by Avery Flynn
And it hadn’t been in the Sweet Salvation Brewery parking lot since—
She shot up from the stump. “It was Carl.”
“Does Carl have a last name?”
“Brennan.” Her body went from arctic to Sahara in half a heartbeat. The last bits of confusion fled. It made perfect sense. The asshole didn’t have the nerve to confront her face-to-face so he pulled this crap instead. Slashing her tires. Trying to ram her off the road, safe and snug in his hulking truck’s cab. A coward’s attack. “He used to be the brewmaster.”
“Used to be?”
“I fired him.”
“Imagine he wasn’t so happy about that.” He flipped open his notebook again and started scratching notes in some sort of cop shorthand.
“Not in the least.” Her initial angry bravado abandoned her, and a platoon of icy-cold ants marched up her spine. “He told me he’d get what was coming to him.”
The deputy’s pen halted in mid loop. “Did you actually see him in the truck?”
“No. The only thing I could focus on was the truck’s front grill taking up my whole windshield.” Anxiety pinched her shoulders tight. Slashing her tires was one thing. Trying to flatten her car while she was still in it was another. “But you can still arrest him, can’t you? I know it was his truck.”
“I can talk to him. Maybe the lab can find paint scrapes on your car from the perp’s truck. We can compare those with Mr. Brennan’s vehicle.” He shrugged, the movement as blasé as his tone.
She tightened her arms across her belly. “You don’t sound hopeful.”
The deputy opened his mouth to say something but shut it before a sound had a chance to escape.
“Sorry, but I’m going to have to ask you to move.” Hud dipped the brim of his cap at her as he strode over to where she stood with the deputy. “Got ’er all locked and loaded. You want me to drop ’er off at the impound lot?”
“Yep. Thanks.” The deputy ushered her away from the bridge and out of Hud’s way.
The tow truck’s engine roared to life, and she flinched. It would probably be a good long while before the deep rumble of an oversized engine didn’t have that effect on her.
“Do you know where I can find Mr. Brennan?”
“I’m sure we’ve got a home address and contact information in his personnel file.” She pulled her phone out of her purse. “Let me call my sister, she’ll be able to access it.” Turning, she saw Natalie a second before she sprinted underneath the police tape crossing the road.
“I’m right here.” Natalie practically shoved the deputy over in her rush to Miranda’s side. “Oh, my God! Are you okay?”
“Fine,” Miranda wheezed out. She would have answered more forcefully, but her sister’s vise-like grip around her chest was squeezing out every ounce of oxygen from her lungs.
Natalie released her and spun around to face the deputy. Her face took on a mama bear ferociousness as she crossed her arms. “Do you have this whackado in custody?”
The deputy held up his hands. “Ma’am—”
“Don’t you ma’am me. I want to know—”
“It was Carl,” Miranda said.
The pronouncement stopped Natalie in mid-diatribe. Her face blanched. “Carl? From the brewery?”
She nodded her head. “I was about to call you to get his address out of his personnel file so the sheriff’s deputies could interview him. Do you think Sean’s still there? He could get it.”
“Of course Sean’s there. I don’t think that stubborn beast leaves the brewery, but we don’t need him.” Natalie pulled her phone out of the tan messenger bag slung across one shoulder and began clicking away at the keypad. “I upgraded the system so that all the files are in high-security, password-protected Cloud storage. It’s accessible anywhere that has an Internet hookup or cell signal. Really, it’s just basic business continuity planning. I’m sure you would have thought of it eventually.”
“If you say so.”
“Here it is. Carl Brennan, 5528 Fourth Street, Salvation, Virginia.” Natalie glanced up and absentmindedly hooked a finger around her pearl necklace. “Do you need phone numbers?”
“Yes, ma’am.” The deputy scribbled into his notepad.
“It’s 241-5622.” Natalie scrolled down the tiny screen. “I don’t see another number, so I’m not sure if that’s home or a cell.”
“Thanks. I’ll be sure to follow up with him.” The deputy closed his notepad and slid it into an inner pocket on his standard-issue brown jacket. “In the meantime, stay alert.”
