Following a new thought running through his head, Show asked, “We got the funds to get one started, though, right? Since we approved the script—that brought in more from Hollywood?”
C.J., the club Secretary, nodded. “Yeah. It’d put a decent dent in the bank, but manageable. Don’t change the fact we got nobody to run a place like that.”
“I could talk to Shannon. She has contacts in the industry. See if she can put a feeler out for a manager.”
C.J. slammed his fists down on the table, and the gavel rattled. “I am so goddamn tired of members bringing their old ladies into club business! Chicks got no place in this goddamn room! This is not the club I patched into! Damn!” He threw himself back in his chair and crossed his arms.
Show looked over and saw the hot, black look on Isaac’s face. He himself wasn’t pissed; C.J. was C.J.—a cantankerous old blowhard. But Isaac was clearly furious, and Show went on alert. He was not yet strong enough again to take Isaac down if he really lost it, but he could get in the way of that happening.
But when he spoke, Isaac’s voice was calm. “You’re right, Ceej. It’s not the club you patched into. That was my old man’s Horde. This is mine. I do things differently. Always have, always will. In this club, we take help from the best source. You don’t like it, challenge me or offer your patch up for a vote.”
It wasn’t the first time that Isaac had drawn that line in a disagreement. Show knew he had no patience for his leadership being questioned, but he didn’t throw down like that unless there was another stressor in the situation. The extra stressor here was C.J. himself, who’d been a malcontent for almost two years. C.J.’s eyes narrowed threateningly, and Show thought, Shit—he’s going to do it. Must have been clear to everybody else, too, because Vic sat forward at that. Since his shame during the Ellis affair, when he’d almost lost his patch and his life for drunkenly offering up the information that had gotten Daisy killed, Vic tended to be quiet at the table. But now he said, “Whoa, whoa, whoa, boys. Let’s take a breath here.”
Show didn’t know if he’d ever forgive Vic. That year of numbness had gone a long way toward helping him accept him at the table, but he still remembered the day he’d learned that Vic had given up the details that put raping murderers in his home, with his wife and daughters. He’d drunkenly told the whore he was boning, and that whore had been a plant for Ellis. When Show looked at Vic, he saw that betrayal. But he also knew that Vic had been shaken by his mistake and his reprieve, and he’d become a better brother than he’d been before. Still a freak, but a more thoughtful one. And it was Vic’s interjection in this moment that backed both C.J. and Isaac off.
When the tension had eased, Badger raised his hand. Show held back a laugh—the kid was like a schoolboy, raising his hand before he spoke. But he was impressed, too. The only words out of Badge’s mouth so far in the Keep had been “aye” and “nay.” Even the quietest patches were talking today.
Grinning, Isaac said, “Go ahead, Badge. You don’t need to raise your hand, brother. You’re an equal. One of us.”
Badge blushed. “I—I just, um, want to say that, um, Shannon’s really smart, and she knows her business, and I think she could help with the bar thing—if that’s what we want to do.” He looked at Show, meeting his eyes, and blushed a dark, alarming red. He looked away. Poor kid had a debilitating crush on Show’s old lady.
Show didn’t move, and when Badge glanced back up, they met eyes again. Show stared, and Badger broke out in a sweat. Taking pity on the kid, Show looked away.
“Okay. Let’s put it to a vote then. All those in favor of asking Shannon to help us look for a bar manager. Aye.” Isaac looked at Len, who said, “Aye,” and continued on around the table. The vote was seven to one. C.J. was, yet again, the outlier. He was putting up stakes on the other side of the line. Show thought that could turn out to be a problem someday. He met Isaac’s eyes and knew that he agreed.
~oOo~
Show pulled his bike into the B&B lot a week or so later and parked next to a bright yellow, old school convertible Beetle—70s version. New York plates. It was midweek, and not yet vacation season, so unusual for there to be a guest. He was disappointed. He’d planned to see if he could whisk Shannon off for a ride. The day was warm and sunny, and he had something he wanted to talk to her about. With guests around, prying her out of the building would take serious effort. He was going to have to nag at her again about getting more help.
