Broken Pride (Texas Pride #2)

Prologue

Mason Sutton

The ear-piercing squeak of the swinging saloon doors came with all the creaking that only hand-carved more than a hundred-year-old white oak could achieve.

How the batwing doors were still attached to the doorframe was a marvel in itself.

As far as I knew, the hinges holding the doors in place were forged before the industrial revolution became a thing.

Those double-action hinges had stood the test of time but did nothing to help my aching head or tired body.

The clanking bells attached to the modern front door didn’t help either.

The culprit who let the doors make all that racket was technically the man who owned this bar.

My grandfather, mighty Max Sutton, shuffled across the Texas walnut floor to his carved-out piece of the bar, the place he spent every day since his stroke more than three years ago.

The swishing of each booted foot, along with the walker he used, hoisted all the sounds into the high-frequency range, stabbing like a knife into my throbbing head.

Darkness frayed the edges of my vision. My stomach twisted, scrambling me down each rung of the ladder in record time. Passing out, or even worse, spewing the contents of my semi-empty stomach, would be better at ground level. Obviously, replacing light bulbs was a job better suited for tomorrow.

“You drink too much,” my grandfather said in his stroke-inhibited speech pattern.

Sometimes it was hard to figure out what he tried to say, and he’d get riled up, slapping the tabletop and raising his voice.

Not this time, he was straight up telling me his opinion and the words held clarity I couldn’t mistake.

The same sentiment revibrated through my head every day that I woke up in the mind-numbing existence I lived.

I rested my hands on my knees, closed my eyes, and breathed in controlled puffs, trying to get past another roll of my gut. My life was painfully monotonous. This same routine every single day. Something had to give. I counted the seconds until my body behaved.

My family had kept the nostalgia of the bar intact. Not because we needed it this way, but due to the generations of our ancestors who’d owned this property and parcel of land it sat on.

The generations of Suttons had updated the hundred-and eighty-year-old bar over the years. While the Silver Star Saloon kept its vintage appearance, we did have the conveniences of indoor plumbing, climate control, and a modern kitchen.

A trickle of sweat ran down my temple as the next spike of pain shot through my head, causing me to swivel on my heels in search of the first-aid kit to find some pain reliever and anything else that might help.

“Where you goin’?” my father, Les Sutton, called from the entry with another clank of those evil bells. “We got a truck full.”

“Give me a…” I lost the battle and grabbed the bar’s undercounter trash can, burying my head inside while emptying my stomach.

“He drinks too much.” My grandfather’s rough, gravelly voice was louder than before, this time with more clarity.

“He does drink too much,” my mom, Jilly Sutton, echoed.

Though her tone hinted at both compassion and concern.

Instinct told me that she was headed my way.

A cold can of Dr. Pepper and a wet towel were her cure-alls for a hangover.

First the soda then the damp rag appeared on the bar top in front of me.

“He’s also not of legal age to be drinkin’ at all. We could get in trouble.”

Again, another thing I knew without needing a refresher course.

After a few seconds, I forced myself to man up, not even trying to hide the wince as I ran the rag over my forehead and went for the small sink, splashing water over my face and into my mouth.

“Is Lori here yet?” my mom asked, her hand caressing a comforting trail down my back. Where I’d reached about six feet in height, my mom was a tiny thing, having to lift to reach my shoulders. “Babe, I can get you some breakfast.”

Oh no, absolutely not. With a hard shake of my head, I rejected anything food-related and popped the top on the soda before taking several long gulps.

My mom and I shared a connection that meant something special. She read me like a book, and I didn’t want to hear what she had to say, stopping it before it started. “I won about seventy bucks last night,” I said, rubbing the rag over my wet face. “We ended about seven this mornin’.”

“You’ve been up all night?” she asked, her brow crinkling. “How can anyone play that much poker?”

A smile touched my lips as I rested a palm on the edge of the glazed countertop made of the same walnut as the floor.

No one understood the draw of poker until they played, which she never had.

