Kit rolled his head to gaze out the window, his feet stilling their dance. “I want to,” he whispered.
“I’ve heard pizza helps mend relationships.” From the corner of his eye, he watched Kit’s smile grow and let the rare feeling of contentment settle in. “Let’s go get John Nelson. I seem to remember he likes anchovies.”
“Anchovies? Nasty.”
“Agreed. We’ll let him order his own.”
“Hey!” Kit shifted, leather squeaking beneath his skinny bottom, a streak of mud smearing the tan upholstery. “Let’s go back and ask Tana to come. I’m sure she hates anchovies, butshe likes thick crust. And extra sausage. The manager at Pizza King always gives us double without charging ’cause he wants to make a date with her.”
“How about just the True men this time,” Campbell said, forcing a smile he hoped looked genuine. He could imagine the score of men wanting to make a date with the exasperating, enchanting Fontana Quinn. “A guy’s night sort of thing.”
While Kit babbled and squirmed beside him, Campbell focused on not turning the car around. Extra sausage, indeed. Why was he tempted to get pizza with a woman who had just offered him sex? But he was. Flat-out.
Especially when he knew in his gut it would be fantastic. That she’d probably knock the experience off the charts.
Shit.Hehadlet scruples stop him.
When had Campbell True turned into a principled idiot?
chapter
eight
My Hero–Foo Fighters
CAMPBELL
Later that night,a sweeping glance told Campbell all he needed to know: Timmy’s Nook hadn’t changed. Same rodeo stools, ready to buck you off the second you perched your ass on them. Same pockmarked bar, its surface trapping postcards of Myrtle Beach, Charleston, and Hilton Head beneath layers of varnish. Same lonely faces, peering through a haze of smoke and neon.
The smell of stale beer, tobacco, and perfume—the scent of bars the world over—was as repellent as it was comforting.
Settling into a darkened corner booth, the cracked vinyl squealing in protest, he figured he knew every person in the place. And without a doubt, they knew him. Had known his mother and father.
Or at least known of them. The “Battling Trues”.
In fact, most had probably been in the ballpark the day he lost his mind, the last of his innocence, and his shot at a college athletic scholarship.
Part of the reason—besides Celia’s bloodthirsty threats—he had stayed away so long.
His parents’ mess had been the reason he left.
Being so well understood wasn’t a particularly pleasant feeling.
Dooey Tanner, the beefy guy hunched over the bar, had sat in front of him in first grade. The old alphabetical seating arrangement. Every morning for the first month, Campbell had pulled out a yellow marker and drawn on the back of Dooey’s neck. The kid never uttered a peep. A month of tattooing, and he hadn’t said a word. But his mother—in a phone call to Campbell’s—had raised hell about stained collars and gross intimidation.
The next day, his mother bought him a coloring pad and a set of fat markers, the kind that smelled like mint and fake cherries, then shooed him away when he asked about punishment. Not that he wanted a whipping, but he’d sure expected something.
It was the first time he remembered the odor that hovered in the bottom drawer of his father’s desk, where the old man sometimes hid bottles wrapped in brown paper, clinging to her.
This was also the first time Campbell recalled lighting a fuse that fizzled out long before it could blow up in his parents’ faces—a spark snuffed out by disinterest.
So, he’d lit more, hoping one would catch.
Hadn’t really gotten that until he ruined a perfectly good bat, smacking it against a harmless tree.
By then, his mother was long gone.
The thought landed hard, heavy enough to make him scan the room for a waitress. He wanted nothing more than to avoid the bar—but he wanted a drink.Badly.
