The First Time Again: The Braddock Brotherhood, Book 3 (33 page)

It burned down his throat and hit his stomach in a most unpleasant manner, but he reminded himself once more that he didn’t give a damn. After a minute or so, he swallowed another mouthful of the disgusting brew. Then another, and another, until he lost count. But who was counting anyway? He’d quit as soon as he didn’t hurt anymore.

“Hey, Trey. You in there?”

Trey woke facedown on his pillow with a blinding headache, a stomach threatening to pitch into the back of his throat, and a gauze-like blur around everything else.

Someone was tapping his shoulder and talking to him, but he couldn’t quite discern who it was. He turned his head one degree and opened one eye to see his father bent over him.

He saw concern, not condemnation, in Andy Christopher’s blue eyes, and for some reason Trey suddenly felt close to tears. Before he could process the feeling, however, he leaped out of bed and made for the bathroom, nearly knocking his father over in the process.

He dropped to his knees in front of the toilet, for once ignoring the protest from his right one because he had more important business to take care of. He heaved violently and repeatedly, vaguely wondering if everything inside of his body, not just the contents of his stomach, might end up in the toilet bowl.

Grandpa Mike’s old whiskey hadn’t tasted very good going down, and it was massively disgusting coming back up. Trey vomited, flushed, gagged, threw up some more and dry-heaved himself into exhaustion. He gave the toilet handle a final push and sat on the floor with his back to the tub, berating himself for such a stupid moment of weakness. Hadn’t rehab and AA taught him anything? Hadn’t he learned to call his sponsor when he felt tempted to drink or start popping pills again?

He hadn’t felt tempted, though, not for over a year. He’d lulled himself into a false sense of security, believing he was so strong he didn’t need help from anyone.

He could hear his dad moving around in the kitchen. He wasn’t ready to face him yet. He hauled himself up from the floor and stripped off his clothes. He turned on the shower and stared at himself in the mirror until the steam obscured his reflection.

The hot water pouring down on him helped minimally. His head was pounding and his throat was raw. He had a god-awful taste in his mouth that gulping water had no effect on. Truth was he felt shaky and weak as a newborn kitten, and he didn’t like the feeling. He also didn’t like knowing he had no one to blame for his current state except himself.

Eventually he turned the water off and toweled dry. He brushed his teeth and his tongue, which helped a little. Bracing his hands along either side of the pedestal sink, he fought for control of his body as well as his emotions. The toiletries lined up on the narrow shelf below the mirror swam before his eyes before one of them came sharply into focus. He picked up the plastic bottle and stared at it.
Wild Cherry Body Lotion.
He opened it and sniffed that elusive scent Baylee always wore. Every memory he had of being with her crashed over him, reminding him once again of what he’d lost. He set the bottle back on the shelf.

In the bedroom he donned clean boxers and a T-shirt and sank down on the bed, his mind a big ball of fuzz. Now what? He had no answer to that question.

His father appeared, holding a bottle of water in one hand and a steaming mug in the other.

Andy had the same expression of concern he’d worn before, but Trey could see no judgment or disappointment beneath it. His dad didn’t seem angry with him. Trey had waited an awful long time for his dad not to be mad at him anymore, and now he didn’t know how to react.

Andy handed him the bottle of water and set the mug on the nightstand. “I made coffee, but if you tell your mother I know how, I’ll deny it.”

A weak chuckle escaped Trey.

“Bad night?” Andy asked. The empathy in his tone pushed Trey further toward the edge. He was seriously in danger of completely losing it in front of his father.

He sat on the bed, holding the bottle of water. He twirled it around, peeling at the label with his thumbnails, blinking furiously.

“What can I do to help?” Andy asked.

Trey lost it. No amount of blinking was going to hold the tears inside. He shook his head. He didn’t know how to answer his father’s question. What was he going to say?
Just be my dad. Love me even though I screwed up. Don’t be mad at me anymore.