Miranda rubbed her palms against her upper arms. Being hyperaware was not going to be a problem. Not freaking out once the adrenaline stopped pumping through her system? Now that could get iffy.
Chapter Fifteen
Logan’s fingers drummed an impatient beat on his steering wheel while he waited for the red light to turn green and tried to process the news Hud had just delivered. He was going to wring Carl’s neck like a wet dishtowel. As soon as he found him, which—considering how frickin’ long the light was—could be another decade. No other cars were traveling the opposite direction, but here he was cooling his jets on the corner of Main Street and First Avenue like a no-nuts asshole. He yanked the staid red and blue striped banker’s tie from around his neck and tossed it onto his suit jacket lying in a crumpled heap in the passenger’s seat.
His gaze dropped down to the Bluetooth display on his dashboard showing Hud’s cellphone number. “Are you sure about this?”
“Based on what she said to the deputy, I don’t see how it could be anyone else.” His best friend’s voice boomed over the truck’s speakers.
The light finally changed, and Logan sped through the intersection toward Salvation’s busiest road, Route One, which was littered with fast food restaurants, gas stations, shopping centers and bars. “And you didn’t see any paint scraped onto her car?”
“I gave it a good go-over before leaving it at the impound. Her bumper is shot, her grill is dented, but I didn’t see anything. Now, maybe, if they go all CSI, they’ll find something, but let’s be realistic. This is Hamilton County, not Harbor City. No one was hurt. And the county is squeezing every penny possible out of each tax dollar as it is.”
Logan punched the gas. “And the sheriff has arrested half her family at one time or another, so he’s got no reason to waste resources on a Sweet.” He hooked a right onto Route One, his tires squealing against the pavement. “So it will be her word against Carl’s.”
“Bingo.” Hud paused. “So, what’s the deal?”
He switched to the left lane and passed a mini-van going the speed limit. “What do you mean?”
“With you and Miranda.”
Everything. Nothing. Not nearly as much as he wanted. “There is no Miranda and me.”
“Coulda fooled me.”
Shame prickled his skin as he remembered the way he’d treated Miranda when she walked into his office a few weeks ago, how condescending he’d been when she’d burst into the investors meeting at The Kitchen Sink. She hadn’t been a person, just an adversary fucking up his plan. Now she was more than that. She was Miranda.
“My family and the rest of this town have treated her family for shit for generations. I’ve been right with them, acting like a complete ass.”
“So what are you going to do about it?”
“What makes you think I’m going to do anything?” Logan pulled into the Spotted Pig’s parking lot. It was half full, but dusk was falling fast. It wouldn’t be long before vehicles filled every available spot.
“Well, whatever you’re not doing, make sure it’s nothing stupid. And if it is…call me. It’s been a while since I knocked heads together.”
“You got it.” Logan ended the call and backed into a spot in the corner. The position gave him an unobstructed view of the bar’s tinted glass doo
rs framed by two ten-feet-tall hogs dressed in cowboy hats and silver belt buckles.
Nothing would feel as good as pounding Carl’s face in right about now, but that wouldn’t help Miranda in the long run. Carl’s family had a long history in Salvation. If the sheriff’s deputies even believed Miranda’s story, the gossips would say she’d driven Carl to act out. If Logan smashed the shithead’s nose into a bloody mess, they’d blame his action on a Sweet’s bad influence. Either way, Tyrell would use it to get more county council votes to outlaw alcohol manufacturing at the next meeting.
That couldn’t happen. Like it or not, he had to keep his fists back for this one. But that didn’t mean he couldn’t have a friendly word with Carl.
He scanned the lot, looking for Carl’s distinctive truck. There were other camouflaged vehicles, including one puke green subcompact, which made his head hurt with its ugliness, but none were Carl’s. He could wait for his prey inside the bar, but that would start talk about why a Martin would be hanging out in a honky-tonk on the other side of town from the country club. So he opted to sit and wait in the oppressive silence of his truck.
