What I Should’ve Said
Chapter 11

Bennett

I pull out of the police station’s parking lot with the intention of heading home, but for some reason, I replace myself coming to a stop in front of Clay’s bar.

I cut the engine and just sit there in the driver’s seat, warring with myself about what I’m even doing here. Spending the day in lockup and someone who needs me at home should be all the motivation I require to go straight there, and yet…here I am.

Phone out of my pocket, I send a quick text.

Me: Evening go okay? I might still be a while.

Not even a minute later, my phone dings with a response.

Charlie: It was a good day. And no worries.

No worries. That’s not the response I needed to knock some fucking sense into my head.

Before I know it, my boots hit the concrete and my door clicks shut behind me.

The Country Club is busy as hell. Live music in the form of banjos and bluegrass filters from the stage at the back, a man who looks like the lead singer of ZZ Top yodels into the mic as a few tipsy people try their hand at line dancing, and Clay is behind the bar, serving the patrons of Red Bridge all the booze their hearts desire.

This is probably a bad idea.

I replace a stool that is positioned in the middle of two empty seats and sit down. Marty Higgins, one of Clay’s bartenders, slides a fresh napkin in front of me. “What can I get you, Ben?”

“The strongest bourbon you can replace. And make it a double.”

Marty quirks an eyebrow. “Tough day?”

“You have no idea.”

Thankfully, he doesn’t ask for any further explanation and gets to work on pouring a healthy dose of Woodford Reserve into a rocks glass and setting it in front of me. I lift the glass to my lips and take a long drink.

I stare down at the now half-empty glass and block out all the commotion behind me. The chatter. The music. It becomes white noise, and my mind becomes a blank canvas to paint with ponderings of repercussions.

Fuck, this could have been so bad. For me, for my career, but mostly for—

“Heard you got into a knife fight with three guys who were trying to kidnap Josie’s sister.”

I look up from my drink to replace Clay standing in front of me, one elbow resting on the bar.

“Small-town news travels fast,” I comment. “Although, it doesn’t travel accurately.”

“What the hell happened?”

Isn’t that the question of the hour—one I’m still trying to figure out the answer to. A woman I have no personal interest in had a problem with a prick from the city who drives a black Audi, and I, somehow, found it a good idea to get involved.

You lost control.

“Norah Ellis’s ex is a motherfucker. Put his hands on her when she very clearly didn’t want them on her. I intervened with my fist.”

Clay raises one eyebrow before running a hand through his hair. “Damn, dude. You going to have legal ramifications from that?”

Any kind of legal bullshit is the last thing I need to be involved in. My sister alone would give me enough strife to last a lifetime, but the other things depending on me being let down would kill me. He knows that.

“There should’ve been. But the sheriff just called me a little bit ago to let me know Norah convinced the county prosecutor to drop criminal charges on the asshole if he gets the hell out of Red Bridge and doesn’t press charges against me. And he agreed because of a protection order for Norah. Though, I’m not entirely convinced it’s over because he doesn’t seem like the type to let shit go.”

If anything, he seems like the kind of dickhead who thinks the world revolves around him. Like more important than anyone or anything else. Even the law.

“How could you be charged with assault when you were trying to stop an already bad situation from getting ugly?”

“The first punch, I’d agree with you.” I purse my lips and shake my head. “But I punched him twice.”

“Sounds to me like he deserved it,” Clay comments and grabs the bottle of Woodford Reserve to pour himself a drink. “Cheers, brother.”

This doesn’t feel like a time for celebration, but I clink glasses with his and take another drink anyway.

“Plus, you can count your blessings because you got here after Eileen Martin left,” Clay updates with a knowing smile. “Though, something tells me you’re going to replace yourself in the paper tomorrow. That little old lady was fucking amped.”

“Shit,” I mutter, and Clay reaches out to pat my shoulder with a hard hand.

“Don’t be such a downer, Ben. From what I can tell, you’re going to be painted as the hero of Red Bridge. The man who stopped a gang fight and a kidnapping with just his fist alone.”

My exasperation comes out in the form of a stilted laugh. “Great.”

Publicity and being painted as that fancy-ass woman’s hero—just what I need.