Chapter 29 #2
“I’m not leaving you out here in this,” I say, my tone leaving no room for argument. “Get in the car.”
He stops, his shoulders slumping in defeat. He walks around to the passenger side and gets in, slamming the door with a force that makes me flinch. He doesn’t say anything. He just stares out the window, his jaw tight.
And then I see it. A single tear traces a path down his cheek, followed by another, and another.
He’s crying. Not loud, sobbing cries, but silent, gut-wrenching tears that shake his entire body.
It’s a moment of such raw vulnerability that it catches me off guard.
This isn’t the angry Alpha who punched me. This is a broken kid.
“I can’t go home,” he says, his voice a choked whisper. “I can’t let my mom see me like this.”
“Okay,” I say, my voice soft.
“I can’t go back there,” he says, his voice cracking. “To that house. Not after... not after seeing them.”
“I understand.”
“I feel so stupid,” he says, wiping at his eyes with the back of his hand. “I have nowhere else to go. I can’t go to Jessica’s. I can’t go to the café. It’s all... tainted.”
I think about my house, about Clara waiting for me. “You can come to my place,” I offer. “For the night. Just to get your head straight.”
He turns to me, his eyes red and swollen. “What about your daughter?”
“She won’t mind,” I say, and it’s the truth. Clara has a good heart. She’ll understand.
He shakes his head, a small, jerky motion. “I can’t. I can’t impose.”
“Okay,” I say, changing tactics. “How about Bar 2.0? We can get a drink or something. Just... be somewhere that’s not here. It would be irresponsible of me to let you freeze to death.”
He hesitates for a moment, then nods. “Okay. Thanks.”
The bar is a welcome reprieve from the suffocating tension in the car. It’s loud and crowded, the air thick with the smell of beer and fried food. We find a couple of empty stools at the bar, and I order two whiskeys.
We sit in silence for a while, the noise of the bar a buffer between us. I can feel the anger and hurt rolling off him in waves, but underneath it, there’s a deep, abiding sadness.
“This is a mess,” I say, breaking the silence.
He lets out a harsh, bitter laugh. “That’s the understatement of the year.”
“You’re allowed to be a mess,” I tell him. “You’re allowed to be angry and hurt and confused. Anyone in your position would be.”
He takes a sip of his whiskey, his gaze fixed on the amber liquid. “I know you’re a decent guy,” he says, his voice low. “But sometimes, I really wish I could punch you in the face again.”
I can’t help but laugh. “I get it,” I say, clinking my glass against his. “I really do.”
We drink in silence for a while longer. I can see the tension starting to ease from his shoulders, the hard lines of his face softening slightly. He’s still hurting, but he’s not on the verge of shattering anymore.
I catch Keith’s eye and gesture him over. I pull two hundred-dollar bills from my wallet and slide them across the bar. “Get him whatever he wants,” I tell the bartender, my voice low. “But call me if he gets stupid. Or if he tries to leave.”
Keith nods, his expression understanding. “You got it, Sheriff.”
I finish my drink and stand up. “I’ve got to get going,” I say to Liam. “But I’ll check on you later.”
He nods, his gaze already lost in the amber depths of his glass. “Thanks.”
I stop at the counter on my way out and grab a pizza, the cardboard box warm in my hands. The snow has let up a little, the sky clearing to reveal a smattering of stars.
As I drive home, the smell of pepperoni and cheese filling the car, I think about my daughter. Pizza and a movie. A normal night in a town that’s anything but. And for a little while, that’s enough.
The ring of the phone at three in the morning is a sound designed to inspire dread. It cuts through the silence of the house, a sharp, insistent shriek that yanks me from a fitful sleep. I’m up before my eyes are fully open, my heart already pounding a frantic beat against my ribs.
I grab the phone from the nightstand, the screen blindingly bright in the darkness. The caller ID reads BAR 2.0. I swear under my breath. Keith.
“Sheriff,” I say, my voice rough with sleep. I don’t need to ask. I already know.
“He’s had a few,” Keith says, his tone a mixture of apology and exasperation. “A lot, actually. He’s not causing any trouble, just... talking about his dad and some girl. He’s a mess, Sheriff. I think he’s about to pass out.”
“I’m on my way,” I say, already swinging my legs out of bed. I pull on a pair of jeans and a hoodie, the fabric cold against my skin.
I pause by Clara’s door, my hand resting on the handle. I don’t want to leave her alone in the middle of the night, but I can’t leave Liam out there either. It’s a choice between two kinds of responsibility, and the one that’s currently drunk and vulnerable in a bar takes precedence.
