Page 13 of Best Served Cold

“There must be over a hundred,” the boss man mutters, gazing at Jonah. Does he lookimpressed?

I’m tempted to add that one of them is here, in this brewery, but I don’t want to unmask Briar, who’s been nothing but helpful.

“He’s also a liar,” I say bitterly. “Do you want to work with a liar? You’ll never be able to trust him.”

He purses his lips. “I suppose it depends on who he’s lying to.”

I shake my head and down the beer in the little cup. This one’s not as good. “You should go back to the drawing board for the tropical IPA,” I say. “Ours is better at Buchanan Brewery.Waybetter.”

The big boss slides his wheeled office chair back a couple of inches, looking like I just slapped him across the face.

Jonah, who’s been staring at me in shock—a broken machine of a man—clears his throat and tells the big boss, “I think she’s in the middle of some kind of breakdown, sir. I’m so sorry. We’ll get her the help she needs, and it’ll never?—”

I slip off my engagement ring and throw it at Jonah’s face. It bounces off the bridge of his nose and lands directly into one of the still-full cups on the tasting board. My lips part in surprise. I’ve never had good luck, but this is astounding. It’s a hole in one. It’s the kind of beautiful moment that will carry a person—for at least as long as it takes me to get out of here.

Not wanting to miss the chance for a perfect exit, I say, “I hope you choke on it, you…you…ignoramus. I never want to see you again.”

Then I turn on my heel and leave the office, nearly colliding with Briar, who has been standing just beyond the doorway witnessing the whole thing.

To my amazement, I see that she’s been recording it on her phone.

CHAPTER FOUR

ROB

I’m not leaving until Sophie comes out of the building.

It’s a small thing I can do for her, so insignificant it’s probably laughable. But I’m going to be there for her today, and then I’m going to beat the shit out of my brother.

Okay, maybe I won’t do that. He’d probably have me arrested. But I’m owed something, aren’t I? Both for what he did to Sophie and for roping me into this mess.

I’m daydreaming about how good it would feel to crunch my fist into his face when my phone rings. For half a second, I think it’s going to be Jonah, calling me from Sophie’s phone, but it’s my buddy Travis.

To say Travis is a good guy would be as insufficient as saying my brother is a douchebag. Travis and I started Garbage Fire six or so years ago. He’s the drummer, and I’m the lead on vocals and guitar. Our buddy Chance Bixby is on bass. We used to have another guy on guitar, but he quit a few months ago and hasn’t been replaced yet.

Travis also pulled me into our other project: The Missing Beat, an after-school music program we run together. We teach the kids guitar, drums, song-writing, and singing, and they have performances around town. It fucking rocks.

Without Travis, I would have slid deeper into the dark place I fell into after what Jonah did to me. So, obviously, when he calls, I answer. I’d hide a body for him. Don’t know how, but I’d figure that shit out.

“What’s up?” I ask, picking up the call.

“You’re awake.”

“I’m awake.”

“I figured I’d get your voicemail. Anyway…shit.” He pauses, and I can imagine him rubbing the spot between his eyebrows—his go-to for when he’s about to say something unwelcome. “Bix and I ducked into the Hot Spot last night, and Emil was working the register. That’s why he hasn’t been coming to the program anymore. His foster dad told him he has to contribute to the household. He’s got him working so much the kid can’t do his homework. And he’s still not allowed to practice guitar at home. Not even if you give him one.”

I swear under my breath.

Most people would tell you being a talented musician doesn’t matter much. So few people are able to make a career of it. The dedicated are like us, part of a band that takes up the majority of our free time and only brings in enough money to pay a couple of utility bills. But this kid is magic on the guitar, and he writes his own songs. I truly believe he could make something of himself if he’s given the chance.

The program wasn’t costing his foster dad anything. Emil was one of our scholarship students, referred to us by the school music program. But I can’t force his foster dad to send him.

Which is why I’ve had something cooking on the down-low.

“There’s this idea I’ve been working on,” I say.

My friend gives an easy laugh. “Why am I worried?”

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