Beard Necessities (Winston Brothers, #7)(92)

“No one is in peril—not you, not me—because I’m not doing anything illegal.”

He ignored my statement. “Billy will be fit to be tied when he discovers I let you go face-to-face with that monster.”

“You’re not letting me do anything, Cletus. This is my decision. I’m just asking you to help me get into the prison. That’s all.”

“Even so, Billy isn’t going to like this when he finds out.”

“I know,” I said honestly. “I know he won’t. But Cletus, I couldn’t tell him. You understand that, right?”

“I do.” He sounded tired. “Better than most, I understand it’s sometimes better to ask for forgiveness than permission, especially when it comes to protecting the ones you love. But, after, you have to tell him the truth.”

“I will.”

“Right away. No more of y’all keeping noble, long-suffering secrets. I will lock you together in another basement.”

“I’ll tell him. No more secrets. But don’t you think it’s time someone stepped up and helped him? He’s done so much, not just for me, but for you, your family, for Green Valley, for Tennessee. Someone has to put him first. Someone has to keep him safe.”

“This isn’t about paying a debt is it? You know he did what he did because—”

“Because he loves me,” I finished for him. “And I swear, this isn’t about paying a debt. Between people who love each other, there is no debt, only surplus. I’m doing this for myself.”

“You’re flying back to Nashville to have a chat with Razor Dennings for yourself. Sure. Seems legit.”

“Is that a yes? Will you help me?”

My friend grumbled something, sighed, grumbled something else, but eventually said, “Okay. Yes. I’ll help.”





When you’re the only civilian with a stampede of FBI agents, and are escorted into the Riverbend Maximum Security Institution in Nashville surrounded by said stampede of agents, you will draw curious glances, glares, and side-eyes. This is especially true when you’re the first visitor Razor Dennings has agreed to see or talk to outside of his legal team.

Or maybe the employees and guards gave me a second glance because they recognized me as country’s reigning bad girl of bluegrass? Doubtful.

Build a wall. One brick at a time. Don’t let anything in. Don’t let him in.

I’d been repeating these words to myself since leaving the hotel in Venice almost twenty-four hours prior, an old incantation I hadn’t summoned in almost two decades. I thought I’d prepared, I thought I’d built the wall that would keep me safely numb. But walking through this place reminded me of the Iron Wraith’s compound—with all its stark cement, random stairwells, labyrinth of hallways—and now I’d broken out in a cold sweat.

For Billy. Do it for Billy. Think of Billy.

That helped.

“Through here, Ms. McClure.” Special Agent Hisako Nelson opened a black metal door and gestured for me to step inside it. “In a few minutes, your father will be at the second stall. Pick up the phone if you want to talk to him. As you requested, I’ll be just out of sight, listening in. If you want to end the discussion, you can just stand up and leave. Okay?”

I nodded my understanding, but I hesitated just inside the door, my feet refusing to take another step forward. I was so afraid. I knew he couldn’t touch me—he’d be behind the glass partition, there were guards, this was a maximum security prison, he couldn’t even hold a knife—and yet, the fear paralyzed me.

“Ms. McClure?”

I glanced at Agent Nelson. Simone’s friend, I reminded myself.

Agent Nelson had picked me up from the airport with her stampede of FBI. She’d made no effort to disguise her inspection of me then, and she made no effort to disguise it now.

“Ms. McClure, are you sure you want to do this?”

I nodded again.

Her inspection intensified. “You seem terrified.”

“I am,” I whispered.

The agent shifted on her feet, seeming agitated, and glanced behind me to the stampede of agents. “Back off. Give us a minute.”

I heard reluctant footsteps on the linoleum floor as the agents behind me moved away, giving us space. Hisako Nelson reminded me of that actress Linda Park, only taller, with a deeper voice and a take-no-shit attitude.

Her gaze tracked the withdrawal of her fellow agents, and then moved back to me. “Why are you here? If you’re so scared of him—and believe me, I get it, he’s fucking terrifying—why fly all the way back from Italy to see him?”

I’d practiced this part, and my desire to be believable for Billy’s sake edged aside my terror paralysis. For the moment.

“He’s not why I’m in Nashville. I didn’t fly back to see him.”

“He’s not?”

“No.” I fiddled with the edge of my sweater. “I’m here performing at the Nashville Music Festival. My-my father was arrested while I was overseas.”

“And yet, here you are.” Her gaze narrowed, moving over me as though my goals might be written someplace on my clothes. “Again, if he scares you, why are you here?”

I pressed my lips together, angling my chin in a show of defensiveness. “He’s my father.”