There's Only Been You (3 page)

He flipped on the radio as he backed out of the driveway. Searching through the stations, he wracked his brain to remember which one he used to listen to. When an old Aerosmith tune blasted through his speakers, the first genuine smile of the day lifted his lips.

Mike had driven for maybe ten minutes before a familiar neon sign appeared up ahead on the right. His smile widened. Krupp's, he remembered, served up the best fried perch dinner in town. He parked his truck in the closest space he could find, noting the lot was pretty well packed.

He pulled open the door and the distinctive twang of country music spilled out, as did the tantalizing aroma of deep-fried chicken and fish. Making his way through the crowd, Mike sent up a silent prayer of thanks when he spotted an empty booth against the back wall.

He slid in and reached for the old, stained menu when one of the waitresses approached, her smile flirtatious. He read the name tag pinned to the baby doll T-shirt she wore bearing the tavern's name. “Hey, Mandy, could I trouble you for a bottle of whatever you have imported and a fried perch basket?"

She tucked a stray wisp of shoulder-length auburn hair behind her ear. “You want fries or onion rings with the basket?"

"Fries. And bring me some ketchup with that, if you don't mind."

"I don't mind at all,” she replied with a wink.

Mike's lips puckered into a silent whistle of masculine appreciation as he watched her swish away in one of the tightest pairs of jeans he'd ever seen. He leaned back in the booth, his free arm draped comfortably over the top of the seat. Less than a minute later, she placed an ice-cold bottle of beer on the table in front of him.

"It'll be a few minutes yet on the food.” She flashed him what he assumed to be an ‘I'm interested’ smile before sauntering off to take care of some other customers.

Pretty though she was, Mike wasn't interested. Her hair wasn't quite the right color, and her eyes were a few shades too light. Scowling at the direction of his thoughts, he gulped down a large swallow of beer.

His gaze traveled around the room. It had been nearly a decade since he'd been here, but he was pretty sure the place hadn't changed much. Fairly large, it boasted roughly twenty tables and just as many booths. The bar was a good thirty stools long, the walls covered with the expected collection of beer signs, lighted mirrors, and other beer paraphernalia. The jukebox stood against the far wall right between the restrooms, and an old pinball machine that wasn't lit up sat in the corner next to the men's room.

His gaze skimmed over the four pool tables. All set up in a large square, and all occupied.

Mike tilted the bottle to his lips and drained half of it in one long pull. His stomach rumbled when he spotted the waitress heading his way with a steaming basket and bottle of ketchup.

"Nice and hot. Enjoy,” she said. “And give me a holler when you're ready for another beer."

"I'll do that, thanks.” Mmmm, he hadn't had a good perch dinner in years. He picked up one of the batter-fried fillets and dunked it into the small bowl of tartar sauce.

"Hey, Mandy, we're ready for another round here."

Mike's hand stopped halfway to his mouth. Dammit, he knew that voice. Eight years had gone by since he'd heard it, but there was no mistaking that deep baritone. He turned his head, and his gaze landed on the last person he'd have ever wanted to run into here in Green Bay.

Garrett Jamison.

"Ah, shit."

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Mike watched Sara's oldest brother toss his cue stick down on the pool table and stride toward him. Great. Just what he needed, a confrontation with this asshole.

"What the hell are you doing here, Andrews? You're on the wrong side of town."

Mike took a careless swig of his beer. “Good to see you, too, Garrett."

One of Garrett's buddies reached his side. Mike couldn't help but notice the guy bore a striking resemblance to Al Pacino—only taller.

The Pacino look-alike slapped a hand on Garrett's shoulder. “Hey, man, I don't know what this is about, but you need to calm the hell down."

Garrett shrugged off the guy's hand, his eyes never leaving Mike's face.

Ignoring them both, Mike bit into the tartar sauce-coated piece of fish.

Quick as a whip, Garrett swiped the basket onto the floor.

A muscle in Mike's jaw started to tic. He tossed the half-eaten piece of fish down on the table and rose to his feet.

Most of the tavern's patrons had gone silent. All Mike could hear were a few hushed whispers.

Another guy appeared at Garrett's side. “What the hell's going on?"

