She’s, well, a lady. Nice.
And I’m bad. Very, very bad.
She wasn’t far off with her new-girlfriend-every-month snark. Women flock to me, drawn to the persona and fame, and I pick and choose the ones I want. When it’s over, I send them off happy and smiling.
“You won’t have to worry about keeping my secret much longer. I’m getting rid of it. Pronto.”
An image of some shady guy fucking Giselle pops into my head. Inexplicable anger rushes like a tidal wave, and my hands tighten. I’m ready to rip his imagined head off right now. “Explain.”
She levels me with a stare, and I swear she’s counting the seconds. “I could draw you a picture, but I’m not an artist,” she says. “Imagine a slot, then you take a tab, and you stick it in. No more hymen. It’s over, and everyone can stop discussing me behind my back!”
And with that line, she’s flouncing toward the door. Her ass sways inside her little skirt, which has a long slit up the back. Normally, she’s a dressy-slacks kind of chick, and I guess she wore the skirt for her date—which makes me mad all over again. Nothing has made sense in this room since she let down her hair, unbuttoned that damn shirt, and got angry. Why couldn’t she just be the old Giselle?
She turns around, her lips set, anger directed at me. “I will never use you on my Pinterest board as Vureck again.”
“I don’t even know what that means!” I call after her.
She ignores me as she exits, and dammit, with her in a strange temper, she’s liable to pick up some rando cowboy and bang him before the night is over.
I curse. “Giselle, wait a minute! Let’s discuss this. You forgot your shoes and . . . fuck.” I grab the shoes and bobby pins off the table and take off after her. By the time I get out of the door of the room, she’s already ten yards ahead, gliding between patrons, ducking and swerving. She dashes past the bouncer at the podium, the door flings open, and she’s gone.
At least she’s out of the club. She’ll go home and calm down, and I’ll call her tomorrow. We’ll talk, and everything will be fine, but on the other hand, I don’t want her fuming all night, angry. And I had wanted to take her to dinner once the opportunity arose earlier. Sure, I was circumventing Aiden, but we could have gone to Milano’s and had a decent time. She would have sat across from me, maybe explained exactly why she decided to take up serial dating, and I would have been on my best behavior. I could have offered advice, tips—dammit, I don’t know. I do know all those guys she mentioned are wrong, wrong, wrong. She’s been a little lost lately, a wounded look on her face, and shit . . . I jog to the exit, determined to catch up and talk to her.
“Devon! Yo! Wait up.” I feel a hand on my shoulder.
Cursing, I come to a halt as I hear the edge in Selena’s voice.
“I’m in a hurry. What’s wrong?” I study her frazzled expression, the way she’s chewed off her red lipstick. The closest thing I have to a sibling—we look alike. Dark hair, green eyes, chips on our shoulders. Our moms were sisters, and we grew up next door to each other. I got her settled here when she moved here from California last year.
“More like whose shoes are those?” She indicates the heels in my clutch. “If you want to explore female footwear, I know some great consignment boutiques downtown.”
“They belong to Giselle, the girl who fell earlier. She ran off,” I add, feeling torn all over again, part of me pointed toward Selena, the other to the exit.
“Like her already. You have my approval.”
“She’s a friend, Elena’s sister. Someone you haven’t met.”
“Huh. Her date was a jerk, but I kind of liked her.”
“Not for me.” I like my women only mildly interesting, someone I can forget. Giselle is not in that category.
Selena sighs. “One lousy girl broke your heart once, and now you’re a cynic. Someday I’d like a niece or nephew to cuddle. Wherever Hannah is, I hope she’s miserable without you.”
Not this again.
“All right, let that go. What’s going on?” I ask and tap my hands against my legs, antsy.
She twists her lips. “Besides the fact that another server didn’t show up tonight and the air is on the fritz, everything is peachy. I’m working on getting new bartenders, and the air guy says he’ll be here first thing in the morning.”
