“Beckett,”Coach said in an even voice, “why not talk to the counselor before you go? Itcan’t hurt.”
Beckett?Coach nevercalled him, any of them, by their first names. He was Miller, Millsy, assortedcolorful names not to be repeated in polite company, but not Beckett. Hisstomach dropped.
“Thanksbut no thanks, Coach. I don’t need to spill my guts to some goddamn shrink.”
“Clearout your locker and report to Greeley in the morning. You’ll want to pack abag. The Hawks are about to start a five-game road trip,” Gillaspie said, hislips a hard line. “And count your blessings. At least you get to stay in yourown state.”
Beckettreturned to the locker room, mentally flogging himself as he’d done since thatnight. His actions had nearly killed a girl, a pregnant girl, whose name wasn’tKaren Gruber. It was Lacy Delgado, using her friend Karen Gruber’s apartment.Funny. He would forever remember those two names. Not funny.
Thelocker room was nearly empty. Stuffing his last nine years into a few measlybags sucked. Big time. Worse than cleaning out his locker was hearing his teammates’“sorrys” and “take it easys.” On his way out, he tried calling his agent withno luck. He nosed his cardinal red Mercedes-AMG SL 65 out of its parking spotand headed to his restaurant, Miller’s on Market, a few short blocks away.Listening to Jackie, his manager, grouse about the crappy help was nothing helooked forward to, but he could pour himself a stiff one while he checked onbusiness. It had been a while since he’d stopped by. And right now he neededsomething to take his mind off what he most wanted but would never get: ado-over. For Lacy Delgado. For himself.
Heparked his Mercedes behind the building. Where’s Jackie’s car? And everyoneelse’s? The place served lunch and dinner, and it was past five o’clock.The back lot was usually full except for the spot marked “Reserved for Owner,”but right now, his was the only vehicle there.
Beckettclimbed out of his car and walked to the back door. His eyes caught onsomething silver and shiny. A padlock. Hanging from a thick chain. What thefuck? He yanked on it, but the chain didn’t budge. He blew out a breath andwalked down the alley, past neighboring buildings that stoodshoulder-to-shoulder with his, until he reached the sidewalk and squared aroundfront. A couple stood in front of the restaurant’s glass entrance, readingsomething. The menu? But it’s not posted there.
“Ohman, that’s too bad,” the man said. “I just ate here last week, and it wasgreat.”
Beckettpushed his way to the door. “Hey!” the man protested, but Beckett ignored him. Hisattention was riveted on a piece of white paper with the word “SEIZED” in boldred block letters. Stunned, he read, “Warning: This property has been seizedfor nonpayment of taxes and is now in the possession of the State of Colorado.”He didn’t finish the rest. Just stared at another shiny padlock and chainacross the double door’s handles.
Beckettbacked up and double-checked the address, double-checked the restaurant name,and looked at the sign once more.
Thewoman half of the couple said, “Hey, you’re Beckett Miller, aren’t you? Isn’tthis your place?”
Hestared at her, his mind reeling. She offered him a shy smile. He pulled out hisphone and jabbed at Jackie’s number. An automated voice told him the number wasno longer in service. He hit her name again. Same message. Then he swiped hischef’s number. Voicemail. Beckett huffed out a breath as he waited for thetone.
“Marco,this is Beckett. I’m standing in front of the restaurant, it’sfive-fucking-o’clock on Saturday, and there’s a seizure notice on the goddamndoor. Do you know what the hell is going on? I tried calling Jackie, but herphone’s disconnected. Call me.”
Thecouple had disappeared. Like a caged lion, he paced back and forth in front ofhis restaurant. It’s a mistake. It has to be. Nothing else makes sense.More people came by and gawked at the notice, so he marched back to his car andtried more phone numbers. Nothing.
Hisphone rang, and he yanked it from his pocket so hard it nearly flew from hishand.
“Marco?”
“Yeah,man.”
“Whatthe fuck is going on?”
“Youdon’t know?”
No,dickwad, that’s why I’m calling you. “Don’t know what?”
Bigsigh. “I got there yesterday morning, and some dudes were locking up the backdoor, so I asked them what they were doing. They said it was being seized, andno one was allowed inside—I couldn’t even get my recipes. I said, ‘Can you dothat?’ and they said, ‘Yeah, we can do that because your boss ain’t been payinghis taxes.’ ‘Did you give him any warning?’ I asked, and they said, ‘He ignoredthem all.’ I said, ‘Where you been sending ’em?’ And they said they’ve beensending ’em to the restaurant. I just figured you knew and Jackie was coveringfor you.”
Panicprickling his neck hairs, Beckett stood speechless.
“Boss?You there, man?”
“Yeah,I’m here. Tell me something, Marco. Do you really think I would screw you likethat, screw everyone that works for me?”
Marcocoughed. “We missed a few paychecks. Jackie, uh, said you were having sometrouble, and that she’d do everything she could to make it right. She cut outafter lunch day before yesterday and didn’t come back.”
“Fuck,Marco, I’m sorry. I’ll make it up to you. All of you. I promise I’ll get youpaid. In the meantime, if you need a reference, you know you got it.”
“Yeah,thanks. Hey, I’m sorry, man. I should have told you, but you ain’t been aroundmuch, and I thought Jackie was taking care of everything.”
Howdid I not see this coming? Yeah, Jackie took care of everything, all right.
.~ * * * ~.
After Katie had left for the day, Paige was hard-pressed tofocus on work—or pretty much anything besides Beckett Miller. It was as ifshe’d hauled out a stack of old picture albums or yearbooks and was pawingthrough them, meandering a crooked path down memory lane where she sawBeckett’s face at every turn.
Shepoured herself an extra-large glass of cabernet and, with a sigh of futility,sank into the couch. Staring out the window, she zeroed in on a bare tree thatlooked as though it had been sketched in charcoal