He went in, and the guest was at the desk with Shannon, apparently checking in just then. A single woman. Pretty profile—real pretty. Slight, and wearing a long, crazily patterned skirt and a loose, dark green sweater that made a style Show thought of as “hippie.”
Something about her, even just looking mostly at her back, gave Show pause, and he stopped near the door. Long masses of bright red curls down her back—more ginger than Shannon’s ruddy shade—but then Shannon changed her red pretty often. She was a natural redhead, as Show knew well, but she liked to change from auburn to ginger, and everything in between, every couple of months or so.
Shannon, in hospitality mode, had not acknowledged him other than to look up and smile at him briefly. She finished the check-in, handed the guest a key, and asked if she needed help with her bag—an old canvas duffel, army green. The guest shook her head and picked up the duffel. She seemed to pause for a moment, looking at Shannon, and then she turned. And Show gasped. She was young, early twenties, maybe, but she was almost a carbon copy of Shannon—the same eyes, the same lips, the same cleft in her chin. The same face, though this younger version was noticeably freckled. She was slight, without Shannon’s pinup curves, and her hair was wildly curly instead of Shannon’s soft waves, but there was no way in all the vast universe that these two women were not related in some way.
Shannon had not appeared to recognize her, however. She had very little contact with her family, so she might not know everybody. Was this a niece, one of her brothers’ kids? Was it a fluke, then, or was this girl trying to reconnect with family? What was going on?
The mystery guest sent on her way upstairs, Shannon came over to him with a smile.
“Hi! Didn’t expect to see you until later. Something up?”
He took her into his arms and kissed her. “Do you know that girl?”
“Who—the new guest? No. She’s a walk-in, actually. Her name is Adrienne Renard. Why? Do you know her?”
He went straight for the point. “Hon, she’s got to be a relation. She looks so much like you she could be your own daughter.”
Shannon’s reaction was immediate, extreme, and shocking. She paled at once, her porcelain skin becoming ghostly. Her eyes huge and terrified, she pushed away from him and stared up at the top of staircase.
Then she turned on her heel and ran—ran—back to her apartment.
Shocked, Show stood glued to the floor as his brain whirred. An array of random jigsaw pieces of memory began to settle into place: Her refusal to talk about her past. Her discomfort with Gia. Her frustration when he told her why he and Holly had gotten married. More little moments that had seemed random quirks now began to fit together and make a picture, and Show stood with his mouth open, staring at the space that had a moment before held his old lady, before she’d turned away from him and bolted. He waited for the image to emerge.
Was that girl who’d just checked in Shannon’s daughter?
No. That didn’t make any sense. How would she not recognize her? Why would she not say? Even as the picture became clear, it simply made no sense.
What made sense was that the thing she’d been hiding from him and everyone else was big. It was massive. And even after all these months, after everything they’d worked through to be together, she had not trusted him enough to tell him. He had opened his goddamn soul to her, told her everything, and she had kept something like this from him? His temples pulsed with rage.
He got moving, storming after her, through her office and into her apartment. She wasn
’t there. But her bedroom door was closed, and he strode through the sitting room and wrapped his paw around the knob.
It didn’t budge. She’d locked it. Goddammit! He curled his hand into a fist and pounded on the door, rattling it in its frame.
“SHANNON! OPEN THIS FUCKING DOOR!”
No response of any kind from within. He pounded again. “SHANNON! GODDAMMIT! WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON? LET ME IN!!”
Nothing. So he took a step back and kicked the door in.
She was packing.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
She had to go, and she had to go now.
With only that thought in her head, Shannon ran into her apartment and back to her bedroom. She slammed the door and locked it, then pulled the first suitcase she came to out of the closet and threw it on the bed, unzipping it and flipping it open. She grabbed clothes randomly from the closet and her dresser drawers, not even paying attention to what she was throwing in.
Then Show was bellowing outside the door, pounding so hard the sound made her jump with every slam of his fist on wood. But she otherwise ignored him. He was the last person she wanted to face. No, he wasn’t. He was the second-to-last. The last person had just checked in.
