Hollywood on Tap: Sweet Salvation Brewery 2

by Flynn, Avery

  He ambled aimlessly around, bent–legged like he was on a whaler in rough waters. The whole thing might have been somewhat amusing if he wasn’t dragging a long–barreled shotgun in his weaving wake.

  “Shit,” Sean mumbled under his breath.

  “My thoughts exactly.” Heart thumping in her ears, she skidded to a stop at the bar, grabbed the phone, and dialed 911.

  Sean rushed to the front door. “Everybody back,” he hollered as he flipped the deadbolt.

  Everyone shuffled a few steps back, but not so far they couldn’t watch Carl’s twisty–turny approach as he stumbled across the gravel parking lot. He held the shotgun’s butt while the long barrel of the business end bounced against the pavement as he lugged it behind him. Even from this distance, she couldn’t miss that he was two drinks beyond drunk.

  The operator answered on the second ring. “Salvation 911, please state your emergency.”

  “Carl Brennan is outside the Sweet Salvation Brewery with a shotgun. He’s drunk.”

  “Is everyone okay?” the operator asked in a no–nonsense voice.

  Natalie glanced around at the staff who’d inched closed to the window, despite Sean glowering at them from the door. “Yes.”

  In a town where most folks had fired a gun by the time their age hit double digits, just the sight of a shotgun wasn’t going to make them twitch in fear. That and the fact that everyone in town would be talking about nothing else but this for the next few weeks at least had them glued to the glass. The staff would be getting free drinks at the Boot Scoot Boogie all night for telling this tale.

  “Good. You said he has a gun?” the operator asked.

  “Yeah.” She blinked rapidly in surprise as Carl gave someone only he could see a big hug and then started kissing the air. What the hell?

  “What kind of gun is it?”

  Natalie stepped around the bar and strode over to the door. Sean sidestepped to stand in front of her and block her body from being a target, but not before she noticed the orange tip on the end of the shotgun. Since she’d gotten a similar firearm for her tenth birthday, she knew exactly what the orange meant.

  “You’ve got to be kidding me.” Natalie ground her teeth practically to dust. Of all the stupid things in the world. Carl had brought a damn toy BB gun to a brewery fight.

  “What’s happening?” The operator’s tone sharpened.

  Natalie shook her head in disbelief. “It’s a BB gun, not a shotgun.”

  “You sure?” Sean whispered out of the side of his mouth.

  “Trust me, no one from Salvation would mistake that.” She jerked her head toward the staff, who looked about as scared as a dog napping in the sun. “Why do you think they’re all close enough to fog up the window?”

  “Ma’am.” The operator broke up the conversation. “Is he threatening anyone with it?”

  Trying—and failing—to keep the annoyance out of her voice, Natalie answered, “You don’t call bringing a gun—even a BB gun—to your former place of employment threatening?”

  “Ma’am,” the operator said, speaking in the soothing tone used universally by kindergarten teachers that grated down Natalie’s spine. “I understand your point, but I need to let the deputies on their way know if the suspect is pointing a gun at anyone.”

  As much as it pained her, she had to admit it was a valid inquiry. Natalie craned her neck around Sean’s bulk to get a better look.

  Carl stood in the middle of the parking lot, staring at the cloudless winter sky, a look of absolute Zen on his normally surly face…

  She held the phone receiver away from her ear and strained to hear…

  Yep, he was singing.

  “No, he’s not threatening anyone.” She sighed. God, did nothing normal ever happen in Salvation? “He’s singing.”

  “Singing?” The operator’s voice went up an octave.

  “Classic rock.” Sean muttered. “Maybe Nirvana.”

  “Are you sure he’s singing?” the operator asked, surprise making her voice crack. “I know Carl Brennan. I’ve seen him drunk and in lockup plenty of times. I’ve never seen him singing. Usually he’s as mean as a teenage girl cut off from her cell phone”

  “You’re missing out then,” Natalie responded. “He’s actually better than the last cover band they had at the Boot Scoot Boogie.”

  “I was there. That’s not saying much.” The operator chuckled.

