Delon felt heat stain his cheeks. “I…uh…”
“Don’t get me wrong,” she cut in. “That boy is the light of our lives. But when you and Violet came to us, told us she was pregnant…it was a tough pill to swallow. Especially for her father. A person gets their heart set on what’s best for their child and that was not what we wanted for Violet. But it was done and we had to make a choice: risk driving our daughter away, or adjust our expectations. We chose to adjust, and we’re all the better for it.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he mumbled.
Iris waved a hand toward the windows of the water park. Inside, Violet handed Joe a piece of birthday cake, trading it for a quick kiss. “That’s another curve none of us expected, but so far it’s been a blessing, too.” She turned that steely gaze on him again. “This is our family now, Delon. We want you to be a part of it. It’s your turn to decide.”
She planted a kiss on his cheek, then stepped back. “Don’t think about it too long. I miss my boys.”
* * *
Delon barely refrained from burning rubber out of the parking lot. He had been told, hadn’t he? By Violet, by Gil, and now Iris. He was out-voted, out-numbered, and out on his ass unless he swallowed that bitter pill and learned to play nice.
Well, fuck nice. He’d tried being what everybody wanted. He’d tried screaming his head off. Either way, he was never the chosen one. Had Beni even noticed he wasn’t at the Pizza Palace? He’d tried so hard for so long, and what did he have to show for it? A bum knee. A shitty little apartment with a bird’s-eye view of the business he’d let his brother steal. A mediocre rodeo career. Give it a few years, people would hear his name and say, “Delon Sanchez…didn’t he used to ride bucking horses or something?”
He meant to drive straight back to the shop—there really was a dismantled engine waiting for new head gaskets—but a few miles out of Earnest his car turned off the road and parked itself in front of the Lone Steer Saloon. He stared at the sign, the namesake neon steer with a star on its forehead. Christ. Of all the places. Even his subconscious was taking potshots at him.
There was already a scattering of vehicles in the parking lot at five o’clock on a Saturday, mostly ranch pickups, locals stopping for a cold one or an early dinner. The scent of prime rib seeped into the car, but Delon’s mouth didn’t water. The day had stomped his appetite into the dirt. But he could sure use some liquid reinforcement. He got out, pushed open the heavy wood door of the Lone Steer, and walked into the very bar where he’d landed the last time woman trouble left him wanting to throat-punch the world.
The first beer slid down fast enough to make the bartender raise his eyebrows when Delon waved for a refill. He sipped the second one, staring morosely at the scars on the top of the old wooden bar. So Joe had Iris’s blessing. Easy to see why. Besides being able to step in as a bullfighter, Joe knew bucking stock. Even Cole liked him, and Cole made a new friend approximately once a decade. After fifteen years of working for one of the biggest contractors in the Pacific Northwest, Joe could produce a rodeo from the ground up.
Unlike Delon. Sure, he’d lent a hand now and then, but he’d never had the slightest urge to be a true part of the business. After all, he had Sanchez Trucking waiting for him when his rodeo career was done.
He gave a sour laugh and sneered at the fool in the mirror behind the bar.
He felt rather than saw someone approaching. Maybe if he kept his head down, ignored them, they’d go away. No such luck. He caught the faint but unmistakable scent of chlorine as the newcomer slid onto the stool next to him. Fuck.
“I thought you were going out for pizza,” Delon said, without looking up.
“I sent Cole in my place,” Joe said.
“Well, that’ll double the tab.”
Joe did something that was almost a laugh. Delon lapsed into stubborn silence.
“Didn’t expect to find you here.” Joe waved at the bartender, who was pulling a round of drafts for a group at the other end of the bar. “Lucky I happened to check out the parking lot as I drove by.”
Yep. That was definitely how Delon felt. Lucky. A few more moments of dense silence passed.
Joe blew out a long breath. “Look, Delon, I know it’s been rough. Fucking up a knee is bad enough without knowing it might’ve cost you a world championship. And you and Violet had a pretty smooth arrangement until I came along and butted in, so I don’t expect us to be best buddies, but for Beni’s sake, it would be good if we could at least fake it.”
