Page 111 of Calling the Shots

And I think she may be right about that.

“I—I don’t know what to say.”

“You don’t have to say anything, dear. Those earrings belong to you now. Take good care of them. And of my son.” Her eyes glisten with tears, and I almost feel sorry for the woman. Even with all her money, her pedigree, the country club friends, the ginormous mansion and the staff, she can’t have the one thing she wants.

The true love and respect of her son.

Maybe, over time, they can find their way back to each other.

Stepping forward, I reach out and grip her forearm. “Thank you. I will.”

With a sad smile, she pats my hand, then pivots to go.

“Gracelyn—” She glances over her shoulder. “Take care. Hopefully we’ll see you and Mack again soon.”

Then she sashays out of the salon, leaving behind only the slightest hint of her expensive perfume.

CHAPTER37

MACK

I’m walking out of football practice when I spot the SUV. A Mercedes with blacked out windows and matte rims. Those rims are special order, and I’m betting these particular wheels traveled all the way here from Augusta.

What in the hell is my mother doing in Thunder Creek?

In the decade I’ve lived here, she’s never visited. Not even once.

Damn, we were on a good streak too.

I sidle up to the idling SUV, tapping on the rear passenger window. The black glass slides down and there’s my mother. Sitting in the backseat, ankles crossed, with Bobby at the wheel.

“Hello, Mother.”

“Hello, Ulysses.”

“To what do I owe this pleasure?”

She frowns at me for a split second, then fixes her face, moving back to neutral. A few high school kids walk by, laughing and joking. They wave to me as they pass.

“Bye, Coach.”

“See you tomorrow, Coach.”

I shoot the kids a wave, then turn back to the problem at hand. My mother.

“Is there somewhere more private we can chat?” She narrows her eyes at the kids, goofing around in the parking lot.

I tip my head to the sky, debating.

“I could use a beer.” I duck my head into the car. “Bobby, follow me.”

Bobby nods and I hustle to my truck and hop in. Figure if my mother’s going to stop by, she should have a tour of Thunder Creek, starting with Mustang’s.

Firing up the truck, I pull out of the lot and drive over to Mustang’s, carefully following all the rules of the road. Wouldn’t want Bobby to lose me.

This is going to be fun.

Thursdays are popular nights at Mustang’s, the local college kids taking full advantage of the beer specials. I find an open spot and Bobby circles around, dropping my mother at the door. She climbs out of the SUV, her lips pressed in a thin line as she surveys the neon sign and the bucking horse.

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