Speakeasy (True North #5)(63)

“Fine. Congratulations. So why are we having this awkward conversation?”

Right. “Because let’s not bring personal stuff into the business. I shouldn’t have dodged you. That wasn’t cool. But you shouldn’t cut me off, either.”

For a second, Chelsea just blinks at me. “Okay, wow. I was already offended that you’re not interested anymore. But you think I cut off your beer supply because you took away the dick?”

“Well, didn’t you? I have seven employees. They depend on the Gin Mill, too. It’s not just me.”

Chelsea takes a step backward. “Great advocating, asshole. But it’s not my fault you don’t have Goldenpour.”

“It isn’t?”

“Not even close. They cut you off.”

“Who’s they?”

“Giltmaker. The brewery.”

“Why? Because I was a bitch last night? Did they cut everyone else off, too?”

Slowly, Chelsea shakes her head. “Just you. And I don’t know what you did last night, but the order came down a week ago.”

Fuck! “Do you have any idea why?”

“None at all. It’s a really unusual request. You’d better ask them about it yourself.”

I try to take that in. And unfortunately, I have a theory. An ugly one. It involves my uncle Otto, that dickhead. I inhale deeply to try to loosen up the anger in my chest.

It doesn’t work.

Chelsea is still watching me with her perfect blue eyes. “I hope you figure it out, Alec. I’ve always liked you. A little too much, maybe.”

Shit. “Always liked you, too, you know. Still do. You’re still a three snaps kind of girl.”

“Oh, save it.” She rolls her eyes. “Now go figure out what you did to piss off Giltmaker. Good luck.”

“Thanks. And, uh, I’m sorry again about…”

She waves off my apology. “I’m a big girl, Alec.” She climbs back into the truck without another word.

Oof. Could this day get any worse? And it’s only ten thirty. I’m going to need to confront Otto. But not before I get a cup of coffee and something to eat. So I trudge around the building and across the parking lot to the Busy Bean. I don’t have my wallet, but it’s Friday, which is Audrey’s morning. She lets me run a tab.

But—fuck. My sister is behind the counter looking grumpy. Maybe it’s a family trait. “Hey, Z,” I say. “Can I please have a large coffee and one of whatever smells so good?”

“That’s the pretzel. With cream cheese and salmon, or plain?”

“I want the whole experience.”

Zara pours my coffee. “Roddy!” she yells over her shoulder. “Could you make a pretzel for Alec?”

“Of course, milady,” comes the answer.

Zara grins. “I love that guy.”

“He knows just how to kiss your ass.” I lift the mug she hands me and take a gulp of coffee immediately. “Where’s your sidekick today?” I’ve yet to break the news to Zara that I’ve left my wallet upstairs. I’m not saying a word before I get my hands on that pretzel.

Zara squints at me. “At the hospital in Montpelier. I’m kind of surprised you’re not there, too.”

“What?” That makes no sense. “Is Audrey okay?”

“She’s fine,” Zara says slowly. “In fact, everyone is going to be fine, I hear.”

“Well, good?” I’m still missing something.

My sister gives me a weird look. “Alec, it’s May who was in the hospital overnight. She totaled her car last night on her way home in the snow.”

“What?” I’m vaguely aware of the sound of my coffee cup hitting the counter a little too hard. And of the burn of the coffee splashing the top of my hand.

Zara grabs a stack of napkins and throws them down on my hand, then she takes the cup away from me. “I’m so sorry,” she says quickly. “Thought you’d already know that.”

“How would I know that?” I roar. “She crashed her car?”

“There was a deer. She swerved and hit a tree.”

Holy shit.

Holy shit!

I turn around and run for the door.

“Alec!” my sister calls after me. “You probably shouldn’t run in there and… Oh hell.”

That’s all I hear as I race out of the coffee shop and toward my truck. But I don’t have the key. Or my driver’s license. So I have to run upstairs instead. When I enter my apartment, of course I forget about the goddamn cat. We startle each other as I go tearing into the bedroom.

He hisses at me from the middle of the floor. And when I see what he’s playing with, I almost lose my mind.

My sweater. In his evil mouth, he’s got the sweater May knit for me.

“You little fuck!” I yell, grabbing for it.

Bukowski lets go of the sweater only to slice a paw through the air and scratch the back of my hand.

“Dead man! That’s what you are,” I growl. I tuck the sweater under my arm because I am too flustered to think about where to keep it safe from him. The neck is unraveling. He fucked up my sweater. I’m not a superstitious guy, but I feel ill at the sight of it.

And this is the first time in my entire life when I ever felt like crying over a piece of clothing.