  The ends of Natalie’s lips twitched in a smile when Carl jackknifed at the waist. He started making herky–jerky motions as his cheeks puffed out. After a few deep breaths he straightened, hiccuped, and finished with a woozy smile before giving a quick salute to the Sweet Salvation Brewery sign. A second later he waved around like an inflatable dancing man at a car lot…and then threw up.

  The brewery staff let out a collective “ewwwww” and took a step back. It seemed that the possibility of getting shot wasn’t worth losing a good seat. But puke? Everyone hop–stepped it away. Natalie rolled her eyes. The whole town was cracked in the head.

  Carl stripped off his coat and started wiping down the sign, but the arm holding the shotgun got tangled up in a sleeve. He tried to jerk it free. The move threw him off balance and he tumbled over. He hit the ground and a shot went off.

  Everyone in the brewery’s tasting room froze.

  “Ma’am, I heard a shot. Is everyone okay?”

  A small red stain bloomed on Carl’s sleeve, right above his elbow. He clutched his arm and twisted the ground. The BB gun lay a few feet away from where he’d fallen.

  Her mind was six steps ahead before she’d even whipped around and ran back to the bar. “You’d better get an ambulance out here. Carl shot himself.”

  “The deputies are a few minutes out, ma’am.”

  She rounded the bar and raced to the supplies. Carl was an ass, and she had to admit a part of her enjoyed seeing him in pain after all he’d done, but she couldn’t leave him out there to bleed to death. BB guns weren’t usually dangerous, but you clip a major vein or artery and that was all she wrote. “Hailey, take this.” She handed the phone to the brewery’s office manager, grabbed a handful of souvenir Sweet Salvation Brewery T–shirts and towels, and sprinted to the door.

  “Oh no.” Sean blocked her path.

  She pushed against the immovable arm keeping her from walking out the brewery’s front door. “He’s drunk, not dangerous.”

  “And you think the two are mutually exclusive?” The low growl in his voice had nothing on the ice in his eyes. Whatever he’d seen in his life before he got to Salvation must have taught him the truth of that lesson with brutal efficiency.

  But life had taught her things too. The main one being you couldn’t run away from all the ugly in the world, sometimes you had to face it and tell it to fuck off.

  “I’m not leaving a man in agony on the front lawn.” She dipped underneath his arm and pushed open the door.

  Sean muttered a curse and followed her into the sunshine. “He’s not dying.” He grabbed her arm, yanking her to a stop.

  “You a doctor all of a sudden?” She shoved his hand away, spun on a heel, and hustled to the injured Carl.

  Short of hauling Natalie screaming back into the brewery, there wasn’t a damn thing Sean could do to stop her from helping Carl, who was sweating like an ice cube at the beach and taking in shallow breaths. The pain, however, didn’t seem to be having any effect on Carl’s attitude. If it wasn’t for the blood, Sean would have thought the idiot had shot at himself and missed.

  True to form, Natalie had gotten the old brewmaster’s sleeve up enough to expose the BB gun wound and its messy aftermath. Sean may have played the hero on the big screen, but without a stunt double and a screenwriter, he was just fumbling out in the wind.

  But not Natalie.

  Even as Sean plotted how to get her back into the brewery before the pain sobered Carl up and he roared back into his normal mean–ass self, Sean admired the confidence it took for Natalie to do the ri
ght thing, even when it could come back and bite her on the ass. Not a lot of people did that anymore. Hell, the vast majority of people didn’t do that anymore.

  Natalie jerked Sean down until the gravel pebbles bit into his knees. “Hold this.” She pressed his hand hard against the fast–bleeding wound in Carl’s upper arm.

  She rolled back on her heels and eyeballed the wound. “Damn it, Carl, that thing is bleeding like crazy. Did you use a pointed pellet?”

  “What difference does that make?” Sean asked over the wailing of the sirens.

  The sheriff’s deputies were close enough now that he could see the cherry tops barreling down the road. His nerves jangled. For the past few years he’d done everything in his power to avoid law enforcement. His fake driver’s license was good enough for a casual glance, but one quick call to check it out and the jig was up.

  “Those are the best pellets for hunting small game. They’re accurate as all get out and can do some real damage.” She raised Carl’s arm up above his head. “Keep tight pressure on the wound. We don’t want him to lose too much blood before the paramedics take over.”