A reasonable request. Sounded like something the old Delon might have said. The nice guy, always nodding and smiling and getting along. Too bad that Delon was nowhere to be found tonight. He took a long, deliberate swallow of his beer.
When Delon didn’t respond, Joe blew out another breath with a hiss of frustration around the edges. “Beni doesn’t miss a thing. Kids never do. And it’s the shits being caught in the middle when your parents can’t get along.”
“You’d know, seein’s how your mother changes husbands more often than most people change their sheets.” He angled Joe an insolent look. “I suppose that’s why your dad doesn’t have much to do with you. He got tired of tryin’ to figure out who he was supposed to get along with this week.”
Joe went still, temper sizzling in his green eyes. Then he was off the stool and on his feet with the blinding quickness that made him an outstanding bullfighter. The bartender froze like he didn’t know whether to set Joe’s beer down or just back away slowly.
“Violet was right. You’re too busy feeling sorry for yourself to give a shit about anyone else.” Joe slapped a five-dollar bill on the bar. “And for the record, I don’t see much of my dad because he preferred to sulk instead of accepting that my mother would rather be married to damn near anyone but him. You should be able to relate.”
Joe stalked away with swift, effortless strides. Delon just watched him go. Even if he could catch him, what would he say? You are absolutely correct. I am a sorry son of a bitch and Violet and Beni don’t need me now that they have you, and that’s probably not your fault, but hold still so I can punch you to make myself feel better. He muttered a curse and drained his glass.
The bartender slid Joe’s abandoned beer over in front of him. “Might as well drink this one, too. Sounds like you need it.”
Delon considered telling the bartender where he could shove his sympathy, but he could use the beer to cleanse his wounds. Christ. Just once, he’d like to walk away from an argument feeling like the winner. Hard to do when you’re the one being a prick. He took a big gulp of the fresh beer, but it didn’t drown that righteous little voice. He fished out a twenty and slapped it on the bar. “Bring me a shot of tequila.”
The bartender eyed the row of beer glasses and held out his hand. “Car keys first.”
Delon bristled, then shrugged off the irritation. He had nowhere to be, no one expecting him, and it was early. He could drink until he fell off his stool and still have time to sleep it off in a corner behind the bandstand before closing time. He dug out his keys and slapped them on the bar.
The bartender pocketed them. “Cuervo?”
“Whatever.”
“Salt and lime?”
“No.” If he was gonna pay for this—and he would—he might as well start suffering now.
The bartender poured a shot and plunked it down. Delon twisted the glass between his fingers, took a deep breath, and tossed it down his throat. As he breathed through the burn, he saw the bartender pick up the phone, dial a number, then glance in Delon’s direction as he cupped a hand around the receiver so the conversation wouldn’t be overheard.
Great. The gossip mill was already in motion. Delon took another swallow of beer, feeling it hit the bottom of his stomach and dance a jitterbug with the tequila and all the crap he’d eaten at the birthday party. He should probably order a sandwich. Something solid. Inst
ead, he picked up the shot glass and motioned to the bartender for a refill.
After the second shot, the voice inside his head began to slur its words. One more and he might shut that bastard up completely. He was vaguely aware that the tables and stools were beginning to fill and someone had plugged a few bucks into the old-fashioned jukebox. He slouched over his beer, letting the noise wash over and around him, catching only a stray word here or there.
“…fucking Mexicans.”
Delon lifted his head and squinted into the bar back mirror. A man and a woman sat at the table directly behind him. She was a Texas cliché—big hair, tight blouse, enough mascara to tar a roof. He was a wiry little jackass, narrow between the eyes, with the sun-baked, greasy look of an oilfield roughneck. He was glaring at Delon.
“Goddamn wetbacks,” the jackass said, loud enough to be sure he was heard. “First thing they do is sign up for welfare so they can sit on their ass and be worthless drunks.”
Delon took one more sip from his beer. Then he carefully swiveled his stool around to face Jackass and his sweetheart. “Redskin,” he declared, putting some effort into making the syllables distinct.
