55. Beau
55
BEAU
The familiar creak of the porch step beneath my boots feels like stepping into the past. My parents’ house always smells the same—vanilla and something faintly earthy from Ma’s garden, like memories clinging to the walls. It’s grounding, in a way I didn’t know I needed.
I rap twice on the door before letting myself in. “Dad?” I call out, my voice carrying through the house.
“In the living room,” he answers, the sound muffled but clear.
I follow the noise of the TV and find him leaning over a puzzle on the coffee table. His hair’s more gray than blond now, but he’s still got the same steady presence that’s been an anchor my entire life.
“Hey, son.” He looks up with a smile, setting his coffee mug down. “Didn’t know you were stopping by.” He throws his arm around my shoulders and pulls me into a hug.
I pat his back and pull back. “Needed some advice, I guess.”
“Ah,” he says, his smile turning thoughtful. “Have a seat, son. Tell me what’s on your mind.”
We settle onto the well-worn leather couch, the cushions soft and familiar beneath me. Sunlight streams through the large bay window, casting a warm glow over the room. Family photos line the mantle above the fireplace, snapshots of our lives frozen in time.
Dad leans back, one arm draped over the back of the couch as he turns to face me fully. His blue eyes, so much like my own, are filled with a quiet wisdom that comes from a lifetime of love and loss, joy and pain.
“So, what’s going on, Beau?” he asks.
I lean forward, bracing my elbows on my knees and clasping my hands together. The words feel heavy on my tongue, weighed down by the reality of the situation.
“It’s about Eloise,” I start, my voice rougher than I intended. “She tried to end things.”
“Tried?” Dad asks, a knowing glint in his eye.
I rake a hand through my hair, exhaling slowly. “Yeah. I told her I didn’t accept it, so.”
Dad chuckles. “That’s not usually how that works, son.”
I drum my fingers on my thigh, nerves sparking underneath my skin. “For other women? Sure. But not for us. Not for Eloise. We’re end game, Dad.”
His brows lift along with the corner of his mouth. “Alright, then. What happened?”
I drag my hand across my jaw. “She thinks she’s doing me some kind of favor by breaking it off. Like I can’t handle her baggage or something.”
“Ah,” Dad hums. “Your mom used to do that to me all the time too.”
My attention snaps to him. “You and Ma ever break up?”
He shakes his head, dragging his hand through his hair. “God, I love your mother, but she would let that sister of hers rile her up, and then there was no reasoning with her. We used to break up often. Too often for my liking.”
“When? Like thirty, forty years ago?”
“Shit, son, it was a long time ago, that’s for sure.”
I nod, mulling over if it would be worth it to blurt out the secret I’ve been keeping for months. Fuck it, no time like the present.
“What about thirty-one years ago? Were you and Ma on a break then?”
Dad’s gaze slides to mine, and he holds it for a beat. “Is there something you want to ask me?”
“Are you my biological father?”
His lips part and his eyes widen. “Why would you ask me that?”
I shrug, drumming my fingers on my leg. “Someone made a compelling case.”
Dad leans back, his expression thoughtful. He takes a slow sip of his coffee, the mug obscuring his face for a moment. When he lowers it, his eyes are steady on mine.
“Thirty-one years ago, your mom and I were struggling. In the eighteen months after Graham was born, she’d had three miscarriages.” He pauses and blows out a breath. “This is really her story, yeah? But she doesn’t like to talk about those dark days, so I know she wouldn’t mind. We never intended to lie to you, son. We were waiting until you were old enough to understand, and then somewhere along the way, I forgot.”
I scoff, shaking my head.
“Yeah, I know,” he says with a chuckle. “It sounds stupid, but it’s true.”
“What happened?”
He sighs. “After the third loss, your mom, she wasn’t in a good place. We found out it was unlikely I’d ever have any biological kids naturally.”
“Cora and Abby?” I interrupt.
He dips his head. “Miracle babies. You ever wonder why your ma helicopters those girls? Shit, Beau, Abby moved across the country just to get a little space.”
I chuckle, letting my head fall forward. I stare at the same hardwood floor that’s been in their living room my entire life.
“Your ma and I, we decided to get some help with conception. It was the hardest decision we ever made, but we wanted a big family.” Dad’s voice is soft, tinged with the echoes of old pain. “We went to a fertility clinic in the city, the best one we could find.”
He looks at me, his eyes a little glassy. “From the moment we realized she was pregnant, you were our son. You were my son, Beau. I’ve never, not once, thought of you any differently.”
The conviction in Dad’s voice, the raw emotion shining in his eyes, hits me square in the chest. It’s a physical ache, a tightness in my throat that makes it hard to swallow. I look at him, really look at him, and see the man who’s been my rock, my constant, my true north, for my entire life.
The man who taught me how to ride a bike and throw a perfect spiral. Who showed me what it means to be a good man, a loyal friend, a devoted husband and father. Who’s loved me fiercely and unconditionally from the very beginning.
