Chapter Twelve
Liam
With my head down and my hands in my pockets to ward off the chill in the air, I meander through the busy streets of Seattle. I don't have any particular destination in mind. I'm just walking. After spending the day with Ted and Brubaker, I guess I wanted some time to myself.
Eventually, I look up and find myself standing in front of the doors of a bar that's very familiar to me. Grady's is a place I've been coming to for quite some time. It's always been a quiet place. A place you can go to have a drink and actual conversation. There's no loud music and the clientele is usually a bit more – staid.
It is definitely not the type of place for hellraisers or hipsters. There are plenty of those around. Grady's is, more or less, a place for professionals. A place where deals are made, and contracts are signed.
It's also a place where Brittany and I spent a lot of our time together.
Maybe somewhere deep down, I knew I was heading here the whole time. That this had been my destination all along and I'd only fooled myself into thinking I was wandering aimlessly. If there's one thing I do well, it's punishing myself.
I check my watch and decide I'm not ready to go back to Port Safira yet, so I might as well go in and have a drink. Perhaps, by sort of reclaiming the spot for myself, I can banish the old ghosts and feel comfortable in some of my old haunts again. I enjoy Seattle and I always have. But ever since everything went sideways with Brittany, I feel like I don’t belong here anymore. Same thing with my office. I don't feel comfortable. And that's something I want to change.
Letting out a long breath, I step up and pull the door open. All the familiar scents of Grady's wash over me as I step through the door and I'm transported back in time.
“Hey, Anderson,” calls Greg. “Long time no see, bud.”
I give him a wave. “Good to see you, Greg.”
Greg is the owner and operator of Grady's. He named the bar to honor his father, which I always thought was nice. Greg is about sixty, a former Marine, and built like the proverbial brick shithouse. Honestly, if he hadn't told me how old he was, I never would have guessed it. He's a big block of a man with wide shoulders, a thick chest, and hands that look big and strong enough to crush your head with. I'm not a small man by any means, but I feel like a scrawny beanpole next to the guy.
I take my jacket off and slide into a booth. Greg is there a moment later with a tumbler of scotch – my usual drink. He smiles at me from beneath his thick, bushy mustache.
“Where ya been, bud?”
I shrug. “Work's keeping me busy these days.”
He nods. “Where's that wife of yours?” he asks. “She comin' later?”
The knot in my stomach constricts painfully and I grit my teeth, trying to keep my anger at bay.
“No, we divorced, actually,” I say.
Greg's face blanches as he looks at me. “Shit, man,” he says. “I didn't know. I'm sorry to hear that.”
I shrug. “It's for the best,” I say and pick up my glass. “As long as I have a good scotch, my health, and my dog, I have everything, right?”
“Damn straight, son. Best attitude you can have,” he claps me on the shoulder. “This one's on me. Next one ya gotta pay for though. I’m not runnin' a charity here.”
He laughs and gives me a wink as he turns and heads back to the bar. I glance up at the flat-screen TVs mounted on the wall, mindlessly staring at the highlights from the college football games. I raise the glass to my lips and take a long swallow, relishing the slight burn of the liquid as it slides down my throat.
I remember having a lot of good times in this bar. Happy times. I remember making deals with clients over drinks. I remember plenty of good times with friends. Hell, I even remember some good times with Brittany in here. There are a lot of good memories in this place. And as I reflect on them, I realize that I can't let her steal those memories away from me. I won't let her.
“Liam Anderson,” a voice says. “As I live and breathe.”
I turn and find myself staring into the face of Damon Moore, one of my company's chief rivals. There's absolutely no love lost between us – which, is the polite and civilized way of saying we hate each other's fucking guts. He's known as a shady businessman who does things the wrong way. He bends rules until they are at the point of breaking but manages to avoid trouble most of the time – mostly because he's a big donor to the political campaigns of the right people. People in power.
A few years back, he won a contract to build some low-income housing. He'd actually beaten me for the contract. And when the project was complete, it became clear why he'd been able to lowball me and win the contract in the first place.
Less than a year after it was completed, the building collapsed, killing fifteen people – including three children. I went to the site myself to check it out and it didn't take me long to realized that he'd used subpar building material. He'd cut every possible corner to maximize his profit. And fifteen people lost their lives because of it.