Jackass blinked, shot the woman a confused look, then shifted his stare back to Delon. “What?”
“Redskin. Chief. Injun.” Delon rattled off a list of racial slurs. “I’m Navajo. Not Mexican. If you’re gonna be an ignorant fucking racist, at least try to do it right.”
The chair screeched, then clattered over backward as Jackass leapt to his feet. Delon was already standing, all the rage and pain of the past months finally finding a target. They met halfway. Delon dodged a wild swing and put his weight into an uppercut, his fist connecting with Jackass’s jaw hard enough to shoot fire clear up to his shoulder. Jackass stumbled back a few steps, shaking his head. Delon was peripherally aware of the uproar around them—scrambling bodies, clattering chairs, and shouts of alarm and excitement. Bar fight!
“Squash that little prick, Delon!” someone yelled, and a few others cheered.
He backstepped, knees bent and fists cocked, into the clear space at the edge of the dance floor. Jackass shadowed him, weaving and feinting in what he must have thought was true boxer style. The tequila had slowed Delon’s reflexes, and he was a little slow ducking the next punch. Hot pain burst in his ear when it connected.
Son of a bitch! Delon drove his fist into Jackass’s gut, doubling him over, but before Delon could finish him off with another uppercut, he dove forward, his shoulder catching Delon in the chest. Delon staggered, fighting for balance, but momentum and the booze won. They went down in a heap, his bad knee buckling under their combined weight. Something popped, with a searing pain that felt like he’d been shot. He swore loud enough to make old ladies in the dining room blush, then landed a roundhouse punch square in Jackass’s ear.
Abruptly, the weight was lifted off him. The bartender had Jackass by the collar and was dragging him away, through the avid circle of spectators that had gathered to watch the show. Delon stayed where he was, flat on his back on the grungy bar floor. Shit. Shit. He closed his eyes and gritted his teeth as he slowly, slowly straightened his leg. Other than the red-hot pokers jammed under his kneecap, it felt just dandy.
“Well, that was brilliant, little brother.”
Delon opened his eyes.
Gil stood over him, his expression somewhere between disgust and amusement. He reached down a hand. “Come on. Let’s wring you out and see what’s left of your knee.”
Chapter 21
“The bartender called you,” Delon said.
“He remembered the last time you strolled in here and started guzzling tequila.” Gil raised his eyebrows. “At least this time you just knocked somebody down, instead of knocking them up.”
Delon flipped Gil the bird. Even that small motion hurt. Everything hurt. His knee. His hand, where it had smashed into Jackass’s face. The ear that’d been boxed. His entire skull, as the buzz wore off and his brain cells began to scream in protest. Even his gut ached, knotted in disgrace and self-loathing.
Sulking. Drinking. Fighting. On his son’s birthday. Father of the Year, right there.
He propped his elbow on the table and cupped a hand over his eyes to block the dim light that filtered through the open door. Gil and the bartender had hauled him back to the empty banquet room, dumped him in one chair and propped his bum leg up on two others, then packed it in ice bags. That ache, at least, was beginning to lose its teeth, as the cold knocked the edge off. People in the crowd had declared they’d heard his knee pop. That couldn’t be good. God. He’d have to show it to Tori and tell her what he’d done. As if he didn’t feel quite stupid enough already.
A shadow fell across the door, the bartender carrying in a plate and a mug. He set them in front of Delon. “Prime rib sandwich and coffee. Ought to soak up some of the booze.”
At the smell of roasted meat, Delon’s stomach did a complicated shuck and jive. While he breathed through the nausea, the bartender disappeared, leaving them in the semidarkness. They sat in silence for several minutes, Gil lounging in a chair opposite him sipping coffee while Delon tore off a small chunk of the sandwich and forced himself to chew and swallow. The second bite went down a little easier. The third he followed with a swig of coffee. Out in the bar the rumble of voices grew steadily louder as the weekend crowd began to gather. Someone cranked the volume on the jukebox. Saturday night, revving up. All Delon wanted was to pass out—for a week. Or two.
