22. Red

The phone rings, and my chest cracks at the sound. Sitting around the giant kitchen table in the big house is every single person who might call me. Except one. And she doesn't call me just to chat anymore. Hard to believe two weeks ago I was practically living at her house, sleeping in her bed, guiding her through masturbation over the phone.

If she's on the other end of the phone, it's likely not a good thing.

"Hello?" I answer without even looking at the name, letting the back door slam shut behind me.

"Hi, Chasey." The woman's voice is instantly recognizable, despite how much time has passed. God, how long has it been? Five years, maybe?

Should've taken a half-second to check the call display first.

"Mom." I try, and fail, to swallow the lump in my throat. My legs are wobbly. Too unsteady to be trusted to keep me upright, so I plunk my ass on the porch swing. "What do you need?"

"Sheesh, can't your mother call to say she misses you?"

If we had a relationship, sure. As it stands? There's no way that's why she's calling.

"Sure. What's going on?"

"Well…" Her blubbering, whiny voice is cut off by full-on sobs that I can only shake my head at. If any other woman in my life called me like this, I would drop everything for them. But I've been the victim of these crocodile tears a time or two. "It's about your dad."

I snort. "Of course it is. What did the fucker do this time?"

Drunk driving, bar fights, gambling, getting in trouble with the wrong guys… it's always something. And if it warrants a phone call from Mom, it probably requires bail money or some shit.

"He's dying—it's his liver. The doctor said less than six months, most likely. Especially since he refuses to quit drinking. I thought maybe you'd want to come visit him. I know you two had your issues when you were growing up, but it would mean a lot to him."

Her tone implies we argued about shit like my grades or staying out past curfew. Conveniently overlooking the times he smacked me around when I was too young to defend myself. Too young to have even done anything worthy of being hit in the first place.

"Okay. Thanks for letting me know. Honestly, I have no interest in seeing him. Besides… my girlfriend is having a baby in a few months, so I can't get away." I don't know why I add the comment about Cass—who is the furthest thing from my girlfriend, considering I haven't even seen her in weeks. But I have to admit, it feels nice to say something that might hurt my mom. As petty as that is.

"I'm going to have a grandbaby?" Her voice perks up like Little Spud will have an effect on her life. I guess she can brag to her friends about it. She might've been the better parent of the two, but the bar was real fucking low. Even still, I've never doubted she loves me and my four brothers. She just loves our crappy father more.

"Yeah, a baby girl. Maybe after Joe dies, you can visit sometime. Anyway, I gotta go, Mom." I hang up before she has the chance to scold me for calling him Joe, instead of Dad.

The back door squeaks louder than normal thanks to the hush falling over the busy kitchen when I walk back in.

"Whatcha all staring at?" I clear my throat and sit back down in my usual spot.

"Who was that?" Denny asks.

"My mom. My dad's dying, apparently." I shrug, piling more and more rice onto my plate, until Cecily's hand reaches out to stop me, and I realize I lost track. Half my plate's covered. "Anyway, who wants to go out for drinks tonight?"

Nobody answers and all of them are staring. Fuck, even Rhett is being perfectly silent, which is unheard of for a one-year-old.

Finally, Cecily speaks up. She's always the fixer. Never shying away from hard conversations—at least, not since her own dark secrets were spilled. "Are you sure that's a good idea? Maybe you should have a low key night instead of drinking the sadness away."

"It's not sad drinking. I want to celebrate. Fuck that guy."

Kate lets out a loud huff. I'm a little thankful for all the pity, otherwise she'd be tearing a strip from my rear end for swearing in front of the kids.

"Sorry, that was a bad word." I smile weakly at Odessa, who's unphased. If Kate heard the way everyone—Jackson included—talks when she isn't around, we'd all be strung up. Odessa's dropped her fair share of F-bombs herself.

"Problem, Red. Where we gonna go?" Denny asks. "Can't exactly go to town… There's some liquor in the bunkhouse, but not enough to do any damage."

"I'm fine to go to town," I say.

"Okay. Who wants to chip in for bail money now?" Denny grabs his hat from the back of his chair and holds it out like he's accepting donations.

"Red, don't you think this might make things worse with Dave… and upset Cassidy?" Cecily's nose scrunches. "Just saying. Maybe think this through for a bit."

"She's right." Kate points her fork at Cecily while giving me a pitiful look. "Getting into an altercation with her dad isn't the way to go about winning Cass over."

If Dave's gonna kill me, he's gonna kill me. It's not like staying away from the bar is any protection now that he knows the truth. He could show up here if he wanted to. Then there's Cass… fuck. She's already made it clear there's nothing I can do to win her over. It doesn't matter that I busted my ass for her. That I followed every asinine rule. That I love her. None of it matters.

