Enemies on Tap (13 page)

“Great.” She fished her wallet out of her purse. “How much do I owe you?”

“Michelle will have everything for you at the front desk.”

“Okay, thanks again, Hud.”

“No problem.” He shuffled his feet. “Look, I know it’s none of my business, but if you need an in at the Boot Scoot Boogie, you should ask Logan. He went to college with the owner’s son. They were fraternity brothers.”

The bit of unexpected kindness hit her right in the solar plexus, loosening her grip on the determination not to lose it in public. “I might just do that.”

Hud tapped the brim of his grimy baseball cap and hurried out back to the safety of the garage.

Chapter T
hirteen

When the sun was up, the Boot Scoot Boogie turned off its neon signs and flipped on the overhead lights to become a family-fr
iendly bar and grill, complete with tin buckets of peanuts on the tables and construction paper cowboy hats for the kids. At ten in the morning, the lunch crowd had yet to pack the huge parking lot, making it easy to spot owner Charlie Everton’s massive black SUV.

Bingo
.

Miranda parked in front of the part-time honky-tonk, but her butt stayed glued to the seat, while she wished she had another bottle of Tums. She’d eaten the last chalky tablet on the way here, but it hadn’t made a damn bit of difference on the amount of acid eating away at her internal fortitude.

She had charts and graphs to share with Charlie, but she had no idea if that would make any impact. Uncle Julian’s mismanagement of the brewery had left several of their accounts with unfilled orders—repeatedly. The Boot Scoot Boogie had taken several hits before Charlie had told Uncle Julian exactly what he could do with a bottle of Sweet Salvation Brewery beer. She’d managed to salvage relationships with most of the other bars in the area, but unless she wanted to move to Salvation permanently, she needed to seal this deal.

In her career, she’d closed multi-million dollar deals without even a hint of nerves. Now she needed a jumbo-sized bottle of antacids just to get out of her car. Or a double shot of whiskey. God, she was losing it.

Before she could psych herself out any more, Miranda killed the engine and opened the door. The walk across the asphalt parking lot took half as much time as she needed to steady her nerves, and her fingers trembled when she pushed open the front door.

A trio of waitresses in white T-shirts and denim shorts huddled by the kitchen door, but it was the man standing alone by the bar who snagged her attention. He waved her over.

“I was beginning to wonder if you were going to sit in that car all morning or if you were going to man up and come inside.” Charlie Everton turned, the sunlight filtering in through the front windows highlighting the few strands of gray hair breaking up the otherwise ebony hue of his short, coarse, tight curls. At six-foot-six inches with biceps the size of hubcaps, Charlie had a big SUV because nothing smaller would work. “You got this town buzzing about all you’re doing at the brewery.”

“Well, it wouldn’t be Salvation if there wasn’t gossip about something.”

“Got that right.” He settled his large frame down onto a bar stool and patted the one next to him. “So what brings you out here? You’re a little early for lunch.”

At the mention of food, her stomach started to do a line dance. Sitting down, Miranda centered her focus on the task at hand, sucking in her abs until the rumbling stopped.

“I wanted to talk to you about carrying Sweet Salvation Brewery beer again.” She laid the blue presentation folder on the bar and flipped it open. “As you can see, we’ve got a plan in place to overcome the management challenges we had in the past.”

Charlie didn’t even bother to look down at the four-color charts. “Yeah, not having your crazy uncle—bless his departed heart—run the place is a huge step in the right direction.”

Her head snapped up. “Uncle Julian definitely had his quirks, but he kept the brewery going as best he could.”

He patted her hand. “Honey, I am not disregarding that. Saying a Sweet acts different than most folks is like saying the sky is blue. It is what it is.”

Miranda ground her teeth together to stop the family-defending retort desperate to get out. Letting her ugly hang out wasn’t going to get Charlie to sign on the dotted line. “Be that as it may, we want to bring you on board.”

“This is nothing against you or your family, but there is just no way I can agree to that.”

“Because of the bet with Logan Martin?”

“This has nothing to do with Logan.”

Miranda’s chest tightened until only a sliver of air found its way into her clenched lungs. “But we’ve got everything in place to be successful.”

“And you’ve also made one hell of an enemy in Tyrell Hawson.”

Next time she saw Olivia, she was going to kill her sister for making that stupid entertainment television pseudo-documentary. And while she was at it, she’d stuff the people who owned YouTube into an iron box and drop it into the Hamilton River.

