Feisty Red (Three Chicks Brewery #2) - Stacey Kennedy Page 0,55

come, but he hoped they could read his mood.

When Sullivan slid onto the stool, he said to the barkeep who’d made his way over to him, “Two shots of whiskey.”

“Coming right up,” the barkeep said, tossing a towel over his shoulder, leaving a trail of cloying cologne in his wake.

The country music was upbeat and much appreciated. The last thing Sullivan needed was some depressing song to make him forget the reason he had to leave. The bartender set his shots down in front of Sullivan right as his cell phone beeped in his pocket. “Thanks,” he said, then grabbed his phone, finding a text from Marco: Got you a private flight tonight out of Denver. Leaving at 8:00 p.m. It’ll be good to have you home.

Sullivan replied: Appreciate it. Talk soon.

With his gut twisting, he set his phone down to reach for the first shot when a familiar voice said from behind him, “So, you’re leaving again, huh?”

Sullivan polished off the shot then glanced over at Hayes, who slid onto the stool beside him while Beckett took the other side of Hayes. “How’d you even know I was here?” he asked.

“I’ll take a Foxy Diva,” Hayes said to the barkeep, a request echoed by Beckett. When Hayes glanced at Sullivan again, his mouth twitched. “Have you forgotten that this is a small town and everyone knows everyone’s business?”

Sullivan snorted. “Apparently, too much of people’s business.”

The barkeep delivered the beers, setting them in front of Hayes and Beckett. “Let me know if you want seconds.”

“Thanks,” Hayes told him.

A long moment passed while Sullivan stared down into the dark amber liquid of the whiskey in his shot. He appreciated the loud conversation, the clanking of glasses, the whirl of the blender, the noise. Silence would be the enemy now.

“Are we going to talk about the article?” Beckett asked. Sullivan looked his way, and Beckett grimly added, “It’s shitty, what that reporter printed.”

“That’s putting it lightly,” Sullivan countered, barely controlling the hot rage bubbling up. Only this time, he knew better. With two shots, he’d stay sober. He’d think clearly. Anything more than that would get him in trouble. “That article already hurt Clara and will hurt Mason too.”

“Maybe,” Hayes countered, with his wise eyes watching Sullivan all too closely. “But it’s not your fault these pricks found out about your past with Clara and twisted it all up.”

“It’s my fault for coming back,” Sullivan said, reaching for his other shot, ready to numb the unforgiving ache in his chest. “It’s my fault for stupidly holding a press conference at the brewery and getting them into the game. I thought I was helping…” He slammed back the shot, embracing the burning deep in his throat. “They’re going to twist the narrative on what happened with Mason. And he will be hurt.”

“Then, beat them to the punch and tell your story,” Beckett said, spinning his bottle between his fingers.

“It’s not that easy,” Sullivan said, wishing everything were different. Wishing his damn life were different. Simpler. “Nothing about any of this is easy. These reporters are vultures. They’ll invade this town, and you know the locals; they’ll talk. They’ll learn about my father…about it all, and in the end, Clara and Mason’s lives will be left in tatters because I brought these pricks around.”

Hayes sighed heavily and agreed, “It is a difficult situation, no doubt about that.”

“Exactly,” Sullivan said. He paused as the barkeep dragged his damp rag across the bar, in front of him. Only when he moved away did Sullivan add, “I need to get these fucking reporters away from here, and the only way to do that is to leave.” At Beckett’s snort, Sullivan glared sideways. “You think I’m making a mistake?”

“I think you made a mistake when you left last time,” Beckett said without any hesitation, giving a flippant stare. “This time, I think you’re a damn fool.”

Sullivan arched a slow eyebrow. “A fool?”

“A damn fool,” Beckett shot back, fire in his eyes. “You’ve got a second chance here to right a serious wrong from the past. To make Clara happy. To give Mason the dad you once had then lost. If I were you, I’d fight like hell to make that happen, not run away. Again.”

Sullivan felt his jaw tighten, and he unclenched his jaw, not to lash out at a friend. A good friend, in fact. He held Beckett’s hard stare, and it occurred to Sullivan then that Beckett wasn’t only offering advice but speaking from his loss