Because somewhere across the high plains, Margot Kowalski was watching, and he didn’t want to let her down.
When he got back to his hotel room, he was still riding the high. He dialed her number as soon as he dropped his bag, and she didn’t answer. No big deal. They’d connect soon. He took a shower and came back. Still nothing. He turned on the TV and mindlessly clicked until he found a sports channel.
“Hellions showed some of their old fire tonight, didn’t they, Bob?” a bald commentator in a suit was saying to another guy behind the desk.
“They sure did.”
“Patch Donnelly was on point tonight. Did you see that behind-the-back save?”
“Snatched it out of thin air. That’s the Donnelly who wins championships.”
“Guess that’s the questions for what’s left of the season. Will the Hellions be getting that guy from tonight or the one who gets into bar fights.”
Patch clicked off the television.
He stared at the ceiling without blinking until his eyes burned, until his vision distorted and blurred.
It had been two hours since the end of the game. If Margot hadn’t called him by now, she wasn’t calling him period.
He turned off the phone and the light, rolled over and punched the pillow twice. Sleep didn’t come easily, but eventually the adrenaline of the night faded and sleep took hold.
He was back in the bar, The Jury Room, which wasn’t far from the courthouse. It had been the anniversary of Ma’s death, a night that he alone in the world remembered or mourned, a night when he thought about the fucking prick who still was out there sucking air, the one who’d put a bullet in her head. The one who’d never been apprehended no matter how much Patch had spent on private investigators.
Some shadows were too dark to penetrate.
He’d seen the girls right away. They were far too young to be there. No doubt the bouncer turned a blind eye to their fake IDs because they were beautiful. And he wasn’t the only one who noticed.
He’d leaned against the bar, sipping his single malt as a man in a suit began to case them.
First it was a nod. A smile.
Neither looked a day over nineteen. But they were harmless, having fun, dancing, sipping a cocktail, not getting too stupid.
Patch decided to keep an eye on them from a safe distance. He wasn’t interested, but the interest he saw on the other men disquieted him.
He’d seen the same looks on the men who’d come to see his mother. The hunger. The predatory gleam.
The blonde girl went to the bathroom, wobbling in heels she might have stolen from her mother’s closet. While she was gone, the man in the navy pinstriped suit sidled closer to the redhead. She smiled at whatever he said, but it was stiff, polite. She didn’t want to talk to him and Patch didn’t blame her.
Hell, the man was old enough to be her father.
That’s when he saw it happen. It was fast. So fast he knew with sickening surety that this wasn’t the first time it had happened.
As the man spoke, he removed a small paper envelope from his trouser pocket and sprinkled something in the blonde girl’s drink.
For a moment Patch wanted to believe he’d made it up. After all, this was a night that lent itself to dark thoughts. But the churning in his gut was no lie. This had happened. Make no mistake. And the only question he could think as the world turned red was how bad was this shithead going to pay?
He sauntered over, just as the blonde got back.
“Hey, I know you,” she grinned, her smile sunshine bright.
Unlike the suit who was as old as their dad, he guessed he was in the demographic they’d come to seek. An older guy. Twenty-something. But not too old.
The redhead turned over one shoulder and let out a pleased gasp. “No way. Patch Donnelly?”
“Can we get your autograph?”
“Or a selfie?”