His shoulders heaved. His nose started to run and the tears kept coming. He didn’t bother trying to wipe anything away, and it started to drip onto the floor along with the condensation from the water bottle and the little bits of the label he’d peeled away.

“Oh, now, son.” Andy sat down next to him. As soon as Trey felt the weight of his father’s arm across his shoulders, the floodgates opened completely. He was five years old again, in pain and afraid, and he needed his dad. Trey had no idea how long it was before he got hold of himself. Andy took a clean handkerchief from his pants pocket and wiped his face with it. He offered it to Trey. Trey set the water bottle on the floor and buried his face in the slightly damp cotton. Calm washed over him along with a hundred memories of his childhood, brought home by the faint scent of the laundry detergent his mother’d always used.

He wiped his face off, afraid it was going to take more than his dad’s handkerchief to clean up the mess he’d made of himself. He grabbed tissues from the box on the nightstand to complete the job. His dad kept his arm around him, his hand on his shoulder.

“Couple of tough guys, aren’t we?” Andy finally ventured.

Trey glanced at him sideways. Traces of tears glistened on his dad’s eyelashes.

“Suck it up, walk it off,” Trey agreed with a watery chuckle.

“Rub some dirt on it,” Andy finished softly.

“Wow. Sorry about that.” Now that it was over, Trey was embarrassed.

“Nothing to be sorry about.”

Trey looked at his father directly. “I am sorry, though, Dad. About everything. I know I disappointed you.”

“Hardest thing about having a kid. Watching them screw up. I hated every damn minute of it. Couldn’t do a damn thing about it.”

“Yeah.” Trey picked up his water bottle and studied it some more. “I was trying—”

“I know you were—”

“But I screwed it up again.”

“Maybe not.”

Trey looked at his father again, afraid to hope.

“I’ve got a lot to be sorry for, too, son. Your mother says I’ve been behaving like an ass where you’re concerned. I believe she might be right because she usually is. But if you tell her I said that, I’ll deny it.”

Trey almost smiled. “Seems like there might be a lot of things Mom doesn’t know about you.”

Andy grinned. “Maybe.”

They sat in companionable silence for a minute before Andy said, “Think your stomach can handle some food? If you tell your mother, I’ll deny it, but—”

“Don’t tell me. You’re a gourmet chef.”

Andy clapped him on the back. “Nah. But I can fry up bacon and scramble an egg every now and again.” He stood. “Bring that mug of overpriced coffee out to the kitchen and let your old man teach you a thing or two.”

Trey followed Andy to the kitchen. His coffee was lukewarm, but he drank half of it before refilling his mug from the carafe. Andy had bacon sizzling in a skillet and was cracking eggs in a bowl, tossing the shells in the sink. He threw a dishtowel over his shoulder and starting beating the eggs with a fork on his way back to the stove. He used the same fork to rearrange the bacon in the pan.

“Need any help?” Trey asked. “I don’t guess your culinary talents extend to grits and home fries.”

“Nope,” Andy replied. “Tell you the truth we’ll be in luck if any of this is edible.”

“I’m pretty good with the toaster,” Trey offered.

“Go for it.”

A few minutes later they loaded their plates and went out to the porch. The sun was up, and while it was cool under cover, the day held the promise of heat.

Trey had given up the fight and downed a couple of ibuprofen. The headache hovered around and behind his eyes, but it looked like he was going to survive. He’d noticed the empty whiskey bottle in the garbage can.

The breakfast was edible, but eating it reminded him of Baylee. After a couple of bites he contemplated the food on his plate before he gave up.

“Thanks, Dad,” he said, pushing his plate away.

Andy glanced up from his own meal. “Seems like you’ve got more going on than just a hangover.”

“She left.”

“Baylee?”

Trey nodded.

Andy grunted. “Where’d she go?”

“Went to see about a job in Florida is all I know.”

“You can find her. If you want to.”

When Trey didn’t say anything, Andy pushed his plate away and sat back. “Do you want to?”

“I miss her.”

