Chapter 16
Chapter Sixteen
DREW
F riday passes much more peacefully than the rest of the week—albeit with plenty of longing thoughts about Tatum I’m still not sure how to control—and I meet my brother at Wren’s place for Operation Turkey Take Down a little after five. He’s been on the hunt since three and hasn’t heard a single cluck or spotted any sign of our prey.
“He’s definitely hiding from us, the little fucker,” my brother whispers from our hiding place behind the bushes beside Wren’s front porch. “Wren’s right. I think he’s afraid of men.”
“Then we find some way to flush him out,” I say, rubbing my gloved hands together.
It’s just above freezing, with the temperature falling fast now that the sun’s beginning to set. This isn’t the way I thought I’d be starting my Friday night—Sarah Beth and I were supposed to go over to my mom’s house for dinner—but I ended up sending Sarah alone so I could help Barrett stake out Wren’s front yard.
He’s as eager to put an end to the Kyle problem as I am. Wren’s been late to work three times in the past two weeks, which isn’t good for keeping things running smoothly at his office.
As for me, this is about vengeance. Fuck with my nanny and you fuck with me, motherclucker. The fact that Tatum feels like so much more than my nanny is something, again, that I try not to think about…
“Wren should be back soon, right?” I ask, a plan forming. “Maybe if we move our cars and sneak back to hide in the bushes again before she gets home, Kyle will attack her, and we can jump out and bag him.”
Barrett and I both have large burlap sacks, rope, and tasers, since Wren’s still insisting Kyle be removed humanely. She only shoots her shotgun into the air to scare the bird and made Barrett and I both promise to leave our hunting rifles at home tonight.
Barrett shakes his head, his dark brows still pinched in the middle. My older brother could be my twin except for those dark, bushy brows and the fact that his eyes are a deep blue. People in Bad Dog always say the McGuire genes run true, and they aren’t wrong. We all look like we were formed from the same Lego parts.
“Nope,” he says. “Wren was headed to Tatum’s place after work.”
My ears perk up at the mention of Tatum’s name. I shouldn’t be nosy about what she’s doing with her time off, but I can’t help asking, “Yeah? Why?”
Barrett shrugs. “They were talking about blowing up someone’s hair before they went out. Sounded dangerous, but I figured it was a woman thing, and I shouldn’t put my two cents in.”
I arch a brow his way. “A blow out, you mean? Even I know what that is. It’s when they get their hair straightened.”
He grunts. “Good to know. Do you see something? Over there? Across the street at the edge of the woods?”
I glance over, studying the leafless trees above the thin snow cover. “No.” I turn back to my brother. “How do you know so little about women? Literally all of your patients and staff are women. And I know you’re single now, but you were married for five years.”
His brows pinch even tighter. “I don’t know. Maybe I was as shitty a husband as Lane said I was.”
“Stop it,” I say. “You weren’t a shitty husband. You and Lane were just…different.”
He grunts again. “She’s getting remarried. In the spring. Sent me an invite. It’s going to be at that vineyard on the other side of the lake.”
I exhale. “Wow. Are you going to go?”
“I don’t know. We’re still friends. It hasn’t been anything more in a long time, but…”
“But it might still be hard to watch her promise to love and cherish another man until death do them part,” I finish. “I get it.”
“Would it be hard for you to see Nicky get remarried?” he asks.
I snort. “Hell, no. But it’s different. She abandoned our daughter. I’m too angry about that for any other feelings to have a chance.”
“Sarah Beth will be okay. She’s got the best dad I know,” he says, in a rare display of softness.
Barrett is a good guy, with a great bedside manner, but he’s reserved. Controlled. Even with family, he plays his cards close to his chest.
“Thanks,” I say. “I try. I just hope it will be enough.” I briefly relay what Carrie Cummings said to Sarah Beth about not having a mother yesterday, summoning an angry look from my brother.
“What kind of heartless bitch says something like that to a little girl?” he asks.
“I know. She’s the worst,” I agree. “But Tatum and I talked it through with Sarah Beth after and she seemed okay. I just hope she never blames herself for Nicky taking off the way she did.”
“She won’t. We won’t let her,” Barrett says, making difficult things seem simple, the way he always does. It’s one of his best, and worst, qualities. He sighs. “I don’t think we’re going to get anywhere like this. I need to think of something else. Some kind of bait to lure him out.”
