Feisty Red: Three Chicks Brewery #2

by USA Today Bestselling Author

  A double bed rested against the far wall with a red-and-black quilt on top of dark gray sheets, all things Sullivan had bought upon arrival. A small galley kitchen with a tiny stove occupied the space beside a sink and a fridge. A mix of oak and dust lingered in the air, but somehow, the smell suited the place. Despite all the pleasing decorations, Sullivan felt restless, so he grabbed his keys off the small table next to the door then headed outside, leaving it unlocked behind him. He had nothing worth stealing other than his clothes. When he trotted down the rickety wooden steps, they groaned beneath him. It came as no surprise to see his landlord sitting on his porch in his old rocking chair, smoking a cigarette. “How are you today, Bart?” Sullivan called.

  “Just fine. The sun will set tonight and rise tomorrow,” the old man said with a smile that was missing a couple of teeth.

  Bart’s life was simple, and that suited him. If Sullivan was being honest, he envied that about him. If all Sullivan had to worry about was the sun rising and setting, life would be easy. “Enjoy the rest of your night.”

  Bart waved him off and took another sip from his coffee cup before puffing on his cigarette.

  Sullivan was on the road soon after. River Rock’s streets were never busy, especially compared to the streets of Boston. It had taken some time getting used to a big city. Sure, Sullivan had spent a lot of time in Denver while in college, but Boston felt like a world away from River Rock. The people were different, the smells, the scenery. Nothing felt the same, and for a long time, Sullivan had preferred that.

  When he finally reached River Rock’s downtown, he pulled over at the curb in front of a 2-hour parking sign and got out. Downtown River Rock held none of the riches of a big city, but it doubled in charm. Quaint brick storefronts hugged the street. Owners decorated their shop’s doors, drawing in the visitors who came for the views of the Colorado mountains, the western country life, and the quiet countryside. All the things Sullivan had been more than happy to leave behind in his early twenties.

  Now, as he crossed the road, he felt more at home than he ever did in Boston, but it surprised him how much had changed here. Not the familiar scents of a mix between fresh-cut flowers and sunshine, but the modernized stores. Long gone were all the old shops Sullivan remembered. He came to a stop outside River Rock’s police station. Years back, the police had taken ownership of the old courthouse on Main Street with its big white columns in front. Inside the station, the space had been modernized, with the reception desk at the front, near the waiting room, where he found the receptionist, Phillis, working. She had black-dyed hair, a face full of wrinkles, and bright nail polish and lipstick.

  She whistled, setting her phone back on the receiver. “My word, Sullivan Keene. It’s been a long time since you’ve been home.”

  She’d worked there for as long as Sullivan could remember and was well past retirement age. He smiled at her. “It’s been far too long.”

  “Indeed,” Phillis said. “What can I do for you today?”

  “Is the chief in?”

  “He is,” Phillis reported. “Here, I’ll buzz you in. Go on back and see him. He’s in the same office.”

  Seven years ago, Sullivan had spent a lot of time at the station. Not from getting in trouble. John Taylor, the chief of police, had taken him in at sixteen when Ronnie had declined to step up as Sullivan’s guardian due to his busy work schedule. Sullivan had lived with John until he headed off for college.

  On his way down the hallway, Sullivan waved to a few cops looking his way. He finally stopped outside the corner office. “Still working too late, I see,” he said by way of greeting.

  The chief’s head snapped up. “Well, well, so the gossip around town is actually right this time. You’re back?”

  Sullivan nodded. “I am. Just for a month.”

  John rose and came around the desk to give Sullivan a rough hug. “It’s damn good to see you.”

  “You too,” Sullivan said, stepping out of the embrace. John and Sullivan talked often, and he always came to Denver whenever Sullivan had a game. He’d always been more of an uncle to Sullivan than Ronnie had even been. Even more of a father figure than Kurtis. “Listen, I can’t stay long. I’m meeting Hayes for drinks. Can we catch up over breakfast?” With the chief, it was always meeting over breakfast. His days were too busy for anything else.