  “Well, aren’t you shweet.” Carl giggled at his own joke then winced at the pain it must have caused when he shook his injured arm. “A Shweet that’s shweet.”

  Sean increased the pressure on the other man’s wounds. A little reminder to be polite? Maybe. “You’re drunk.”

  Two cruisers and an ambulance sped into the lot, spitting out gravel from beneath the tread of their tires.

  Carl didn’t even twitch despite the weight bearing down on him, instead he shook his head in slow motion like a stoned surfer. “Haven’t had a shingle drink.” His gaze flicked up and down repeatedly. Not as though he was really looking at or for anyone, but as if he couldn’t help it.

  Natalie snorted.

  The cold wind carried the sound of the cruisers’ doors slamming shut to where they huddled in the brewery sign’s shadow.

  “Really.” Carl struggled to sit up with more force than expected from someone who was out of it enough to try to make out with an invisible person.

  If he wasn’t drunk, the dude was on something.

  Sean used his free hand to press down on Carl’s shoulder, stilling him, and tried to figure out what the fuck was going on. Carl’s pupils were huge, but he’d never been a user that Sean had noticed or heard gossip about. In the past when the old brewmaster had been on a bender, not an unusual occurrence, he’d reeked of cheap bourbon. Sean took in a deep breath.

  Carl could use a shower but that was it.

  Unease zapped Sean like static electricity. “That doesn’t explain why you’re here with a gun. What were you planning to fuck up today? Or were you just going to shoot up the brewery?”

  Natalie shifted beside him, drawing his attention. Standing straight and proud with a determined tilt to her chin, she stared not at Carl but at Sean with a quiet fierceness. She nodded her head. Carl may hate both of them, but if Sean could just get the former brewmaster to confess. Her strength and confidence in him floored him. He didn’t doubt for a second that she wanted to tear Carl apart bone by bone, but something held her back. Maybe the same thing eating away at the back of his brain.

  “What the fuck you talkin’ about, boy?” Carl snarled. “This ish my brewery. Anybody messes with it and I’ll kick their ass six ways to Shunday.” He squinted up at them as the paramedics hustled across the lot. “Lemme go. I’ve got beer to brew.”

  “Maybe somewhere, but not here.” The possibilities rumbled through his mind. Carl had to be high, but on what? Sean scooted aside so the taller of the two paramedics could take over, but maintained his hold on Carl’s shoulders. As long as Natalie was around, he wasn’t letting this asshole off the ground. “He’s on something.”

  “Fuck you, boy.” Outrage turned Carl’s face a deep red. “I don’t do drugs.”

  And movie popcorn isn’t overpriced. Sean rolled his eyes.

  The action had Carl sputtering in rage and he jackknifed into a sitting position, then broke out of Sean’s grasp and sent the paramedic sprawling to the ground before the bleeding man scrambling to his feet. His injured arm hung limp at his side and a trickle of blood rushed down his forearm. Not that Carl seemed to notice or care.

  Ignoring Sean, Carl laser–beamed him attention on Natalie. “You interfering bitch.”

  He lunged toward her.

  The sound of footsteps rushing toward them registered, but Sean knew they wouldn’t get to them in time. Acting on instinct, he barreled forward, intent on crushing Carl before the man reached Natalie.

  He’d spent his formative years learning how to fight from stuntmen on the set, skills he’d found practical use for when he got older and finally stood up to his father.

  His shoulder connected with Carl’s stomach and he wrapped his arms around the man’s paunchy middle and pushed forward. The momentum of his attack knocked Carl on his ass. Sean landed on top of him, letting his full weight pin the former brewmaster to the gravel parking lot.

  Rage twisted Carl’s face into an almost animalistic expression of pure hatred. “I know all about you,” he bellowed as he managed to get his shoulders up off the ground. “Don’t think I don’t.”

  Sean clamped onto Carl’s bony shoulders and shoved him back down. “Shut it, Brennan.”

  “From your name to your qualifications, you’re nothing but a fraud.” Spittle gathered at the corners of his mouth because of the force of his words. “You’re as phony as a three dollar bill and you know it.”

