The First Time Again: The Braddock Brotherhood, Book 3 (6 page)

“Heard you got pulled over last night,” his father began once they’d started eating.

His mother’s fork clattered to her plate. “Oh, Trey, you didn’t.”

“Speeding, Mom. It was no big deal.”

“Thought they cited you for DUI too,” his dad put in. “And a couple other charges.”

“It wasn’t for DUI, and it was all bogus, Dad, except for the speeding ticket. A bunch of bullsh—” He glanced at his mom. “BS. This cop Spoley has a hard—er, is overly zealous. Probably has a quota or something.”

“Trey you weren’t—you weren’t—”

Trey saw the distress in his mother’s eyes. He hated that expression, hated to be the one who caused it. “No, Mom. I wasn’t drinking. I don’t drink. I don’t take anything for pain except over-the-counter stuff. This cop wanted to give me a hard time is all.” He shot a look at his father. “You don’t have to believe everything you hear about me, Dad.”

His father fixed him with a stare out of blue eyes the same shade as his own. “Seems like most times what I hear about you is true, whether I want to believe it or not.”

“Yeah, well, that was the past. Maybe next time you could come and ask me before you listen to the crowd down at the store.” His father owned Hendersonville Hardware, where the local tradesmen gathered each morning for coffee and bits of local gossip. Most of what they gossiped about was based in fact, sometimes a truer version than got printed in the
Hendersonville Herald
.

Trey planned to toe the line now that he was home. He’d be Trey Christopher: Upstanding Citizen. Maybe that’s why he’d come back. Because here, with his parents, extended family and the locals watching, he wouldn’t be able to get away with much. They’d make him accountable for everything he did. Maybe he never should have left in the first place.

“Justin Spoley’s had it in for you since that last championship game,” Andy allowed. “Man, that was some game, wasn’t it? Everyone thought we’d lost it after you threw that interception. But you charged down the field after Spoley and recovered his fumble. I don’t think I’ve ever been so—” The light in Andy’s eyes dimmed when he looked at Trey. He cleared his throat and spoke to his plate of food. “Hard to believe he could hold a grudge that long. Your best bet is to steer clear of him while you’re here.”

“I’m not going anywhere, Dad,” Trey said. “Ryan Reagle told me the same thing about Spoley.”

“Did you show him the card from Hayley?” Andy asked Lynn.

“No.”

Trey glanced from his father to his mother, noticing the signal she was sending with her eyes, the tightness around her mouth.

“What was it? The wedding announcement?” he asked, striving for a neutral tone and honestly believing he achieved it.

“You knew?” his mother asked.

“She sent me one. We’re still friends, Mom. Even if we’re not married to each other anymore.”

Andy snorted from his end of the table.

Trey switched his attention to his father. “What?”

“Friends. I’d think you’re the last person Hayley’d want to be friends with.”

“I’ve talked to her a couple of times. She doesn’t hate me anymore.”

“That doesn’t make her your friend.” Andy forked up another bite of gravy-drenched chicken. “Not after what you did to her.”

“It’s in the past, Dad. We all know I screwed up, okay? I can’t go back and undo it. Believe me, I tried. I squared things with Hayley as best I could.”

“That girl was the best thing that ever happened to you.”

Trey could see Andy didn’t want to let it go. “I know, Dad.”

“Andrew.” His mother’s tone held a note of warning. The same voice she’d used with Trey when he was a kid and stepped over the line and she included his middle name. Rarely did she call Andy “Andrew”. When she did, there was trouble ahead.

Andy fixed her with a perplexed look. “What? Why shouldn’t I be able to say what I think at my own table in my own house with my own son? Why shouldn’t you?” He set his fork deliberately on his plate and rested clenched fists on the edge of the table. “You think he doesn’t need to know what it did to us? Sitting on the sidelines helpless while he threw his whole damn life down the drain? You think he doesn’t need to know you cried yourself to sleep night after night worrying about him?”