"I don't give a shit about that. It's too late."

Eerily silent, everyone stares. From his seat next to mine, Jackson places a firm palm between my shoulder blades. "Maybe you should hold off for the night?"

"I want to go for drinks with my friends, and that's the only bar in town. You're the ones making this into something bigger."

I'll go to the bar, have a couple drinks, eye-fuck Cassidy from across the room, and play it cool. Easy peasy.

"Well, what if I go in and talk to Dave first? Feel it out before you roll in and start shit," Denny says.

"Fine, let's do that." I nod, shovelling a scoop of rice into my mouth, since apparently that's all my dinner will be tonight. At least it'll soak up the alcohol.

The bar parking lot is busier than I would've expected for a Thursday at eight o'clock, and knowing there's a crowd inside almost makes me change my mind. I just want to listen to music and have some drinks with my friends. Of course, both Dave's truck and Cassidy's car are in the parking lot. Knowing she's here makes me more anxious than thinking about seeing Dave for the first time since he practically walked in on me fucking his daughter.

Colt, Sundial, Levi, and Rob sit on the flat deck of Colt's truck with me, waiting for the verdict from Denny. The air's cold and crisp, with a brutal wind, but I'm sweating. Unable to focus on the guys' conversation.

Denny crashes through the bar's front doors with a grin and practically skips over to us. "We're allowed in but you"—he juts his finger into my chest—"need to be on your best behaviour."

"Great. We're fucked." Colt throws his hands up.

"Shut the hell up." Walking toward the double doors, I stick my boot out to trip him. Thanks to the amount of road pops he drank on the way, Colt barely manages to stop himself from face-planting into a pile of dirty snow. Giggling as he rights himself and carries on.

My hand lands on the door handle, and I stop breathing. With the flip of an imaginary switch, my body mindlessly goes through the motions—walking into the warm building and across the worn floorboards guided by muscle memory. Despite the edges of my vision getting foggy, I keep my eyes trained on the table along the back wall. Our usual spot. When I sit down next to Denny, I stare at the knots and dings in the shiny wood table. If I lift my head, I might see Cass. And, as much as I want to see her, I'm terrified of how I'll feel when she makes it obvious she doesn't want to see me.

There's not much time to panic before she's there. Right fucking there at the side of our table. Hair in a high ponytail, sparkling eyes, and… shit, her tits have probably doubled in size since I last held them. Either that, or she's wearing a serious push-up bra. All I know is I'm immediately envisioning them pouring out from my hands while she's on top of me. And there's no denying she's pregnant anymore.

How has so much changed in two weeks? Two weeks I should've been there for.

"Hey," she says softly.

"Hey," I reply. The other guys may as well not even be here. "You look beautiful."

"Liar." She tugs at the hem of her dark-green long sleeve, tilting her head to hide a small smile. When she looks back up, our eyes meet for a split second before she redirects her focus to the rest of the guys. "You guys need a round of beer?"

"Yeah, thanks," Denny says. "You do look great, by the way."

"Thanks. I'll be right back with your drinks."

I watch her walk across the empty dance floor, stopping to grab a few empty glasses from another table, then putting in our order with Dave. He doesn't so much as glance at her—shooting daggers at me as he pours pint after pint. I'm fully prepared for him to hurtle his body over the bar top and charge at me. Maybe pull a gun from under the bar and take me out with a quick headshot.

But he simply fills the glasses, then turns away to do something else. Whatever Denny did or said to convince him to let us in here, I'm impressed.

Thank God it's not long before she's back with a round of beer. Then a second. Then third. The boys are doing some heavy drinking to make up for lost time, since most of them have avoided this place for as long as I have. Cass flutters around the place like a hummingbird, never stopping for longer than necessary. It's no wonder why her back hurts and she's always so damn tired. I should be going home with her to massage those aching muscles tonight.

After setting down the fourth round, she lingers with a yawn. Her hands rest underneath her stomach, cradling it as she leans against the table. "You all better tip good. It's rude to make the pregnant girl hustle back and forth all night because you insist on sitting the furthest from the bar."

"We can move," I offer. But, looking around, there's nowhere else that can seat all six of us. "Or not…"

Denny beams at her. "We love you, Cass. I'm sure Red would be more than happy to show our appreciation in other ways."

