Page 7 of Striker's Foul
The night progresses, and I take a turn behind the bar, impressing guests when I spin the bottles like the otherbartenders. I practiced hard for years to build this kind of confidence. My papa always said a good owner should be able to cover any position in their restaurant or they had no business owning one. I can cook, though nothing like my chef. But in a pinch, I can whip up burgers, Southern fare, and some good smoked dishes.
Alessa, or Les, is not only a professionally trained chef but also a top-winning barbecue pit master. She was a rare find, and I’m never letting her go if I can help it. She’s my little blonde spitfire in the kitchen.
“Lia, there is a gentleman here to see you,” Leticia says as I hand a drink to a patron waiting for their table at the bar.
She points toward a table near the whiskey barrel wall I’ve set up to section off a private room, which is currently hosting a party.
I can’t believe he would show up after all these years.
I turn to my bartenders. “I’ll be back.”
Moving through the tables, I make my way to the man I now call the sperm donor. Harold is in a suit, acting like he’s above everyone here. That was always his problem. He thought he was superior.
It still shocks me that he’s a state representative in DC. It shouldn’t, though. He used my mama’s death for his own gain. He even played the sympathy card about his daughter running away and never coming home. All lies.
He tells voters my mama died from her disease. He hides the truth that she took her own life because her spouse refused to help her and called her a burden instead of showing compassion. He said her disease reflected badly on him. Her tremors kept her from dancing with her husband. That’s all he cared about. What the good people of DC or even Providence would think. Not what was important, which was her.
Pulling out the seat across from him, I sit down, knowing he wouldn’t be stupid enough to bring the flavor of the month here. He had been cheating on Mama before the ink dried on their marriage certificate.
“What do you want?” I don’t mince my words.
“Why didn’t you tell me you were coming back to town?”
It’s so hard not to roll my eyes at him.
“Why should I? Did you want a press conference so you could keep spreading your lies?” I hate the things he told the press after I left and Mama died.
“My press secretary had to spin something to cover your absence. It wasn’t anything against you.”
“Really? Because that’s not how it felt.”
I don’t want to sit here, but between Luke showing up and now the sperm donor, I guess today is just one long reintroduction of all things I left behind.
“Please try not to flaunt your bastard around town. If you’re asked, just say you were somewhere other than Texas. I don’t need my constituents doubting my leadership.”
“He’s not a bastard. He’s your grandson.” I stand. “Now, I have to get back to work. Get out,” I order him, then glance at the bouncers who remain out of sight unless I need them.
I give a nod, and one of them starts walking over.
My real dad was my papa. He was a man. This idiot is just the man who knocked up my mom. I hate him with every fiber of my being.
I pause mid-step as a thought hits me. I turn around and head back to him.
“Did you say something to Luke?”
“I wouldn’t speak to that ghetto trash. I should have never given him a choice.”
I shake my head at his words.
“What?”
“Nothing. Don’t speak to the press unless you clear it with me first.”
“Whatever.”
I brush him off and head for the kitchen, needing to cool down.
As I move through the room, I feel eyes on me. Normally, that wouldn’t bother me. I know I attract attention. But this feels different.