The official ruling was that the structure had been built on unstable ground – that a recent tremor along a fault line had caused liquefaction beneath the structure. The report said it was an unfortunate, but an unforeseeable event and Damon walked away scot free – no doubt, after greasing all the right palms.
He's a piece of trash whose business practices make the mob look like they're on the up and up. I have absolutely zero respect for the guy.
“Wow,” I say. “Greg is letting anybody in here these days.”
“My money is as good as yours,” he says smoothly. “Greg is a businessman. He's not going to discriminate when somebody has cash in hand.”
“He also doesn't realize that just having you in here lowers his property value and increases the risk for communicable diseases.”
Damon laughs and slides into the booth across from me. I clench my jaw and stare daggers at him.
“Yeah, I'm here for a quiet drink,” I say. “Alone.”
“Yeah, I hear you're spending a lot of time alone these days,” he says. “I guess that's natural, what with the divorce and all.”
“Oh, you read the tabloids,” I say. “And here I didn't think you could read at all. Or did you just look at the pictures?”
He chuckles and takes a sip of his beer. “Always with the witty comeback,” he says, setting his mug down on the table.
“What do you want, Damon?” I ask. “I'm seriously not in the mood for your shit.”
He looks at me for a long moment. “Why is it you despise me so much?” he asks. “I mean, where did you and I go wrong?”
“There's never been a ‘you and I’, Damon.”
“I just don't understand it,” he says. “All I wanted to do was commiserate with you for a moment. To express my sorrow for your divorce and all. I don't know why you're meeting me with such hostility.”
I roll my eyes. “Probably because you're a piece of shit.”
“Well, that's not very nice.”
I shrug. “The truth often isn't,” I say. “You should probably run along now and go pull the wings off flies or whatever it is you do in your spare time because I have a lot of other things I'd like to say that aren't very nice.”
He sighs and takes a long swallow of his beer. Setting the mug back down, he looks at me for a long moment. And when he speaks, what he says surprises me.
“What are you doing in Port Safira?” he asks.
I'm taken aback by his question. I've told very few people where I've moved to. And certainly, nobody that runs in the same circles as this asshole. I have no idea how he knows.
“What's it to you?” I say – mostly because it's all I can think to say.
“Just curious why you'd choose to move there of all places,” he says. “I mean, a man of your wealth could move anywhere. Why a small town like that?”
“Maybe I like the fresh air.”
“Maybe,” he says. “Or maybe you heard it's the hot fishing hole and you want to move in and dip your pole into the waters?”
I'm not about to tell him anything. The last thing I want, or need is Damon Moore poking around in my private life. I just give him a shrug, a non-committal expression on my face.
“Let me just say, if that's the case,” he starts, “and you're there to fly the ADE flag and think you can win some bids to help build up that town, you're woefully mistaken.”
“Yeah, maybe so,” I say.
“It would be in your best interest to stay up in that house on the hill,” he says, his voice cold. “Stay there and don't go sticking your nose into town business.”
“Are you actually threatening me?” I ask and chuckle.
He shrugs. “Just giving you some friendly, professional advice.”
Damon drains the last of his beer and slams his mug down on the table before sliding out of the booth. He gives me one last look that I guess is supposed to intimidate me. It doesn't. The guy is half my size and I could break him in half if I wanted to. I blow him a kiss and turn back to my drink, more amused than annoyed.
I hadn't intended to fly the ADE flag in Port Safira, but now that Damon thinks he needs to have a pissing contest over the town, I'm starting to give it a second thought.
I drain my glass and Greg is right there with another, taking away the empty tumbler and sliding the fresh drink in front of me. The front door opens, and I see his eyes widen slightly.
“Shit,” he mutters.
I turn and look at the door, my own eyes widening. “Yeah, shit about covers it.”
Brittany saunters through the door, looking around for a moment. And when her eyes land on me, she smiles wide and makes a beeline.
“Wow,” I say to Greg, “just when I thought the night couldn't get any shittier. Apparently, the universe is having a little fun at my expense by playing all the greatest hits.”
“Want me to tell her to get out?” he asks.
I shake my head. “No, it's fine,” I say. “Time to nip this shit in the bud.”
