She was right about that. No matter where I looked, it seemed the ghosts of the past were bound and determined to make themselves known.
I nodded thoughtfully. “Just don’t let it eat you alive, cousin. Racing’s tough enough without carrying grudges around the track.”
“Gator, what’s the fastest way to forget?”
My laughter boomed through the bar, catching the attention of the handful of patrons scattered around. “Same as always, C.C. Music, drinks, and maybe findin’ some trouble to get into. But if it’s real forgiveness you’re after, well, that’s a whole other ballgame.”
“Boss,” Donut whispered close behind me. “Got a problem in the kitchen.”
“Then go take care of it. I’m busy visitin’ with my cuz.”
“Yeah, C.C.’s gonna have to wait. Braveheart and Worm are cooking.”
I rounded on Donut, my eyes wide.
“Next time, start with that!” I shouted, pushing past the man as I raced for the kitchen.
The kitchen was chaos incarnate. Braveheart stood at the stove, wielding a spatula like a warrior poised for battle, while Worm hollered instructions from across the room, gesturing wildly with a half-empty bottle of hot sauce. Steam billowed from a pot that was clearly boiling over, and something indistinguishable—possibly experimental—sizzled furiously on the grill.
“Are you trying to burn the place down again?” I roared, storming in with all the authority I could muster. Braveheart froze mid-motion, his spatula hovering over an ominously charred pancake, while Worm turned toward me with a sheepish grin.
“We were just improvisin’,” Braveheart offered, like that would make me forget the near-apocalyptic scene unfolding before me.
“Well, improvise less and cook more,” I snapped, grabbing the spatula from Braveheart and smacking it against the counter for emphasis. “Where the hell is Juju?”
When neither Worm, Braveheart nor Donut said a word, I narrowed my eyes. “Tell me he didn’t.”
“Can’t do that, boss,” Donut said, taking a step back.
“How long?” I growled.
“He’s got a five-hour head start on ya,” Braveheart advised.
Pointing at Donut, I ordered, “Call over toMomma’s Vittles. Tell Momma LaRue, Juju ain’t cookin’ and we need food, then go get it. And you two,” I sneered, pointing at the two budding chefs. “Clean up this mess!
Storming toward the door, I reached for my truck keys and slammed the screen door behind me as I headed for my truck.
The drive from The Bourbon Bar to mymôman’s house didn’t quell the anger that was boiling deep in my gut. I didn’t know what Juju was thinking, but there was a reason I didn’t tell Devlyn the entire truth.
Because it didn’t matter.
The outcome was still the same.
They were both dead and weren’t coming back.
As I navigated the winding road toMôman’s, memories swirled in my mind, unbidden and unrelenting. The faces of the past haunted me, fleeting shadows in the corner of my vision. Juju had crossed a line, and ghosts I had hoped to leave buried were now unearthed. The old antebellum loomed ahead as the porch light flickered like a beacon, pulling me from the abyss of my thoughts as I parked the truck and stepped into the earthy smell of the countryside.
Mômangreeted me at the door with her usual knowing gaze. “Figured you’d show up eventually, sugar,” she said, placing her hands on her hips. The tension in her voice betrayed an unease that matched my own.
She didn’t ask why I was there.
She knew.
Everyone knew.
Juju’s actions were bound to ripple through our fragile peace like stones skimming across shallow waters.
“Môman,” I began, but words failed me. What did you say when the truth had already branded itself on the walls of your mind?