An hour ticked by, and his frustration grew while he watched a line of vehicles pull into the parking lot. None of them were the right one. The longer he waited, the less his plan made sense. He was about to turn the key in the ignition when Carl’s truck pulled in with its oversized tires and undersized driver. The truck circled the parking lot before backing into the last spot near the door.
Logan pushed open his door and was halfway across the parking lot by the time Carl had gotten out of his truck.
“Hey, Brennan,” he hollered.
Carl swiveled around. A snide smirk formed when he spotted Logan. “I was wondering how long it would take you to show up here.”
Logan stopped and slid a sideways glance at the front of Carl’s truck, noting the small scratches on the mud-covered grill. “Let’s say it took me a while to see your side of things.”
“Welcome to the light.”
“Can we talk?” He covertly pressed the record button on his phone and slipped it into the front pocket of his shirt.
Carl nodded toward the Spotted Pig’s entrance. “Come on in, I’ll let you buy the first round.”
A couple stumbled out the front door of the bar, the blaring sound of the jukebox following them out. There was no way he’d be able to get a clear recording on his phone. “I’d rather talk out here.”
“Too good for a brew when it’s not served at the golf course?” A thread of contempt weaved into the other man’s tone, matching the snarl curling his lip.
Rather than deny the man’s assumption, Logan played into the whole lord of the manor stereotype, brushing a speck of dirt from his sleeve. “Does it matter?”
“Guess not.” Carl eyeballed him for a minute, then spit a stream of tobacco onto the pavement. “So talk.”
He had to play this carefully if he wanted the state troopers to accept the covert confession. “I wanted to follow up on that offer you made me at the brewery.”
“So you got your little piece of Sweet goodness and now you’re ready to send her packing, huh?”
Heat blazed its way up his spine, and his hands curled into fists, but he couldn’t give into the urge to pummel the man who’d run Miranda off the road. First, he had to get the bastard to spill his guts. Pulling from his reserve of Martin family control, he uncurled his fingers and forced his body into a casual stance.
“Something like that.”
“Well, like I said, there are a million things that can go wrong at the brewery.” He shrugged. “All it takes is a little loosening here or a little too much tightening there.”
Logan’s gut clenched. A few years ago, an employee at the nearby Gulch City Breweries had been seriously burned while cleaning the beer kegs. One of the kegs hadn’t been purged of the internal pressure, and when the man had opened the valve from the hot water heater, the boiling water had overflowed the tank and showered down on him, leaving third degree burns covering 25 percent of his body. The idea of that happening to Miranda—or anyone else at Sweet Salvation Brewery—sent a cold rush of fear through Logan.
“Would anyone get hurt?”
“Depends.” He paused. “Do you want them to?”
Logan shoved his hands into his pockets before he ruined everything by turning the shithead’s face into hamburger meat. “Speaking of which, I hear Miranda had a car accident this afternoon.”
Carl rocked back on his heels and tilted his head skyward. “You don’t say.”
God, he couldn’t wait to smack the Who, me? look right off the other man’s face. “You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that would you?”
Rolling slowly back to the balls of his feet, Carl shot him a look with dead eyes that sent ice down Logan’s spine. “Sometimes folks are in the right place at the right time.”
“And you were?”
“You’re asking a lot of questions about shit that ain’t none of your business.”
“Just making sure we’re on the same page. Man willing to pull that off is the kind I need” Just saying the words left an ugly taste in Logan’s mouth, like a skunk had died on the back of his tongue. “I’m not sure you’re that kind of man, unless you can convince me you have the balls to really see something like this through.”
“Oh, I have the cajones.” He puffed up his scrawny chest and glanced around. “I was out at her uncle’s place, figuring on scaring some sense into that little bitch, when who do I see tooling up that long-ass driveway. Figured I could give her car a couple of love taps and get my message through without ever having to get out of my truck.” He hocked a brown loogie. “Like I said, right place at the right time.”
“So you did.” Logan firmed up his stance and fisted his hands.