“Atta boy.”
Greg clears out as Brittany arrives at my table. She looks at me for a long moment, her smile wide but uncertain. Obviously, she's waiting for me to invite her to sit down, and when I don't, she sighs in exasperation and sits down across from me anyway.
“Buy a lady a drink?” she asks.
“When a proper lady comes in, sure,” I say.
A look of anger flashes in her eyes, but she manages to maintain her composure.
“You didn't return my text earlier,” she says.
“Didn't know I was required to,” I reply. “You know, with the whole not being married to you anymore and all.”
“Things don't have to be this way, Liam.”
“Actually, they do,” I reply. “Given the fact that you were fucking somebody else and trying to steal my company out from under me. Yeah, this is exactly how things are supposed to be, actually.”
She sighs and comes around the table, sliding into the booth next to me. She gives me that saccharine-sweet smile – the one that used to melt my heart. The one that now only seems to inspire loathing and disgust in me.
“I'm sorry, Liam,” she purrs. “You'll never know how sorry I am. We had a good thing going and I know I screwed up.”
“No, screwing up is denting the car,” I say. “Maybe breaking some dishes or something. What you did goes well beyond screwing up. It was a choice, Brittany. A choice that you made. Apparently, a long time ago.”
“I know I screwed up,” she says. “I screwed up really bad. But, if you give me the chance, I can make everything okay again.”
I feel her hand on my thigh, moving upward until it's resting on my crotch. Brittany leans close and nibbles on my ear.
“I can make you feel so good, baby,” she says. “Let me make you feel good.”
Despite my best efforts to have zero reaction to her, my body and biology betray me. I feel my cock stiffening under her hand. Emboldened, she smiles and grips it through my pants, squeezing it tight. Everything in me – at least, below my belt– wants to give in. Wants to take her somewhere and fuck her senseless. We did always have a great sex life. There's no denying the fact that I really enjoyed fucking her.
Brittany is a sexy, sensual woman. She's amazing in bed – a fact that's only reinforced as she slips my zipper down and slides her hand into my pants. I look around, hoping that nobody is paying attention to us. Nobody is. Grady's is a place where people actually mind their own business.
A low growl escapes my throat as she grips my cock and strokes it slowly, circling her thumb around the head of my rod. She's always known how to push my buttons and seems to be reveling in that fact right now.
“We can work this out, baby,” she whispers, the tip of her tongue tickling my earlobe. “Everything's going to be okay. Just give me another chance.”
Snippets of times I'd spent in bed with her flash through my mind. As I recall all the amazing sex we'd had, my cock grows even stiffer. But, then I remind myself of everything else that's gotten us to the point we are at right now. I force myself to think about the fact that she'd cheated on me. For years. That she tried to steal my company. And my money.
What really shook me though, was that with all those thoughts bouncing through my mind, another thought emerged – something that I didn't expect. In my mind's eye, I saw Paige's face. I heard her voice and that high, musical laughter of hers. I recalled bits of our conversation and the way I felt sitting with her, talking together, and enjoying a companionable cup of coffee.
I have no idea where those thoughts came from or why they chose now to surface – none of it makes the slightest bit of sense to me. No matter how hard I try though, I can't seem to get Paige out of my head.
With all those thoughts firing through my mind, I take her hand, gripping it hard. I pull it off my cock – something that's incredibly difficult to do. I push her hand away, drawing a look of outrage from Brittany. Her face colors and tears well in her eyes.
“We can work this out,” she says, her lower lip trembling.
“No,” I say. “We can't. This isn't something that can be fixed with a handjob under the table.”
As unobtrusively as I can, I zip up my pants and down the last of my drink. Brittany is staring at me wide-eyed, her face a mixture of shock and fear.
“Please, Liam,” she pleads. “Give me another chance. I fucked up, okay? I fucked up big time. But, I want to put this right.”
“You can't,” I say. “This is one of those giant fuck-ups that can't be undone. Now, get out of the booth. I'm leaving.”
“Please, Liam.”
“Get out of my way, Brittany,” I say, my voice colder than ice.
“Liam, just listen to me –”
“I'm done listening to you,” I snap. “Get out of my way.”
“Not until –”
“I think it's time for you to go, Brittany.”
