Page 61 of Beneath the Stars (Sugarlake 1)

By the end of the night, we’ve made some nice progress, so I tell the guys to stop at the local bar on the way back for a round, on me. The bar’s a little outdated, dark, and dingy with sticky tables, but for a group of guys who are coming off a job site, a cold beer and a few apps are all we need to be happy.

We’re shooting the shit, winding down from the day when one of the younger kids on the crew, Matt, leans back and groans. “Man, there are no girls in this place. I was hopin’ I’d be able to find one and show her a good time before I head back home. Guess I’ll have to call one of my weekend ladies, see if she’s down for a Monday night special.” He wiggles his brows.

Jack chuckles. “Son, who you tryin’ to impress? No one at this table gives a damn about your made-up girlfriends. Save the imagination for later when you’re entertainin’ your hand.”

I grin into my beer. Jack is the oldest one here—around Sam’s age. There’s a good dynamic he has going with his crew. It makes me confident in my decision to uproot my life and come back to run this company.

“Oh, shit. Look at this guy.” Matt laughs, gesturing toward the bar. My gaze follows where he’s pointing. The bartender is leaned over the bar top, jaw set, and hands tensed. The man he’s talking to has his back to us, but it’s clear to see he’s smashed. He sways in place on his stool, stumbling as he moves to stand.

“I bet that guy’s in here every night embarrassin’ himself,” Matt sneers. “Why the hell do people let themselves get sloppy like that? It’s pathetic.”

My head whips in his direction. “Shut the fuck up.”

Poking fun at a possible drinking problem is not the way to stay on my good side. I’ve seen what addictions can do—felt the judgment from people who don’t understand. I won’t sit back and let ignorant comments slide.

Raised voices bring my attention back to the altercation at the bar. “I don’t give a shit! I’m a goddamn… I’m a payin’ customer and I’m payin’ for another… I want a damn drink.” The man flails as he reaches into his pocket and pulls out his wallet, slapping it on the bar top. His back is still toward us, but something about him pulls my stomach, jostling the contents and making me feel a little ill. He seems familiar.

The bartender throws his hands up and walks away, picking up the phone.

I scan the area, wondering if anyone else is paying attention. There are a few scattered people along the bar who spare him a glance, almost like they’re used to his outbursts. At the tables surrounding the bar though, people are gawking. Some have their hands over their mouths, stifling laughter—mocking the man who clearly can’t handle his drink. Others glance over with disgust. My temper flares. Just like Matt, they judge him. Profiling him as a disgrace. An embarrassment. Too busy on their pedestals to take a fucking second and see the despair pouring out of him. Too good to walk a mile in his shoes.

My eyes swing back toward him as he quiets and tries to sit down. He loses his balance and falls, the smack of his body making me wince as it hits the concrete floor. Shit. Laughter filters through the air as he lays still, sprawled out on the ground. I jump from my seat to help him. He attempts to roll over and stand but struggles to regain his balance. I’m only a few feet away when he looks up. My stomach cannonballs and my steps falter.

Mr. Carson? What the fuck?

I hurry to him and squat down, reaching out my hand. He grabs it, hoisting himself into a sitting position. When he stands up, I stay close. He’s rocking in place, and I’m not sure if he’s going to fall again. Finally, he manages to sit on his barstool.

I sit next to him, exhaling heavily as I take him in. He looks haggard. His skin is pallid. Dark circles mar his eyes, and blood vessels highlight the deep frown lines taking over his face. This is not the man I once knew.

I clear my throat, searching through my shock to find something to say. Maybe I should offer to take him home? He’s in no condition to be here.

“Mr. Carson?”

He grumbles, his head bobbing, nothing but an empty glass in front of him.

“Mr. Carson,” I repeat.

His head snaps up as he searches for my voice, his eyes glassy and unfocused as they settle on me. “What’s it to ya?”

“Remember me? It’s Chase. I’m Sam’s son.”

“I know… who you are, boy.” His words are so slurred it’s hard to understand what he’s saying.

The bartender walks over and places a glass of water down. “Craig, drink this, and for the love of God stay calm, okay? I don’t wanna throw you out, but there’s only so much I can let slide.”

The bartender seems familiar with him. What’s he doing all the way in Sweetwater?

I lean toward him. “Do you nee

d a ride, Mr. Carson? I came with a couple of guys from work, but I don’t mind leaving early.”

He ignores me, but the bartender’s eyes glance my way. “He’s got a ride. I’ve just called ‘em. But if you two know each other, I’m sure he could use the company. Somethin’ to keep him occupied.” He shoots me a pleading look, and I jerk my chin. I don’t mind distracting him until his ride shows up.

Mr. Carson fumbles toward the water glass, lifting it up to take a sip and scoffing when it’s not the liquor he wants.

“How ya been, Mr. Carson? It’s been a long time.”

He looks at me, his frown lines deepening. “You back… you come here for my Alina?”

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