Rich Blood (Jason Rich #1)(66)

At least I know, Jason thought, as he pulled out of the mall.

Jason took in a deep breath and exhaled. He looked at the clock on the dash. It was 3:30 p.m. He could turn right and go back to the office or left and head back to Mill Creek. Without conscious thought, he turned right onto Gunter Avenue. He was renting some space a block from the courthouse, but he passed by the building without slowing down.

He drove through town, staying on Highway 431 until he reached the brick sign marking the location of Guntersville High School. Jason turned into the parking lot and found a place near the entrance. At this time of day, most of the students had cleared out. The football team was practicing, as were the cheerleaders, but Jason didn’t see any other activity. He took a deep breath and walked through the front doors of the public high school that he hadn’t attended. He asked a guard where room 21 was located, and then he followed the instructions.

When he walked through the door, he saw at least fifteen people of all ages sitting in a circle in plastic chairs. Jason kept his head lowered and sat down. He wanted to bolt, but he knew he had to get this done.

Seconds later, he heard a male voice welcome everyone to the week’s meeting and thank them for attending. “Who wants to go first?” he asked.

Jason didn’t raise his hand and kept his eyes downward.

“OK, great. Please proceed,” the man said.

When the woman started talking, Jason’s eyes shot up from the floor in shock and bewilderment.

“My name is Chase,” she said, looking straight at Jason. “And I’m an addict . . .”





50


When the meeting was over, Jason waited outside in the hallway for Chase. She glanced at him as she exited the room but walked past him as if he weren’t there.

“Chase, wait,” he said, trotting to catch up with her.

They passed a trophy case near the administrative office, and Jason caught her by the hand and stopped their momentum. Inside the glass partition was a photograph of Trey Cowan, holding a football up by his ear, grinning wide for the camera. Stenciled at the bottom of the picture frame were the words Mr. Football, State of Alabama, 2013.

“Were you living here then?” he asked her, pointing at the photograph.

“No,” she said. “Why?”

“His family sued Braxton for malpractice. Surgery gone south. Ruined his career.”

“Ah, and you think that he could perhaps have hired a hit man to kill your brother-in-law as opposed to the woman who was screwing said handyman and that was loaded with more money than she could possibly spend.” She started walking again, and Jason followed.

“You don’t think much of Jana, do you?”

“Never have,” Chase said. “She’s a troublemaker. And she’s always caused you problems. Even when y’all were kids.” They reached her pickup truck, and she unlocked it.

“Chase, can we talk about what happened back there? I . . . had no idea you had a drug problem.”

“That’s because you didn’t ask, Jason. You only think about you and your problems. You’ve barely asked me any questions about myself since you moved back to Mill Creek.”

“That’s not fair. I see you almost every day and I have asked questions. You don’t say much. Never have.”

“Whatever,” she said, climbing back into the truck.

“Then let me make it up to you,” he pleaded. “Dinner? Tonight? My treat?”

She gripped the steering wheel and looked out her windshield but made no move to start the truck.

“Please,” Jason said. “It’s been a weird couple of days . . . and I could sure use some company.”

“Always about you, isn’t it?”

He peered down at the ground. Maybe she had a point. “OK, I’ll see you.” He started to walk away, but her voice carried past him.

“I need to go home and feed my dogs. Meet me on my boathouse dock in an hour. Shorts and flops. Got it?”

“Got it. What do you have in mind?”

“You’ll see.”



Fifty-five minutes later, Jason walked down the Wittschen dock wearing a T-shirt, khaki Patagonia shorts, and flip-flops. He saw Chase fire up her Sea-Doo and drive it out of the slip, then stop by the side of the pier.

“Hop on,” she said.

“Where are we going?” he asked.

“One of my favorite spots,” she said as he climbed onto the back of the craft.

“Chase, don’t you think we should have some security?”

She patted her pocket. “I’ve got a nine-millimeter in my shorts pocket and a Glock in the console. And I was also in the army and can take care of my damn self. Let’s live a little, J. R.”

He smiled. Outside of Harry, Chase was the only person who called him by his initials, and he had to admit that he sort of liked it. He didn’t often feel badass in his life, but being called “J. R.” kind of gave him a rush. He’d watched the old Dallas reruns as a stress reliever in law school and had loved the adventures of the ultimate TV villain, J. R. Ewing. Even in recent years, Jason still found himself drawn to the scandalous adventures of one of the richest TV families from the eighties.

They went under the bridge and picked up speed as they passed a small island and made their way up the main channel toward Scottsboro. Jason remembered some of the spots. Preston Island. Mint Creek. And, of course, Goose Pond. Chase got the Sea-Doo up to sixty miles per hour, and Jason closed his eyes and enjoyed the wind hitting his face.