We both turn at the sound of the voice and I suppress a small smile when I see Greg standing there, looking his intimidating best. I know he'd never actually raise a hand to a woman, but oftentimes, his presence alone is enough to defuse a situation.
Brittany raises her head, the haughty and defiant look I know so well plastered upon her face. She eyes Greg up and down, her distaste for him obvious.
“I'm trying to have a conversation with my husband,” she spits. “If you don't mind.”
“Actually, I do mind,” he says. “It's obvious that he doesn’t want you here. And I’m not gonna have you botherin' my customers. Now, this is my bar, and I have the right to refuse service to anyone. So, get the hell out. Now.”
She looks at him for a long moment and at first, I think she's going to keep arguing. But, she slips out of the booth and stands up. She then turns to me, an ugly sneer on her lips.
“You're going to pay for this, you son of a bitch,” she says.
I chuckle. “I paid for it for a lot of years,” I say. “This is me not paying for it anymore. Take care of yourself, Brittany.”
“This isn't over,” she says through gritted teeth. “Not by a long shot, Liam. You are going to pay. Mark my words.”
“Leave. Now,” Greg says, the hostility in his voice growing. “And I think it'd be best if I don't see your face in my bar ever again.”
“Like I'd willingly come into this dump for a drink.”
She turns on her heel and storms out of the bar. I let out a long breath and shake my head. Yeah, this evening has really gone to shit.
“Thanks, Greg,” I say. “Appreciate the assist.”
He shrugs his large shoulders. “Never cared for her much anyway,” he says. “She seems to think she's above everybody.”
“That she does.”
I don’t realize he's holding a bottle of scotch until he reaches out and refills my glass. Clinking his bottle against the tumbler, he gives me a smile.
“This one's on the house too,” he says.
“I guess you're running a charity after all, huh?”
He laughs and turns away, heading back to the bar. I glance at my watch and decide it's time to go. I've had enough excitement – or at least, enough drama – for one night. I suddenly just want to get back to the helicopter and get home to my dog.
I drain my drink and throw a couple of hundred-dollar bills down on the table. After all, the man isn't actually running a charity.
“I'm taking off, Greg,” I say as I slip on my jacket. “Thanks for the drinks.”
“It was good seeing you, Liam,” he says. “Don't be a stranger. I mean it.”
I nod. “I won't.”
Stepping out into the chilly night air, I slip my hands into my pockets. It's a bit of a hike back to my office building, but I know of a shortcut that will get me there quickly. The walk combined with the crisp night air should give me the time I need to clear my head.
I head down the street and walk for about ten minutes before making a right and heading down an alley. My head is all twisted up with thoughts about Brittany and that whole scene in Grady's. I can't believe I almost gave in to her. Hell, there was a part of me that really wanted to.
Of course, it was the part that was in her hand. She'd always had that effect on me. She could always get what she wanted by using her sex appeal. She could always use sex to manipulate me. It was one of my weaknesses when it came to her. And it had almost worked to her advantage again.
Almost. The thought that had stopped me was Paige Samuels. And realizing that it was Paige who had given me pause was like a punch to the gut. I barely knew the woman. Sure, she is a gorgeous woman and I am definitely intrigued by her, but the fact that the mere thought of her could break the sexual spell Brittany held over me was something I wasn’t prepared for. It just seemed to come straight out of left field. It’s making my head spin.
I'm so caught up in my thoughts that I don't even realize there's somebody behind me until I hear the scuff of a shoe on the pavement. A jolt of adrenaline shoots through me as I spin around and find myself face-to-face with a man holding a knife. He's tall, well-built, and wearing a hoodie pulled down low over his face. I can't see his face.
But I see the knife. Can see the light glinting off the sharp edge of it. Wordlessly, the man lunges at me. It's a clumsy lunge, but it's quick. I grimace and let out a grunt as the blade slices through the arm of my jacket, slicing open the skin beneath. I feel the blood, warm and sticky, begin to flow down my arm, suddenly thankful for the jacket I had on since it absorbed the brunt of the cut.
I dodge to the side and square up as the man rounds on me. I used to be an athlete back in school, but I'm not a fighter and have no training. All I can really do is react to whatever he does. But, thankfully, it doesn't look like my attacker is a skilled fighter either. The smart thing to do would be to hand over my wallet since I'm sure that's what he's after. However, I'm not in the mood to do the smart thing.