"Wow, is that all my time and energy is worth? Serving really is a thankless job." Her hand finds the back of my chair, seeking stability so she can lean between Denny and me to grab a pair of empty beer glasses. Her tits are so damn close to my head it makes my dick hurt. Then her fingertips graze my back, sending a shiver up my spine. It's likely my imagination getting the best of me, but I swear her fingers stay where they are for longer than necessary. The simple touch rushes through me with a buzz and, when she pulls away, I can't breathe.

"I'd offer my type of thank you, but I think the big guy would kill me." Denny winks at her before slapping me on the back, restarting my heart. If any other guy made a similar comment, I would remove their testicles with the dirty work knife I keep in my pocket.

She chuckles—the sweet version, not her true laugh. I hate knowing what her laugh sounds like and not being able to hear it every day.

"That's the most unappealing proposition I've gotten all night. And Toothless George told me he has a pregnancy kink while he had a dollop of ketchup on his ZZ Top beard." She walks away, arms loaded with empty pint glasses.

Toothless George. He's been old, toothless, and permanently drunk for as long as I can remember. He's gotta be at least ten years older than my dad. How is it Joe's going to drop dead of liver failure any minute and this fucker will probably spend the next twenty years slumped over that bar? Not that my dad doesn't deserve to have his liver fail… but still. It's bullshit that the world works this way.

"You good, bud?" Denny elbows me. "You look spacey."

"Yeah, yeah. Just thinking about Toothless George."

"Afraid he's gonna steal your girl? I heard he has a big inheritance. Can't say I'd blame her if she gets the choice between you two."

"Fuck right off. I'm thinking about why he gets to live another day."

"Hey man, being part of the sick parent club fucking sucks. I've been there… Just a heads up, the dead parent club isn't great either." He gives my shoulder a quick squeeze before picking up his beer glass and downing it.

When his mom died, it hit me hard, too. Obviously, I would never try to compare my grief to that of Denny, Jackson, and Austin, but Lucy Wells was more of a mom than I'd ever had. She taught me how to cook a steak, how to ride a horse, and how to add fractions. My mom taught me that fictional men are apparently always better than the real version, the proper way to roll a cigarette, and the lyrics to every single Fleetwood Mac song—not saying those aren't surprisingly useful life skills.

Knowing my dad is dying doesn't feel like it did when we found out Denny's mom was dying. There weren't any conflicting emotions about losing her. It was pure misery for every person who was blessed enough to know her—the entire town was devastated. With my dad, I'm torn between relief from knowing karma is finally kicking that son of a bitch in the ass, anger that he couldn't even be bothered to tell me himself, and disappointment because he'll never have the opportunity to turn his life around. Despite everything he's done, there's always been a tiny part of me hoping things could change.

I rub my hand up my bare arm, feeling the scarred skin under my palm, and follow suit with the beer chugging. If anything, at least both of us sitting here with empty glasses will get Cass back to our table faster.

Like she has a sixth sense for men in need of a beer, she almost immediately turns back up next to me and plunks down into the empty chair. "Sorry, I need to sit for half a second."

"Are you okay?"

"My back feels like it's about to spontaneously combust and, if my feet could talk, they'd be screaming bloody murder. Oh, and I think she's parked right on my bladder." She points a finger angrily at her stomach, like she can somehow intimidate the baby into moving. "But, yeah, peachy. I'm fucking peachy keen."

"Give me your feet."

"I have to work and also… no. Gross. I've been running around all night. They're sweaty."

"Give me your fucking feet, Cass." Unblinking, I stare her down. She doesn't move, narrowing her eyes right back at me. So I reach under the table to grab them myself. Her heels fall onto my lap, and I untie each sneaker before pulling them off.

"You really shouldn't," she protests before sinking into the chair with a relaxed moan when my thumb presses into the ball of her foot. "Fuuuck, okay. Can you do my back next?"

"I would. You know I would." If she would invite me over, I'd doanything. Fucking anything to be allowed back in her world for a single night.

"I need to get back to work, though." She pulls her leg, and I grip her foot tighter. "Your drinks won't refill themselves, will they?"

"No. But I have two feet and a heartbeat. Take a break, alright? I got it." I stand up, setting her socked feet down on my empty chair, and grab the empty glasses from the table.

Apparently, I'm about to have my first interaction with Dave since that morning at Cassidy's house. Letting out a slow exhale, I walk across the bar floor. Feeling the weight of Cass's stare on my back and the crushing fear from Dave's looming presence on my chest.

"Hey, Cass needed a break. Where do you want these?"

Okay, now we wait to be murdered.

I wince when his mouth opens. "Through those doors, chuck 'em on the rack."

What the hell. What the hell. What the hell.

There's no way he was that chill. Nice, even. I follow his instructions and decide to push my luck by ordering another round. Again, nothing.