“You know why she left?”

“When we got pulled over, she looked at me like she’d been waiting for something like that to happen. Like she knew I was too good to be true or something. She called me a liar.”

“Did you lie to her?”

“No.”

Andy ruminated for a minute. “You know what they say. When you point a finger at someone and accuse them of something, there’s three fingers pointing back at you.”

“What are you saying? She was lying to me?”

“Maybe she’s been lying to herself.”

“Wow, Dad. That’s deep.”

Andy flashed a smile. “Told you I could teach you a thing or two. I learned most of it from your mother, but if you tell her I said so—”

“You’ll deny it.”

“Right. Woman knows more about human nature than the two of us put together. I’ll tell you what thirty-five years of marriage has taught me. People say things in the heat of the moment they wish later they hadn’t. You can’t take them back, and sometimes you don’t know how to apologize or you’re afraid your apology won’t be accepted. Sometimes you’re so scared you’re going to lose the thing you want the most, you don’t know how to deal with it. You willing to leave things between you and her the way they are?”

Trey could barely get past the fact that Baylee was gone. But now that his dad had asked the question, he knew he wasn’t going to let it go. He wanted to have it out with her. If she was going to dump him, she could damn well do it to his face.

“No. No, I don’t think I am.”

“Sounds like you’ve got some work to do.” Andy pushed his chair back and stood. “I cooked. You can clean up.”

Trey smiled. “Sure thing, Dad. Thanks.”

Andy braced his hands on the back of the chair. “You know, you’re not the only one who screwed up.”

Trey looked at his father. Something passed between them that couldn’t be put into words. “So are we good here?” Andy asked.

“Yeah, Dad. We’re good.”

As soon as his father left, Trey tried Baylee’s cell again. When her voice-mail greeting came on, he disconnected and put in a call to Ryan.

“She shouldn’t be hard to track down,” Ryan told him over lunch at the Mountainside Diner. “I have an investigator I can call. It will probably take him a day or so to check into it and get back to us. If she’s employed, it won’t take long.”

“Your wife’s her best friend. You sure she doesn’t know where she is?” Trey pressed.

“Jenny’s as put out with her as you are. Can’t believe she just up and left. She hasn’t returned calls or texts, except she told Jenny to knock it off and she’d be in touch soon.”

“This is all a bit out of character for her, wouldn’t you say?”

“I’d say it’s more than a bit out of character. According to Jenny, Baylee’s barely set foot outside of North Carolina her entire life. The two of them have been closer than sisters since they were kids. So for Baylee to take off and not tell anyone exactly where she is? It’s definitely out of character.”

As much out of character as it was for me to run to a bottle after all this time?
Trey wondered.

“Call your investigator. Tell him it’s worth it to me for him to make it a top priority.”

Baylee walked out of the restaurant into warmth and dampness. What she hadn’t remembered about Orlando, which apparently was the norm for most of the state of Florida, was that it rained almost every day during the summer. She’d been caught in the rain a couple of times and had discovered her portable umbrella was not much of a shield against it.

Oddly the downpour never lasted long, and when it was over the temperature had dropped from the midnineties to somewhere in the high eighties. During the day steam rose off the pavement, but in the evenings there was a soft, lush quality to the air. She breathed in the heat and moisture, so different from the crisp coolness of a North Carolina summer evening.

She’d landed the job James Falcon had discussed with her, plus she hostessed a couple of nights a week at a steak-and-seafood restaurant. Three days after she’d arrived in Orlando, Trey had finally called her. When she saw his name on the list of missed calls, panic had set in. Although she wanted more than anything to hear his voice, she was afraid of what he might say. It had taken him so long to call, to acknowledge her apology, she’d had the thought that his belated effort was too little and too late. She’d listened to his voice-mail message, but she hadn’t called him back. Not then and not after the other two times he’d called. She’d ignored his text messages in which he also asked her to call him. Maybe she’d waited too long, because he hadn’t called or texted in two days.