When the band finished, people swarmed the bar, jostling her from all sides. Someone flipped on the jukebox and Lynyrd Skynyrd blared from the speakers, singing about his “Saturday Night Special.”
I should’ve guessed . Layla almost grinned. Almost.
She didn’t want to be familiar with this scene. It brought back too many memories of her mom. Of Mom’s boyfriend and Rob’s father, Kenny, the free-spirited motorcycle rider she’d adored like a daddy, who’d brought laughter into their lives. Of the horrible accident that took his life, along with the only stability she and Robby had ever known.
Worse still, she didn’t want to think about the past with Robby, all the mistakes she’d made raising him after Kenny’s death, then after Mom left. He’d been a skinny kid who turned into a gawky teenager looking for approval, desperate to find his niche. He found it in his band, playing with a bunch of cooler, older guys who believed musicianship was more important than school. Or age—when they threw a huge bash and Robby got in trouble for being underage.
But since then Robby had gotten himself together, had pulled straight B’s his junior and senior years, filled out, and started developing interests beyond the guitar. He was growing up into his own person, with impressive drive and energy that he expended running track and cross-country his senior year. For a teenager just shy of his eighteenth birthday, he maintained a surprising code of honor, a fierce stance on right and wrong, which made Layla’s chest swell with pride over the integrity of the boy she’d raised.
Her gaze dropped to the pocks and slashes in the bar counter. With a fingertip she traced one of the deep grooves, reluctantly admitting that Robby’s turnaround was also attributable to Blake Desanto.
He’d been Rob’s mentor for the past two years, the two hooked up by community outreach services. Robby thought Blake’s long hair looked “tough,” and his unconventional attitude struck a familiar chord in her brother. Layla wanted attachments for the boy beyond herself, and Blake arrived as the answer to a thousand prayers for Rob.
And for two months, he came disguised as the answer to hers.
It shocked her speechless the first time she walked up his drive to retrieve Robby. She hadn’t expected Blake to be gorgeous. He spent the first few months of their acquaintance flirting with her, the mutual attraction undeniable. After another few months of getting to know each other, they started dating, each successive date drawing them closer toward that intimate encounter. They both had known it was just a matter of time. He’d been so courteous, so patient with her, easing into the relationship over the two months they were together. Letting her emotionally adjust to the idea of counting on someone besides herself.
It pierced her deeply to know she hadn’t been worth the wait.
Because the night Robby disappeared a year ago, instead of going out to find him together, as Layla had hoped, they’d fought over it. He felt certain he knew where Robby was, but he wouldn’t let her come with him, making her stay behind.
The worry and fear overcame her. Instead of waiting for Blake, she turned to the cop who always hung out at the diner, pestering her daily to go out with him. She’d always brushed him off. Until that night. She called him, learned he was on duty, and begged him to come by—off the record, so Robby wouldn’t get in trouble. When he arrived, he went out of his way to make sure she was all right.
By the end of the night, Robby was back home safe, but the one who remained to soothe her after the traumatic night was Jack. After months of not reaching an emotional resolution with Blake, she let Officer Jack Johnson take the place Blake had primed.
The worst mistake of her life. Jack had proved to be a neurotic control freak, but by the time she’d thrown him out of her life, he’d caused more problems between her and her brother. Now a vast chasm stretched between them, and she felt helpless to bridge it. Having worked so hard to raise him by herself, it broke her heart. She feared he would never let her in again.
Today, he’d disappeared for the second time. Her worst fears had become reality.
Maybe I could use this drink , Layla thought—liquid consolation—as a shot glass arrived. The bartender said, “Four bucks.”
“Drinkin’ ta-kill-ya?” A scruffy guy with a reddish ponytail chuckled at his lame joke from the next barstool. “You look like them Latino hotties on magazine covers. Is that why you can drink lighter fluid with a worm?”
Used to the ethnic observation, Layla offered him a smile that told him she’d heard that one before. She hoisted her purse onto the counter, carefully avoiding wet spots. “Salt?” The woman behind the bar didn’t budge. “I don’t even get a lemon?”