"Is she okay?" Dave asks, looking up from the quickly filling pint glass to where Cassidy is still sitting at our table, talking to Denny and twirling a fallen strand of hair.

"Oh… yeah. Just said her feet and back hurt."

"Right. I told her I'd be civil, and I will be." He hands me a round, black tray and starts placing full pint glasses on it. A monotone voice and zero expression in his face. Refusing to look at me as he speaks. "Until you hurt her. If you treat her with any less respect than she deserves. If you break her heart… I will fucking end you."

"All due respect, if anybody's going to end up hurt, it's me. Cass is the one with all the control here." I struggle to balance the tray as he places the last glass for our table on it.

Jesus, how does Cass do this every day?

"What else do you need me to do so she can stay off her feet a while longer?"

He eyes me suspiciously. "Clear off that table over there. And see if anybody needs a round."

I sidle up to our table and start passing around beers, to the boys' delight. Not a single one of them will let me get away without chirping me.

"Damn, what a fuckin' downgrade in the quality of staffing here." Sundial—the shittiest cowboy we have on the ranch—chucks a handful of peanuts into his mouth, then adjusts the backward ball cap on his long hair. Just for that, I take a long chug of his beer before handing it over.

"Shut up. He's got diapers to buy. Let the man earn some extra cash." His brother, Colt—an infinitely better cowboy and probably the sole reason Sundial's still employed—smacks him on the arm. "Hey, Red. If you show me your tits, I'll tip you extra."

"Colt, the only person I'm showing my tits to tonight is your mom after I'm done here. Fuck off." I smack him on the back of the head and carry on.

Denny doesn't fuck around. Jamming a five-dollar bill in the waist of my jeans before I can set the tray down to stop him. "No offense, Cass, but I might like Red being our server even more than I like you."

Cassidy laughs. The real kind. "No offense taken. I like it better, too." She reaches into the black server pouch tied around her hips and pulls out a bill, waving it at me like we're at a goddamn strip club. "Will you show me your titties, or are they fully reserved for Colt's mom tonight?"

"Sweetheart, you know you're the only MILF I want seeing my tits. I'll give you the VIP treatment, even."

Denny grimaces. "Cool it, Romeo. I already know enough about your guys' sex life. Save the cringey dirty talk for later."

"Would you rather hear the non-cringey stuff?" Cass looks up at me with a smile so big I bet it can be seen from space. Her hands lightly, absentmindedly rub over her baby bump.

Before I say something stupid—one of her many rules I still find myself trying to follow—I leave to do Cassidy's job so Dave doesn't lose his shit. Do I tell every table I pass to go place their own damn orders at the bar? Absolutely. Wouldn't kill most of them to get some exercise, anyway.

Things are going smoothly. Dave seems less likely to kill me with every trip to the bar. Regardless of how much he hates me, he's not going to force his pregnant daughter to get back on her feet when I'm capable and willing. We both want what's best for Cass and, right now, that's drinking a root beer and talking to Denny.

"You gonna be bitch boy for her all night?" says a guy who's best described as the crusty cum sock under a teenage boy's bed. Landon Wiebe. Twenty-eight years old and desperately trying to become a rapper. Somehow he hasn't realized nobody gives a shit about rap lyrics from a punk who's never left his mom's basement in small-town Canada.

"Whaddya need, Wiebe?" I slip my hands in the front pockets of my jeans because it'll buy me a few seconds to think about my actions if the next words from his mouth are deserving of a punch.

"Bro—just sayin'—I heard Cassidy fucked a few guys at the rodeo. Now she's got you trapped with a baby that's probably not even yours."

I crack my neck and tighten the fists in my pockets, wishing Cass was here to calm my inner demons. The way she did when I wanted to hit that arrogant ex of hers in the grocery store parking lot. "Keep her fucking name out of your slimy mouth, skid."

I look at her briefly. Carefree, relaxed. I should walk away—go to her. Wrap her in my arms, inhale her sweet perfume, and ignore the crap spewing from this loser's mouth. But it feels like my feet are cemented to the floor, and no amount of electric zaps from a cattle prod could get me to move.

"Bro, I'm just sayin' what I heard." He shrugs and looks over at his equally stupid, ugly, wannabe-rapper friends. Then he laughs. "I heard she's a slut and, like, fucked a whole load of dudes. Guess if it comes out a ginger, you'll know for sure, though."

I want to give him a final warning. I do. Because every rational part of my brain knows I shouldn't do anything to piss off Cass or Dave. But I can't give him another warning because the alcohol and the rage combine in my stomach, burning me from the inside out. So I snap. Seeing red, the pockets do nothing to stop my hands from grabbing the front of his hoodie, yanking his pinner body closer to mine.

