Feisty Red (Three Chicks Brewery #2) - Stacey Kennedy Page 0,54
letter with a quote on it.” She glanced at her sisters. “I’m guessing you all got quotes too?” At their nods, Clara continued. “I never understood the quote he left me before. But now, I think I actually do.”
Amelia leaned forward, peeking at the paper. “What’s the quote?”
Clara read the note. “We are what we pretend to be, so we must be careful what we pretend to be.”
“Holy shit,” Maisie breathed.
Amelia’s eyes were huge, and her hands covered her mouth. “He knew…”
Clara stared down at the paper, a warmth sliding through her heart that felt like a tight hug from Pops. All this time, he had known what she could never see. “I—”
Maisie’s cell phone beeped, halting Clara. Maisie grabbed her cell off the nightstand and winced. “It’s another article.” Her gaze, full of pity, lifted to Clara. You don’t want to see this.”
“Yeah, right, like that’s going to happen.” Clara snatched up the phone, and her blood boiled at the article: Sullivan Keene, breaking hearts all over the country. How many more secret children does he have?
“These people are vicious,” Clara growled her frustrations. She tossed the phone onto the bed, staring into Amelia’s eyes and then Maisie’s, feeling like the world was slipping away from her. How dare these damn reporters? She’d had the love of her life ripped away from her once because of Sullivan’s father. And now, these strangers were doing the same damn thing?
“Uh oh,” Amelia breathed.
“Ah, Clara,” Maisie said, as Clara’s nostrils flared. “Are you okay?”
“Am I okay?” she asked, more to herself than anyone else. For years, she thought she was okay. She thought she had everything handled and had shoved all her feelings away to always put Mason first. She was sick and tired of shoving everything down. Now she let what she wanted…what her heart wanted to rise up. And with her heart’s needs ahead of her mind’s logic, she knew exactly what to do now, and with Pops’ final piece of advice in her heart, she didn’t even question herself as she headed for the bedroom door.
Amelia called after her. “Clara, wait, where are you going?”
Clara kept on walking, hot anger burning with each step. “To stop this damn cycle and take matters into my own hands.” She stopped at the doorway and glanced over her shoulder. “Maisie, can you stay and watch Mason?”
“Of course, yeah,” she said, cautiously. “I don’t need to worry though, right? You’re not going to get yourself arrested for punching anyone?”
Clara couldn’t stop the bubble of laughter that rose up. She did have a history of that. “No, I’m not going to punch anyone. Promise.” She set her gaze on Amelia, who grinned from ear to ear. “I need you to come with me.”
Her sister hopped off the bed and rubbed her hands together. “I love when you get like this.”
“Like what?” Clara asked, heading down the staircase.
Amelia snicked. “Pissed off.”
Sullivan had regrets piled on top of regrets. He’d done many things wrong in the past. He’d run away once from River Rock then spent years running from the memories of his life here. This time, while his reasoning for leaving was different, he was still running. Nothing about that sat right. Questions battered his mind. Is this the right thing to do? Should I stay and fight, or will that only hurt Clara and Mason? And that’s what it all came down to; he simply couldn’t risk either of them being hurt because of his past reckless behavior. His actions had put him on the paparazzi’s radar, and only he could get those reporters out of River Rock.
Needing a drink more than ever, Sullivan arrived at Kinky Spurs, where a young man, with rolled-up sleeves, who barely looked old enough to drink replaced Megan. The place was packed full of people playing darts, eating dinner, or kicking back with a drink. The tables and booths were crowded, full of patrons laughing with friends and enjoying the football game on the TV affixed to the wall. Sullivan’s stomach rumbled at the scent of grease coming from the kitchen, but what he needed more was a stiff drink. He headed for the bar, where two thirty-something men sat at the far end, arguing over a football game. He took the other end, sitting on the hard wooden stool butting up against a brass foot rail. He kept his head down, not wanting to make eye contact and invite anyone over for an autograph. Some would still