“Andy!” His mother stared at her husband as if he’d grown two heads.

“What?” he shouted back. “Hayley was like a daughter to us. We loved that girl like she was our own and everybody at this table knows it. Including him.” He jerked his thumb in Trey’s direction.

“Okay, Dad, okay. I get it.”

His father turned on him, his eyes ablaze. “No, son. I don’t think you do. What scares me the most is I don’t think you ever will.”

“Looks like Justin Spoley’s got company when it comes to holding grudges.” Trey pushed back from the table. “Mom, thanks for dinner. Dad.” He nodded in Andy’s direction. “Thanks for the insights.”

He could hear his mother calling after him as he strode through the house and pushed through the door. He didn’t go back. He couldn’t. He flew out of the driveway, spraying up more gravel than he had pulling in. His temper pulsed beneath a thin layer of self-control.

Breathe.

He made himself do it. Counting. Inhaling. Exhaling. Until he reached his house. It didn’t do much to still the wild beat of his heart, but it cleared his mind. Slightly. Enough to remember he hadn’t had even one chocolate chip cookie. He’d also left behind the foil-covered plate of them his mother planned to send home with him.

Chapter Five

Baylee’s father stumbled in after ten, which meant he’d spent most of the afternoon and evening on a bar stool. Although she knew better than to confront him when he was under the influence, lately there was never a good time to approach him about anything. Matty still hadn’t come home, and technically, at least, Matty was her father’s responsibility.

While her father rooted around in the refrigerator for sandwich makings, Baylee said, “Jack Frost stopped by this afternoon. Matty cut first period today, which is a violation of his probation.”

Dan Westring straightened and gazed at her through bleary eyes. He chewed on a slice of salami he’d managed to extract from the package in his hand. In the light of the refrigerator he looked old and tired and sad. Drunk. Sadness crept up on Baylee without warning. Her family was drowning and she didn’t know what to do to save any of them. Not even herself.

He swallowed and put another piece of salami into his mouth while he stared at Baylee. She wondered if what she’d said had penetrated the fog in his brain. “Daddy, we have to do something. You have to do something. Matty can’t keep getting in trouble like this.”

Dan Westring swayed and staggered a couple of steps to the counter. The refrigerator door swung shut behind him, leaving them in the dim glow of the light over the stove. He dropped the package of salami on the counter and clung to the edges of the solid surface for support. “Kid don’t listen to me,” he slurred.

He stared at the scarred, speckled Formica as if it could offer up some answers.

“Dad, you need to stop drinking. Maybe if you did—”

“You blaming this on me? Whadda you know? You never had no kids to raise.” He shook a finger at Baylee. “So I’m a failure. That what you’re saying? You think I don’t know that? I’m a loser. So are my kids.” His tone softened. “Nothin’ but a bunch of losers.” He left the lunchmeat on the counter and brushed past Baylee. “Get outta my way.”

Baylee stayed where she was while he shuffled down the hallway. The door to his bedroom closed, but the words he’d spoken reverberated in her head.
Losers. Losers. Losers.

Baylee’s grandparents’ best friends, Mike and Josephine Pritchard, had lived on Sycamore Road. During her youth she had occasionally visited the Pritchards with them.

She wouldn’t apologize for being late. Best to let
T. C.
know who was in charge. It had taken her a while, but she was learning. She wasn’t going to be a doormat for anyone. Not anymore. And certainly not for some overbearing guy who sounded like he was used to ruling the world and getting his own way.

The address on Sycamore Road turned out to be the Pritchards’ house. It didn’t look much different than Baylee remembered. Josephine, whom everyone called “J”, had passed within the last year. Baylee wasn’t surprised to see not much about the property had changed. There was a black Porsche Cayenne parked near the back porch. Turbo, she noted as she drove past and parked a few feet away.
Money.

Yippee!
Her heart did a little pitter-pat. She could name her own price.