Besides, the guys that used our back room for their Thursday night game paid to rent the space.

They drank more alcohol than a week’s worth of customers. We profited from the weekly game.

“Mom,” I began, tired of how she continued to have the same sorrowful look every time we met gazes. I felt her worry and concern, maybe even pity, and didn’t like any of it. “Let it go, Mom. I’ll do better.”

“You know I can’t. I love my boy. I hate seein’ you this way.

” She did what she always did, walked into me, wrapping her arms around my chest. I participated, hugging her while my grandfather watched from his seat, his expression distorted, showing he didn’t agree with his daughter’s actions.

He finally rolled his eyes, mashing his lips together.

Man, the guy was tough. Gritty. Most would consider him mean, and he was, but he also loved his family.

“The boxes in the back of the truck aren’t gonna move themselves,” my father said dryly, passing by with two heavy boxes full of assorted liquor bottles.

This was Friday morning, right before a long Fourth of July weekend.

It was also Founder’s Day in my small town located close to Texas’s Hill Country.

It was a party in a town full of revelers, and marked the exact time of year the bar became profitable.

We had loads of red, white, and blue decorations with the town’s fireworks show nearby.

They’d be all hands on deck for the next four days.

My days were longer than theirs due to my position as barkeep.

“Mom, let me go,” I said, lifting my arms in the air, wiggling my body to shake her loose.

“I don’t want to.” She held on tight until I pried her arms away.

I glanced at the wall clock above the bar. It was later than I’d originally thought. We only had about ninety minutes before the café portion of the bar opened. The fold-out tables and chairs needed to be placed before breakfast and lunch were served.

We labeled those six hours as Silver Saloon Café. Breakfast and lunch consisted of different specials depending on the day, with the bar serving Bloody Mary’s and mimosas. First, I needed to help empty the truck. The longer left untended, the greater the risk of theft.

“You didn’t close the till last night,” Lori, my younger sister by eleven months, accused. She was six months pregnant with her first child, pushing through the door with a box of bottles in hand.

I didn’t intervene, not because I wasn’t taught to have manners, but because the doctors had told her to slow down and her frustratingly hard head refused to listen.

“I hadn’t gotten that far yet,” I said, edging around her toward the doors.

“You smell like stale beer. Gross.”

I pushed through the front door and let it swing shut, knowing all that rattling bothered her too.

The bright, warm Texas summer sun instantly beat down on me.

My eyes shut against the assault as I came to a stop close to my father’s truck.

I didn’t feel well. The city crews were hard at work tying up all the loose ends of the decorations on Main Street—the only street in town—before the twelve o’clock official start to the weekend.

On the other end of the street was a carnival, set and ready to go.

I shook my head, trying to clear the lag.

At some point, this hollow feeling I carried had to ease. The idea that it wouldn’t was inconceivable.

“Hey, Mace.” Wayne, a guy I’d known my entire life, called from his truck slowly rolling to a halt. Like me, Wayne was a fixture to the area. He’d never left, neither had I.

“Hey,” I responded.

“Y’all havin’ a weekend happy hour?”

“Yeah.”

Wayne’s elbow went to the lowered window, apparently planning to stay for more than a word or two.

“Two to six every day. Half price beer and nachos. After six, four-dollar drafts. Stop by.”

“Plannin’ to be here tomorrow. Your dad’s gonna have to get me home.”

Those words drew a smile from me. So, different weekend, same Wayne.

“The smile looks good on you. You should wear it more often.”

What I genuinely gave turned forced again. I wondered if Wayne could tell the change.

“I’m out of here. Save me a spot at the end of the bar.”

I nodded, extending my fist for a bump, Wayne obliged. “There’s a permanent reserved seat with your name on it.”

“Sure is.” Wayne had already pushed the gas pedal, driving away.

“Mace, take these.” My father stood at the end of the truck’s bed, pushing the loaded boxes to the edge.

So it began. I never needed to spend time in the gym, because as the designated pack mule my workouts began early.