"You wanna talk about the mother of my child? I'll make sure you don't even make it to the hospital, bro." My words land with spit droplets against his ugly face. Then my fist makes contact with his jaw, right as his friends strike from all sides.

My tunnel vision's smaller and smaller. If time's moving, I'm unaware. Soon, all I can see is a fist—I assume mine—hitting Landon Wiebe's narrow nose. And I don't feel anything until there's a hand on the back of my shirt, pulling me backward, out of the brawl. My ass slams onto the sticky bar floor.

Maybe it's been ten seconds, maybe ten minutes. Maybe I only hit him twice, maybe we're both bloody messes. I have no idea.

Blinking to clear my vision, I see my friends fighting the skids. And the person who yanked me out of there still has a firm grip on my shirt—Dave.

Fuck.

Send me back into the middle of the donnybrook full of flying fists, knocked over chairs, and spilled drinks. I'll take that over whatever fury Dave is going to unleash.

"My office. Now." He points toward the double doors leading into the back, then stalks toward the group to break them up.

My heart's hammering inside my chest and my skull at the same time, threatening to beat so hard it seizes completely. With Dave's back turned, I could slip out to the parking lot or jump back into the fight. A lot of good either of those would do when I'm stuck with Dave just as much as he's stuck with me. Our worlds revolve—and collide—around Cassidy's sunshine.

I stand up slowly, too afraid to search for Cass and see whatever emotion she's feeling right now. Disappointment, anger, fear, worry. I can't handle any of that. I don't remember the last time I worried about anything other than winning the fight. My reputation's long been ruined, and impressing people was the lowest priority. Before she came along and gave me a reason to want to be a decent guy. Although, my Cassidy-induced good behaviour hasn't changed anything—I'm still here, pining over a girl who doesn't give a fuck about me and fighting guys who talk shit about her. Nothing has changed.

Keeping my eyes trained on the dirty, worn flooring, I push through the doors and locate Dave's small office. In total contrast to Cassidy, who has everything neatly organized and clean, this place looks like somebody let a wild animal run amok. I pick up a pile of papers from the shabby armchair and set them on an empty patch of floor before sitting.

The seconds drag on, bringing me back to neverending strings of days where I sat like this in my high school principal's office, waiting to be told if I'd be paying for my stupidity with detention or suspension. At least I was fairly confident Principal Thiessen wouldn't walk in and stab, shoot, or punch me. Can't say the same for Dave Bowman.

I'm dragging my boots back and forth across the dusty floor when Dave storms in some time later. Immediately, I sit upright, tucking my hands deep into my pockets, ready to face my punishment like a man. Whatever he thinks is a fair consequence.

"What the fuck was that?" He slumps into his rolling desk chair, dragging a hand down his face. "Let me get one thing clear, Red. I knew your dad pretty well back in the day. And I refuse to sit back and let you drag Cassidy through that kind of bullshit. She won't be bailing you out of jail, dragging your sorry ass home after a rough night, or taking care of your kid while your ass is on my bar stool so often I should charge rent."

I nod, refusing to make eye contact with him. Counting the pens sitting in a mason jar on his desk instead. Five blue, three black, one red. And a worn-down pencil with purple hearts on it, which seems like it probably belonged to Cass before ending up here.

"Denver told me about your dad. Frankly, that's the only reason I'm talking to you instead of calling the cops—got it? Take this as a win and clean your fucking act up. Be a goddamn man. Don't go starting bar fights in front of the mother of your child." He knocks his boot hard against mine so I'll look at him. His brows are tight, forehead wrinkled, and eyes narrow as he assesses me. "Cassie's relentlessly trying to convince me you can be a decent guy. And I don't think she would say that for no reason, so be that man. If not for yourself, do it for the baby. You don't need to become your father, Red. But you sure as hell will if you don't figure your shit out."

Clearing my throat, I say, "Thanks for not calling the cops. Is that all?"

"Yup."

I rise from the chair despite my entire body feeling numb, tingling with TV static. And the walk of shame I do through the bar, past Cassidy, and out to the parking lot, feels worse than the handful of times I've been dragged out in handcuffs. I'm like a kicked dog, tail between my legs, rushing across the icy parking lot. Desperate to get far away from this place.

I would say this entire night was a bad idea, but the truth is that it wasn't. I got to see Cass. Talk to her. Feel her fingers graze my body. Hear her laugh. Flirt.

Then I had a rude awakening.

I can't do this anymore.