With a huge, deafening crack, the door crashed open, and Shannon screamed and froze, a wad of silk panties in her hands. Show was filling the doorway, panting. His fists were clenched, and his wrath was written across his livid face.
His eyes went to the suitcase and then to the clothes in her hand. “What the holy fuck are you doing?” His voice was so low it surprised her, after the crescendo of his shouts outside the door. But his fury was palpable.
“I have to go.” She threw the panties in the suitcase and turned for another handful, then decided she had enough. She could buy more. She just needed to go. Turning back to the bed, she flipped the suitcase closed and zipped it up.
“What? Shannon, you have to stop and talk. Now.” Still his voice was low and measured, but it came through his gritted teeth.
She pulled the suitcase off the bed, then realized that he was still in the doorway, blocking her path. She had to go! She had to go! She had to go right now! Her head was empty of everything but the need to get out.
“You have to move! I have to get out of here! I have to go!”
“No fucking way. You’re not going anywhere.”
She didn’t think about what she did next. She hoisted the suitcase in both her hands, swinging it at him with all her might.
He caught it in both hands before it hit him. “NO. FUCKING. WAY!” He pulled sharply and then pushed away, sending her to the floor in a heap. He had the suitcase, and he threw it away, across the room, where it crashed into the mirror over her antique vanity, sending shards of glass raining down. Then he bent down and grabbed her arms, pulling her up. His face right in hers, he shouted, “You are going to FUCKING TALK TO ME!” With every syllable, he gave her a hard shake.
Her panic was so complete and consuming that she was almost senseless with it. She couldn’t think. She could barely see, her vision tunneling to a pinpoint, surrounded by swirling patterns of blazing red fear. All she could hear was the fear, and Show shouting, beads of spittle landing in his beard.
She found her voice. “I CAN’T! I CAN’T I CAN’T I CAN’T! I HAVE TO GO! LET ME GO! PLEASE LET ME GO!” She fought. She fought as hard as she could, kicking and screaming. She couldn’t think of anything else to do. She couldn’t think at all.
He dropped down on top of her, flattening her under his weight until she was all but immobile and could barely breathe. She was sobbing—when had she started to cry?—and she needed more air, but he stayed down on top of her, her hands in his iron grip. Still, she fought, futile though it was, until her limbs would no longer obey her.
“Calm down, Shannon. Calm down. We need to talk.” His voice was low again, and softer now, gentle. “Shhh, hon. Shhhh.” He kissed her cheek, and she sobbed harder. He kissed the other cheek. “I love you, Shannon. Talk to me.”
“I can’t. Don’t make me. Please don’t make me. I can’t. Not you. I can’t tell you.”
“You can. You can tell me anything.” He lifted off of her, turning to sit at her side, but she was too exhausted now to take the opportunity. She lay there and sobbed, knowing that everything was coming to an end.
Sliding his arm under her back, he lifted her and pulled her onto his lap. His rage was apparently gone—or, at least, had taken a back seat to this tender care. But if she told him, the rage would be back.
“Why do you think you can’t tell me, hon?” He held her head to his chest. He was holding her like a child. But it soothed her—and scared her, because it wouldn’t last.
“You’ll hate me. You’ll turn away.”
He pushed her away, holding her face in his hands. “I won’t. Jesus, Shannon. You know me better than that. I don’t leave.”
It was the worst thing he could have said, probably. She pushed at his chest, desperate again to get free. “That’s why! You won’t understand! How could you understand?”
He caught her hands in one fist and immobilized her again. “Shannon. I’m sitting here on this floor with you, dealing with the fact that you kept a secret so big the thought of telling it is making you fucking crazy, and trying to get my head around you trying to run the fuck away from me. You were packing. After everything. I’m so hurt and pissed I can’t even think about it. If I can sit here and still try to work this out with you, what the fuck do you think you could say that would make me leave? What could be worse?”