“Sure, Tyrell’s mad right now, but he’ll get over it.” And chocolate will stop being fattening.

Charlie shook his head at her bold-faced lie. “I don’t think so. There’s talk that he wants to make it illegal to manufacture alcohol in Hamilton County. He’s already got the ladies church auxiliary lined up behind him.”

The foul taste of moldy bread filled her mouth. “Nothing will come of it.”

Even to her own ears, she didn’t sound like she meant it.

“So
you
say, but I’m not going to get caught up in the middle of a ground war. Especially not if I want to stay on Tyrell’s good side. If he starts making noise about turning Hamilton into a dry county that doesn’t sell alcohol at all, my business goes straight to hell.” Charlie pushed up from the stool and handed back her folder. “You seem like a nice girl. Always have. But I can’t risk my business. I’m retiring this year, and Tyson’s taking over. What kind of father would I be if I left my son in charge of a business destined to fail?”

She accepted the folder and held it tight to her chest, surprised it didn’t bounce in time with the hammering of her heart. “What if I can get Tyrell to agree to a truce?”

The big man’s shoulders slumped, and he sighed. Pity shone from his deep brown eyes as he regarded her. He opened and shut his mouth three times before getting out any words. “I’m a damn fool for even thinking about it.” He rubbed his hand across his jaw. “But if you can work things out with Tyrell—and that’s a big
if
—then I might give you a shot. It’s all I can promise.”

It took everything she had not to wrap her arms around the giant of a man and squeal. Instead she held out her hand. “I’ll take it.”

They shook hands before Miranda marched out of the honky-tonk without a plan but with a renewed sense of determination. She had a chance, and as long as she had a chance, she wasn’t going to stop fighting.

Miranda sped up the thirteen steps—one for each original colony—leading to the Hamilton County Courthouse’s wood and glass front door. Walking through the doors of th
e designated state historical site was like stepping back in time.

Iron heat registers lined the walls puffing out anemic bursts of heat that did little to alleviate the October chill from the air. Most of the heat went straight up to the vaulted ceilings, decorated with a fresco of the county’s founding fathers—even Matthew Sweet made an appearance. Now that had to just chap the old guard’s hides, but it put an extra spring in Miranda’s step as the click of her heels on the stone floor echoed across the lobby.

The scent of old paper hung heavy in the air, because the county council had yet to convert the plethora of historical land and tax documents into digital form. Now that smell made her feel almost as at home as Ruby Sue’s sweet tea.

Miranda and her sisters had been dragged to the courthouse on a monthly basis by the parents who were protesting a fine or a cease and desist letter from the county. Mrs. Macrina, one of the county executive’s secretaries, had always snuck a few cookies out to the girls while they waited for hours on the hard wooden bench in the hallway.

She paused at the stairs to fix the drooping ankle strap on her black heels. A man’s gruff order to wait here filtered up from below. The sheriff’s office was in the basement, and that’s where they’d gone as teenagers to bail their parents out after their mom had lit a bag of dog poop on fire on the courthouse steps in retaliation for having to pay to get the family’s ten dogs licensed at fifteen dollars a mutt. That incident had made the front page of the local paper and into the news briefs section of the large metro papers in Richmond and Washington, D.C.

Not surprisingly, her prom date had backed out after that. She’d spent the evening studying for her college entrance exams and counting down the days until she could leave Salvation for good.

Shoe fixed, Miranda marched to the opaque glass door at the end of the lobby with the words “County Council” painted on it in gold foil.

She’d worked out her plan on the drive over. First, she’d outline the economic impact of people losing their jobs to the county executive, the mayor, and any council members in the office. Next, she’d explain the financial implications of fewer tax dollars going into the county’s coffers. Finally, she’d open up negotiations on building a road to the industrial park through the Sweet Salvation Brewery land. The whole thing was fair and completely reasonable.

Too bad Tyrell was not.

But she’d spent too many years toiling under Patilla the Hun not to master how to outmaneuver a mini-tyrant with delusions of world domination. She just had to walk in there like she had brass balls the size of a small man’s ego and brazen her way through his objections–no matter how much she wanted to throw up right now. Failure wasn’t an option.

Pushing back her shoulders and raising her chin, she shoved open the door, accidentally slamming it into Tyrell and sending the rotund man stumbling forward and into Logan.