“Other than Wren?” I ask.
He nods. “I promised I’d take care of this for her before she got home tomorrow morning.”
“She’s staying over at Tatum’s place?” I ask, once again curious about things I shouldn’t be curious about. But I’m having a hell of a time moving Tatum to the “just friends” category in my mind. Hopefully next week we’ll be able to spend more time apart, and things will get easier. Though the thought of not seeing her isn’t a happy making one. Not one fucking bit.
“Yeah.” Barrett rises from his squatting position behind the bushes. “They’re going dancing at that honky-tonk outside of town and staying at Tatum’s after. Probably a good idea they stick together. I’ve heard that place can get a little rough late at night.”
I stand next to him, my pulse picking up. “You mean Bubba Jump’s? The bar where that guy got stabbed by a biker a few weeks ago?”
“I think so,” he says, starting toward his car in the fading light.
“What the hell, Barrett?” I ask. “Did you tell Wren it was dangerous? That she and Tatum should find somewhere else to go?”
He glances back at me like I’m the crazy one. “No. I figured it was none of my business. I doubt they’re going to stay late enough to get into trouble anyway. And it was a man who got stabbed, not a woman.”
I shake my head. “Your brain.”
“What about it?”
“I don’t get the way it works. At all.”
“The guy didn’t die,” he adds, continuing to miss the point.
“But it’s still dangerous. That wasn’t the first time someone got hurt there.” He stares at me blankly until I add, “Imagine you and Lane were still married and she wanted to go dancing there with her friends. Without you. With her hair looking amazing and a really short skirt and a top that shows off her cleavage.”
Understanding flickers in his eyes. “Wren isn’t the kind to show off her cleavage. I’m not even sure she has cleavage.”
I roll my eyes. “Of course, she does, Barrett. And she and Tatum are both drop-dead fucking gorgeous. They’re going to walk into that bar, and it’ll be like someone dumped a bucket of chum in the shark tank.” I pull out my phone, leaning against my car as I pull up Tatum’s contact information.
I hesitate for a second, remembering how irritated she was when I treated her like my little sister on Wednesday with Peter. But this isn’t the same thing, at all. I’m truly concerned about her safety and would be sending this text even if it were a guy friend of mine who was going dancing tonight. I might not be as worried, but I’d still be giving him a heads up.
“I’m going to text Tatum,” I continue, “Give her a heads up and the name of a few places that would be safer. Riff’s downtown has dancing on Fridays, too, if that’s what they’re looking for.”
I shoot off the text and continue to stare at my phone, waiting for a reply. Tatum and I don’t text that often, but she’s always gotten back to me quickly.
I wait, huddling deeper into my coat as a cold wind whips across Wren’s yard.
“Call her,” Barrett says, turning up the collar on his jacket. “Faster that way.”
“Only monsters call instead of text their employees when they’re off the clock. Monsters and old people.”
Barrett rolls his eyes. “Fine, I’ll call Wren. I give zero shits about playing it cool.”
Before I can explain to him that this isn’t about playing it cool—it’s about respecting Tatum’s privacy—he has his phone to his ear. “It’s ringing,” he informs me.
“I can hear it,” I say dryly.
The phone rings four times and then Wren’s voice comes on the line, saying she isn’t available right now, but to please leave a message.
Barrett scowls at the phone as if it’s personally offended him before saying after the beep, “Wren, it’s Barrett. Call me when you get this. The turkey’s still hiding, and you shouldn’t go to that club tonight. It’s dangerous. Go somewhere else instead. I’m trying to find something to bait a trap for Kyle. Text you an update later.”
He ends the call and starts back toward his truck, as if that wasn’t the worst message ever.
“What was that?” I ask.
He turns over his shoulder. “What was what?”
“You just ordered her around like she’s your employee and hung up?”
“She is my employee,” he says, looking mystified.
“Not after hours she’s not,” I say.
Barrett waves a dismissive hand. “It’s fine. Wren doesn’t care. And she’ll listen. She always listens to me. I’m like her big brother.” I want to roll my eyes, but considering I was acting much the same way two nights ago, I really don’t have any room to judge him. “Now come help me find bait,” he continues. “If we hurry, we might be able to make it the feed store before they close. They carry corn feed and turkey calls in season. Might be a little early, but we can see what they’ve got in stock.”
