Chapter 5
CHAPTER FIVE
KNOX
A mos’s letter burns a hole in my pocket as I take my turn behind the bar during lunch. The itch to open it has been nagging at me all week. The fact that I haven’t is a testament to my willpower, but I’m close to cracking under the pressure.
Griff made it clear that he doesn’t want to know what dear old Amos has to say, and I can’t blame him.
When Amos went away for killing our girlfriend, we felt that betrayal deeply.
Then, the way the whole town treated us afterward was as if we had killed Scarlett ourselves, only added to our grief.
Everyone seemed like they were ready to gather their pitchforks and lynch us. I know they wanted to.
“Knox, I want another,” Benny demands.
“That’s his fifth, Montgomery. You should have cut him off by now,” Sheriff Jackson comments from a few stools down from Benny.
“Mind your own damn business, Sheriff,” Benny bites back.
Lunchtime at The Wandering Raven is busy. When there’s only one other restaurant in town, people are bound to find somewhere else to go. It’s a big reason why Griff and I extended operating hours when we took over. That, and Camden was asking for more shifts.
So now, during lunch, about half of our tables are full. Music drifts from the jukebox as Griff and I take turns waiting tables and bartending while Camden cooks in the kitchen. I don’t know how he does it all on his own back there, but he does, and he likes it.
Kaitlyn LeBlanc, Nicole Harlow, and Heather Davis all sit together at the four-top closest to the bar.
They’re in here almost every day, tugging their low-cut shirts down and pushing their elbows together.
Griff and I made a pact back in high school that we would never go there with any of them.
And the fact that they’re all married now makes them a big “no go” zone.
Most of the hoity toity townsfolk who deem my brother and me murderers by association don’t bother to come here.
Unfortunately, we don’t have a screening process for everyone else.
My vote is still to kick out anyone who has ever looked down their nose at us, but Griff makes a good argument when he reminds me that would mean we won’t get much business.
So, no matter how badly I want to punch Sheriff Clayton Jackson, he gets to stay… for now.
Filling Benny’s glass, I answer, “Actually, it’s his third. Are you volunteering to drive him home, Sheriff?”
Sheriff Jackson stammers, “What? I—Uhh?—”
“Heaven forbid you do your damn job for once,” I murmur under my breath.
Sheriff Jackson pounds his fist on the bar. “Excuse me? What was that, boy?”
Griffin is by my side, stepping in between us before I can respond. “Hey, Sheriff. I’m sure my brother didn’t mean anything by it.”
Griffin has always been the one to try and keep me out of trouble. We’ve gotten into our fair share of fights since Amos was locked up. Griffin grew tired of always having to defend himself, so I’ve taken up that mantle. But he always steps in to diffuse the situation before shit can go down.
“Yeah, I’ll bet,” Sheriff replies with little conviction. “You tell Knox he needs to get his head on straight and remember who it was who stopped that group all those years ago from burning your house down.”
Sheriff Jackson goes back to his burger and fries while Griffin pushes me through the kitchen door. Camden ignores us as Griff gives me what he thinks is a stern talking to.
Griffin rests his hands on his hips. “Seriously, Knox? What the hell?”
“I don’t care. Acting like he was our savior when Frank and his buddies dragged us out of bed in the middle of the night, it’s bullshit. Jackson showed up after they had beaten us bloody. I still have the scars,” I bluster and point to my face.
That night wasn’t a pretty one. Before we were put in foster care, Frank decided he wanted to take the law into his own hands.
“He’s an ass. I know. But you can’t start a fight with the goddamn sheriff.” Griffin sighs, shaking his head. “Ignore him. He’s just pissy because we don’t let him go downstairs.”
Griff is right. We may not be selective about who comes into the bar, but we are very exclusive when it comes to downstairs. And although Sheriff Jackson can’t prove that our basement even exists, he’s always trying to get himself an invite.
“Fine,” I agree reluctantly.
Before I can get back to bartending, Griff stops me. “Oh, and I hired someone. She starts tonight.”
I whirl on him quickly. “What? And you didn’t tell me about it?”
“Relax, I vetted her.” Griffin makes a pacifying gesture with his hands.
Narrowing my eyes, I inquire further. “Vetted how?”
Griffin makes an annoyed face. “Not like that!” Then he smirks. “Yet.”
“No. No, no, no. We do not need a sexual harassment charge brought up against you. That’ll give Sheriff Jackson exactly what he wants.”
“I make no promises,” Griffin singsongs.
