The Summer He Came Home (9 page)

She sighed and crossed to the small table that had been set for three and stared down at the place settings. What an idiot. She’d even folded purple napkins into hats.

On the counter beside the dessert that had long cooled stood a bottle of white wine—an impulse purchase. She considered pouring herself a glass but carefully corked it instead and then cleared the dishes before tossing her now-limp salad into the trash.

Her appetite was long gone.

She turned out the light and stood in the early-evening shadows, lost in the silence that was her life.

Cain pulled into the parking lot behind the Coach House, Crystal Lake’s only bar that featured entertainment, and not the dancing kind either. Sal was too classy to have girls in there during the day, strutting their stuff, even though, surely, he’d make a killing. The Coach House was a large, rambling building on the edge of town that had absolutely nothing to do with its name. There was no coach and there was no house. There was only brick, mortar, and an aging expanse of blacktop. It had been a dive years ago, and as he glanced around he noted it hadn’t changed at all.

He ran his hand across the roughness of his chin, thinking the five-o’clock-shadow look was getting old.

The Coach House had been the local watering hole they—the Edwards twins, himself, and Mac Draper—had claimed as a home base of sorts. It had an unlimited supply of booze, was sketchy enough that the atmosphere rocked, and most importantly, had live entertainment every weekend.

This was where Cain had honed his skills, both as a guitarist and a performer. It was the site of his first-ever live gig, the first place he’d gotten drunk, and the place where he’d lost his virginity to Shelli Gouthro. It had been a quick and amorous act performed behind the big oak tree on the far side of the parking lot.

He scratched his chin. It had been a hot summer night not unlike this one.

Christ, it seemed a lifetime ago.

He slid from the truck and stood for a few moments as his mind wandered to Maggie and the evening that could have been. Damn, he’d looked forward to spending the night with her.

His cell phone vibrated, shaking him from his thoughts, but he ignored it and made his way to the entrance. He knew who was on the line and quickly disappeared inside the bar, wondering how bad things were.

It was dark, but the smell of grease and beer hit him in the gut with all the subtlety of a brick wall. Cain could have been blind and deaf or half-asleep, yet he’d know where the hell he was. His mouth watered at the thought of a cold beer, burger, and fries. It was hours since he’d eaten.

“Cain Black! Holy shit, it’s been a while.”

He turned and shook the enthusiastic hand offered to him by Salvatore Nuno, owner of the Coach House. The man’s head was as bald as he remembered, though his belly had grown…a lot. The jovial glint in his eye and the warmth that was reflected in his voice, however, was the same.

“It’s good to be home, Sal.”

The man’s smile fled as he nodded toward the back of the bar. The place was half-full, a bit of a dinner crowd before the band took to the stage in a few hours.

“He’s back there.”

Cain’s eyes narrowed, but he couldn’t see shit. The dark corners were impenetrable, had always been, which was why they’d generally ended up hidden among the shadows. Old habits die hard.

“I’ll bring you a cold one and some food, no?”

“Thanks, that sounds great.” He patted Sal on the back and moved past him. Whispers followed in his wake, eyes clung to his back, as he threaded a path through the chaotic mess of tables that really had no rhyme or reason. Somehow it all worked.

By now his eyes had adjusted somewhat, and his mouth tensed as he made his way over to the last booth. Jake glanced up, and Cain slid in across from him.

“Sorry to tear you away from the little redhead.” Jake’s tone was teasing, but Cain ignored him, his eyes settling on the prone body next to him. Mac’s head rested on his arms, though he faced the wall and Cain couldn’t see shit.

“How is he?”

Jake took a long drink from his beer and carefully set the now-empty bottle on the table. He stared down at his hands and shook his head. “Not good. Though from what I hear, his father looks way worse.”

“He got into it with Ben?” Cain grimaced. “He should have gone back to New York on Monday like he’d planned.”

Jake winced. “No kidding, but he wanted to see his mother one more time. I guess his dad came home unexpectedly, and that’s when all hell broke loose. The cops were called in, but Nick… You remember the running back from our team? Nick Torrent?”

An image of a large teenager with bad skin and an even badder attitude tugged his memory. The guy had been built like a Mack truck.

At Cain’s nod, Jake continued. “Well, he was called to the scene, and Mackenzie convinced Torrent to bring him here instead of the hotel he’s been staying at.” Jake frowned. “That was around noon, and from what I can tell, he proceeded to get loaded until he passed out. Sal called me an hour ago.”