"Your friend here can't hold his liquor any better than he could a decade ago,” Mike said. “Maybe you boys should—"

"You prick!” Garrett roared and took a swing at him.

Mike ducked, causing Garrett to stumble. He righted himself almost immediately and swung again.

Mike easily dodged the second punch before tackling Garrett onto the table. The beer bottle went flying and crashed against the wall.

Mike leaned back and swung, aiming for Garrett's jaw. Garrett brought his shoulder up, and Mike's fist cracked the table.
Son of a bitch.
He shook his hand right as Garrett gave him a powerful shove. Mike stumbled back and Garrett pounced, pinning him against the pool table.

The crowd of people moved with them, and Garrett's buddies finally attempted to break up the fight. They got knocked on their asses for their trouble, though, as Mike sent Garrett flying with a thrust of his legs, taking both of them with him.

Garrett's breath came out in ragged pants as he climbed to his feet.

Mike jumped off the pool table, his eyes centered on his opponent. He was tired, hungry, and becoming more pissed off by the minute. All he'd wanted was a beer and some supper before heading back to the house. But, hell, no. He'd had to run into Sara's obnoxious older brother. Who, as it turned out, was one hell of a grudge holder. And the most infuriating thing of all?
Mike
was the one who'd been wronged!

"Look, man, this is stupid. It's been eight years. Let it go."

"Let it go?” Face mottled red with rage and alcohol, Garrett looked ready to lunge. “As if I could ever forget what you did, you lowlife sonovabitch!"

His buddies came up behind him, each grabbing an arm.

What
I
did? What the hell is he talking about?

"Garrett, the owner wants you both to leave, and if we have to take you out in cuffs, we will,” the Pacino look-alike warned.

Appearing to have had enough, Garrett nodded. His buddies seemed leery, but released him. It was a mistake. Garrett swung, hitting Mike square in the jaw and sending him crashing into one of the tables, spilling food and drinks all over the floor.

Mike climbed to his feet, gingerly fingering his jaw.

Garrett's buddies tackled Garrett to the floor and even managed to pull his arms behind his back to cuff him. But then, he really didn't put up much resistance. He'd gotten in one good shot, and Mike figured if the satisfied gleam in Garrett's eye was any indication, it had been enough.

Mike smiled cockily as they hauled Garrett to his feet. “It's been a pleasure, Jamison. Hope you get a good night's sleep on your cot."

The Pacino look-alike pushed Garrett down onto a chair before crooking a finger at Mike. He had another set of cuffs in his hand. Mike's brows rose in surprise. Garrett let out a snort of laughter. With a weary sigh, Mike held out his wrists. “This is bullshit. He started it."

"I finished it, too,” Garrett boasted, rising to his feet.

"You sucker-punched me...” Suddenly, Mike made the connection between Garrett and his buddies. “Christ, you're a cop?” For some reason, that struck Mike as funny. Maybe because he was hungry, sore, and tired as hell, but suddenly, he couldn't stop laughing.

Sara had just nodded off when the phone rang. She reached across the bed with a groan and snatched it up on the second ring. “Hello?"

"Sara? Hank Hamilton. Sorry to call so late but—"

"Hank? Wha—? Oh my God, it's Garrett, isn't it?” Alarmed, she sat straight up. “I just knew something bad was going to happen. He—"

"Sara, calm down. Garrett's fine, I promise. He got into a little scuffle tonight at Krupp's."

She leaned back against the headboard and closed her eyes, her shoulders slumped in relief. “So, where is he? And why didn't he call me himself?"

"We, uh, had to arrest him."

"What? Hank, you just said it was only a little scuffle."

He cleared his throat. “Actually, it was a little more than that. When Garrett started sucking down beers faster than usual, Dreyer and I knew something was wrong. But he told us it was nothing and to mind our own business. You know how he gets."

She sighed. “Yeah, I know."

"Anyway, I left to go take a—er, use the washroom, and the next thing I know some guy comes running in jabbering about how that big cop was about to kick some guy's a—uh, butt."

"Hank, tell Garrett I'll be there as soon as I can. I'll have to wake up Nicky or Uncle Luke to come with me."

"Uh, Sara, that's just it. Garrett made me promise not to call you. Said he'd sleep it off till morning and explain when he got home."