“Sounds like it’s under control.” I tend to not dabble with the internal workings of the club. I bought this place as an investment. Football is my one and only. “What else?” I want to focus on what she’s saying, but my head jumps between hoping Giselle’s feet aren’t being fried by the hot concrete on the street and wondering if she’s found Topher yet—and why my dad keeps calling me. I should have just answered his call earlier, but I didn’t want to take my eyes off Aiden. Jack said to keep him away from her. That was the only reason I butted in like I did.
“After Randy quit, you said I could hire someone for the new GM position. No one I’ve interviewed works. We need someone before this place becomes a shit show.” She’s holding a tray and cocks it on her hip as she stares at me expectantly.
It takes me three seconds to decide. “You’re the new GM. Should have made that call when he resigned. Hire a new bar manager to take your place. Solved.”
Her eyes flare, tinged with excitement. “No way. I can’t manage the whole club. I don’t even have a business degree!”
“You’re smart, hardworking, and everyone respects you. You’re it. Now get back to work.”
I’m about to turn back and see if I can catch Giselle in the parking lot, but Selena jumps at me for a tight hug. Her tray goes flying, hitting the floor, and the shoes poke me in the chest. I chuckle and pat her back. “Aw, you love me.”
“Fucking A, man, I don’t know what I would have done if you hadn’t given me a job, and now you’re promoting me? Feels like I won the lottery.” She gives me a kiss on the cheek. “What’s my salary, boss man?”
Giselle has to be gone by now. I sigh. “What do you think you deserve?”
“What Randy was getting plus ten percent.”
“Two. Randy had experience. He managed three other places before this one.”
She bites her lip. “Five, and I’ll hire some new servers by the end of the night and find the best bar manager in Nashville by the end of the week. You know I can do it.”
I grin. She does work her ass off. “Three percent raise. Now go.”
She laughs, does a little pirouette, and takes off for the bar.
My cell buzzes again, and I hold the shoes under my arm as I pull the phone out of my jeans.
I press the green button, expecting to hear my father’s voice, only it isn’t him.
“Once you go in there, phones are gonna be out. People love drama, especially celebrities. Everything you do, man, under a microscope,” Lawrence says as we get out of my car.
“I know,” I say dryly. I’ve been in the limelight since college, but Lawrence likes to jabber.
He grumbles. “You didn’t need to drive Sex to this part of town. People notice. People like to steal shit.”
I flick my eyes down at the red Maserati. She’s my pride and joy, and driving her reminds me of how far I’ve come from a poor kid in California. “Her name is Red.”
“Sex is better.”
I smirk. “Your Tom Ford five-thousand-dollar suit sticks out like a sore thumb. ‘Over here; come take my wallet.’”
He strokes his tie. “Can’t believe me and you and Jack used to party in places like this in college. All that energy and zero hangovers? Dude. I’m old now with an ex-wife and alimony. Damn, I miss those party days; don’t you?”
“Nah.” I don’t miss college. Sure, we won a national championship our senior year, and that’s what I try to remember, but there’s heartache from Hannah in some of those memories.
He blows out a breath as we both come to a stop in front of Ricky’s Bar on Wilbur Street, several blocks from where I live near the stadium.
; I slip a roomy sweatshirt over my head, flip up the hood, and slide on a pair of shades.
He squints at me. “Last chance. I can get him, and you can stay in the car. Nobody has to know he’s your family.”
I exhale. “He won’t go with you. Trust me. It will only make it worse.”
We roll into the bar. The usual place. Sticky floors, tattered beer signs on the wall, a long bar with red stools, antiquated light fixtures hanging from a yellow-spotted ceiling. Shotgun-style layout, four exits, I bet. The one we came in; one down a dark hallway past the pool tables, where I guarantee there’s a dingy restroom; another in the kitchen; and, if the owner is smart, one that leaves from his office. A long sigh comes from my chest. I spent most of my teenage years in places like this, washing mugs, sweeping the floor, taking out trash. My dad owned a bar, then lost it, then spent the rest of his life crawling in and out of every one he passed.
The place reeks of body odor, greasy fries, and cheap perfume.
