Page 50 of Best Laid Plans

I had told him that I wanted Nova to pay. I was angry, hurt, heartbroken. But I didn't want her to be assaulted.

"What would have happened if the ADA and her lawyer didn't get her out, Pete?" I asked, feeling a frisson of fear. This was the Deep South—people here sometimes flew the Confederate flag and thought Juneteenth and Martin Luther King Day celebrations were a sham, a way to satisfy the less worthy.

"I was goin' to run her out of Sentinel." Pete jutted his chin out belligerently.

"And what if she went to…I don't know a lawyer, and got you into trouble?"

He snickered. "She wouldn't do that. They never do. You think I don't know how to run my county? The criminal element is sometimes better handled by us than going through the bullshit system."

Here I was, stomping down racist remarks at my house, and one of my closest friends had just admitted that hurting Nova wasn't an isolated incident. This was his modus operandi.

I felt the whiskey I'd just drunk just about ready to come right back up.

"Pete, we're done," I said softly.

"What's that supposed to mean, Anson?"

"You should go." I walked to the end of the porch, and leaned with my forearms resting on the railing. I stared at the perfectly manicured garden in the twilight, feeling utterly empty.

"Anson, we've known each other all our lives. You going to throw that away for that two-bit—"

"You should stop talking and leave," I cut him off. There was no heat in my tone, just finality.

"Are you sleepin' with her again?" He yanked my arm so I'd face him. "You cheatin' on Bailey?"

"I don't cheat, Pete. That's more your style," I hit back. "Maria know how you keep fuckin' around on her? She know how you sleep with all the hookers in town?"

Pete hit me then, a punch that I didn't take on my nose but on my jaw. He'd gotten soft and pudgy. Drank too much. Smoked too much. Ate too much. He cheated on his wife, and was always short of money because he gambled. He'd run dry of any friend who'd loan him any money because we all knew what he'd do with it. He probably thought he was superior to Nova King, who worked hard and had elevated her life. He probably thought he was my equal because we knew each other since way back when, and his last name reeked of old Georgia.

"You do that again, I will have your ass arrested," I said coldly. His fist came back up, but I easily stopped him with my hand. He gave up quickly, knowing he wouldn't win in a physical match-up with me.

"You're gonna lose Bailey over this," he sneered.

I shrugged. "I think it's the other way around. Bailey is losing me 'cause I'm already done with her."

"Why?" Pete looked horrified. "Is this 'cause I told you she knew about Carre?"

I didn't reply, but he got his answer all the same.

"Hey, don't take this out on her, okay? The fault is yours. You trusted that bitch, and—"

"You call her names again, and I will run you out of town. It's an election year, Sheriff. Don't make me support your opponent." To be honest, I was already considering doing that.

Pete took two steps back. Pissing me off wasn't going to help him, and he knew that. He'd lost his temper, and he knew there was no going back from what he'd said and done.

"We've known each other for—"

"A long time," I finished for him. "Doesn't mean shit, Pete."

He spun on his heel, and walked into the house. I stayed on the porch and emptied the bottle of whiskey. No one bothered me, probably because Pete told them about our conversation.

I had to deal with Bailey, and then I needed to apologize to Nova. I'd lived all these years with the certainty that she was in the wrong—only to find out now that I'd fucked her entire life up, and for what? Thirty thousand dollars' worth of jewelry?

I should've talked to her about it, tried to understand her, kept her out of prison, and made sure she never got into such a situation again.

Shoulda! Coulda! Woulda!

I had nothing but regrets.

---