Sighing, I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Did you at least check her references or employment history?”
“Yeah, they’re there,” he says matter-of-factly.
“I mean, did you call them?”
“Why would I do that?”
If it wouldn’t hurt, I’d facepalm myself right now. “To make sure she’s not a criminal and going to rob us or something.”
“But we’re criminals. If she has a record, then we’re all in good company.” He shrugs a shoulder.
“Oh my God…” Blinking, I shake my head.
I swear if we didn’t share a womb…
“After the rush, we’re calling,” I demand. “Do you have her application or resume?”
“In the office.”
I nod in parting and return to the bar. Many of the patrons have cleared out, leaving money on the tables to cover their bills, including the sheriff.
Good riddance.
Benny picks at the basket of fries I brought him earlier. “Ya gotta be careful, kid. He ain’t gonna tolerate that disrespect for long.”
Ignoring his warning, I begin bussing the empty dishes. After dropping off my second load in the kitchen, Kaitlyn waves me down.
“Hey, Knox! We’re ready for our check.” She gives her shoulders an extra shimmy.
I know she thinks she’s tempting me, but it’s the opposite.
Twenty-two years ago, in high school, Kaitlyn was one of the people leading the charge on the “Hate the Montgomery Twins” campaign, which is part of the reason Griff and I won’t touch her or her friends. And she doesn’t know that we know.
Instead of replying, I go to the register and print out their receipt.
When I hand her the scrap of paper, she purposefully runs her fingers down my wrist and palm.
I keep my face blank, letting her know she has no effect on me, but I know it won’t deter her.
She’ll be back tomorrow with her little posse and do the same thing all over again.
When the bar is finally clear except for Benny, I meet Griffin in our office. He has the woman’s resume in his hand and begins dialing the phone number for a place called Abstract Dreams.
There are only two rings before someone picks up on the other end. “Abstract Dreams. This is Dahlia. How can I help you?”
“Hi, Dahlia. This is Griffin Montgomery. I’m calling because Raven Henry put Abstract Dreams down as her last place of employment. I was wondering if you could tell me a bit about her as an employee.”
“Oh, yeah. Raven. Love that woman,” Dahlia dramatically replies. “She was a star employee. It was tough losing her, but she wanted a fresh start. She’s great with customer service and a hard worker.”
Griffin shoots me a smug smile.
I roll my eyes and butt into the conversation. “Is there anything we should be aware of when it comes to Raven?”
“Oh, hi, second person. Umm…No. Raven is a good person with a good heart. She’s just wanting to start over.”
“Okay, thank you.”
“No problem! Bye!”
I press the end call button without returning her sentiments.
“See?” Griffin puffs up his chest.
“Not so fast. One good reference doesn’t mean shit. Call the next one on the list,” I instruct.
Griffin punches in the phone number for the next place. Somewhere called Sal’s Pizzeria.
“Sal’s Pizza. This is Alma. How may I take your order?” The female voice has a Hispanic accent.
“Hi, Alma. This is Griffin Montgomery. We’re calling about Raven Henry,” Griffin greets, annoyed that I’m making him go through this again.
“Ah, sí , sí . We love Raven. Miss her so much. She was a fantastic worker,” Alma responds.
“Do you know why she left your employment?” I butt in.
“Oh, sí . She was offered more money at another job,” Alma answers mournfully.
“That doesn’t show loyalty,” I whisper to Griffin.
“So what?” he whispers back. Turning back to the phone, he thanks Alma for her time, and they say their goodbyes. “See? She checks out.”
I fold my arms and grumble, “We’ll see.”
“Oh, yes, we will,” Griffin comments slyly.
“You better not,” I warn him.
Griffin exits our office but turns to remark, “Whatever you say.”
Griffin’s ill-timed surprise had me feeling like I wanted to crawl out of my skin, so I hopped on my motorcycle and went for a short ride. But instead of heading back to The Wandering Raven, I went home for a brief round with the punching bag.
Our house is located just outside of town. It’s on a street where there are only a few houses, and the space between each house is enough so it doesn’t feel like I’m living on top of my neighbors. It’s the second house on the right. The left side of the street is a field owned by a local farmer.
After Griffin and I tore down the house we grew up in, we bought this one.
It’s two stories with two spacious bedrooms and two and a half bathrooms. I don’t mind sharing things with Griffin, but we both need our own space.
The first floor is simple in my opinion.
It has everything we need. Kitchen, half bathroom, living room, and an attached garage.