  John nodded. “There’s a great little place a block down called The Kitchen. Shoot me your schedule, and we’ll fit it in.”

  “Will do.” Sullivan moved to the door then glanced back. “You know it’s a little after seven o’clock, right?”

  The chief swatted at the air. “Work is work. Enjoy those drinks, Sullivan.”

  Thoroughly dismissed, Sullivan shook his head with a laugh then headed back outside. He headed back down Main Street until he slowed in front of the bar with the KINKY SPURS signage. Suddenly, A kid ran toward him.

  “Sully. Sully. Can I get an autograph?”

  He’d never liked the nickname the media gave him, but felt rude correcting anyone who used it. “Hey, now, that would be my pleasure.” He accepted the pen and a notepad and went down to one knee. “What’s your name?”

  “Dakota,” the kid said, beaming.

  When he scribbled his signature, he took a guess and asked, “You look like you’ve got strong arms. Do you play baseball?”

  Dakota’s grin widened. He gave a fierce nod. “I’m a pitcher too.”

  Sullivan handed over the notebook along with the pen. “Keep at it, kid. You’ll be in the major leagues before you know it.”

  “Yeah?” The kid’s eyes sparkled.

  “Oh, yeah,” Sullivan said, rising. “All it takes is hard work and practice.” He smiled at the kid and then at his mother, who had joined them.

  “Thank you so much,” she said, her hand pressed to her chest. “He’s such a fan of yours.”

  Sullivan felt a world of guilt fall on his shoulders. He forced another smile before walking away. The last thing he should be to anyone was a role model. He entered the bar, finding a classic country western décor, only this one felt like the real deal, unlike the ones he’d seen on the East Coast. Wood paneling covered the walls, and tables were spread out between two stages, one holding the band’s equipment and the other supporting a mechanical bull. By that bull, he spotted his buddies, Hayes Taylor and Beckett Stone, sitting at a table with beers in front of them. Beckett was Hayes’ closest friend, and even though they were three years older, they’d welcomed Sullivan into their fold. He never forgot their kindness.

  Before joining them, Sullivan said to the pretty brunette behind the bar with a name tag that read Megan, “I’ll take a Foxy Diva, if you’ve got one.” He remembered her from high school, but she’d never run in his circle of friends.

  “Coming right up,” she said, turning away to fetch his drink.

  When Sullivan headed for the table, he caught the attention of his friends. Both Hayes and Beckett had matching grins on their faces.

  “Sully. Sully. Can I get your autograph?” Hayes smirked, waving his napkin.

  Sullivan snorted. “I’d make you pay for an autograph.” A burst of laughter was followed by rough, manly hugs. When Sullivan took a seat next to Hayes, he said, “It’s good to see you both.”

  Hayes twirled his beer bottle between his fingers. “We wondered when you were going to come for a visit.”

  Sullivan felt shame roll over him. These men had been at his side when his father turned into a man Sullivan didn’t recognize. A man full of hatred and rage. “I should have come home sooner.”

  “Seven years sooner,” Beckett remarked.

  Sullivan let the dig go. He deserved that. He’d kept in touch over text and the odd phone call, but it wasn’t enough. “Yeah, man, definitely should have.” He glanced at Hayes. “I’m sorry I wasn’t here for Laurel’s funeral. There’s no excuse. I should have been here.” Hayes had lost his wife, and Sullivan still felt like an asshole for sending flowers instead
of coming to her funeral. But he’d been a selfish prick, and only thought of how coming home would affect him.

  Hayes cupped Sullivan’s shoulder, only warm affection on his face. “We all get why coming back here was hard for you. No one faults you for staying away.”

  Yeah, because at that time, his father was still alive. Sullivan had been unable to face him. Hell, he wasn’t sure he could face him now if he were still alive.

  Breaking into Sullivan’s thoughts, the bartender set his beer in front of him and gave the group a smile. “Let me know if you want seconds or some grub.”

  “Thanks, Megan,” said Beckett. After she walked away from the table, he added, “That’s Nash Blackshaw’s wife.”