Sal set a beer on the table in front of Cain. “Food’s on its way.” The bar owner’s gaze rested on Mac. “His old man is the worst kind of bastard there is. I don’t understand why Lila won’t leave him. The kids have been gone for years.”

Mac groaned and turned toward them. His eyes were still closed, but Cain saw that the right one was nearly swollen shut. Cuts and bruises marred his buddy’s face, and he looked more like a prizefighter than an architect. Cain shook his head. The man was about as far away from Armani as you could get.

Seems the sins of the father weren’t something Mac could outrun.

Cain took another swig from his bottle and glanced around. Equipment was set up on the stage—classic Marshall stacks, a Pearl drum kit, and three microphone stands. It was bare-bones, but seriously, all you needed.

“Who’s playing?” He felt the itch deep down and eyed the stage with a hunger that surprised him, considering he’d just come off a ten-month tour.

“Don’t know the name, but from what Sal said, a local band of pimply faced teenagers. Country rock maybe?” Jake shrugged, a smile crossing his face. “You wanna play?”

Cain finished his beer and slid back in his chair. He couldn’t deny the thrill that shot through him at the thought. “Nah, I’d hate to intrude on their night.”

“Intrude? Hell, if you got up there and played a song or two, they’d probably crap their pants, which is something they’d gladly do in order to brag that they shared a stage with the dude from BlackRock.”

Sal brought over a plate filled to the brim with a large burger and fries—total heart attack on a plate—and Cain dug in hungrily while Jake ordered a couple more beers. What the hell, he was on vacation. Sort of.

“So, how did it go with the kid? You guys have better luck than we did?”

Cain nodded, swallowed, and washed down his food with a large gulp of cold brew. “It was good. We caught a full bucket of perch.” He smiled. “For a little guy, he has stamina. Lasted nearly the entire day out on the water.”

“Yeah, and his mother looks great in a bikini.”

The rough voice came from nowhere, and they both looked at Mac in surprise. The entire right side of his face was swollen, while his chin was a mess of purple and black. Dried blood coated the corners of his mouth and crusted near his nose.

He stretched out his arm and groaned, then cursed when his frown caused even more pain. “I feel like shit,” he announced to no one in particular.

Jake cocked his head and laughed. “Sorry to say, buddy, but you look even worse.”

Mac leaned back into the corner of the booth and scowled at them. “I need a drink.”

Cain arched his eyebrow and grinned at Jake as he motioned toward Mac. “You sure you want to go down that road?”

“Hell, yeah.” Mac signaled to Sal. “I’m still drunk, so the way I see it, the only direction is up.”

“That makes no sense whatsoever.” Jake snorted and called for the bartender too. “But I think I’d like to go wherever the hell you’re headed.” He grinned at Cain. “When was the last time we got out of hand?”

“Hell if I know. It’s been so long, I don’t remember.”

Mac leaned forward, his face dead serious. “It’s time to make some new memories, my friends.”

Salvatore came over with some cold ones, a look they knew all too well on his face—a cross between fear and trepidation, with a bit of anxiety tossed in for the ride.

“Now boys,” he began as he set the beers on the table.

They echoed his words in perfect harmony but weren’t able to coax a smile from the round Italian.

Sal cleared his throat and stood, arms crossed, eyebrows furled. “Let’s not have a repeat of the last time you were together, all right?”

“Last time?” Jake glanced at Mac, and the two of them burst into laughter. It took a few seconds for the fog to lift, and when it did, Cain threw his head back and joined in. The memory wasn’t exactly clear, but he did recall Jesse and Jake riding into the bar on the back of a black-and-white Holstein cow.

“I’m serious now. If I think things are going south, your butts are outta here.” He turned to Cain. “I don’t care that you’re all Hollywood these days.”

“Don’t worry ’bout us, Sal.” Jake winked. “We’ll make sure to clean up any mess we leave behind.”

Sal’s eyes narrowed, though the ghost of a smile lifted the corners of his mouth. “Sure you will…but I swear, if I step into anything that remotely resembles a flaming pile of shit…” Sal shook his head and muttered all the way back to the bar.

The three of them sat in silence for a few moments, each lost in a memory that was both comical and bittersweet. Cain shoved his empty plate away and grabbed his drink.