  Carl had tipped off Rupert. He must have. How Carl had discovered the truth didn’t matter, but the clock was ticking on Sean’s time in Salvation.

  Two deputies and the other paramedic appeared in Sean’s periphery vision before they moved in closer and took over holding Carl down.

  “You.” The paramedic nodded at Sean. “Mosey on back. We got him now. Anyway, the deputies want to take your statement. Yours too, Ms. Sweet.”

  They’d made it about a few yards away when Natalie pulled him to the side. “What in the hell was that about?”

  Reaching deep for his rusty acting skills, Sean forced the tension out of his shoulders and let his face relax into a neutral mask. “The guy’s out of his mind.”

  “No argument there.” She eyed him suspiciously. “But there’s something to it, isn’t there?”

  For half a second the truth balanced on the tip of his tongue, and with it, a redemption he hadn’t realized he’d wanted. He hadn’t trusted anyone with his real identity, not since he’d hot–wired that car and drove until the Hollywood sign was only a vague memory. Not for the millions he’d left in a bank account. Not for the easy fame and even easier women. Not for the family who’d only seen him as a paycheck. But Natalie….

  Looking into her crystal–clear blue eyes half hidden behind the black–framed glasses, he couldn’t help but believe she’d understand why he’d done it.

  “Howdy folks. Looks like you’ve had some excitement around here.” Gravel crunched under the deputy’s rubber–soled boots as he approached. He stopped beside them and withdrew a notepad from his shirt pocket. “Let’s get started with some names.”

  Always quick on her feet, it only took a second for Natalie to refocus on the deputy. “Natalie Sweet.”

  “That one I knew. You’re kind of hard to miss around town.” The flirting tone in the deputy’s voice and the way he leaned toward Natalie set Sean’s teeth on edge. “How about you?”

  “Sean.” The word came out as half a threat.

  The deputy straightened and hardened his jaw. “Gotta last name, Sean?”

  More than one. “O’Dell.” He rubbed the back of his neck and realized just how damn sick of lying he’d become.

  “Okay then.” The deputy flipped open the small notepad. “Why don’t you start at the beginning and walk me through what just went down.”

  Chapter Eleven

  The day after paramedics hauled a ranting Ca
rl into the ambulance, a sense of impending doom continued to stalk Natalie like a hunter closing in on a deer. To counteract the uncertainty, she fell into her normal routine at the brewery with a vengeance. She poured one–hundred–and–forty–five–degree water into her cup of loose leaf Gyokuro green tea at exactly five after eight. Next, she powered up her laptop and tuned into an internet ambient–music station. After two minutes of calming music, she removed the tea infuser, set it aside, and inhaled the flowery–green aroma.

  Normally, this was all it took to put her back on an even keel, but the ghost of anxiety still skittered across the back of her neck, setting her hair on end. Today she might need a double shot of teatime Zen—or another session with Sean in the reference room. She could blame it on the sex, but the feeling making her stomach do the loop–de–loop whenever she thought of Sean had nothing to do with sex—although that sure as hell wasn’t anything to scoff at.

  The memory pulled her lips into a smile. Always tied to propriety, she hadn’t ever done it outside of a bed. Oh, she’d done a hell of a lot in that bed, but yesterday was a first in more than one way.

  “So did you hear?”

  Natalie jumped at her sister’s voice, sending the green tea sloshing around inside her cup and tweaking her apprehension levels up five notches. “Ever hear of knocking?”

  “Jumpy, sis?” Miranda strolled in, holding a paper bag in her outstretched hands. “I come baring double–chocolate donuts from the Heaven Sent Bakery.”

  Her mouth watered. The donuts were an explosion of chocolate goodness with even more chocolate on top. Eating one was almost as good as a bookshelf organized by genre and alphabetized by the authors’ last names.

  “I could use a couple decades of quiet and calm.” Natalie snagged the bag. “But this will do.”

  “I’m so sorry.” Miranda sank into the guest chair, her shoulders slumped. “I never thought when I conned you into coming down that it would be like this. I know Olivia and I kid you about the pearls and your lists, but it comes from a place of love. We’re both really proud of how far you’ve come.”