Just like Stewart had cared about Liam’s welfare.
And the theater’s welfare.
Stewart had loved the old building as much as Liam did, if not more.
Liam paused, his mind churning. He observed the boy for a moment before his mouth spread into a wide grin. He clapped Thomas on the back. “You always know how to give me the good ideas.”
Thomas grunted.
Liam hopped off his stool and parked himself in front of Nathan. He appraised him closer. Freckles. Straight red hair. Good bones and strong shoulders. No doubt he was popular with the ladies, but Liam crinkled his nose. Not only did he stink, it was sad to see him in such a pathetic state—and he was seventeen, drinking as a minor. He glanced back at the bar. The barkeep was gone.
Nathan’s head flopped to the side, taking Liam in. “You have a problem?” he slurred. “Cause if you do, I could take you. Try me.”
Liam coolly looked over the room. “Oh? I don’t doubt it. Listen, Nathan.” Liam set his elbows on the sticky table and leaned in close. “Can we go talk in private? Man to man? We have some things we need to discuss, but I think we should go get you cleaned up first. Is that alright?” He reached for Nathan’s arm.
“Bug off!” Nathan jumped up from his chair and it toppled over. Daggers shot from Nathan’s eyes and he swung the empty bottle toward Liam’s head.
Liam ducked, pushing his chair toward Nathan, circling back around to the bar. “We’ve got a fighter, Thomas!”
Thomas shook his head and stared back at his untouched glass.
Nathan teetered to the side, before bringing the bottle up and around, slicing it down toward Liam again.
Liam dodged, holding his hands out in front of him. “Whoa there, Nathan, I just want to talk to you about your father. We used to be good friends. I thought we could—”
“Don’t. Talk. About. My. Father!” Nathan took another try at Liam’s head.
“Do you not remember me?” Liam asked. “Your father and I. We—”
“Oh, I remember you.” Another swing, and Liam darted to the side.
The room remained indifferent to the fight, keeping to themselves, their conversations a low hum.
“Come on, Nathan. I just want to ask a few questions—”
“Leave me alone!”
Nathan took a jab at Liam’s gut, but he swayed to the side and rammed into a table. The bottle dropped from his hands, crashing to the floor, glass shattering everywhere. Nathan hung over the table, his face smashed into the wood.
Liam sighed, taking in the mess. Talking to Nathan wasn’t going to work. Not with him so intoxicated. He only needed to ask him a few questions, not to dismantle the boy. Liam’s eyes flicked to the corner of the room and his brows shot upward.
Nathan stumbled to his feet again before he charged, rushing forward, trying to take Liam down. Liam gave one last dodge and gripped Nathan by the shoulders, steadying him.
“Listen,” Liam said, “I don’t want to fight you. But I know who does.”
Nathan squinted, eyes clouded. “S’cuse me?”
“Hey, Don! It’s been awhile!”
The arm-wrestling match in the corner stopped. Don’s chiseled face popped up. “Mr. Liam! Un honor verte!”
“An honor to see you, too! Hey, this kid over here says you’ve got nothing on him! And that your pants are ridiculous.”
Nathan staggered back, frowning.
Don’s mustache twitched. The Spaniard rose from his chair, and his long legs and heavy boots carried him forward. He grabbed Nathan by the shirt and yanked him up close, their noses inches apart. Nathan’s head lolled backwards before it straightened.
“You,” Don said. “I’ve seen you around.” His eyes dropped to Liam. “Does he need a lesson? Theater style?”
Liam waved his hand. “He isn’t an appreciator of the arts like we are. And he did insult your pants.”
The Spaniard grinned and gave Liam a single nod. “Then I think”—he threw a fist in Nathan’s gut—“he needs”—another fist across his face—“a lesson.” Nathan grunted as Don shoved him to the floor. “I’m always happy to oblige.”
Another kick to Nathan’s face and he passed out.
“And the point of that was…?” Thomas called across the room without looking up from his glass.
Liam winked. “I’m saving my livelihood.”
Chapter Three
Fight or Flight
Boulder, Colorado, August
Red limped back toward the trailhead, still not sure if she had imagined the whole thing. She could still feel the cool rock slipping out from under her fingers. She remembered crashing into the ground and the pain searing into her chest. She couldn’t get the image of the strange man out of her head—the sight of him looming over her, taunting her as he clicked his tongue like a clock. It was etched inside her mind permanently.
She peeled the bloodied shirt away from her skin and swallowed down the knot in her throat.
She shouldn’t be alive.
Except there wasn’t a wound on her body. Not even a scratch. She clutched her shoulders and blindly made her way back toward the motel.
From the trailhead, she could see the whole town, including the rundown inn where Coach waited. He’d be furious she had left—purely for publicity reasons. Any picture taken of her right now could damage her climbing career. The media would have a hay day with her appearance. But once Coach saw the blood on her, he’d be relieved she was all right, and they’d spend the afternoon making out.
Her gaze unfocused, Red passed the small shops on the dusty road, filled with overpriced dream catchers, carved figurines, and key chains. She snorted. Tourists and their pocketbooks.
Red kept her head down, wary of photographers, hoping not to be recognized. Crowds bustled past her—bumping into her shoulders, shopping, laughing—and Red crossed her arms over her shirt, trying to hide her blood-soaked appearance. Sunlight beat on the top of Red’s head and sweat trickled down her back.
For a brief moment, she longed for the salty ocean air and cool breeze of her childhood. An image of her father’s grave filled her mind—the simple stone cross cold and alone on the sandy oceanfront. Jagged rocks. Waves crashing. Her blue scarf tumbling through the stormy skies and escaping toward the ocean. A young boy leaping into the waves to retrieve it for her. Red shook the memory away.
She brushed the dirt and chalk off her hands and cracked open the motel door.
Inside, Coach’s beach blond head was dipped over his backpack, his lean but muscular arms shoving his belongings inside. Red took a moment to admire them.
“Hey,” she said. “What’s going on?”
Coach kept his head down. He stomped over to the TV cabinet, picked up his wallet, then tromped over to the bathroom. He snatched his razor blade and toothbrush, then shoved them into his bag too. The bed bounced as he plunked himself down. He grabbed his boots and started tying the laces.
“What’s going on?” Red asked again.
The air conditioning roared to life. Loud knocking and clanging sounds erupted from the large vent.
“Coach—David. What’s happening? I thought we were staying the whole week.”