by K. B. Jacobs
“All our final beers were to be judged today to determine competition rankings. But it appears that the capping on your bottles was misapplied and—”
“And?”
“And the buildup of carbonation blew the tops off all your competition samples. I’m sorry to inform you that we will be unable to judge your final submission for consideration in the IPA category.”
I jerked the wheel and pulled over on the shoulder of the freeway. “I don’t understand. What do you mean misapplied?”
“Our judges reviewed the bottles, and it appears that a screw-on cap was applied to your bottles. They held for a bit, but I’m sure you understand that the carbonation in conjunction with all the shifting that occurs during shipping... Well, the caps just couldn’t maintain their hold.”
This wasn’t happening. All the mix-ups, mechanical malfunctions, and then this? It’s like I was cursed. The gods of barley and hops were determined to destroy me for having the audacity to brew their nectar.
“I’m sorry, Ms. O’Brien. This must be such a disappointment to you. Of course, we will make your bottles available for inspection upon your arrival.”
My arrival. What was the point? If I turned around and headed back to Aspenridge, I could be back in time for the after-work crowd. There wasn’t anything left for me in Denver. Except there really wasn’t anything left in Aspenridge either. Without this win, Emily would never sell me the brewery. GSC didn’t want it anymore, but she would find another buyer. It was just a matter of time.
At one time, I had thought I could work for Walsh. Together we could make Naked Brews better than even Dad imagined it. But that dream died when I found out he lied and kicked him out of my life for good. The idea of working for someone else soured my stomach. Better to walk away, though I had no idea what else I could do.
Denver was my last hurrah then. One last time to walk into a room with my peers and be Lake, owner/brewer of Naked Brews. One final chance to live my dream before giving it up for good.
“Thank you, Mr. Ranier. I’ll give you a call when I get into town so I can look at the bottles. I appreciate you holding them for me.”
“Of course, we’ll see you soon.”
The call ended, and I gripped the steering wheel tighter. I would not cry. There had been enough tears when I lost Walsh. But that didn’t stop my eyes from watering. Losing the brewery was like losing Dad all over again. It hurt in the hollow part of my heart where all the things I love used to live—Dad, Naked Brews, even that jerk-face Walsh.
But they were gone, and it left me feeling like I’d lost my arm. How did you move on from that? My chest felt like it might cave in from the missing pieces inside.
I reached out to call the brewery. Melissa and Alex should know what was going on. But I pulled my hand back. My life was ruined, but another day wouldn’t make any difference. Better to let them enjoy their time and still think we had a shot. I’d break the news after the competition when we could drink a beer and update our resumes together.
All I could do was ease back on to the highway and see where the road led me.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Walsh
I washed my hands in the bathroom sink of the state Human Services building, trying not to notice how badly they shook. Two hours and this would all be over, and I could walk away. I just had to get through the next two hours. My stomach rolled over the knots that filled it.
I didn’t want to see my parents again, and I sure as hell didn’t want to rehash the nightmare that had been my childhood for the throng of press I knew was waiting for me.
Ten years ago, Denver had a new district attorney trying to make a name for his office. He’d done so using my parents and me. It had been a sensational case that the press had glommed onto...a family of con artists who had managed to take advantage of the pretty, young senator’s wife. We hadn’t known who she was at the time...just another random shopper in the parking lot we targeted.
But choosing her had been my parents’ downfall. From there, the charges had grown, and I had been the key to making the case against them.
To convince me to testify, the DA threatened to charge me as an adult and accomplice to their crimes. To this day, I still had nightmares of the stories they’d told me about what my future in prison would be like. I’d been a scrawny, malnourished, fifteen-year-old kid. I never would have survived even a year in an adult prison. The taste of jail life I’d gotten for a few hours in the local county lock up had been enough to scare the piss out of me.
It’s not like I had harbored any love or devotion to my parents, but I’d been raised at the end of my father’s fists. I knew back then that if the charges against them didn’t stick he would kill me for cooperating. But I had been left no choice, and it hadn’t felt like I had a single person on my side.
That had changed since. I wasn’t that person from ten years ago. Hell, I wasn’t the same person from a month ago. Lake had changed me, strengthened me. That didn’t change what I had to do, so I squared my shoulders, buttoned the jacket on my custom fit suit, and pushed open the door of the restroom.
The quiet of the hall didn’t prepare me for when I stepped into the circus of the hearing room. In Colorado, these hearings were open to the public, and the press had taken full advantage. Every seat was filled, and I’d bet good money that ninety percent of those people had media badges.
I skirted around the room, ignoring the rise in volume as people spotted and recognized me. I hated that I had to open myself up to media scrutiny again.
DA Holliver glanced over at me as I sat in my reserved seat. “You ready?” he asked.
I nodded as I fiddled with my tie. We’d met earlier in the week so he could go over my statement. I was prepared.
Unlike a trial with a judge, a panel of people from the judicial system heard a parole hearing. They filed into the front of the room and sat behind a long rectangular table, facing the anxious crowd.
The door opened again, and my parents entered. They’d never looked young. Drugs and alcohol had long ago aged them before their time. But in the last ten years, they’d aged at least twenty. They both looked elderly.
