“That’s my future wife you’re talking about. Have some fucking respect.”
I swallowed hard. Blood pounded in my ears. What the hell happened to a quickie with no strings attached? Why did the wordsmy future wifesound so familiar and comfortable andhotcoming from Pretty Boy’s mouth?
I blinked rapidly, fighting to keep my expression neutral.
Then Pretty Boy drove his fist into Sweeney’s gut. Sweeney doubled over with a groan, sinking to his knees on the pavement.
“Bruiser, Brass,” Pretty Boy called, gesturing to them.
Bruiser and Brass stepped forward, heading for Sweeney’s Jaguar, swinging baseball bats.
“You and Hillbilly might have come to a gentleman’s agreement,” Pretty Boy said to Sweeney. “But we don’t do that shit around here. If you don’t take your money and leave now, the game changes. And you will be playing by our rules.”
Bruiser cocked his baseball bat over his shoulder and planted his feet apart, ready to take a swing like he was prepared to hit a home run on the windshield of that beautiful Jaguar.
Brass tapped the end of his baseball bat against the passenger window.
A heartbeat of stillness settled over the parking lot. I held my breath. Sweeney had the resources to start a war if he really wanted to.
The question was whether or not it would be worth the risk.
Sweeney could make our lives a living hell, and we would be looking over our shoulders. He could hire hitmen to hurt our families. The whole town of Juniper Creek could turn into a battleground between mafia and bikers.
It seemed like a lot of trouble to go through when Sweeney could just take his money and leave.
In the end, he spat on the pavement and pushed to his feet.
“Fine,” he said through his teeth. “But tell your father that I won’t be lifting a finger to help him in the future, no matter how much he begs.”
Sweeney tossed the envelope of cash into the passenger seat of his Jaguar and peeled out of the parking lot, burning rubber.
Two weeks later, the clubhouse was packed on a Saturday night to welcome Dad back as President. Alcohol was flowing. A pitch-in buffet of food filled the bar to overflowing with barbecue, casseroles, cakes, pies, cookies, loaded baked potatoes, and of course, Dad’s favorite—fried chicken and waffles. The jukebox in the corner was cranked up, blasting twangy bluegrass that Dad loved. AWelcome Backbanner draped across the clubhouse, with streamers and balloons.
In my opinion, it was too early. Dad should have waited at least a month. Maybe two, just to be on the safe side. But he wasbored out of his mind at home, and he couldn’t sit still another minute.
So, despite his protests, we put together a party for him, and I did my best to quell the nagging doubts that worried me about his health.
I spotted Ironside pouring Dad a glass of bourbon and I crossed my arms with a scowl. He wasn’t supposed to be drinking.
Ironside spotted me and froze. Dad glanced up, but he didn’t flinch at my disapproving stare.
“The doctor said no drinking,” I protested, practically shouting to be heard over the noise.
“It’s just one glass, Lila,” Dad said.
I poked him in the arm with fond exasperation.
“I saw you eating Jenny’s biscuits earlier though. Those are definitely not on your new diet.”
Dad shook his head and gestured to Ironside to keep pouring the bourbon.
“The day I refuse one of Jenny’s flaky, soft, buttermilk biscuits is the day I’ll be dead in my grave, sweetie. Just let me enjoy myself tonight and I’ll go back to eating rabbit food, all right?”
I took a breath to argue with him when I caught a glimpse of Pretty Boy in the crowd, seated at a table with Recoil, Tarzan, and Hades. And his eyes were on me.
Heat swept up the back of my neck, prickling my cheeks.
For the past two weeks, I came up with a myriad of excuses to dodge him—I had to work at the boutique, or I was meeting Shea for lunch, or I needed to check in on Dad.