She didn’t know what to say. The panic in her head had receded enough that she could hear the sense in his words. But it was worse. It was. It was the worst thing she’d ever done. She was terrified; the thought of Show judging her felt like acid in her head. But she owed him the chance to do it.
“I love you,” he said. “You said you love me. That true?”
Feeling tears rolling up her throat again, she swallowed and nodded.
“Say it, then.”
“I love you.”
He looked deep into her eyes, which felt bleary and swollen. Then he nodded. “Then let’s talk.”
God. She couldn’t. When she’d told Keith, because he’d noticed that she was being followed and had identified the private investigator tailing her, she’d been nervous and sick. But not like this. She hadn’t felt this horrid, paralyzing fear.
As her silence went on, Show shifted with impatience. “Shannon. I’m not giving you a fucking choice. You are talking, or we are staying in this apartment until we rot.” Still holding her, he got his legs under and came to standing, groaning heavily. “Fuck, that hurt.”
He carried her into the sitting room and sat down on her sofa, keeping her on his lap, still with his arms around her. He wasn’t kidding; he was not letting her go. “I’ll start. She your daughter?”
The fear pounding in her heart, she nodded and forced words from her mouth. “Maybe. Probably. I suppose it’s not a coincidence.”
“You don’t know. You gave her up.” It wasn’t a question.
She nodded again.
“Tell me, hon. It’s time to tell it all.” He pressed his lips to her forehead, and she closed her eyes and savored the love in the touch. Despite his assurances, she didn’t see how he would stay, how he would still love her. Her own parents had not. Her brothers.
It was true that if she’d left, hauling her suitcase and its haphazard contents to her car and driving away, putting Signal Bend at her back as she’d done Tulsa, and Karville before it, she’d have lost Show anyway. But losing him this way, bared to him completely and exposed to his disgust or his dismissal, would be so very much worse. One was something she’d have chosen. The other was something she’d be subjected to. She’d tried very hard to stay on the side of choice. Since the day she’d left Karville, she’d made it her mission to choose her life. To chart her course and not let circumstances decide where she’d land.
Nothing in this
moment was her choice. Not sitting here on Show’s lap, his arms tense and tight around her, being told she couldn’t leave. Not the daughter she’d given away probably sitting upstairs, here for what reason Shannon could only guess. Not what Show would do when he heard her story. The course she’d charted for herself simply didn’t exist any longer. Her choice was moot.
Shannon sighed, and then she started a story she’d kept close for twenty years. To Keith, who’d found out parts of the story on his own, looking into why she was being followed, she’d told only what was necessary to explain. Show, she decided, would hear it all. No point trying to control it now. And when he turned his back on her, she’d go and start over in a new place, farther away. Try, anyway.
“Yes. She could be my daughter. There’s reason to believe she is.” His arms relaxed a little, and his hand moved to her hair, stroking. She closed her eyes and felt it, taking some strength from it.
“Okay. I’m going to tell you a story. Most of it I’ve never told before, so bear with me. If I tell it all, maybe you’ll understand a little.” She cleared her throat. “All through high school, I had the same boyfriend—Jeff. He was a typical country boy, cowboy hat and all. No aspirations beyond taking on his daddy’s farm someday. He was pretty nice, pretty cute, treated me pretty well. He could be a jerk, too, but no different from every other guy in town. I guess we were ‘in love,’ in the high school way, though we never said it. I don’t know why, but we never did.
“Anyway. I was planning to go to college after high school—just SEMO, nowhere far or fancy. I just wanted more than working at the Kustard King until I married Jeff or some other local boy, stuck in the same loop everybody in town was stuck in—the constant struggle to stay above water, every day the same. The town was sickly then, on its way out. Most everybody was in the same boat.
“We didn’t have an MC looking out for things. But we had the Pentecostal Church. The pastor led the town, a lot like Isaac leads Signal Bend. It was his word that mattered. Seems to me that Reverend Allen was less interested in making the town better and more interested in making sure people didn’t notice how bad it all was. I don’t know. But nothing happened in town without his input. He was a good man, all in all. But he had a particular view of the world. Still does, as far as I know.
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