"Well, that's ridiculous. I'm not going to let him sleep in a jail cell all night."

"I agree. That's why I decided to risk my neck and call. But maybe you could send one of the boys to spring him? He was real adamant about you not coming down here."

Sara sat straight up again, her mind reeling. Good Lord, it couldn't be. “Hank, do you know the name of the guy he got into a fight with?"

"Yeah, got it right here. It's Andrews. Detective Michael Andrews. Why, you know him?"

She closed her eyes again and took a deep, calming breath. “I know him. Was he arrested, too?"

"Yep. But don't worry, we've got ‘em in separate cells."

"Thanks, Hank. I'll send someone down to get him as soon as possible."

She hung up the phone, tossed the covers back, and slipped out of bed. As she got dressed, she tried to decide who to take with her to the police station.

Because she
was
going. She didn't give a damn what Garrett wanted. She wasn't sure why, or what she expected to happen, but she knew she had to see Mike this one last time. It might be the last chance she'd ever have to look him in the eye and—and what?

She slumped down on the edge of the bed and took a deep, shuddering breath. Maybe Garrett was right. What good would it do; what purpose would it serve for her to see him? It's not as if she could slap him across the face through the bars.

And she couldn't risk him finding out about Ethan. That would be a total disaster. If Mike decided to fight for custody, Ethan's safety could be in jeopardy, though she doubted he would. Mike's father had been a cruel and abusive man, and as much as Sara hated to believe Mike had taken after him, her last memory was of him beating the living tar out of someone. No way in hell would she let him—or anyone else—lay a hand on her son.

Sara headed into the kitchen to put on a pot of coffee. She decided Nicky would be the best choice to send to the station, so she flipped on the coffeemaker and padded down to his room.

She rapped lightly on his bedroom door, but got no answer. Inching it open, she whispered, “Nicky? Nicky, wake up, we have a problem."

She heard a deep, masculine groan, then movement. “Sara? What's going on?"

Sara slipped into his room and sat on the edge of his bed. “I got a call from Hank down at the station. Garrett's been arrested, and I need you to go bail him out."

"What the hell did he do?"

"He got drunk and started a fight down at Krupp's."

Nicky cursed and swung his legs over the side of the bed. “We have to get that idiot into an anger management class before he does something really stupid and loses his badge.” He reached down and pulled on a crumpled pair of jeans.

"I know, believe me. Sometimes I worry about him so much I can't sleep."

She returned to the kitchen; Nicky came in a minute later.

"Ah, coffee.” He stuffed his wallet in his back pocket, then sat down to pull on his boots. She set a steaming cup in front of him.

"Nicky, there's something I haven't told you yet."

"Jesus, he did lose his badge, didn't he?"

"No,” she hurried to assure him. “I'm sure Hank would've said something if that were the case.” She took the seat across from him. “What I haven't told you is who Garrett started the fight with."

Nicky watched her expectantly. Then his eyes widened as it dawned on him. “No way. Mike?"

She nodded. “And they were both arrested so there's a good chance you'll see him."

Nicky rubbed his eyes, then raked his fingers through his hair. He looked tired, but Sara knew it was more than that. Mike and Nicky had once been as close as brothers, and Nicky had taken it almost as hard as she had when Mike left.

Nicky took one last swallow of his coffee and rose to his feet. “Well, I'd better go bail Captain Hothead out of jail."

Garrett lay sprawled on his back, one knee up, the other leg hanging off the side of the cot. One arm flung over his face, the other hand tucked into the waistband of his jeans. Loud snores poured from his open mouth.

Mike rolled his eyes. Goddamn figures. He leaned back against the cold concrete wall and exhaled a deep sigh of disgust.

He heard voices before the heavy clip of heels on the cement steps announced someone was coming. His brow lifted in mild surprise as Nicky stepped around the corner. Hands on hips, Nicky faced Garrett's cell. He shook his head and then glanced over his shoulder, his expression sobering when he recognized Mike. Slowly, his old friend turned around to face him.

"Hey, Nicky. Long time, no see."

Nicky dropped his arms and nodded a curt greeting. “Mike.” He took a few steps toward his cell. “I'm sorry about your father."

"I'm not. He's burning in hell, exactly where he should be."

"Kind of harsh, don't you think?"