A Brevia Beginning. Michelle Major

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      Chapter Three

      By five o’clock that night, Scott’s headache was way beyond a hangover. He’d driven down to Charlotte to pick up some updated electronics the bar needed right away, along with a few extra clothes until he had time to get to his condo in D.C. for his stuff. He’d noticed a bathroom and shower off the office in back, where he’d bunk until he could figure out what to do with his new investment.

      Damn. His plan hadn’t included staying in Brevia for more than a few days, and definitely not in this run-down bar. He didn’t know why he’d come in the first place, other than wandering around D.C. and watching ESPN in his place had been driving him crazy.

      He and Sam hadn’t been close in years, and he knew his brother still didn’t trust him after Scott’s part in breaking up Sam’s first engagement. He pressed two fingers to the side of his head as the pain of regret mingled with the dull pounding inside his brain.

      He’d thought they were going to put the past behind them when Sam was planning to take the job with the Marshals, but the relationship with Julia had ended that. Scott had been mad as hell. He’d stuck his neck out to get Sam the job. Although he didn’t want to admit it, he’d craved a second chance at a relationship with his brother.

      He knew Sam didn’t want him here. Maybe that had been part of the motivation for making this stupid deal. He’d always had a talent for getting under his brother’s skin.

      Hefting another box of beer bottles into the large refrigerator in the back room of the bar, he spun on his heel as someone cleared his throat behind him.

      Scott slammed the refrigerator door and faced a craggy-looking man whose thin blond hair was pulled back into a ponytail at the nape of his neck. He looked to be in his mid-forties and wore faded jeans and an army-green canvas jacket over a white T-shirt.

      “You ain’t Luke,” the man told him.

      “Great observation.” Scott eyed the stranger, clearly ex-military by the way he held himself. “I’m Scott Callahan, the new owner of this place.”

      “New owner?” The man’s eyes narrowed. “I didn’t hear nothing about a new owner.”

      “It’s a recent development.” He’d also met earlier with Luke, who’d been thrilled to hand over his keys. He’d offered to stick around for a few weeks to help, but Scott had declined. From what he’d seen this morning going through the bar’s accounts and ledgers, Luke hadn’t known much about running a business. Scott had certainly spent enough time in bars. He figured he could pick up most of what he needed to know from the staff. As long as he kept the beer cold and the liquor flowing, how hard could it be?

      “You can’t be any worse than Luke. That guy could barely tap a keg when he got here.”

      “I’ve tapped plenty of kegs in my day,” Scott assured him. “I didn’t catch your name.”

      The two of them stared at each other for several moments. Finally, the man said, “I’m Jon Riley.”

      “As in Riley’s Bar?” Scott tried not to look surprised.

      Joe nodded. “My dad opened this place almost twenty years ago. Luke took over when Dad passed a few years back.”

      “I’m sorry. You work here?”

      “Unfortunately.” When Scott didn’t reply, Jon continued, “I’ve worked in restaurants most of my life. Trained as a chef up in New York. But I got hurt over in Iraq and, well...ended up back here.”

      Scott had noticed the full kitchen, although from the looks of it, nothing had been cooked there for years. “Riley’s doesn’t serve food.”

      “Used to when my dad had it.” Jon shrugged. “Now I wash glasses, clean up, handyman stuff. Whatever needs doing. You gonna change things around?”

      “I’ve owned the place for less than twenty-four hours. My head is still swimming.” And pounding.

      “That didn’t answer the question.”

      “You’ve still got a job if you want one.”

      “I do.” Jon stuck out his bony hand and Scott shook it. “Nice to meet you, boss.”

      “You, too, Jon.”

      “I got one more question for you.” Jon nodded toward the unused kitchen space. “My apartment’s only an efficiency. I can’t cook anything worth eating. I clock in here at six-thirty most nights. Would you mind if I brought in some supplies and made myself dinner before I started? I’ll keep it clean.”

      “Is that what you’ve been doing?”

      “Nope.” His gaze dropped to the ground. “Luke didn’t want to deal with it or have customers smelling my meals, but—”

      “I don’t care what you do in the kitchen. I’m not using it. We’re having a staff meeting in a few minutes. СКАЧАТЬ