  “You don’t say?” The Blackshaw name was a big one in River Rock, due to their cattle company—the very one Sullivan used to work at during his teenage summers—and Nash was the youngest Blackshaw brother. “I heard from Ronnie that they opened a dude ranch at the farm.”

  Beckett nodded. “Yeah, they ran into some financial trouble when Mr. Blackshaw passed away, but the farm and ranch are strong.”

  “Are you still working for them?” Sullivan asked then took a sip of his beer. Foxy Diva was crisp and fresh, reminding him a little of Clara.

  Beckett shook his head. “I’m working for Nash now. We train and sell horses. He’s got a good thing going there.”

  Sullivan swung his head toward Hayes, who smiled. “I help out when I can. You know how I love breaking horses with bad attitudes, but I’m back on the force now.”

  News to Sullivan. He never knew Hayes had left his job as a cop. “You quit the force?”

  Hayes looked like he had a story to tell, but he smiled it away. “Took a break for a while, but law enforcement is where I should be.”

  Sullivan nodded and took a long chug of his beer. Hayes had been bred into law enforcement and came from a long line of good men and women who’d served the community of River Rock.

  When he lowered his bottle to the table, Beckett leaned back in his seat and said, “All right, buddy, the chitchat is great, and I’m damn glad to see you, but fill in the missing pieces. You could have gone anywhere to serve out your suspension or stayed with the team. Why come back to the one place you said you’d never return to?”

  Sullivan’s throat began to tighten, but he swallowed past his issues with sharing. He’d come home to make things right, no matter how uncomfortable it made him. “Things, after my mom died, have been rough. This last recent bar fight was enough of a wake-up call that I needed to get my head on straight, and now that my father is dead, I needed to come home to deal with the shit I’ve been running from.” Being back in River Rock wasn’t easy. It was hell. Everything in here reminded him of his sweet mother, dead in the cold ground, and the cruel father who used his fists more than his words.

  “It’s good, you know, dealing with it all,” Beckett said with a firm nod.

  Hayes nodded as well. “All that shit, back then, was a lot for you to take on.” He cupped his shoulder. “It’s good you came back. About time to heal those wounds.”

  Sullivan figured that was about as much as they were going to talk about feelings and such since Beckett changed the subject. “I heard today you went out to the Carters’ place.” A little smirk lifted the corner of his mouth. “How did that go?”

  “I’m not exactly sure,” Sullivan commented.

  Hayes’ eyebrow lifted. “You’re not dead or marked up at all, so I’d say it went well if those Carter sisters didn’t kill you.”

  “Good point,” Sullivan hedged.

  Beckett asked, “What was it like, seeing Clara again?”

  “Weird,” Sullivan admitted. He took another long sip of his drink before he continued, “It’s like I know her, but I don’t.”

  Obviously, this was common knowledge, since Beckett agreed with a nod. “She’s changed a lot in the last seven years.”

  “She had to,” Hayes interjected. “A kid will do that to anyone.”

  Sullivan felt the blood leave his face. Admittedly, he’d hoped he’d come back to River Rock and discover that Clara had found someone better than him. He’d never had the balls to ask anyone if she had married. Only now, the thought twisted him up. “A kid?”

  Hayes nodded. “His name is Mason. Good kid. She’s a really great mom.”

  Sullivan bit back hot jealousy, well aware he had no right to be anything but happy for her. “Is she still together with the dad?”

  The country music playing through the speakers seemed to fade away as Beckett shook his head. “She’s also not married.”

  A million things crossed his mind, but only one thing stood out as most important. “Who’s the dad?” Sullivan asked.

  Hayes waited for a couple to pass by their table and take a seat, then he answered, “Since it’s none of my business, I’ve never asked Clara or Maisie directly, but word around town is that she had a one-night stand and didn’t know how to reach the father.”

  “That’s a shame,” Sullivan muttered. She deserved far better than that. “She’s raised her son on her own, then?”

  Hayes nodded, giving an affectionate smile. “Like I said, she’s a very good mother.”

