Chapter 3
Randy the Rooster
? What’s your country song - Thomas Rhett
Liam
“Time to go, Aiden. Miss Ivy’s waiting to take you to school.”
“One second. I have to feed Jerry.”
Fucking Jerry.
The lop-eared bunny is a new addition to the Murphy household, and I’ve regretted it every day since. Aiden is hyper-focused on the little white fluff ball, and the fucker has already played dead twice. I thought I was going to have to host a goddamn bunny funeral last week.
“If you’re not in the car in five, Ivy won’t have time to stop for donuts.”
That seems to light a fire under his ass. Aiden darts past me with his jacket hanging off one arm and his backpack dragging behind.
As I check the back seat to make sure he’s buckled in, Rylin waves at me from the middle seat. “Hi, Uncle Liam!”
“Hey, Ry Ry.” I return the gesture and lean through the front passenger window. “Thanks for this, Ivy. I know it’s not exactly on your way.”
“It’s no problem. I remember what it was like to be a single parent. I’ll be by the bar on Friday night, and you can pay me back with a margarita. I have a feeling I’m going to need it.”
“You got it.” I reach through the back and ruffle Aiden’s hair. “I’ll see you after school. Love you, buddy.”
“Love you, Dad.”
Aiden’s in third grade now, and he’s thriving.
It took us a while to adjust to our new normal, but therapy has been a huge help.
After about a year, he stopped asking when his mom was coming back, but her absence still affects him.
Last week, they sent home the flyer for Muffins with Mom day at school.
I’ll never forget the look on his face when he crumpled it up and threw it in the trash.
Despite how far he’s come in the last five years, some wounds might never fully heal.
I grab my keys off the hook by the door and head out to the bar. While my shift doesn’t start until noon, I told Cade I’d be here for the delivery while he’s on vacation with his family.
Cade Brooks is one of my best friends and the owner of The Ridge, the bar I work at part-time. I also volunteer at the fire station, but I’m waiting for the results of my evals for a potential career position. Between working two jobs and being a single dad, I barely have a spare moment to myself.
I’m lucky to have a great group of friends who won't hesitate to help out when needed, but Aiden is my responsibility, and I hate having to ask them for anything. A full-time position at the fire station would give me more freedom and flexibility.
When I arrive at the bar, the delivery truck is already backed up in the lot, ready to unload.
I unlock the doors and the guys get to work while I busy myself with inventory.
Once that’s taken care of and the bar is ready for opening, there’s nothing left for me to do but scroll mindlessly on my phone.
I swipe past another cat video as my news alert goes off—the one I set up for a specific purpose. I swipe over to the news article, and heart-stopping blue eyes stare back at me. The headline reads: “Ruby Lynn Hayes Parts Ways with Label.”
Country Music Darling, Ruby Lynn Hayes, has officially ended her contract with C a story that fucked up could never stay a secret for long.
When I approached Breanna’s family for help with Aiden, they hightailed it out of Oak Ridge without sparing their grandson a second glance.
It’s not Bree I’m thinking of now, though.
If I’m being honest, I didn’t think much of her then, either.
She was a failed distraction to get my mind off someone else—someone completely off-limits.
Miles takes a long pull of his beer and sets it back down, picking at the label.
I’m about to strike up a conversation to fill the awkward silence when a strange man walks into the bar.
He appears to be in his fifties with a receding hairline and a pair of outdated, thick wire-frame glasses perched on his bulbous nose.
He has the look of someone I’d throw out of this bar on a Saturday night for getting too handsy with the women—real serial killer vibes.
I don’t like to make assumptions, but after working in a bar for so long, you learn to spot the predators.
“Afternoon, gentlemen. You wouldn’t happen to be able to point me in the direction of Whispering Oaks Ranch, would you?” His accent is distinctly midwestern, lacking any hint of the drawl that’s common around here. It immediately sets me on edge.
Miles and I exchange a look,.
“Mr… uh…” Miles’s eyes narrow. “I didn’t catch your name. Can I ask what business you have with the Hayes family?”
He slides onto the stool next to Miles and holds out his hand in greeting. “Richard Newman. You can call me Ricky. I’m a reporter out of Chicago.”
I cross my arms over my chest. I’m an imposing figure on a good day, and I know how to play it up when I need to. “What does a reporter out of Chicago want with ranchers in Kentucky?”
Ricky’s eyes flit around the empty bar, a bead of sweat dripping down his forehead. Welcome to Kentucky, where the summers are hotter than hell. If you ask around, they’ll tell you it’s not the heat that gets you, it’s the humidity.
Ricky’s skittish, and I don’t think the sweat has a damn thing to do with the climate difference between here and Chicago.
“Don’t play dumb. As you well know, the ranch is owned by the family of Ruby Lynn Hayes, and I’d like to have a chat with her about her record label.”
And there it is—the truth.
“Not going to happen. We don’t appreciate outsiders sticking their noses where they don’t belong. If Ruby wanted to speak to the press, she would, but I doubt she’d be open to an interview. It’s probably best if you drive yourself back to Chicago.”
“We’ll see about that.” He slips off the stool, muttering something about this ‘shithole town.’
Before he can make it to the door, Miles stops him.
“Ah, hell. He looks like a kicked puppy. Maybe we should throw him a bone.” There’s an upward tilt to Miles’s lips.
I’ll play along, see where he’s going with this. “Fine. But if the Hayes’ bring this down on me, I won’t hesitate to throw your ass under the bus, Barlow.”
“Yeah, yeah. Look. Dicky, was it?”
“It’s Ricky.”
“Right. Dick. If you pull back onto Main Street, turn right, then head straight until you hit the curve in the road. Keep going until you get to the water tower…”
Ricky holds up his hands. “Wait, wait. Let me write this down.” He pulls out a notepad and scribbles. “Right at the water tower…”
Miles continues. “You’ll get to a dirt road. Follow it all the way down until you see a rooster statue made of old hubcaps and kitchen utensils and shit.”
I scrub one hand over my mouth, trying to contain my laughter, my gaze narrowed on Miles while Rick continues writing furiously.
“You getting all this, Dicky?” Miles asks.
“Rooster. Got it.”
Miles nods. “Turn left at Randy the Rooster, and you’ll see the long gravel drive. Follow it as far as you can go and you’ll pull up just outside the big barn at Whispering Oaks Ranch.”