A deep, dark anger rises up from within me, fueled by the frustration over everything that's happened over these last few months. As I stare at the man in the hoodie, trying to anticipate his next move, the fury in my heart and soul at what Brittany did to me suddenly boils over. And at that moment, I just want to hurt somebody.
The man lunges at me again, but this time I'm ready. I grab his knife hand with my left and drive my right hand straight into his face with every ounce of strength I can muster. I feel the bones give way beneath my fist. The man grunts and staggers backward. The knife falls to the ground with a clatter as the man clutches his face.
I take a step forward, my fists still clenched and the rage still burning a hole in my gut. The man surprises me by moving quickly. My head is rocked to the right by the man's fist slamming into my cheek. A beat later, the heat flares in my face as I register the pain of the blow. I'm knocked a couple of steps backward, my head spinning. The cheek where his fist landed hurts, but the pain only serves to fuel my rage.
Thinking to press his advantage, the man advances on me again. I spin toward him and grab the front of his sweatshirt. Using my size, I drive him backward, smashing him into the dumpster against the wall. He lets out a pained yelp as he makes impact with the steel bin.
Still gripping his sweatshirt, I rain down blows with my right hand, connecting with his face again and again. A strange wailing sound fills my ears and I think it's the man I'm beating, but I realize that sound is coming from me and it gives me a moment's hesitation. The sound is a scream of anguish. A scream of primal rage. It's the sound of all the anger and frustration that's built up within me.
The moment of pause in my beating gives the man the opening he needs. He drives his knee upward, connecting sharply with my balls. I grunt and double over as his knee comes up again, catching me in the face. I stagger backward as I feel the blood flowing from my nose down my face, the distinct taste of copper filling my mouth.
Lights flare in the alley and the man turns and flees into the darkness. A moment later, strobing red and blue lights slice through the night as the police cruiser drives up to where I'm standing. The two cops jump out of their cars, weapons in hand.
“Down on the ground,” one of the men calls out.
My anger surges once more. I'm the goddamn victim here. I'm the one who just got jumped. They should be chasing the asshole in the hoodie, not harassing me.
“On the ground, asshole,” the other cop shouts. “Now.”
“That guy tried to mug me,” I shout.
“Get on the ground or I'm going to hit you with a Taser,” the first cop yells. “Final warning, asshole.”
The rage still burning within me, I slowly get down on my knees and then lie on my belly. After the shit night I've had, the last thing I want is to get hit with a goddamn stun gun. The cops are on me a second later, cuffing my hands behind my back.
They help me to my feet and sit me in the back of the car while they do whatever it is they do when they're not arresting the wrong goddamn guy. More cops arrive, and I continue to sit there, in the back of the car, for more than an hour. And I don't know if they even bothered looking for the other guy.
The door opens suddenly, and I'm being helped out of the car. The two cops who'd put the cuffs on me are standing in front of me while a man in a suit is behind me, unlocking the cuffs. Free of the restraints, I rub my wrists together.
“Mr. Anderson,” says the man in the suit. “Lieutenant Phillips. I'm awfully sorry about this misunderstanding.”
I glare at the two cops standing before me. Neither of them can meet my eyes, choosing to look at the ground instead. Their boss had obviously figured out who I am and ripped them a new one.
“Did you find the guy who tried to mug me?” I ask.
“I'm sorry, sir,” Phillips says. “We did not. But, we do have the weapon he used during the attack and we'll be running it for prints.”
“Great,” I say.
“On behalf of Seattle PD, I'd like to apologize for how this went down,” Phillips says. “You understand though, dark night, the heat of the moment. These officers were just doing their jobs.”
I glare at them both again, still salty about the attack, but also about being cuffed and stuffed in the back of a car without reason. But, now that the situation is defused, and I'm thinking a little more clearly, I understand their actions a little bit better. They have a tough job.
“I understand,” I say. “It was a tricky situation.”
“Can we get you some medical attention, Mr. Anderson?” Phillips asks. “That wound on your arm–”
“No, I'm fine,” I say. “Thank you though. I think I’m just going to go home now.”