Three guys are shooting pool, two older women nurse beers by a jukebox crooning Tammy Wynette, and several stools are occupied, but mostly it’s a sparse crowd. No one looks up as we make our way to the front, except for the old guy behind the bar. With a white beard and glasses, he’s wearing a shirt stretched out over his belly and a Nashville Tigers hat. He’s a fan. Not sure if that’s good or bad.
I lean in, keeping my voice low. “You called about Garrett Walsh?”
He sets down the glass he was drying, nods, and points to the dark hallway. “He went in the restroom half an hour ago and hasn’t come out. You his son?”
I grimace, studying the grooves in the wood of the bar. “Yeah.”
He puts his hand out and shakes it. “Ricky Burns. Love how you run with the ball. I got your number off his phone.” He reaches behind him and tosses me a cracked cell. “He left it unlocked, so I just rang up the last person he called. Didn’t realize it was you till I saw the name.” He frowns. “Much respect to you, Mr. Walsh, but he ain’t welcome back here. Runs off good customers and gets belligerent. He tried to start a fight with the guys playing pool. Next time I see his face, I’m calling the cops.”
My stomach turns over, and for half a second, anger at Ricky bubbles, until I squash it down. His words are nothing I haven’t heard before. It just hurts. “I appreciate you not calling the police tonight.”
“No problem.” He picks up another glass and takes the towel to it.
Lawrence pulls out a wad of cash from his wallet, but Ricky pushes it back. “No need for that. Just get him gone.” He pauses, keeping his voice hushed as he gives me a beady-eyed look. “Two men came in looking for him before you got here. Rough types. Bruisers with tattoos.” He flits his eyes over the bar in my eyebrow, down to the peek of butterflies on my wrists. “Told ’em he wasn’t here but thought you should know.”
“Any clue what they wanted?”
He raises an eyebrow, as if I’m crazy, then huffs out a laugh. “I don’t ask questions, but judging by the hard look on their faces, my guess is money. I’m just an old man, and this bar is my life. I don’t want any trouble in my place; you feel me?”
Loud and clear. “Thanks, man.”
Lawrence takes a gander at the patrons again. “Ricky, you mind if we take him out the exit in the back?”
“Be my guest. An alarm will go off, but I’ll turn it off up here.”
I tap the bar, and we flip around and head to the hallway, where a single light bulb hangs from a dangling cord. Rapping out a sharp knock on the men’s room door, I call out, “Dad? Open up. It’s me.”
Checking the door, I find it locked, and frustration builds. Images from my childhood flit through my head: me coming home from a football game to find him passed out on the front steps of our trailer. I’d drag him inside and put him to bed.
“Let me try.” Lawrence eases me to the side and beats hard. “Get the fuck out of the fucking restroom, or we’re calling the fucking cops.”
“Subtle,” I say.
He shrugs. “I know what works. I brought the hoodie. I tried to bribe the old dude. You’re missing out. Just think, me at your service twenty-four seven. I love this shit.”
“Nashville adores me.” It’s what I tell him every time he inquires about doing my PR for me. I don’t need PR. Jack, on the other hand, has a rocky past, and Lawrence has come in handy. It’s a small world that the three of us ended up in the same city. Jack was drafted to Nashville straight out of college, Lawrence is from here and has opened his own firm for athletes, and I went to play in Jacksonville, then luckily got traded to Nashville a few years ago. Three amigos back together.
“Here, move. I got this.” I pull out one of Giselle’s pins and pick the lock. It takes three tries before the cylinder clicks, and the door opens.
“Should I ask why you have bobby pins in your pocket?”
“No.”
“You’re better at that than you should be,” he muses.
“He used to drink and lock me out. I got inventive.”
“Fuck me; it smells like piss.” Lawrence covers his mouth with a hankie as we slip inside.
My dad lies faceup on the floor in front of the sink, splayed out in the shape of an X. His chest is moving, so he’s alive, and some of that knot in my chest loosens. The last time I saw him was a month ago, when I took him to dinner. He seemed fine—a bit antsy, but sober.
I push Lawrence aside and bend down and shake his shoulder. “Wake up, old man. We need to get you home.”
Eventually he comes to, his eyes blinking as he grimaces and lets out a groan. The smell of beer hits me. “Where am I?” he rasps.
