Beckett was yelling at some big lumberjack type, trying to push the poor guy off what was usually Beckett’s barstool—despite the fact that there were plenty of other seats to choose from.
Right as I ran up, the gentle giant held up his palms and stepped away from trouble.“Chair’s all yours, Padre.”
Beckett snarled at the moniker and started climbing onto the stool while trying to yank the priest’s collar from around his neck. After nearly falling to the floor, Beckett finally figured out that he could only do one at a time. It was telling, I thought, that he took off the collar first.
“Buddy, have you been drinking?”
“No. That’s why I’m here.” He tapped the bar twice. “Jameson, Joel. Make it a double.”
While Beckett had never been the typical preacher type, he normally preferred to nurse a dark ale, and he rarely came in during normal business hours.
“Wanna talk about it?” I asked, pouring and then sliding the tumbler across the bar.
Beckett sighed and knocked back the strong drink like it was sweet tea. “The DeWitts are trying to take the Meeting House.”
I grimaced. The Meeting House was Beckett’s community church, and he and the DeWitt family had a long-standing feud that went far beyond his confrontations with their asshole son. This wasn’t the first time they’d tried to get the church property tied up in some legal issue.
“Tell me.”
“They want to get the location certified as a historic landmark—because some missionary wiped his ass in the vicinity of the area two hundred years ago—so they can take down my building and put some cabin from East Texas into the spot.”
To be fair, the church building was held together with asbestos and a prayer and was probably coming down in the next couple of years anyway. I kept that to myself, though.
Thing was, the DeWitts always got what they wanted because their family was the first to settle along the river here. I mean, the Indigenous nations in the area might have something to say about that, but… Yeah. The locals loved to romanticize their historical ties, and the DeWitts were fucking Jane Austen when it came to their family’s“contributions.”
Beckett knocked the tumbler on the bar. “Another.”
I grabbed a pint glass and filled it with water. “Down this first, and don’t give me any shit about it, either. You know Sheriff Daddy’s looking for an excuse to bring you in.”
“Sheriff Daddy?” Tristan asked.
I pulled him in close, kissing his temple, smelling myself on him.Don’t get hard, don’t get hard, don’t get hard.“Eh. It’s not as fun or queer as it sounds. Sheriff Cavanaugh is our buddy Hendrix’s father. He’s also Ozzie’s uncle.”
Ozzie held up his middle finger, which about covered my feelings on the situation as well.
“Eww. Sorry, Oz.” Tristan stuck out his talented tongue, and my eyes may have lingered on it a second or two longer than was totally necessary.
Beckett rolled his eyes and took up the story. “Chase DeWitt made Hen’s life a living hell after he discovered Hen making out with a guy at the park.”
“I can’t believe y’all went to school withtheHendrix Cavanaugh.”
Beckett scrunched his nose. “It’s weird to think of him as Hendrix Cavanaugh, punk god extraordinaire, when I once saw him interrupt a football game with a series of backflips across the entire field in full Coyote mascot attire.”
Ozzie laughed. “He threw up in the coyote head right as he hit the endzone. He got in so much trouble. Worse, because they couldn’t afford another mascot costume, he had to keep using it. Said he never could get the smell of vomit out of there.”
“So, what happened after Chase saw Hendrix—Hen—making out with the guy?” Tristan asked.
“Oh, he couldn’t wait to tell his dad what he’d discovered.” Beckett took a sip of water, snarled at it, then shook his head. “Hen left town not too much later, and Sheriff Cavanaugh’s had a hate-on ever since for anyone he deemed part of his son’s downfall.”
Just then, a fraternity bro took the opportunity to sit next to Beckett, nearly knocking him off the chair.
“Hey, asshole. We’ve got something going on here. Move it down the bar,” Tristan snapped at him.
Frat bro took offense and leaned over the bar. “The fuck’s your problem, man?”
Beckett, Ozzie, and I exchanged a look, more than ready to get into it, but the guy must’ve seen something in our faces. He backed up, smartly deciding to move to the other end of the bar.
Right as Beckett looked like he was going to devolve into a gray cloud, the sleigh bells jingled. The mood shifted the second we recognized the tall, lumbering guy in the shop-themed medical mask poking his head around the door.
