lila won’t leave him. The kids have been gone for years.”
Mac groaned and turned toward them. His eyes were still closed, but Cain saw that the right one was nearly swollen shut. Cuts and bruises marred his buddy’s face, and he looked more like a prizefighter than an architect. Cain shook his head. The man was about as far away from Armani as you could get.
Seems the sins of the father weren’t something Mac could outrun.
Cain took another swig from his bottle and glanced around. Equipment was set up on the stage—classic Marshall stacks, a Pearl drum kit, and three microphone stands. It was bare-bones, but seriously, all you needed.
“Who’s playing?” He felt the itch deep down and eyed the stage with a hunger that surprised him, considering he’d just come off a ten-month tour.
“Don’t know the name, but from what Sal said, a local band of pimply faced teenagers. Country rock maybe?” Jake shrugged, a smile crossing his face. “You wanna play?”
Cain finished his beer and slid back in his chair. He couldn’t deny the thrill that shot through him at the thought. “Nah, I’d hate to intrude on their night.”
“Intrude? Hell, if you got up there and played a song or two, they’d probably crap their pants, which is something they’d gladly do in order to brag that they shared a stage with the dude from BlackRock.”
