With a harsh sigh, he tapped the icon. He might be the weakest, the worst, of the Calvert men, but he was still a Calvert — and they did what they had to do.
Gene’s voice filled the small office space, made his heart fold up hard in his chest. “Let’s go to lunch today, son. Pick me up about eleven-fifteen.”
That was it — straightforward, authoritative, cut and dried, eleven-fifteen meaning eleven.
Rebellion stirred in Colt’s throat, hot and tight. He followed all the rules, but he made his own life, damn it.
And he owned his repercussions. Gene would have to live with that, too.
He opened a text, started to tap out a refusal because he had plans with Holly, but she was meeting Mona and Sue for lunch. He could join that, but hell, he really didn’t care what kind of flowers they had for the wedding. Andy was going to some lunch-and-learn shindig at Raley’s school, and Wally had gone to Tallahassee for a wood run.
His thumb hovered above the screen. Maybe he should just get it over with.
Yes, sir
He’d go, do his duty, keep the conversation on a surface level, follow the rules.
His chest and gut stayed taut the rest of the morning, drawing into constrictor knots as he pulled into Savannah Court a couple of minutes before eleven. The last time he’d done this had been that Friday morning before golf, before Gene had left him alone with Tick. A flicker of irrational anger licked at the base of his throat, twining about a flicker of memory, a door closing, muffling the sounds of a raucous party, a hand in the middle of his chest, pushing him to sit on the edge of a bed, a tongue between his lips, invading his mouth with too-sweet fruit and bitter rum.
Parked behind Louise’s baby-blue sedan, he slammed his truck door, harder than he meant to. He didn’t need this shit. He’d been fine, normal, for a whole damn month, and now it was alive in his head again.
He wanted to spit nails.
Instead, he squared his shoulders and strode to the side door. Gene’s tall and straight form filled the half window, the door swinging open before Colt had a chance to knock.
“What you know good, son?” A wide smile of welcome split Gene’s face, and Colt forced his own mouth into a semblance of a curve.
“It’s chilly outside.” The weather suited his mood, cloudy and damp, breezy and cold. He submitted to a back-slapping hug, refusing to let himself shrug off the tension left in its wake. Stepping back, he allowed himself to drag his hand through his hair. “Where’s Louise?”
“She went to lunch with Lenora.” Gene nudged him toward the driveway. A more genuine grin quirked at Colt’s lips. The man liked to eat on time and hated getting caught in the lunch rush.
Colt paused while Gene climbed into the passenger seat. The old man remained spry and active, but he was closer to eighty than seventy. Behind the wheel, he latched his seatbelt, ignoring the claustrophobic sensation pressing in on him, the fanciful nightmarish idea that Tick and the shadow of the past lurked in the empty backseat. He fired the engine, his thumb a little shaky.
Yeah, he was a messy shitshow for sure.
He cleared his throat and shifted to reverse. “What are you thinking you want to eat?”
“Barbecue sounds all right.” Gene’s steady gaze lingered on his face, leaving Colt grateful for the excuse to watch the road. Coney wasn’t Atlanta by any means, but he’d take what he could get. The time when he’d be across the table from Gene, forced to meet that inexorable gaze, would come soon enough.
His fingers closed tighter on the wheel, knuckles aching with the pressure. Why exactly were they even doing this?
Thankfully, Gene was a man of few words — usually the last word — and quiet hovered in the cab, broken by the hum of tires on the highway and muted Creedence Clearwater as Colt headed north toward the Hickory House.
Standing in line to order provided a few minutes further reprieve, with Gene fielding greetings from his various friends and acquaintances.
The hammer fell within moments of their settling at Gene’s favorite table in the back room, the low-ceilinged add-on bursting with ceramic pigs and sunflower curtains.
“Your grandma tells me congratulations are in order.” Gene sprinkled a single packet of sugar over the lemon and ice in his tea.
“Yes, sir.” His gut clenched above his belt. Hell, how was he supposed to eat anything?
Gene folded the empty packet into a neat square and laid it aside. “Surprised I didn’t hear straight from you.”
Colt shrugged. What could he say? He didn’t drop his gaze from Grandaddy’s, though. He wouldn’t stoop that low.
With a low breath, Gene folded his hands before him on the table. “Had enough time to lick your wounds?”
Fury shot up his spine to explode behind his eyes. He pulled in a breath, forcing oxygen to his brain. “Apparently, since I’m sitting here with you.”