  Sullivan reached for his beer and took a long sip. He wondered what kind of mother she was. Sweet, stern, loving, fair? Deep down, he imagined she was probably a little of all that, just like Sullivan’s mother had been. That kid was probably Clara’s whole world. “How old is Mason?”

  “Six,” Beckett said and then shook his head, adamant, at whatever crossed Sullivan’s face. “The kid isn’t yours, buddy. We all know Clara. She’s far too honest to ever lie about something so serious.”

  “True,” Sullivan hedged. Though, something stirred in his chest, something edgy and wary. Because Sullivan did know Clara, and he knew for sure she’d most certainly lie to protect someone she loved.

  4

  Clara woke up fighting a headache from last night’s margaritas and the million thoughts that kept her tossing and turning all night. How could she keep Mason in his safe little bubble? She’d was locked away in her home office that had once been the dining room. Her antique wooden desk had a comfortable chair behind it, and an old refurbished buffet on the far wall held all her files. She’d gone to college for business, and owning a successful brewery had always been the end goal. Only, she’d never expected the process to be so tedious and repetitive. “I appreciate you sending the offer over, Ronnie,” Clara said into her phone tucked between her ear and shoulder. She’d had this same phone call three other times today.

  “But you’re not happy with our terms?” Ronnie asked, his voice far past patient.

  “Whether I’m happy or not isn’t the problem,” Clara countered. “This morning, a couple other offers came in from two other distributors.” They’d arrived with very little warning. Apparently, Three Chicks Brewery was hotter than any of them had imagined. Maisie was the reason, Clara didn’t doubt that. Her sister had taken their little brewery to the next level by holding a festival on the premises that blew them out of the park. Now it was Clara’s turn to push the brewery even further. “I’ll need to review these offers with my sisters before we make a final decision,” she told Ronnie. “I’ll be in touch once we do.”

  A long pause. “That’s fine, Clara. Talk soon.”

  She ended the call, returning her phone to the receiver, and faced the contracts on her desk. The process of signing with a distributor was far more complicated than she’d originally thought. Every offer was different, from the pricing of the product, to their advertising and promotion budgets and plans, to shipping costs, to incentive programs, to how the distributor planned to sell the brand. But her biggest problem today?

  Sullivan. And all the things her heart felt with his return home.

  She turned in her swivel chair and looked out the window to the big oak tree outside, its branches dancing in the slight breeze. Part of her, hated him with a blinding rage f
or offering her the world and then taking it away in the blink of an eye. The other part of her, missed his love. There had never been anyone after Sullivan; no one who could compare. Remembering that wonderful side of him, her mind slowly left the room, taking her back to what felt like another life entirely.

  “Don’t look at me like that, Clara,” said Sullivan, hovering over her while she lay on a blanket.

  “What way, Sullivan?” She smiled.

  He shook his head, grinning back. “Goddamn it, girl, you know what you’re doing. When you look at me like that, you know I’ll give you anything and everything you want, don’t you?”

  She laughed and cupped his face. “Goddamn it, boy, you know I only want you, don’t you?”

  “Damn straight.” He smirked, full of manly pride, then his mouth dropped to hers.

  The kiss was sweet and soft and teasing and all but melted her bones. She’d kissed a few boys, but none like Sullivan Keene. None who meant it like him. Almost like he needed to touch her, hold her, to make his world right.

  After he gave a low groan, he backed away and shifted onto his side, resting his head on his hand. “Better stop that, or your Pops is going to bury me six feet under.”

  Clara mirrored his posture. “We both know who would win in a fight, and it wouldn’t be my Pops.”

  Sullivan laughed and winked. “Well, in that case…” He wrapped his arm around her, tugging her in close. She stared up at him, her heart breaking for the pain she could see hidden behind the strong wall he projected. His mother had died two years ago after a long, cruel fight with cancer. But nothing got better after her death; it only got worse.

  Her heart bled for him. “Everything’s going to be all right, Sullivan. You’ll see.”