I know beyond a shadow of a doubt that he's always been and will always be my dad in every way that matters. Biology be damned.
“I know, Dad. I know.”
After a moment, he chuckles, the sound warm and familiar. It breaks the tension, easing the tightness in my chest. I find myself smiling in response, the corners of my mouth tugging up of their own accord.
“Guess that’s not what you came over here for, hm?”
“Actually, Dad, it’s been helpful. But I gotta run. I need to swing by a mechanic,” I say, pushing to my feet.
“The Hellcat okay?” he asks as he stands too.
“Yeah, it’s good. This is something else.”
“Alright, son. Thanks for stopping by. Maybe I’ll see Eloise on Sunday?” he asks, rocking back on his heels.
“That’s the plan.” That’s the fucking plan.
I pull up to the Seven Pines Garage, my truck kicking up a cloud of dust as I roll to a stop in front of the open bay doors. I don't bother parking in a proper spot, leaving the engine rumbling as I hop out and stride toward the entrance with determined steps.
The garage is a hive of activity, the air thick with the acrid scent of motor oil, gasoline, and sweat. The staccato clangs of metal on metal echo off the concrete walls as mechanics work on various vehicles in different stages of repair.
“Yo, keys go in the box,” someone calls from inside the second bay.
I stalk toward the first bay, calling out, “Nate Thomas?”
A tall figure emerges from behind a lifted pickup truck, wiping his grease-stained hands on a rag. He moves with a lazy swagger, all cocky confidence and easy arrogance.
“Who’s asking?” Nate drawls, tossing the rag aside and sauntering toward me. His lips curve into a smirk, his dark eyes glinting with a challenge.
He looks me up and down, taking his time, like he’s sizing me up. His gaze lingers on my clenched fists, and his smirk widens. “Well, if it isn’t Carter. Check it out, boys, the Alley’s little kingpin is gracing us with his presence today.”
I don’t stop my stroll until I’m right in front of him.
And then I punch him in the face.
Blood spurts from his nose, his hand flying to cover it. “The fuck, Carter?”
“That’s for making my girl cry. Consider it a friendly warning. The next time, I won’t be so fucking nice.”
Thomas holds up a rag to his nose, his eyes shooting fire. “Fuck you, Carter. She’s not even with you anymore.”
I look at him, letting him see the feral beast inside of me that’s usually content to stay indoors. Except when it concerns my girl. Because when it comes to Eloise Hawthorne, there’s little I wouldn’t do.
“Wrong, and just for being a motherfucking dipshit, that’s your second strike. And Thomas? You know what happens after strike three? Ask your buddy Wallis.”
I turn on my heel and saunter toward the small office at the back of the garage, leaving Thomas to nurse his bloodied nose. The adrenaline still sings in my veins, my knuckles throbbing in a satisfying way. But I'm not done yet. Not by a long shot.
I push open the office door without knocking, the hinges creaking in protest. The small room is cluttered with filing cabinets and stacks of paperwork, the air stale with the lingering scent of cigarettes. Walker sits behind his battered metal desk, boots propped on the end of the table.
“Well, if it ain’t my long-lost son,” he says, grinning like a fucking loon.
“I’m asking you to let Eloise and her sisters out of whatever fucked-up thing you have them in. Let ’em walk outta Seven Pines free and clear.”
Walker stares at me for a moment before he tips his head back and cackles. I dip my chin in acknowledgment and push open the glass door to the parking lot.
I reach into the bed of my truck and pull out my favorite baseball bat. Twirling it around in my grip, I swing it up on my shoulder and stroll back into Walker’s office.
And then I start swinging.
His laughing turns into shouting, but I tune him out. I get a good seven swings in before the guys from the garage fill the doorway.
Resting the bat on my shoulder, I face Walker. “I asked you out of common decency. That was my mistake. So now I’m telling you, the Hawthornes are done.”
Walker’s grin is sharp. “Not Darla. We go way back.”
I shrug and take a few steps backward, toward the door. “I don’t give a fuck about her. Eloise, Margot, Vivienne. They’re under my protection now. So if any of your Seven Pines fucks even breathe in their direction, they deal with me.”
Walker laughs, the sound grating, and the guys in the doorway chuckle.
I pause in the doorway. “Didn’t you hear? My brother-in-law is a fucking Reaper.”
Walker’s face pales, and I almost feel a little guilty for the joy it brings me. But then I remember the mountain of absolute shit Graham uncovered about Levi Walker and how he makes his money and where it goes. Graham is currently reallocating all the funds Eloise has paid Walker over the years.
“I’ll be seeing you, Walker.”
I push open the door with my ass and walk to my truck, whistling and twirling the bat around. I pull my phone out of my pocket and dial my brother. He answers on the second ring.
“Burn it down, Graham.”