“Fine, but I’m going to keep trying to reach Tatum,” I say, opening my car door. “Just in case Wren misses your message. Or decides you’re a bossy jerk who orders her around like a child and she’s going to go make out with bikers at the honky-tonk just to spite you.”
Barrett casts me an amused look. “You really don’t know Wren very well, do you?”
It’s more like Barrett doesn’t realize Wren isn’t our sister’s shy little friend from middle school anymore. Wren’s the kind of woman who walks into a “joined at the crotch” situation and handles it with professionalism and a smartass sense of humor. But I’ve learned to pick my battles with Barrett. My brother gets these blind spots, places where he can’t see the forest for the trees, and where Wren is concerned, he clearly has a big one.
“I’ll meet you at the feed store,” I say. “I’m going to stop and get a coffee on the way. You want one?”
“Sure. Black, two sugars,” he says, getting into his truck and pulling out of the driveway.
I swing by the coffee shop drive-through, checking my phone while I’m waiting for the barista, but there’s still no reply from Tatum. I check it again outside the feed store and a third time after Barrett locates the last dusty turkey call on the shelf and we’re waiting in line to pay. But there’s still nothing, which is unusual enough that I step outside and call Tatum, after all.
As I wait for her to answer, I mentally compose an apology for bothering her after hours and sticking my nose into her business, but the words die on my lips as an automated message tells me the number I’m calling has a voice mailbox that’s full.
I end the call and glare at my cell, telling myself I can’t drive by her place. That would be weird and intrusive. Very big brother-y in that way she doesn’t like.
Barrett emerges from the feed store to find me frowning and smiles, “You’re going to stalk them, aren’t you? Just like Mom stalked you in high school, crashing all your keg parties in the woods.”
I scowl as I stuff my phone back in my pocket. “I’m not going to stalk. I’m going to perform a welfare check on my employee, who is new in town, and might not know how to keep herself safe in the wilds of Minnesota.”
Barrett snorts. “Right. Stalk away, Mr. Stalky. But hurry back. My gut says Kyle is going to be a two-person job. We’re going to need one to chase and one to intercept and capture.”
“Then come with me,” I say, inspiration striking. “We’ll check on Wren and Tatum together, present a united front, and then take care of Kyle. No sense waiting around in the cold for an hour without me.”
My brother smirks. “Right. And you look less crazy if I’m there, too.”
“Might have crossed my mind,” I admit.
He laughs. “Fine. Let’s go. But if they tell us to mind our own business and get out of their blow ups, I’m blaming you.”
I almost correct him—blow out not blow up—but decide it isn’t worth it. Barrett only remembers things he’s interested in, and feminine grooming practices aren’t anywhere on that list.
We drop my car at the house and load into Barrett’s truck, the better to argue about who should blow the seductive female turkey call and who should lurk in wait for Kyle with a taser and burlap bag and arrive at Tatum’s place by seven. The taco restaurant is hopping, but upstairs, the windows are dark, and Tatum doesn’t answer when I knock.
“Maybe they went to the bar already?” Barrett asks when I swing back into the truck.
I shake my head. “It’s too early. The music doesn’t start until eight. They must have gone somewhere else first. Do a drive through downtown and I’ll keep an eye out for their cars.”
Barrett complies—grumpily, as he’s now hungry and ready to take care of Kyle and get to Mom’s in time to score some leftovers—but there’s no sign of Wren or Tatum downtown.
“Maybe we should head over to Bubba Jump’s, then,” I say, still scanning both sides of the street, though we’ve been down this road twice. “Maybe they’re starting the music early tonight or something.”
“Maybe we should go take care of the problem we promised to take care of instead of inventing new ones,” Barrett says, pointing to the clock on the dashboard. “I was on call last night and delivered a baby at three a.m. this morning. I have about two hours of functionality left before I need to be in bed with a book and a mug of Sleepy Time tea.”
“Valid,” I mutter. “And I need to pick Sarah Beth up from Mom’s before it gets too late. Let’s go see what we can do about Kyle with the bait, and I’ll keep trying Tatum on her phone.”
But ninety minutes later, Kyle hasn’t responded to the scattered corn feed or the turkey call, Barrett is fading fast, my fingers and toes have gone numb, and Tatum still hasn’t replied to a single text.
My gut insisting something is wrong, I call my parents’ house. “Hey, Mom,” I say when she picks up. “Would it be okay for Sarah Beth to sleep there tonight, and I’ll come grab her first thing in the morning? I need to go check on a friend and am not sure I’ll be able to get back to your place before ten.”
