with sympathetic eyes, a sorrowful smile, like he knew my pain, spread on his face.
“Hey, Noah. How ya hanging in today?”
Do not punch him. Do not give him a reaction at all.
Patrick stood there in his suit, eyes surveying his surroundings like he was well above the men working for him. And I knew he thought that to be true. He was so much like my father — tall, stout, tan — but his hair was gray, where my father never had the chance to get there, and his eyes were smaller, beady and evil, his face too long, nose too big. He looked almost like a live action Frankenstein.
I wished I could put the bolts through his head to bring the whole look together.
“I’m well, thanks for asking,” I responded as politely as I could. “How are you, Patrick?”
“Oh, you know me. Just rocking and rolling through every new day,” he said, his smile showing his too-white teeth now. It slipped again in the next instant. “Although, this particular day is always a rough one on all of us.”
I swallowed down my pride, forcing the best smile I could muster. “Indeed.”
“He would have been proud of you, you know,” Patrick said, squeezing my shoulder where he held it. “Your father was such a close friend of mine, and my heart aches every day that he’s gone. But his boys are serving him well here at Scooter Whiskey.” His lip twitched a little. “We’re so lucky to have you.”
Liar.
It was all lies, all bullshit — and we both knew it. But this was the game we played. The Scooter family kept us around as to not stir up more trouble or gossip than they already had with the fire, and we stayed to avenge our father’s death, to ensure the Scooter family didn’t get what they wanted by erasing the Becker name from their history.
I simply nodded, lips in a flat line. I reached out my hand for his, shaking it once before I put my ear plugs back in and got back to work on the barrel. Patrick stood awkwardly at my side for a moment longer before he made his rounds to the other men, then he waved goodbye to Gus through the window of his office, and he was gone.
I tried to keep my head down, tried to breathe through the rage, tried to forget he was even there, but once he left the room, everything I’d been fighting down all day rose to the surface. I reared back, kicking the barrel I’d just built and splintering the wood everywhere. I hadn’t tied it down with the metal rings yet, and the time I’d spent putting it together went to waste with one heavy heave of my boot.
No one tried to stop me as I continued kicking, hitting wood, equipment, whatever was near. The only thing that stopped me was when Marty placed a gentle hand on my shoulder, and when I looked at him, he nodded toward the tour group that had just walked in.
I locked eyes with Logan, his brows bent together in an understanding sympathy, and I felt shame wash over me.
I was his older brother, and I was acting like a child. I’d let Patrick get under my skin, and I hated it.
The tour group was still watching me, murmuring as Logan pulled their attention back to him, listing off his usual spiel. Gus came over to join Marty and me, excusing Marty before he pulled me to the side.
“I think you should take the rest of the day off, Noah.”
I just nodded, yanking off my work gloves and powering toward the door that led to our little locker room. My blood was still red hot as I grabbed my shit, and then I slammed my locker closed and barreled through the back warehouse door with only one destination in mind.
Eric Church blared from the jukebox, and I bobbed my head, singing along a little between sips of my whiskey. I’d had way too many for it to be only eight o’clock, but it was numbing my body, and my mind, which was exactly what I needed it to do.
“Noah, I love you, kid. But I’m cutting you off after this one,” Buck said. He was the bartender at my favorite watering hole in town — namely because it was the only watering hole in town — the neon sign outside flashing his name in a simple manner. He was also a longtime