Wild (The Ivy Chronicles #3)(32)

He’d been handsome once upon a time. Like Reece and Logan. The same blue eyes. I could see that even across the distance. His hair was longish and looked like it needed a good shampoo. In fact, all of him looked in need of a shower. His arms were tatted and muscular and I had no doubt that back in the day he had broken up his fair share of barroom fights under this very roof.

“Dad, it’s late. The bar’s closed. It’s time to go home.” Logan sounded tired. Older than his years. I’d never been so glad in that moment to know that he was getting out from under his father. This was no kind of life, caring for a parent who did nothing but heap abuse upon your head. At least my mother was the passive-aggressive sort. She never yelled or cursed at me.

He plunked his beer bottle down on the table. “Listen, you little bastard, you might clean up my piss, but that doesn’t make you my keeper, now get me another beer. I’ll be done with this one soon.”

Logan didn’t even flinch, which told me he was accustomed to such verbal abuse. “Actually you and Mom were married, so I’m not a bastard.”

“Such a smartass.” Mr. Mulvaney picked his beer back up and took a swig. “You think you’re a big man because you can throw a f*cking ball—”

“That’s enough. I’m taking you home.” Logan grabbed the beer bottle and wrested it from his father’s thick fist, but Mr. Mulvaney snatched it back and sent it crashing across the room. It smashed into the base of the counter I stood behind and shattered into a thousand pieces.

I jerked at the unchecked violence, a shiver running through me. Suddenly my stomach felt queasy. I doubted I could go back upstairs and eat my sandwich now.

Logan tracked the destruction, his eyes lighting on me at the end of the trail. The moment stretched as we stared, the knowledge passing between us that I had witnessed the ugliness he lived with day to day. I saw. I knew what he lived with . . . what made him who he was. Someone accustomed to taking care of people who didn’t appreciate the effort, who still continued down their paths of self-destruction.

My pulse strummed against my throat as we considered each other in silence. For a split second some unknown emotion passed over his face. Shame? Regret? Then a shutter fell over his eyes and nothing. It was gone. His face was impassive as he unfolded himself from where he was bent over the table his father occupied.

Mr. Mulvaney looked out at me with bleary eyes. “Who the hell are you?”

I fired to action, not entirely realizing what I was doing until I was halfway across the bar. “Hello, Mr. Mulvaney. Care for a sandwich?”

He eyed the sandwich dubiously before looking back at me. “Who are you?”

“Georgia,” I replied, deliberately choosing not to elaborate. I wasn’t sure how he would feel about me living above the bar he felt so proprietary over even though Reece had taken it over.

“I made it with this really delicious pretzel bread. Made fresh this morning. It’s unbelievable.”

Mr. Mulvaney’s gaze dropped to the sandwich I held wrapped in a paper towel in my hand. If there was one thing I knew about a hard night of drinking, it was that the munchies were never far behind. I glanced down at it and added, “Turkey and Swiss cheese, too.”

He held out his hand. “Give it here.”

I handed it to him and he started eating, assessing me as he chewed. He swallowed. “It’s good.” He shot a glare to his son. “Would taste a hell of a lot better with a cold drink. This beer is getting warm. Make yourself useful.”

Logan snorted and looked from me to his father and back again. “Too bad we’re closed and no longer serving.”

Mr. Mulvaney waved at me as he tore into the sandwich again with gusto. “She one of your girlfriends?”

I shook my head even as Logan lifted his gaze to me. I didn’t miss the use of the plural. Even his father knew he was a player.

His father snorted. “Oh. It’s like that then. Complicated. I had a complicated relationship once. I married her and that only made things even more complicated.” He laughed roughly.

He took another bite out of his sandwich and then set it down on his lap, presumably keeping it. He lowered his hands to the sides of his wheelchair and rolled out from behind the table. “Thanks for the sandwich.”

“Sure.” I gave him a small wave good night, watching as he descended down the ramp. Turning, I found Logan staring at me with an odd expression on his face. “Yeah. Thanks.”

I shrugged, feeling uncomfortable. “It was nothing.” And it really was nothing. I didn’t do anything special. I gave his father a sandwich. Big deal. He could have thrown the food at me and just as easily kept yelling at Logan. He could have yelled at me, too.

“No, my old man . . . he’s difficult.”

I resisted pointing out that that might be an understatement. My mother was difficult. His father was abusive. And that angered me, tightened my chest with all kinds of impotent rage for the little boy he had been, living under the same roof with that man.

He motioned to the back door and then tucked both hands into his front pockets. He rocked on his heels for a moment. “I gotta take him home.” He looked down at the mess and sighed. “I’ll come in early and take care of this. Watch your step so that you don’t cut yourself.”

“I will.”

He looked at the back exit again, clearly reluctant to go. He probably just hated leaving the mess. I’m sure it had nothing to do with me. “A buddy of his dropped him off. He can’t drive himself . . .” His voice faded.