My mother kept her head bowed, concentrating on following my father’s footsteps and nothing more. My father’s liver issues were obvious from the yellow cast to his skin and the deep, dark circles in the hollows under his eyes. My father’s hard, cruel gaze honed in on me almost immediately. His lip curled in derision, and I could hear the voice of my childhood taunting me...screw up, fuckup, worthless piece of shit. It wasn’t until I went to school that I found out I had a real name like everyone else. A name and a legacy that I came to hate.
The DA nudged me with his elbow. It was my turn to speak. For a moment, I froze. Years of conditioning had trained me to not do this, to stand up to them. But I deserved to stand up for myself, so I stood, picked up my prepared letter, and strode over to the podium to address the hearing board.
“Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen,” I began, reading from the prepared letter. “My birth name was Walsh Davidson. It’s not a name I claim any longer because that’s not a life I claim anymore. I was born the son of Noah and Becca Davidson.” I glanced at my parents.
My father continued boring into me with his hateful glare. My mother watched me as if she had no idea who I was, but that was the truth. She’d never seen me as anything but a tool.
I cleared my throat and refocused on the paper. I’d detailed story after story about the cons they perpetuated, and the ways they’d abused me over the years to get me to do what they needed. Each story was horrific. Even though I’d lived through them, they were difficult for me to read. But the DA wanted me to detail them, because just like the original trial, this was all riveting stuff. The public loved drama, and my childhood was the stuff of legendary talk shows.
But dammit, my life wasn’t a sideshow anymore. I picked up the papers and ripped them in half. My father’s gaze took on a victorious gleam that I
ignored as I turned toward the board.
“My childhood was horrific. The original trial detailed that during the weeks of testimony. I don’t need to repeat those stories here today. My parents were given the correct punishment...twenty-five years in prison. To even consider anything less is a travesty to their con victims and to me.
“I was a victim. They had control of me for fifteen years. I wouldn’t wish the treatment I received during that time on my worst enemy. They didn’t care when they broke my bones or hadn’t fed me for a week. They refused to buy me shoes and didn’t care when my feet bled.”
I shook my head, sad for that child I’d once been, but fully letting go of it in that moment. “No, I said I wouldn’t go into the details and I won’t because the details aren’t important anymore. They heard all those at the original trial. I was used and abused for fifteen years. I’m twenty-six now, and I’m sad to say that I’ve continued to let their abuse define me for twenty-six years. That’s already one year more than what they were sentenced for. I paid for their crimes, maybe not behind bars, but with my body and my scars, both physical and mental ones. My only real crime was being born their child. They deserve at least that much punishment and more.”
I met each gaze of the parole board, seeing them as compassionate human beings. Each of these people led their lives. I didn’t know anything about them, but the odds were good that none of them could even fathom the depths of depravity that lay within my parents. “They earned their time, and they should serve all of it. While their crimes spanned over fifteen years and hundreds of victims, I was the one who paid the worst. For twenty-six years, I had let their taunts define me. Fuckup. Screw up. Waste of space. But no more.”
I turned back to where my parents sat, watching me. I hoped the board could see exactly what I saw—two pathetic, evil human beings who shouldn’t be allowed to spread their particular version of filth on humanity again.
Regardless, though, I was done. This board might very well decide to release them, but they would never be able to hurt me again. I was stronger.
“Despite your efforts to break and ruin me,” I said directly to my parents, “I’m not the scared kid you raised anymore. Since this case, I’ve been blessed with people who cared for me in a way that I wasn’t even able to recognize before because it was such a foreign thing...it was called love, caring, and compassion.”
First I’d had my foster parents, Jeannie and Conrad. Then I’d met the guys from Ghost Squad, and even though only Damian remained, those guys had been my rock the last few years. Then I had met Lake and Sawyer and the locals of Aspenridge, who’d all shown me that there were good people around every corner. I just had to look for and learn to recognize them.
“Recently, I discovered that there are many more people out there who care. People who are trustworthy and loyal. People who will stand by a friend when things go badly. People who deserve love and trust and loyalty in return. I let your skewed visions of me define who I was for twenty-six years. Not anymore.
“My name was Walsh Davidson, but that’s not me anymore. My name is Walsh Brackens now, and I deserve to love and be loved. I could never see that before. You earned your punishment, not me. Your choices were forced on me, but I’ve served my time. It’s time for you to serve yours now.” I nodded toward the parole board. “Thank you for allowing me to speak.”
I strode out of the room, leaving so much easier than walking in had been. I was relieved that it was over, thankful that I’d had my say, but anxious to put it all behind me. That part of my life was finished. At that point, I couldn’t do anything more about what they decided. I’d done all I could and hoped they’d make the right decision. Regardless, I would never let Becca and Noah Davidson touch the life I’d built for myself again.
I had a new future with Lake almost within my grasp. I just had to reach out and claim it...the right way.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Lake
I stood in the crowd of other renowned brewers. We stood around bar-height tables, drinking the best beers in the state, living the dream. I’d never felt so alone. Everyone else was several beers in, their laughter filling the large ballroom. I sipped at the same beer I’d been nursing for the past hour.