He glanced at his brother and caught the tail end of a smirk. “Glad you’re having fun,” Delon muttered.
“Nah. I was just thinking…this is the first time I’ve ever been the one pickin’ up the pieces, instead of being the wreck.”
“Nice change?”
“I can’t decide.” Gil cocked his head, giving it serious thought. “Damn sure less painful, but not near as interesting.”
“You always did figure the thrill was worth the spill.”
“Better than dying of boredom.”
“Yeah?” Delon took another sip of the bitter black coffee. “Getting a lot of thrills these days?”
Gil gave an insolent tip of his coffee cup. “Looks to me like we’re sittin’ at the same table, little bro. No woman, no rodeos, and a kid we see every other week. How’s that safe and sensible route working for you?”
Not worth a shit. Normally he’d rather roll naked in barbed wire than confide in his brother, but in the half light Gil’s features were blurred, making him seem almost approachable. That combined with the alcohol sloshing around in Delon’s system loosened his tongue. “Right now? Not one damn thing is working.”
“I noticed.” Gil set his mug on the table and shaped the curve of the handle with his thumb. “Nobody ever warns you how it’s gonna suck when your kid falls in love with his mama’s new man.”
Delon’s heart stumbled. That wasn’t…he hadn’t…
“You’re supposed to be happy,” Gil went on, his face stripped down to nothing but edges and shadows. “Don’t you want what’s best for your son? A stable home, his mother married to a decent man who’s crazy about him? But what you really want to say is fuck that. I’m his dad. My kid doesn’t need some other son of a bitch in his life. No matter how many times you tell yourself you shouldn’t feel that way…”
Delon sat paralyzed. Exposed. As if Gil had plucked the words out of his soul and dumped them on the table, rotten and stinking. He couldn’t deny it because Gil knew. He knew.
“What did you do?” Delon asked.
“Punched a few things. Wrote a lot of lousy songs about evil-hearted women.” Gil hesitated, then added, “Took a lot of pills. I don’t recommend that route. It’s a bitch to quit when you finally pull your head out of your ass.”
Delon stared at him. “You were—”
“I am,” Gil said flatly. “An opiate addict. Turns out,
if you fuck yourself up bad enough, you can talk all kinds of doctors into giving you pain meds.”
Geezus. Geezus. How had he not known? “I’m sorry. I should have…”
“Nothing you could’ve done, D. I wouldn’t let you.”
He blew out a long, defeated breath. “I don’t know how to make anything better.”
“You could start by not making it worse,” Gil said, with a pointed look toward Delon’s knee. He leaned back, took a sip of his coffee, then shrugged. “Acting jealous because your kid is happy just makes you the asshole. For me, it was better to let ’em think Krista broke my heart. But that doesn’t work in your case.”
“Why not?”
Gil shot him a look of patent disbelief. “Violet? Come on. We’ve gone to their family reunions. Tell me you didn’t wake up and feel like you accidentally slept with your cousin.”
“It wasn’t that bad,” Delon muttered.
“It sure as hell wasn’t good, or you would’ve done it again. What made you think the two of you could ever be a couple?” Then Gil slouched onto an elbow and sneered. “What am I saying? You’re the kid who believed in the tooth fairy until you were damn near in high school.”
Delon hunched lower in his chair, face hot. “You kept hiding money under my pillow.”
“I was waiting to see how long you’d keep falling for it.”
Bullshit. Delon knew the real truth—Gil had looked out for him because that’s what big brothers did. In return, Delon followed wherever Gil led. Gil wanted to ride bucking horses? Then Delon would too. They’d take on the rodeo world together, Gil with a splash and Delon cruising along quietly in his wake. The Sanchez boys would be to bareback riding what the Etbauer brothers had been to saddle bronc riding. Until Gil wrecked it all. Words balled up in Delon’s throat, a solid mass that threatened to choke him. All the things he’d wanted to say for all these years. Now he had the chance and it was too little, too late.
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