One punch. That’s all it would take, and he’d have Carl kissing pavement. God knew he deserved it. Tyrell. Carl. Hell, he’d been a total asshole to Miranda, too. It was past time it ended.
Another blast of country music filled the parking lot, jerking both their attention toward the door and a bearded man striding out of the Spotted Pig. Logan recognized him from the brewery. Sam? Stan? Sean? Carl glanced over his shoulder—
And it seemed like his whole body tensed. The other man slowed his stroll but didn’t stop. He climbed into his SUV, the engine roared to life, and the SUV pulled out of the parking lot.
“What a chicken shit asshole,” Carl muttered before turning back to face Logan. “We done here? There’s a pitcher of beer with my name on it in there.”
“Not quite.” Logan shifted his stance. “I’ll give you the first punch.”
“What in the hell are you talking about?”
“I’m going to flatten you like a pancake for what you did to Miranda, but unlike your mother, mine taught me to fight like a man, not a scared little asshole who hides behind a one-ton truck.”
“You’re fuckin’ nuts.” Carl turned away and took a half step before spinning around and planting a sucker punch against the corner of Logan’s mouth.
Blood trickled down from his busted lip, and he reached up to wipe it away with his thumb. “My turn.”
He connected with a right jab to Carl’s nose. Blood squirted down the other man’s face, soaking his gray Harley Davidson T-shirt. Logan followed up with a left upper cut to the jaw that snapped back Carl’s head with vicious efficiency. A sock to the gut sent the other man staggering back until he banged into the driver’s side door of his truck.
The need to keep hitting until there was no mistake about his message thundered through Logan, carried by adrenaline and pent up fury. He cocked his fist back, ready to clock Carl right in the eye.
“Stop.” Carl wheezed out the single world and held up his hand. “Please.”
He hesitated, calculating the damage he’d already done. Blood
, snot, and spit mixed together on Carl’s mangled face. “She’s worth more than a dozen of you, and it’s about time this town realized that. About fucking time I did.” He loomed over Carl. “You don’t come at Miranda again. You don’t drive near her. You don’t go to the brewery. You don’t talk about her. You don’t even fucking think about her or I will find you and pound you into the ground. Got it?”
Carl whipped the back of his hand across his nose and winced. “I got it.”
Adrenaline leaching from his bloodstream, Logan turned toward his truck. He needed to hand over his evidence to the cops. Then, he’d go see Miranda and make sure she really was okay.
“That girl must have one magic pussy to get you all worked up over a little fender bender.” Bitterness, heavy as bricks, weighed down Carl’s words.
Fury exploded in Logan and he whipped around, blood rushing in his ears. He didn’t think. He didn’t breathe. He just found his target and smashed his fist into the disrespectful weasel’s face. At that moment, a chorus of angels couldn’t have sounded as good as the crack of Carl’s nose breaking against his knuckles. The other man slid down the truck’s door, landing in a heap on the pavement.
“You won’t get another warning, asshole.” Logan crossed the parking lot and got into his truck.
After dropping off the recording, he had only one destination in mind and only one person who mattered: Miranda.
Chapter Sixteen
The night was made for yoga pants and her favorite threadbare “Jake Ryan is My Boyfriend” T-shirt, but not—apparently—for sleep.
Never one to stay up past ten, Natalie had staggered off to bed an hour ago. Miranda had downed the Natalie-prescribed cup of soothing chamomile tea, which had done nothing to suck the tension out of her muscles or ease the need to constantly be in motion. Prowling around Uncle Julian’s house, her way illuminated by dim light over the kitchen sink, Miranda stopped in front of the refrigerator and contemplated the stainless steel behemoth.
Julian had been a confirmed bachelor and non-hunter, yet his fridge was the biggest they made with double doors and a pull-out freezer in the bottom. Just another Sweet family quirk, she figured. The thought gave her pause. A few weeks ago, it would have been another sign that her blood was contaminated with order-defying crazy. But today, she chalked it up to a little silly eccentricity. God, she really had drunk the Kool-aid.