Page 80 of Whiskey Chase
There was no fucking way in the entire world that they could know what I’d found.Unless, they were in on it? Oh my God. What if my brothers caught Daddy—
“Sit,” Jameson ordered, shoving me into Gram’s rocking chair.
“Jesus, Scar. You look like you’re gonna pass out. Do you need a doctor?” Bowie asked, crouching down in front of me.
I sprang out of the chair like a jack-in-the-box and side-stepped him. “Can y’all just tell me why you’re here so we can all get on with our lives?” I demanded.
Bowie and Jameson exchanged a look. I’d seen that look every time I had my period in my teens and they bore the brunt of my hormones.
“Do you want like a hot pad or some chocolate?” Bowie ventured.
“What I want is for you to get to the point and then get out.”
“We’re sorry for being assholes,” Jameson said. He made himself comfortable on my couch. On the cushion under which I’d just shoved evidence in a case that had fascinated the east coast for over a decade.
I swallowed hard. “Be more specific.”
Bowie took a deep breath. “We’re sorry for expecting you to take care of everything related to Dad, including his house.”
“Apology accepted. Go away.”
“Now, don’t be like that, Scarlett. We were wrong. And it was unfair of us to expect you to handle everything just because we had grudges and hard feelings.”
“Speaking of grudges and hard feelings, where’s Gibson?” I asked.
They shared another look. Gibson’s MO was to run off when things got tricky or sticky or annoying. “Y’all have been doing this for years. Why the sudden apology?” I caught the winces.
“It’s been brought to our attention that—”
“Devlin called us chickenshits,” Jameson said, cutting to the chase.
“He saw how hard all of this is on you. Something that none of us ever noticed before, and we’re sorry,” Bowie added.
I did not have time for this. “I get it. You’re sorry. Can we just skip ahead to the ‘everybody’s fine’ part and call it a day?” That sweater was going to develop a telltale heartbeat any second now.
“I don’t think we should skip ahead in this situation,” Bowie argued. “See, I feel like we’ve spent several years screwing up, and a couple of apologies aren’t really enough.”
“And Gibson feels like he doesn’t have anything to apologize for, right?” I added.
“You know, Gibs,” Jameson said cryptically. I did. And there were certain things we all knew without talking about. One of those things was that Gibson saw my loyalty to our father as a disloyalty to him.
I avoided looking at the couch, just in case they’d notice my attention.
“Scar, we’re family,” Bowie said, taking my chin in his hand. “We should be in things together, and I’m sorry for expecting you to handle all of this shit on your own. It’s not gonna be that way anymore. I’m goin’ to Dad’s tomorrow.”
“Me, too,” Jameson sighed.
“We’ll get this settled together, and then we’ll move on together,” Bowie promised. “That’s how it should have been from the beginning. You’ve been toughing it out for a long time on your own, and I don’t want you to ever feel like that again.”
“Damn it, Bowie.” I stomped my foot on the wood floor. “You couldn’t just leave, could you?”
“What?” He looked startled.
Sonsabitches wanted to be family? Then they deserved to suffer with me. “Get up, Jameson.” My brother did as he was told while looking at me like I was having a breakdown. Who knows? Maybe I was.
I pulled the sweater out from under the cushion and threw the baggy on the coffee table. “Now, how are we going to deal with this as a family?” I demanded.
They stared down on it.
