Rising up, satisfied, Jett Cocker jogs his thumb toward the haunting plantation. “Follow me.” As we ascend old stairs, me with my suitcase, I scan the forgotten splendor as Jett explains, “When we heard the car drive up, saw the headlamps, let’s just say we don’t get a lot of visitors. I guessed it was you. So I sent the others off, told them to stay out of the way while we talk.” At the screen door he eyes me one last time. “You could be on a plane tonight.”
I give him a nod, swallow hard, and walk into a huge foyer with portraits of women in gowns, men in tights, paintings like you’d find in a museum. “This your family?” I ask.
“Nope.”
Crazy. To the right and up a ways is the beginning of a decadent winding staircase.
Jett walked left so I follow him into a parlor with twenty-foot-high ceilings, curtains to match, some torn, others just faded. There are several conversation areas, faded velvet chairs and sofas around stained tables. He sits in a wingback armchair that’s got a tear down the center, and throws his boot on a walnut coffee table that doesn’t seem to mind. I set my bag next to a tattered rug and clamp my jaw shut since it was hanging open. I didn’t know it until now.
“Sit.”
No hesitation there. But I’m on the edge, and he’s leaned back like the world is his. From the looks of this place, it is. I’ve got instant respect for the man and I just met him. Never been in a place like this and I’m more impressed by its decay than if he were wearing a suit and all of this was brand new. It’s cool as hell. His demeanor, the intelligence in his gaze, the fact that his daughter was such a badass—only a unique man could have raised someone like her and encourage what she does. Plus do the same? I’m speechless at exactly the wrong time.
“How do you like our home?”
Clearing my throat I say, “Nice place.”
“Think we should paint it?”
“No!”
He smiles. “Do you know why we don’t?” I shake my head and he circles his finger in the air. “We want to remember when people didn’t have their freedom, so that we’re always grateful for ours.” A sound from outside turns our heads. He shouts, sounding deadly, “Did I say I wanted company?” More scurrying, then silence. I frown, meet his eyes again as he says, “Sean, tell me what you’ve been doing.”
“Not much of anything. That’s why my mom set this up.”
“Why’d she do that, any clue?”
Gripping my knees, shoulders tense, I steel myself at having to talk about my failures, and launch in. “I’ve been getting in some trouble. Police have put me in jail a couple times. But they were wrong. One of the fights was because a guy grabbed this waitress by her hair, pulled some out when he did it. Called her a bunch of names and dropped her on the floor. I couldn’t let that slide. Another fight was because this kid had snuck into a bar, was getting picked on because he was a teenager—really scrawny, maybe trying to prove himself. The guys fucking with him were tourists. We get a few million people visiting Sedona every year, tons on their way to and from the Grand Canyon. Most are fine, some aren’t. That many numbers you’re going to get some bad ones.” Jett nods, concentrating on my story. Shifting my weight I continue, “The bartender told the guy he had to go. Poor kid was trying to save face, acting like he was legal age when there’s no way he was. The tourists pushed the kid down. I got in the way of the kick that was coming next. Showed ‘em you don’t treat people who are smaller than you like that. Another one—”
Jett stops me by raising his hand. “My daughter said all these fights were from you defending someone. Is that true?”
CHAPTER 4
SEAN
Releasing my knees to get the blood back in my knuckles I mutter, “Yes sir, I guess they were. But I’d be lying if I said I don’t like to fight.”
His grey eyes fire up. “You any good?”
“I’m the only one left standing.”
“What about a job?”
Glancing to my feet I struggle. I’m telling opposite things of what you should say in an interview. “I uh, got fired from the last one. Worked construction a bunch of times in my life, good with my hands, but not so good at working for a guy who treats his people like shit.”
Jett rubs his chin with the back of his index finger. “You have a problem with authority.”
“When it’s stupid.”
“How so?”
“If a man isn’t worthy of respect I don’t respect him.” He waits for more. Blinking in my struggle I frown, force myself to continue, “If a man doesn’t respect the people who work for him, who enable him to have a job in the first place, then he’s not a good man.”
I hear a giggle from beyond. My head swings to it.
Jett yells, “Sage!”
More scurrying. Regained silence.
He sighs and stands up, rakes his fingers through his hair, muttering to himself, “Hard as hell to act like a badass dictator when I’ve got giggles out there. You know why she laughed?”
Stupefied I answer, “No, sir, I don’t.”
Gazing toward the foyer, Jett’s in profile as he explains, “She’s laughing because she agrees with you. And that asshole you described is the opposite of me.” Locking eyes he smirks, “Hang on, I’m gonna get
