Committed to the idea of a turkey and Swiss sandwich on pretzel bread, I slipped on my flip-flops and headed downstairs. I turned on the kitchen light. The bar was silent. Cook was gone, so I was free to invade his kitchen.
I quickly located the brown mustard in the large standing refrigerator. Feeling slightly guilty over raiding Cook’s supplies, I smoothed the mustard on the bread with smooth strokes. I’d have to be sure to buy him an extra jar tomorrow to relieve my conscience. I slapped the bread together and hurriedly put the brown mustard back into the fridge. I started to turn for the stairs when voices drifted into the kitchen. Angry voices.
“Get your mitts off me before I lay you the fuck out, you hear me! You’re not so tough I can’t do it either!”
Still clutching the sandwich in my hand, I moved through the kitchen, peering over the counter with eyes that felt wide in my face.
A burly man sat at one of the tables that faced the counter, gesturing wildly and taking swipes at Logan. He jabbed a finger toward the ceiling. “Last time I checked that’s still my name up on the bar and if I want another drink, then get me another drink, damn it!”
I winced. His father. Of course. I could see the resemblance in his ruddy and slightly swollen features, all a testament to years of drink and hard living.
He’d been handsome once upon a time. Like Reece and Logan. The same blue eyes. I could see that even across the distance. His hair was longish and looked like it needed a good shampoo. In fact, all of him looked in need of a shower. His arms were tatted and muscular and I had no doubt that back in the day he had broken up his fair share of barroom fights under this very roof.
“Dad, it’s late. The bar’s closed. It’s time to go home.” Logan sounded tired. Older than his years. I’d never been so glad in that moment to know that he was getting out from under his father. This was no kind of life, caring for a parent who did nothing but heap abuse upon your head. At least my mother was the passive-aggressive sort. She never yelled or cursed at me.
He plunked his beer bottle down on the table. “Listen, you little bastard, you might clean up my piss, but that doesn’t make you my keeper, now get me another beer. I’ll be done with this one soon.”
Logan didn’t even flinch, which told me he was accustomed to such verbal abuse. “Actually you and Mom were married, so I’m not a bastard.”
“Such a smartass.” Mr. Mulvaney picked his beer back up and took a swig. “You think you’re a big man because you can throw a fucking ball—”
“That’s enough. I’m taking you home.” Logan grabbed the beer bottle and wrested it from his father’s thick fist, but Mr. Mulvaney snatched it back and sent it crashing across the room. It smashed into the base of the counter I stood behind and shattered into a thousand pieces.
I jerked at the unchecked violence, a shiver running through me. Suddenly my stomach felt queasy. I doubted I could go back upstairs and eat my sandwich now.
Logan tracked the destruction, his eyes lighting on me at the end of the trail. The moment stretched as we stared, the knowledge passing between us that I had witnessed the ugliness he lived with day to day. I saw. I knew what he lived with . . . what made him who he was. Someone accustomed to taking care of people who didn’t appreciate the effort, who still continued down their paths of self-destruction.
My pulse strummed against my throat as we considered each other in silence. For a split second some unknown emotion passed over his face. Shame? Regret? Then a shutter fell over his eyes and nothing. It was gone. His face was impassive as he unfolded himself from where he was bent over the table his father occupied.
Mr. Mulvaney looked out at me with bleary eyes. “Who the hell are you?”
I fired to action, not entirely realizing what I was doing until I was halfway across the bar. “Hello, Mr. Mulvaney. Care for a sandwich?”