“Filthy bathroom. Not yours.” My lips compress. Seeing him like this reminds me of why I’ve been trashed only one time in my life.
“Ricky’s?”
I nod. His words slur, but I peg him as not bad off. There are degrees to his drunkenness, and I’ve cataloged them all. At least he seems to recall where he was at some point.
“I had a fight with Dotty,” he mumbles. “Tried to call you, Dev. You didn’t pick up. You mad at me?”
Guilt ratchets up my spine that I missed his earlier calls.
Dotty is his on-again, off-again girlfriend he met at AA.
“Come on.” I lift him up by his armpits and grunt at the weight as I place him on the toilet. He sways back and forth and scrubs at the stubble on his face. His once-white Grateful Dead shirt has brown stains on it. I wince, my shoulders tightening, as I take in the oily hair, the black shadows under his eyes, the nasty cut on his hand. Not wanting to look back at Lawrence and see judgment on his face, I busy myself with dampening some paper towels and dabbing at his hand.
“How’d this happen?”
He stares down at the dried blood, squinting. “Can’t remember.” He tries to pull his hand back, but I hold tight.
“You don’t need stitches, but it needs antiseptic.” There’s a slight tremble in my voice, and I grit my teeth. My sophomore year of high school, he stepped off a curb, got hit by a car, and was hospitalized with two broken legs. The night before I was supposed to leave my past behind in California and play college ball, he got into a shouting match with our neighbor across the street and ended up with a broken nose, two busted ribs, and a concussion. His injuries set me back three days for summer camp while I took care of him.
“Had worse,” he grumbles, as if he’s read my mind.
Our eyes meet, his bleary road maps. His face is sallow and gaunt, the lines of a much-older man of fifty. “Your liver can’t take much more of this,” I grind out. “When did you fall off the wagon?”
He staggers to a stand, using the wall for leverage as he presses his fingers into his eyes and rubs. “Shit—I—don’t worry about it.” He ends with an attempt to take a step but trips over his own feet.
I catch him and prop him up. He’s as tall as me, so Lawrence jumps in, and we put him between us, his arms around our shoulders as we head out the door and down the hall to the
exit. Sweat drips down my back inside the sweatshirt. Pushing through, we step outside to a quiet parking lot, where I gulp in fresh air.
We move slowly to the front and reach Red. Lawrence holds him as I pop the lock and open the door; then we get him inside, buckling up the seat belt for him.
“Call Dotty. Tell her I’m sorry . . .” He trails off as he leans his head back on the seat. His eyes flutter shut.
Nah, not calling her. His love life works like mine. Once they’ve seen his true colors, his cesspool of insecurities, they are done. I haven’t let a girl see who I really am in seven years. I slam the door and face Lawrence.
His face is, thankfully, blank. I don’t think I could handle pity right now.
“You’ve done this a few times.” His words are quiet. “Fuck, Devon. Why haven’t you ever told me he was . . .”
A long exhalation comes from my chest. Jack knows the most, but even he’s never seen my dad like this.
He shifts his feet and pulls out his phone, tapping away. “It’s all right. I’m here if you need me, okay? I’ll get an Uber. Call me tomorrow, and we’ll chat.”
“About what?” If he thinks I need to rehash this episode, he’s deluded.
His eyes rise and pierce mine. “Men were looking for him. We need to find out why.”
“He’s just a drunk.” He’s an alcoholic. But I hate to say those words out loud.
“How much money are you giving him a month, Dev? Besides paying all his bills?”
“None of your business.” Dad has a job, but I do give him money. He’s my dad, and I have plenty of it. It’s the same with Selena. They are all I have.
“Just as I thought. Too much,” he murmurs, along with a look that seems to peer into my soul. He steps away toward the corner where a black car has pulled up. “Hate to miss the party at Aiden’s, but I’ve got a girl to see tonight. Call me. If you need me, superstar, I’m all yours.” He blows me a kiss.
I smirk, letting some of that tension ease. “Be safe, asshole. Thanks for the unpaid help,” I call as he opens the door and gets in.
Not My Match Page 4