Page 3 of The Hometown Dilemma
I knew that.
I knew it had been a mistake to get drunk and take a bet from my buddies to get a permanent tribute to someone I wasn’t that serious about.
How could I have been so stupid?
A keg of beer will do that to a guy.
Cami Harlow and I had split up not long after said drunken night. If I remembered right, it had been one of the contributing factors to the break-up.
And now I was left with a permanent reminder of what might have been.
“But can you fix it?” I knew I sounded like a whiny child and wished I had been stronger then so I didn’t have to grovel now.
Daphne placed her hands on her hips, cocked her head to one side, and fixed me with a stare. “What do you think? I am a genius.”
Letting out a hard breath, I forced a smile. “Thank fuck for that.”
“Although it might be less painful getting a new girlfriend whose name starts with the letter C.” She winked. “Gimme a minute and I’ll see what I can come up with.” Daphne went over to the reception desk where her laptop was and started tapping away on the keyboard.
“Ugh. The last thing I need right now is a new girlfriend.” I didn’t have the time right now, there were plenty of other things keeping me busy, like keeping the family business running. Dempsey’s Bar & Grill had a strong reputation in Abbott Ridge, but mostly with the older crowd. It needed to compete with the other places in town, and I’d been trying to convert it into a place where younger people wanted to go. It seemed like I was in a constant battle with my dad over the demographic, and it wasn’t one I was entirely confident of winning.
Daphne clutched a hand to her chest in mock anguish. “Damn, and here I was thinking I had a chance.”
“As if I’d try to wrestle you away from Jameson. I don’t have a death wish.” Daphne’s boyfriend, Jameson Cutler, was a professional football player and I didn’t plan to take him on. “But I am here for you to fix this mistake,” I said, getting us back on track. “What have you come up with?”
She approached me with a couple of sheets of paper in her hand and passed them over to me. “Here you go. It’s a pretty easy fix. You’re lucky.”
Scanning the designs, I had to admit she’d come up with some excellent ideas for covering up this awful tattoo. Any of them would fit perfectly with my existing ink too.
“What about this one?” I indicated a circular Celtic looking design, which had thorns in it, turning the C into something unrecognizable as an initial. “I think it’ll work.”
“Honey, any of them would. I told you I’m a genius.” She gave a mock curtsey and headed off to get the rest of the things she needed to start the tattoo.
An hour and a half later, my arm wrapped with a protective film, I headed across town to Dempsey’s. It was nearly five, so the after-work rush would begin, and I was pleased to see a few tables already occupied.
But seeing my dad behind the bar, polishing glasses, was the last thing I’d expected. He should be at home, resting.
“What are you doing here?” I asked, grabbing the cloth from him and gently easing him out of the way.
“Did you not see the messages?”
I hadn’t checked my phone while I’d been at Ministry of Ink, nor had I bothered on the short drive over. What could have possibly happened in one afternoon? Pulling my phone from the back pocket of my jeans, I saw the message thread used by Dempsey’s employees had blown up.
Starting with a message from one of the bar tenders asking if anyone could cover his shift tonight and ending with Dad saying he’d come in.
I sucked in a hard breath. Dad was meant to be stepping back from work, leaving me to cover the day-to-day running of the place. He should be at home, watching football or basketball, not here polishing glasses for me.
“So, where’s Eli now?” I demanded, glancing around the bar and not seeing any other staff. A Tuesday night was usually quiet, and we made do with a handful of staff. But that wasn’t the point.
Dad shrugged. “He’s obviously not here.”
Pushing down my anger, I stalked off to a quiet corner of the bar and dialed Eli’s number.
“Hey, Wade, what’s up?” His tone gave nothing away, as if blowing off a shift a couple of hours before he should have started meant jack shit.
“Are you sick? Did you have an accident? A family emergency?” I demanded.
“No. What makes you think that?”