“Of course,” Mom says. “We don’t have any big plans for tomorrow. I’ll get Sarah Beth set up in the guest bedroom and we’ll see you in the morning.”
“Thanks, Mom,” I say, smiling as Sarah Beth cheers, “Guest bedroom! I love the guest bedroom,” in the background.
“So which friend are you checking on?” Mom asks before I can end the call, proving her gossip-collecting instincts are still alive and well. “Not Harry, is it? You know I love Harry, but he’s got to get his act together. If you and your brothers keep rescuing him when he gets drunk and stuck in the mud in the middle of God knows where, he’s never going to learn.”
“The ground’s frozen, Mom,” I say. “No mud to get stuck in.”
“Is it Luke, then? Because he’s trouble, honey. He’s still got a chip on his shoulder about you winning the all-state wrestling championships your senior year of high school. He might act like he’s your friend, but I wouldn’t trust him as far as I can throw him.”
Rolling my eyes hard enough to make Barrett chuckle on the other side of the truck, I say, “I’ve got to go, Mom. I’ll fill you in later. Thanks for watching Sarah Beth.”
“Oh, that reminds me,” Mom says, lowering her voice. “Sarah Beth says the new nanny gave her this cell phone to play math games on this weekend, but I suspect that’s not entirely true. I don’t know a single twenty-year-old who can go two hours without her phone, let alone two days.”
“She’s twenty-eight,” I correct automatically. “But you’re right. I’ll see if I can get in touch with Tatum on her landline and ask her if that’s the truth.”
“Sounds good,” Mom says. “But don’t get too mad at Sarah Beth. You know how addictive these devices are. It’s hardly her fault that she can’t resist them. And at least she’s playing math games.”
I agree, ask her to give Sarah a big hug for me, and end the call. When I explain the phone situation to Barrett, he agrees to give Wren’s cell another try, but again, he’s sent right to voicemail. And by the time he taps the red button, he looks concerned, too.
“I’ll come with you to the bar,” he says, backing out of my driveway. “You might need backup and that coffee should be enough to keep me up for another hour or so.”
We drive back through town, past the lake and the shops and restaurants huddled on the shore, and out into the pitch black of rural Minnesota on a cloudy night.
I can’t see a thing outside the glow of the headlights.
It’s disconcerting and makes the bright, ten-foot-tall neon cowboy atop Bubba Jump’s seem even more garish in comparison. Barrett finds a parking spot at the back of the already packed lot, and we weave our way through rows of pick-ups, dirty mid-winter cars, and a long line of Harley Davidson bikes toward the entrance.
We spot Wren’s SUV on our way, easing my worry a little bit. Though the clientele does seem a tad rough, so far. Barrett fits in better in his jeans and sweater, but in my suit, I stand out like a sore thumb amidst the bikers, men in tight white t-shirts in defiance of the winter weather, and women with hair nearly as tall as the neon cowboy.
It takes another twenty minutes to navigate the line to get in, making me glad I don’t have to worry about hurrying back to town to pick up Sarah Beth. Just inside the door, the crowd at the bar is so loud, I can barely hear Barrett shout—“I see them.”—over the noise.
He points and I see them, too. Wren and Tatum are tearing it up on the dance floor in tiny minidresses, surrounded by five giant men in biker vests with rainbow bandanas tied around their foreheads. They look fine—happy and carefree—and for a second, I feel like an overprotective idiot.
A second later, all I can think about is how happy I am to see Tatum, and how right the world feels now that I know she’s safe.
And that’s it. I realize I can’t do this anymore. I just fucking can’t.
I have to talk to Tatum, but…maybe not right now. Not when she’s having fun and clearly isn’t expecting an emotional bombshell from her boss.
I’m considering asking Barrett if he wants to sneak out without making contact, in fact, when a tall guy with tattoos all over his bare arms and a bleached blond faux hawk pushes into the center of the group and grabs Wren around the waist, lifting her off her feet.
She’s clearly startled, but almost immediately begins pushing at the man’s chest and shouting something—presumably to be put down. Tatum starts toward the pair, fire in her eyes, but before she can say anything, the man spins away, carrying Wren with him.
I turn to Barrett to make a plan, but he’s already gone, charging through the crowd like a wrecking ball.