She’d always liked the Pritchards’ place. It was nestled in the midst of some gently rolling hills with the Blue Ridge range as a backdrop. The house was set far enough back from the road to offer privacy, but not anonymity. The old barn was empty now, as was the feed lot and the chicken coop. A few other outbuildings were ready to tumble down, taking the rusting fences surrounding them along.

Trees dotted the yard and the pastures beyond. Birds chirped and flitted in the branches, and a couple of squirrels gallivanted underneath the big oak closest to the house.

Near the porch were flowerbeds badly in need of weeding. A twining rose climbed up a trellis. The old swing still hung at the end of the porch. Baylee could remember sitting there contentedly, swinging and daydreaming to the rhythmic squeak of the chain against the hooks while the adults gathered around the wicker table to drink glasses of sweet tea and chat amicably.

A pang of longing for those simpler times hit her. She hadn’t known then how many mistakes awaited her, how many difficult lessons she had to learn. But learn from them she would. Her new motto was a slightly amended version of “Been there; done that”. To which she had added “not doing it again”.

She got out, mentally debating about using the front door or the back when she noticed the Cayenne’s Florida vanity license plate.
TC9.
She stared at it while several possibilities she’d chosen to ignore clicked into place.

T. C.
Trey Christopher?
Nine
. His number with the Jacksonville Jacks?

Could it possibly be? Of course it could. The Pritchards were Trey Christopher’s maternal grandparents. In fact, he’d been at their house on a few of those occasions when she’d visited as a child. He always seemed to have a pack of other boys with him, and she’d learned early on to avoid them because they’d do nothing but tease and torment her if she invaded their territory. Which seemed to be everywhere except the back porch where the adults lurked.

She had more memories of him than those from childhood, one in particular which had plagued her all through high school and beyond.

She hesitated a moment longer before she climbed the three stairs to the porch and realized she wasn’t alone. A man seated at one of the four chairs surrounding the table used another chair as a footstool. He had one leg outstretched on it, the other bent at the knee. An ice pack was balanced on the outstretched knee.

His arms crossed his chest, his thumbs tucked underneath his armpits. His head was down. There was a mug on the table. Was he asleep?

He had burnished blond, gold-tipped hair, and from what she could see from his seated position, he was tall and in good shape.

She cleared her throat and took a step toward him. When he didn’t move, she stepped closer and poked his upper arm. Beneath the long-sleeved jersey he wore, her finger met solid muscle. “Excuse—”

His head snapped up and a pair of stunning blue eyes lasered right through her. She sucked in a breath and stumbled back.

Trey Christopher!

She scrambled to get hold of herself. She was an adult woman of almost twenty-nine, not a naïve teenager of fifteen.

“Sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to startle you.” He grinned, which turned his already handsome features into to-die-for good looks. She did nothing but stare even though she knew he was making a joke, since she had been the one to startle him.

“You okay?” he asked. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

I did
.
The ghost that’s haunted me for fourteen years.

“Want to do this another time?”

No. Been there. Done that. Not doing it again.

She got hold of herself. Finally. “No, it’s fine. I’m fine.”

He studied her for a few seconds. “I’m Trey, by the way. And you are?”

“Baylee. Baylee Westring.”

He chewed on the inside of his lip as if contemplating something while he continued to peruse her from head to toe. She’d come dressed to work in a faded pink T-shirt, ancient jeans and sneakers. Over which she’d worn a hoodie she’d bought on sale at Walmart for five dollars last spring. Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail to keep it out of her way. Makeup was nonexistent. She was the cleaning lady. She didn’t have to impress anyone, and she liked to be as comfortable as possible while she worked.

As if remembering his manners, Trey straightened in his chair and pulled his feet off the other one. The right one he helped along with both hands supporting his thigh after setting the ice pack on the table. “Please. Have a seat.” He indicated she was welcome to take any one of the four chairs. She opted for the one opposite him instead of the one next to him where his foot had been.