Until We Crash - Michele G Miller Page 0,51

grabbing my shoes as I step onto the back patio. Taking deep breaths, I sit on the lone chair and slip on my tennis shoes for work.

The water in the kitchen turns on, followed by the clatter of his plate in the sink. I remain seated. I’ve tied my shoes and pulled my keys from my bag when Dad steps outside and kicks a pot where Mom once planted herbs. Whatever was there is nothing but brown withered stalks now.

“I’m trying, Jess.”

Holding my laughter is difficult. “Not hard enough.”

He draws a prolonged breath through his nose, and I rest my chin on my knee and glance at his stoic profile as his gaze settles out beyond our small backyard. “She took everything.”

She did. She took his money, his valuables, his pride, even his job—in a roundabout way.

“She didn’t take me.” His head tilts at my soft voice. “Dad, I want to help you, but you need to want to help yourself.”

“I’ve tried before.”

“Yes, you have.” My mind holds memories of times through the years where he had clarity. Times when he relegated his drinking to one beer during a game or at a barbecue. There aren’t a lot of them, but they’re there. “I have faith in you. That’s why I’m here for the summer.”

Moving closer, Dad reaches out his hand, and my fingers wrap around his, allowing him to haul me to my feet and into a hug. “You’ve always had too much faith in people.”

I squeeze his middle as he presses my cheek against his shoulder. “Having no faith would make me too sad. I have to believe you are capable of doing what you cannot see yet.”

Sunday afternoon at Bleachers isn’t a bad shift. Thanks to baseball, golf, and racing, there are plenty of rowdy men drinking and eating. Todd cutting me to day shifts for the weekend wasn’t ideal, but with an extra wink and a smile, I flirt my way to some healthy tips while working my ass off.

“Well, hot damn, if it isn’t my favorite new server.”

“I’m sorry.” I hold up my hand at my customer ordering and check over my shoulder at the familiar accent.

Identical faces grin at me. “Well, if it isn’t the worst imitation Scotsmen I’ve ever seen,” I say with a wink, my eyes unsuccessfully searching for Carter. Pushing aside my disappointment, I look to the hostess seating them. “Put them in my section, Kelli?”

Kelli nods. “They already asked.”

Finn and Frey wag their brows, and the murmurs of approval from the women at my current table have me shaking my head. “I’ll be right with you two.”

“Mmm, those accents,” the blonde on my right says, her gaze fixed over my shoulder. Her friend, a petite curly-haired brunette who is vaguely familiar, hums an agreement. “Bend me right over this table,” she adds.

Wow.

I choke a laugh back. “Those two are nothing but trouble, accents and all.”

The blonde’s gaze snaps to my face, studying me—the brunette chuckles. “Oh, we’re not in the market,” the brunette says, wiggling her ring finger and flashing a simple gold wedding set. “Just admiring the view.”

“Speak for yourself, married girl, there’s no ring on this finger, yet.” The blonde adds with a sly smile. Aubrey Pratt was my best friend for three years; I learned to decipher that look in two-point-one seconds.

“Speaking of—” the girls wave, and I note the additional menus on their table for the first time. I turn, expecting their dates, and my body goes rigid.

The men walking our way aren’t strangers. There are three instead of six, but they’re stocky and led by one dark-haired asshole who dared to touch and intimidate me a week ago.

Sonny.

I’m grateful I’m on the opposite side of the table from the empty seats. Sonny’s head tips, his eyes narrowing when he spots me, and a tight smile pulls at his mouth before he turns and greets the blonde, kissing her cheek and touching her shoulder. A bitter tang invades my mouth.

I shuffle backward. “I’ll give y’all a minute and grab some waters.”

“Actually, Jess,” Sonny says my name with an intention I don’t want to decipher. His buddies look up from greeting the women, recognition lighting their eyes. “Grab me a Dallas Blonde, would ya?”

My fists clench at my sides. “Of course. Anyone else?” I ask, avoiding direct eye contact. The other two throw their beer choices at me while the brunette gasps.

“Oh my gosh. Jess! You’re friends with Jules Blacklin, aren’t you?” She twists in her chair,