The awards were set to start soon, not that it mattered. Naked Brews’ bottles were completely ruined, and I was still at a loss as to how it had happened. We’ve always used crimp caps at Naked Brews. It was a thing with Dad, insisting that a good beer should require more effort than the twist of a wrist to open it. But the caps and bottles Colin had shown me were all wrong. The bottle was the standard, dark-brown glass that Naked Brews and ninety percent of the breweries in here used. The caps were very clearly twist off.
I sent a message to Harlan to check it out, but the damage was done. Naked Brews had been cursed from the minute I took over.
I checked my phone. Only five minutes until they started announcing the awards. I should have left, but the thought of heading back to Aspenridge, knowing I wouldn’t be part of Naked Brews anymore, was enough to keep me there.
My phone dinged with a text from Melissa. I opened it up to her and Alex’s smiling faces. Good luck, and we love you!
I still hadn’t told them about the exploded bottles.
Another notification popped up with a text from Alex. Thought you should see this.
I clicked on the link she included and sucked in a sharp breath at the gut punch I got from seeing Walsh’s face staring back at me.
The picture was attached to an article from The Denver Gazette. After his testimony, which was all any of the news stations in town were talking about, Walsh’s parents were denied parole. I had spent all morning staring at the TV screen in my tiny hotel room while every reporter and pundit in a fifty-mile radius weighed in on the tragic life of Walsh Davidson.
Suddenly understanding what he went through as a kid, I couldn’t blame him for changing his last name. But that wasn’t an excuse for pretending to be Damian Thorne. Alex was able to do some digging since we knew there were two people instead of one. Turns out the two of them had served in the army together and formed GSC when they’d gotten out.
Staring down at his picture with the sad eyes and sagging shoulders, I wanted to reach out and hold him. My heart still hurt every time I thought of him, and I thought of him constantly. He was in the city somewhere, so close. But that ship had sailed. No matter what his reasons, he’d lied. Besides, it didn’t matter anymore. Without Naked Brews, I had nothing to offer anyone.
“Ladies and Gentlemen, beer lovers, let’s hand out some awards,” the over-the-top announcer’s voice boomed through the room, drawing every eye.
I swirled my beer and tried to force a smile to my face. I could at least pretend to be happy for the winners.
The list went on and on with beers being selected from all the normal styles and several specialty categories. Brewers marched to the stage with each new announcement to accept their shiny plaques and shake hands with the big dogs.
The announcer called out the winner for the IPA category. The same lukewarm beer I had in my glass took home the prize. To be fair, it was a really good beer. But Hops on Top was better. That wasn’t pride talking. I knew we made a better beer, and if the hop gods hadn’t destroyed my samples, it would be me walking up there and accepting that award.
The night seemed to drag on as more and more awards were handed out. I switched out my warm dregs for a fresh beer and then another. If I was going to be here pretending to enjoy myself, I might as well take advantage of the free beer being served. Every time a new winner was announced, the servers would come around with sample glasses, offering the crowd a chance to taste a winner.
I cringed. All these people could have been tasting Hops on Top. All the major distributors were here tonight and more than a few deals would be struck, sending the winners into newer and bigger markets.
There was only one award left, and I was done. If I left before the announcement, I co
uld get out ahead of the crowd and head back to Aspenridge. Even if Naked Brews would never be mine, it still felt like home, and that’s where I needed to be.
I crunched a rolled up program in my hand and headed toward the door.
“Our last category tonight is Experimental Brews,” the announcer said. “This is a non-style specific category aimed at encouraging experimentation with style and ingredients. When there are no rules, judges base their decisions on taste and uniqueness, making our final award winner the beer of the future.”
I stopped next to the tip jar and rooted around in my purse for a few wadded-up bills. There was no beer in my future.
“We had several amazing entries this year, but one beer was the clear favorite of all of our judges.”
I unearthed a ten dollar bill and shoved it into the giant glass boot on top of the temporary bar brought in for the ceremony.
“Please join me in congratulating Dad’s Beer from Naked Brews.”
Applause lit up the room, and I froze with my hand still shoved halfway down the boot. One of the brewers I knew from a few towns over patted my shoulder, and another voice shouted, “For Pat.”
I stood staring at the stage, my mouth gaping open. What the hell was happening?
“Someone had better tell Lake to get her ass up here,” the announcer’s voice called over the room, and the crowd got even louder.
On shaking legs, I stumbled to the stage in a daze amidst a crowd of my peers, congratulating me and throwing out comments about how proud Pat would be. By the time I reached the podium, I was a mess of tears and confusion.
“Congratulation, Lake.” The announcer held out the plaque and shook my hand. “You deserve it.” Another man on the stage gave me a manila envelope and a huge smile.
I thanked him and left the stage in a wash of bright lights and shouts of well wishes. None of this made sense. Dad’s Beer wasn’t my entry. I would have loved to have sent it, but we could barely afford the fees for Hops on Top. I hurried to an empty table and pulled the score sheet from the envelope, still in shock.