Tyrell collided with Logan like a bowling ball shot out of a rocket, the unexpected collision knocking the air out of Logan’s lungs and pushing him back three feet. Fighting to maintain his
balance, he pushed forward against the mayor and placed a hand on each of the shorter man’s shoulders. Over his head, he spotted Miranda staring in the doorway, her blue eyes as round as basketballs and one hand covering that luscious mouth of hers.

“Oh, my God, are you okay?” Her eyes had grown to dinner plate dimensions. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t know anyone was standing there.”

Tyrell
harumphed
and shook off Logan’s steadying grip.

Logan didn’t care. His attention stayed riveted on Miranda. The smooth material of her deep purple dress clung to all the right spots, highlighting the curves he’d spent hours tasting last night. He’d licked powdered sugar off her dusky pink nipples and the dimples above her pert ass while she shivered beneath him. When she had moaned his name while he was balls-deep inside her, he’d come as close to heaven as he was bound to get.

“What are you doing here?” Tyrell puffed himself up to his full height of five feet, eight inches. “You don’t have anything flammable you’re planning to ignite, do you?”

A dozen expressions flashed across her face, but the one that surprised him the most was hurt. He’d heard people talk smack about the Sweets for most of his life, but he’d never seen the impact of an on-target hit until now. The sight made him want to tear a strip off of Tyrell’s fat hide. With a quick pivot, he placed himself between Miranda and the man determined to ruin her.

To her credit, Miranda’s fake smile only wavered for a minute before she pulled it back into place, sidestepped around him, and placed herself directly in front of Tyrell. “I wanted to talk to you.”

Red blotches had bloomed across the base of his throat. “Nothing to talk about.

Logan’s hands fisted at his sides, but he squashed the impulse to punch the older man in the nose. “You could at least hear what she has to say.”

“What do you care what she has to say? She’s a Sweet. You know they’re all liars and layabouts.”

“That’s not true.” Miranda’s tone remained calm, despite the fact that her spine had gone rigid and her left eye had begun to twitch.

Tyrell ignored her and continued his diatribe. “You’ve said it yourself, Logan, this town would be a hell of a lot better without the Sweet family. And you were right.”

Miranda let out a gasp, and she retreated a step back.

“All I need is five minutes of your time.” Miranda pushed forward. “I have a proposal that would be very beneficial for the people of Hamilton County.”

How she managed to stay so calm, he had no idea, because the only thing he could think about was how easy it would be to crack an elbow against the side of Tyrell’s head.

“What do you have to lose by listening?” he asked.

“Five minutes of my life that I’ll never get back,” the mayor grumbled. His beady-eyed gaze flicked from Logan to Miranda and back again. “Anyway, why do you care?”

“He doesn’t.” The steel in her tone left no room for questions.

She was speaking to Tyrell, but Logan knew the words were meant for him. As a town, Salvation had bullied her, dismissed her, and mocked her. And for too long, he’d been a part of that bloodthirsty mob. But instead of hating him for it, she was trying to protect him from becoming a target. The idea shamed, humbled, and enraged him. He had no idea what to do with any of those emotions.

He reached out for her, but she pulled back to avoid his touch. “Miranda—”

“What exactly is going on between you two?”

This time she did look at him. The silent plea in her blue eyes ripped the bones from his body.

“Nothing.” Logan ground out the single, awful lie.

“I don’t know.” Tyrell rubbed his hands together. “I think the folks down at The Kitchen Sink might see it a little differently after I tell them about this afternoon.”

She flinched. “Look, the last thing in the world I want is to have the whole town gossiping about me.”

“I have an easy solution for that.” Tyrell paused “Leave town.”

Rage—deep, dark, and ugly—flooded his veins, and Logan fisted Tyrell’s suit jacket lapels before the mayor could blink. He jerked the other man to his tiptoes, ready to slam him into the government-building-issued tan wall. “That’s enough, Tyrell.”

The mayor narrowed his eyes. “Have you forgotten our little discussion the other night? I’m too busy of a man to make idle threats. You best remember that, son.”

At the reminder, an animalistic fury blacked out the rest of Logan’s world. He slammed the mayor against the wall so hard the pictures shook. He swiveled his right arm so that his forearm pressed against the other man’s windpipe. The mayor’s eyes watered, and he squirmed against Logan’s grasp. He could wiggle all he wanted, but Logan wasn’t about to release the shithead.