Shaken (Twisted Fox #2) - Charity Ferrell Page 0,11
is about for me. It’s a therapy, slinging drinks and being in the zone. When I’m there, I’m not in my head, tormenting myself with regrets of my actions. Which is why, the day after Lincoln was sentenced, I decided I was not just returning to bartending; I was going to open a bar.
It’s for my sanity, not the money. Even after quitting my job, I have enough in savings and from my inheritance to never have to work another day in my life.
“You’re doing this because of him,” she says.
We both flinch at her statement … at the mention of my grandfather.
It’s harsh and terrible timing, yet it’s true.
I shut my eyes, her remark a verbal punch to my gut.
“Sorry,” she whispers, backing up and sitting on a barstool behind my twelve-foot kitchen island. “If this makes you happy, that’s all I care about, but—”
“How’d I know there’d be a but?”
Josephine Callahan isn’t one who loses easily. “As your mother, I believe you’ll regret this decision.” When she places her hand to her chest over her heart, her sparkling ten-carat wedding ring is on display. “Everyone knows your grandfather expected you to take over the company when he retired.”
I grit my teeth, the headache resurfacing—the same one that always comes when he’s brought up. “Had he been able to see into the future, he wouldn’t have.”
“Honey, it was an accident,” she stresses, her face softening. “Stop punishing yourself.”
“Accident or not, it’s on me.”
My penthouse falls silent, and I sigh at the deep sadness on my mother’s face. She’s had a rough year, losing my brother and my father to correctional facilities. She’s been left with the negative son who wants nothing to do with the lifestyle she lives.
She perks up on her stool, always one to mask her emotions. “Don’t forget your grandparents’ party is tonight.”
Party.
My mouth turns sour at the word. “You know I don’t go to parties.” Those days are over.
“It’s not any party, Archer. It’s a small social gathering to celebrate their fiftieth anniversary. They’ll be delighted if you show.”
Small social gathering, my ass.
My grandmother doesn’t do small. She’s the queen of over-the-top parties. For my fifth birthday, she rented out an entire amusement park. My mother wasn’t born a Callahan; she married into the name, but she was born into wealth by her parents.
My phone ringing stops this dreadful conversation, and I swipe it off the counter. My friend Cohen’s name flashes across the screen.
“I need to take this.” I hold up the phone and walk toward my office while answering, “Hey.”
“Hey, man,” he replies. “Barbecue tonight at my place. Come through.”
I met Cohen when we bartended together. A few weeks ago, I called and asked if he’d be interested in starting a bar together.
“Nah, I’ll have to pass.”
“Come on,” he groans around a chuckle. “For years, you’ve passed on all my invites. You’re coming. We can talk business.”
I rack my brain, searching for an excuse.
Excuses are a part-time gig for me.
I’m a fucking pro at making them.
Although a barbecue sounds better than my grandparents’ party.
Looks like I’m choosing the lesser of the two evils.
“Sure, I’ll be there.”
I end the call, return to the kitchen, and tell my mother I can’t attend her party because I have a business dinner.
7
Georgia
“The hungover Georgia look is serving,” Lola says, snapping her fingers from side to side in front of my face.
We’re in Cohen’s backyard for one of his barbecues. It’s something he regularly throws together to catch up with his friends. Being a single father of a four-year-old boy, his schedule is hectic, and it’s not like he can barhop to have drinks with the guys. His friends, Finn and Silas, are here and so are Lola and Grace, my besties.
I’m sitting at the table with the girls, Cohen is manning the grill a few feet away while talking to Silas, and Finn is pushing Noah, my nephew, on the tire swing Cohen recently hung from one of the massive trees.
Shuddering, I scrunch up my nose, remembering why I look like hell. “The hungover Georgia is tired and dehydrated—the aftermath of her dullsville date last night.”
Lola waggles her finger toward me. “I told you an accountant named Bill would be a snooze fest, but no one listens to Lola unless it’s advice on what liquors mix well together or if they need guidance on escaping a one-night-stand morning gone wrong.” She shoots me a pointed look, and I flip her off.