The second floor has both of our bedrooms and individual bathrooms.
Once I’m showered and ready to head back to the bar, I head into the garage where I parked my bike and put my helmet on. I want to get there before our new employee does.
Griffin would say that I’m hiding. He could shout it from the rooftops, but that doesn’t make it true.
Walking my motorcycle out to the driveway before I start it, I’m caught by surprise when a football hits the side of my helmet.
What the…
I set my bike on the kickstand and remove my helmet, bending down to pick up the football.
It doesn’t take me long to find out where it came from.
A kid stands on the grass between my house and the next.
I can’t tell how old he is, but he stands around four and a half feet tall.
His big brown eyes are bulging, and his mouth hangs open.
But it’s the thin line of healed skin running down his cheek that has my attention. I catch myself reaching for the scars on my own face, but I stop myself. A heaviness weighs down on my shoulders as I have difficulty swallowing.
Lifting the football in my hand, I ask, “This yours?”
He doesn’t blink as he bobs his head.
“Here ya go.” Keeping the laces on top, I pull the ball back behind my head. As I step forward with one foot, I send the ball flying forward with just enough force for the ball to reach the kid.
The boy holds his hands out awkwardly, trying to catch the ball. But it falls to the ground next to him. He looks down at it with sagging shoulders.
“What’s your name, Bud?”
He purses his lips as he studies me closely. I know the moment he finds my own scars because his eyes widen again, but it’s brief. “My mom says I shouldn’t talk to strangers.”
“Your mom is right, but I think we’re neighbors. This is my house.” I use my thumb to point over my shoulder, then point to the first house on the street. “And I’m guessing that one is yours.”
He nods, confirming my conjecture.
“That makes us neighbors. I’m Knox.” I relax my posture to seem less intimidating.
“Noah,” he replies.
“It’s nice to meet you, Noah. Do you know how to throw a football?”
He winces and answers in a weak voice. “No.”
“Maybe your dad or brother could teach you,” I suggest.
“I don’t have a dad or a brother. It’s just me and my mom.” He hangs his head.
Swallowing down the wave of emotion that builds in my throat, words come flying out of my mouth. “I could teach you if you want.”
“Really?” Noah bounces on his tiptoes.
“Absolutely,” I confirm.
Hells bells. What am I doing? I don’t know the first thing about kids. This might even be the first time I’ve ever talked to one. But there’s something about Noah that hits me in the gut, and it’s not just the scar.
“Thanks, Mr. Knox!” He picks up the ball and runs straight to me.
“Just call me Knox. The mister part isn’t necessary.”
“Okay…Knox,” he responds, trying out my name without the title.
I hold my hand out for the football, and he eagerly hands it over.
I show him how to hold the football and explain throwing and catching.
He moves a few yards away, and we practice throwing the ball back and forth.
On Noah’s first throw, the football wobbles and he doesn’t put enough strength behind it, causing the ball to fall short.
Then he doesn’t catch it when I throw the football back.
I encourage him to keep trying and give him more pointers, and after a few minutes, he’s already showing signs of improvement.
Noah adjusts the ball in his hands, getting ready to throw it again. “How do you know so much about football?” He launches it into the air; this time, the ball actually makes it all the way to me.
I catch it in my hands and only spend a moment readying myself to throw. “You’re in Texas, Bud. If nothing else, we know two things: barbecue and football.” I throw the ball back, and it bounces a couple of times in Noah’s arms before he finally catches it.
When Noah realizes he caught the ball, he holds the ball over his head and jumps up and down. “Did you see that? I did it! I caught it!”
Celebrating with him, I clap my hands. “I saw! Good job, Bud! You’ll give CJ Stroud a run for his money in no time.”
He stops jumping and tilts his head. “Who’s that?”
“He’s a quarterback.”
Noah frowns. “What’s that?”
That same emotion from earlier tries to come back tenfold, but I hold it back. Another swallow and I have myself under control again. I glance at my phone, checking the time. “We can go over all that stuff next time. I have to head to work.”
Noah’s smile is huge. “We’re gonna do this again?”
“Of course,” I promise. Grabbing my helmet off the seat, I swing my leg over my motorcycle. “Keep practicing.” My helmet slides on my head, and I start up the engine.
“I will!” he shouts over the noise.
I give him a salute and set off down the road.
Memories flood my consciousness, sending a pang through my chest. They flash through my mind like the world’s worst movie.
I don’t want to remember. But my desire is just wishful thinking.