He stared at Mac, marveled at the mess that was his face, and lifted his beer in salute. Blood wasn’t everything. He and Mac knew that better than most. As far as Cain was concerned, these two men were his family, and it felt damn good to be home again. Jake followed suit, and then Mac.

“To Jesse,” Jake said softly. “May there be lots of beer, whiskey, Holsteins, and a big-ass pile of shit wherever the hell he is.”

They emptied their bottles and ordered another round.

The sound of a drop D slid through the night and drew Cain’s attention. It was a heavy note, an aggressive punch that signaled the band was definitely not country music. As always, it electrified him—the sound of a guitar—and his body thrummed with energy.

The band was on stage, setting up their guitars, making sure their mikes were in place, and generally doing a last check before showtime. A large mountain of a man had slid in behind the sound board set up behind the dance floor, and they did a quick sound check—nothing intense, just enough to get the levels right.

The band was a young bunch—Shady Aces, the banner behind them said. They were decked out in skinny jeans that hung halfway down their asses, a look Cain just didn’t get. Who the hell walked around with their boxers on display? Their hair was greased up something good, their ears and faces covered in piercings and their arms adorned with tattoos. Total badass.

Their cocky attitude and arrogance fit the whole rock thing, but he knew from experience all the posturing in the world wouldn’t help if the talent wasn’t there.

Cain watched from the shadows, enjoying his relative anonymity and the easy comfort of Mac and Jake. Five minutes later, when the band struck the first note of a raunchy, rocking blues tune, he was right there with them and down for the ride.

The kids had talent, and as their set progressed, their confidence grew, and it was reflected in the music. They played a good forty-five-minute set, and when it was over, the furtive glances in his direction told Cain they knew he was in the club.

He walked over to the boys, wanting to let them know how much he’d enjoyed their performance, and twenty minutes later found him onstage, a beat-up Fender slung across his chest and a grin that spread ear to ear on his face.

This was where he belonged.

He struck a chord, a bluesy, hard-rocking note that rang out into the crowd. It took everything the boys had to keep up to him. Cain was a pro. He’d been around the block more than once, and when he played his music, it was like an extension of his very soul. He knew how to work the crowd, and his larger-than-life personality took over the stage. There was no one else up there but him.

He caressed and cajoled runs, pulled heavy vibratos from the strings like all the legends before him. He was a mix of Hendrix and Van Halen and Stevie Ray. His whiskey-soaked voice soared and then came back to earth with the subtle nuances that only he could do. It was obvious to everyone the boy belonged onstage.

Cain and Shady Aces played for hours, and by the end of the night, the Coach House was standing-room only. The news had spread via cell phones and text messages, and a lot of old familiar faces showed up.

The high was one that never got old, and later, much later, he and the boys continued to bond over a bottle of Jack Daniel’s. Or two. They’d moved from beer to the hard stuff with ease, and Cain knew he’d pay the price.

Which he did.

Raine made sure of it.

***

He woke up with harsh light sliding across his face and rolled over, groaning as his head thwacked against the wall. His mouth felt like it was full of cotton, and his cranium wanted to explode.

Shit, how many bottles of JD had they finished?

“You guys up yet? I have to head into the city, so if you want a lift to your truck, now would be a good time.” Raine stared down at him, and he saw the lack of concern right away. She so didn’t care that he felt like crap.

“How did we get here?” He was on a futon, fully dressed…hell, his boots were still on his feet. His mind was fuzzy, and a groan from across the room drew his attention. He propped himself up on his elbows and spied Mac sprawled out across a sofa.

“You boys called me to come get you last night, though I’m not surprised you don’t remember. I brought you back here, because I sure as hell didn’t want your mother to deal with two drunken losers at three in the morning.”

Two?

Cain sat up, stifled a groan as he glanced around the room. “Where’s Jake?”

“He didn’t want to stay here and didn’t want a ride either.” Her voice held a slight tremble, but she thrust her chin and glared at him. “Jake doesn’t seem to want to have anything to do with me since the funeral. Actually, he’s been a complete ass for a long time now, way before Jesse…” Her voice trailed off and she shook her head. “I’m getting fed up with his attitude.”

Cain didn’t know what to say, so he kept quiet.

“Do you know what’s up with him? ’Cause I don’t think this has anything to do with Jesse.”