The drive to Bar 2.0 is surreal. The town is asleep, buried under a blanket of fresh snow, the streetlights casting a lonely, hazy glow.
I find Liam slumped over the bar, his head resting on his arms, a half-empty glass of whiskey in front of him. He’s muttering something, his words slurred and indistinct.
“Come on, Bennett,” I say, placing a hand on his shoulder. “Time to go.”
He stirs, lifting his head with a groan. His eyes are red-rimmed and unfocused. “Sheriff,” he says, a sloppy, drunken grin spreading across his face. “Fancy seeing you here.”
“Let’s get you home,” I say, my patience wearing thin. It’s a struggle to get him upright, his body a dead weight against mine. He leans on me heavily, his breath smelling of whiskey. I half-carry, half-drag him out to the car, his boots scraping against the pavement.
By the time I get him back to my place, it’s four-thirty in the morning. He’s passed out in the passenger seat, his head lolling against the window. It takes another monumental effort to get him out of the car and into the house.
I manage to maneuver him onto the couch, where he collapses with a heavy sigh, his body sinking into the cushions. I pull off his boots and cover him with a blanket. He’s out, lost in a drunken stupor, a temporary escape from the pain that’s waiting for him when he wakes up.
I stand there for a moment, looking down at him. He’s just a kid, really. A kid who’s been dealt a shit hand, who’s carrying the trauma of his father’s sins and a broken heart. And I know all about that. I’ve carried it myself.
The next morning, I’m woken up not by my alarm but by the sound of loud, uninhibited laughter. It’s a bright, happy sound, completely out of place in the quiet of the early morning.
I blink my eyes open, my mind still fuzzy with sleep. For a moment, I’m disoriented, unsure of where the sound is coming from. Then I hear it again, followed by a triumphant shout.
I drag myself out of bed, my body protesting with every movement.
I walk into the living room, and the sight that greets me stops me in my tracks.
Clara and Liam are sitting on the couch, their heads bent together over a phone.
They’re laughing, their faces illuminated by the glow of the screen, their fingers tapping away in a furious, competitive dance.
“Good morning,” I say, my voice rough.
“Hey, Dad,” Clara says, looking up from the phone with a bright smile. She’s holding a mug of coffee, her purple-tipped hair piled up on her head in a messy bun. She takes a sip, her eyes twinkling with amusement.
I walk over and take the coffee cup from her, chugging it down in one long swallow. The hot, bitter liquid is a welcome jolt to my system.
“How are you?” I ask, my gaze shifting from Clara to Liam.
“I’m good,” she says, grinning. “Just kicking Liam’s ass.”
“Hey, language,” we both say in unison.
“Oops,” she says, a mischievous smile playing on her lips. She turns back to the phone, her attention immediately recaptured by the game.
I walk into the kitchen, my mind still trying to process the scene I just witnessed. I pull out the ingredients for pancakes. The sizzle of the batter on the hot griddle fills the small space, the smell a comforting promise of a normal morning.
“Play on,” I hear Liam say to Clara. A moment later, he walks into the kitchen, his movements a little stiff, but otherwise looking remarkably better than he did a few hours ago. He’s still wearing his clothes from yesterday, but his expression is clearer.
“You have a pretty cool daughter,” he says, leaning against the counter, watching me flip a pancake.
A warmth spreads through my chest, a feeling I’ve come to recognize as paternal pride. I look over at Clara, her brow furrowed in concentration, her fingers flying across the screen.
“My greatest accomplishment,” I say, a genuine smile touching my lips.
Liam pours himself a cup of coffee. “You didn’t have to do all of that,” he says, his voice low. “Last night. I appreciate it.”
“It was no trouble at all,” I say, flipping another pancake. “I’ve been in a few bad spots myself. I get it.”
He nods, taking a sip of his coffee. “You’re a good man, Sheriff. Very noble.”
I let out a short, harsh laugh. “I’m anything but.”
“Clara told me she’s heading back to New York today,” he says, changing the subject.
I nod, a familiar pang of sadness hitting me. “Yeah. She has to go home. It’s her mom’s birthday.”
He nods. “I should probably get going then.”
“It’s too early,” I say, my mind already working. “I can give you some clean clothes. And we can drop off Clara together, since you two seem to have bonded.”
He hesitates for a moment, then nods, a look of relief washing over his face. “Okay. Thanks.”
“Don’t mention it,” I say, sliding a stack of pancakes onto a plate. It’s the least I can do. After all, we’re all just trying to navigate the mess, one pancake at a time.