Hawk (A Stepbrother Romance #3)(8)

I look up at the signs over my head. "Are you mayor already? Who the f*ck died and put you in charge?"

Alex lets out a little squeak.

The area around the hot dog carts has cleared. It's just us, now. Alexis takes May by the arm and leads her off, looking at me the whole time, worry etched on her features. May looks a little shell-shocked.

"Go," my father says, "Now."

"All right," I say.

Honestly I'd rather not jam a gun up my brother's ass right now. It could turn ugly.

Or I could just turn around and snap the f*cker's neck before they stop me. Lance would still be standing there with his head up his ass while my father flops around on the ground. I could just do it now.

For what he did, he deserves worse than that. More than that.

Then there's Alexis.

Not in front of her. Not in front of May. I won't burden them with that.

I turn and walk and, of course, Lance follows. He's not holding his piece anymore but he's got his hand right there, awkwardly stiff as he walks behind me swinging the other arm.

"Tattoos," he says.

"Yeah."

"They must have hurt."

"Yeah."

"Where you been, anyway?"

"Navy."

I have to remind myself that Lance doesn't know. I don't like him, I never did, but he doesn't know what my father did. I imagine if I told him now he'd laugh it off or call me nuts.

"You picked a hell of a time to come back. Dad's going to be mayor."

"I though they had to have an election first."

Lance snorts. "Nobody else is running. They know what's good for them."

I glance back at him and slow my pace. It hits me as I stare into those big aviators of his, see my own eyes squinting back at me.

He wants me to respect his aww-thor-iii-tai.

"Do they, now? Doesn't sound very democratic."

Lance says nothing.

"Funny, when I left it looked like you'd have to blow the Katzenbergs out of here with dynamite. Why'd they decide to let dad run?"

"They didn't. They all got arrested."

"All of them?"

"Guess you didn't hear about the shakeup, did you, soldier boy?"

"Sailor."

He snorts. "Whatever. I bet you weren't even on a ship."

"Recruiter promised me nuclear submarines. I ended up a corpsman. Attached to the Marines."

"Oh," Lance says. "Okay then."

I stride past a sawhorse and I'm officially off of Commerce Street. Lance stops at the edge of the sidewalk and stares me down.

"You don't want to be seen around here again."

"I thought I just had to get a shirt."

"I don't mean the festival, Hawk. I mean town. Get the f*ck out of here before we do something we have to regret."

I turn around and face him. "Are you threatening me?"

"No. I'm laying out the way it is. This is dad's town now. Meet the new boss."

"Noted."

I stride away, then stop.

"Hey, Lance."

"Yeah?"

"If I push hard enough, I bet I can fit those sunglasses up your *."

He flinches as I turn a way from him again. In a dark shop window, his reflection turns and he says something into the radio mike clipped to his shoulder. I chew on that as I walk at a more leisurely pace, the hot July sun baking on my skin. By the time I'm walking across the bridge, there's a heavy sheen of sweat on my skin and I can feel it running down my legs. A shower would be welcome. It would be welcome anyway; talking to my father makes my skin crawl.

I wonder if Lance has any idea, or if he just accepted it like anyone else.

My mother, thirty-seven years old, dropped dead in the garden. Dead before the ambulance got there. Massive stroke.

That's when the first cruiser rolls past me. Going about twenty miles an hour, the cop, a local, watches me the whole time he passes, his head on a swivel, then speeds up. The limit on the bridge is fifty. I look right back at him and keep walking, throw my head back. On the other half of the bridge it's all downhill, but I'm thirsty as hell.

I never got my hot dog, either.

It takes me maybe another hour to walk back to the motel. By then it's mid-afternoon. I stop at the vending machines, snag an Orange Crush and walk back into my room. I close my door behind me and find my father and two Paradise Falls cops inside. Dad sits at the little round table, his folded hands resting on the scuffed, scratched surface, the cocoa color of dried up coffee, his skin pale by contrast. His two friends stand, in that power pose with their thumbs hooked in their duty belts and ready to go for their guns.

"Fancy meeting you here."

I crack open my soda and chug half of it.

"Howard," he says, as he stands.

I wince.

Okay, that might be the one thing he can do that's going to get to me.

Stop. Fucking. Calling. Me. That.

"Lance tells me our conversation wasn't sinking in."

"What conversation was that?"

He paces closer to me and appraises me, looking me up and down.

When I was, say, fourteen, I would have been intimidated. Now I just stare back, and let the shitty air conditioning sour the sweat on my back.