85
Christmas' Best Bet,
Humble Pie
Mary Marvella
Published by M. M. Barfield
Smashwords Edition
Copyright 2011 Mary Marvella Barfield
Discover other titles by Mary Marvella at Smashwords.com
https://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/MaryMarvella
Haunting Refrain
Forever Love
The Gift
Any resemblance to people living or dead is entirely coincidental. References to places are not intended to express the opinion held by the author of any real places.
Dedicated to Mary Elizabeth Mc Keown Overby and James Claude Overby, the best parents a kid could have. They are the reasons I am a reader and a teller of stories. We weren't rich, sometimes we were actually poor, but I didn't know it since our family was rich in love.
Thanks to Danielle Barfield Simms of Barfield Legacy Photography for the cover art.
Atlanta, Georgia present
Chapter 1
“If we don’t stop working and go for food soon, you’ll need to call 911 to revive me.” Jonathan Brockton Hamilton III was so tired he could barely tell up from down. “Hey, fellas,” he called from his office. He stood on legs stiff from sitting behind his desk for hours. He extended his arms above his head in a stretch much overdue. He shut down his laptop and ambled to his door, then to the conference room where Drake and Carter hunched over one of many stacks of paper.
“You talkin’ to us, Amigo?” Drake drawled, pushing gold-rimmed glasses up on his head. He tapped his Monte Blanc pen in a muffled tattoo on a stack of papers. Only he would use a pen like that for everyday work. For signing contracts for clients, that was a different matter. Of the three partners, Drake could be counted on to be the most designer brand conscious.
“Nah, I was talkin’ to the walls. Aren’t you fellas starved?” Brock was certain his words slurred from hunger.
“Carter went into his stash of crackers hours ago and we shared ‘em. I’ve been thinkin’ of spreading mustard on a table leg and gnawing to make my stomach hush growlin’.”
Drake leaned back in his leather chair. His blue dress shirt with his tie knot barely loose looked as though he hadn't been working twelve hours straight. “That man never stops workin’.”
Carter peered over crooked reading glasses and rubbed his forehead, leaving an ink-smear over one eye. He'd pulled them from a bag with Bargains Are Us on it.
Carter dropped his pen on his legal pad filled with notes in his cramped printing. “If you two are gonna whine, we might as well quit and go get a bite. We can finish this tomorrow and be ready to put together a top notch brief.”
When Carter stood he looked even more rumpled than he had this morning, which was hard to believe since he usually looked like he slept in his clothes. Could Carter sleep at the office instead of in the apartment no one had seen yet? Maybe it didn’t exist. He was always first in the office and last to leave.
No one worked harder than Carter. He has shown more genius than Drake and me put together. The decision to offer him a partnership with no investment the day the three of us graduated Mercer Law School was brilliant.
Drake stretched his arm to study his Rolex. He squinted at the beyond expensive timepiece. “It can’t be ten thirty.”
“Yeah, it is,” Brock rolled his shoulders. “I’m all done in. I’m callin' it a night and headin' out for a bite to eat. Want to join me?”
“Count me in.” Drake rose and grabbed his suit jacket.
“Me, too.” Carter rounded the long conference table.
“Wanna take one car?” Brock offered.
The three men strode out into the warm November night. Brock thanked the fates he'd been born in Georgia, where winters were mild and people were still friendly. Anyone within fifty miles of Atlanta could get almost anything he needed to make life good.
“Nah,” Drake answered as he punched his remote to open his Beemer door. “I might get lucky and need my own ride.”
Brock shook his head at his friend’s confidence. He probably would manage to pick up a woman for the night.
Carter unlocked his older model Ford Taurus. “Drake’s got a point about taking our own cars. The closest place likely to be open is the Waffle House three blocks from here.”
“The what?” Drake asked.
“He said Waffle House,” Brock answered. “Let’s go, I’ve never actually been inside one.”
He smiled as he pulled his Audi from the paved parking area into the driveway. The view of the spotlights aimed at the old house made Brock proud of the investment he and his partners had made in it a year ago. A November full moon shone above the highest peak in the roofline.
The old house needed renovations, but it would double in value in a few years. There were enough empty rooms for Carter to use one and save money, but he'd refused to take charity.
Brock took up the tail-end of the caravan down the street lined with old houses converted to businesses. If he hadn’t been so damned hungry, he’d have suggested they find a nice restaurant.
Within minutes he pulled into a space between Drake and Carter. He saw not one gold or red tree near the building to show autumn lingered in Atlanta.
Brock and Drake followed Carter into the square, one story building. The room sported booths and stools. The noise level assaulted his ears, and the onion, fried foods, and coffee odors attacked his sense of smell. Actually, the whole room with its orange benches and stool tops assaulted his senses. Women of varying ages bustled around, some carried food to the tables while others placed plates in front of people seated on tall stools at a high counter.
Amazing, un-damned believably amazing that such a place could exist and that he’d never been in one.
Drake looked as shocked as Brock felt. Carter, however, caught the attention of a woman wearing a god-awful ugly brown dress and a striped apron. She winked at Carter and led them a few feet to a booth. While Carter lost no time sliding across one orange plastic looking bench, Brock waited for Drake to slide across the other bench, but he sat on the edge, as if he needed to be able to escape quickly.
Brock shrugged and looked pointedly at Carter, who motioned for his partner to sit beside him. By the time Brock sat, Drake looked to be in shock. Neither arm touched the table, but Carter wasn't so cautious. He grabbed menus from a holder at the end of the table.
A woman who looked old enough to be long past retirement age leaned over the table and swiped a wet rag across it. Never had anyone wiped a table after he was seated at it, even at the Varsity. Though Brock was ready to jump out of the way of stray crumbs, not one hit him or his partners.
Drake just stared.
The waitress gave Drake the once-over, then placed a set of utensils on a napkin for each man. She rescued a thin pad from one pocket and a pencil from behind one ear. “Name’s Sally, and I’ll be your server tonight. What’ll you boys have?”
“I haven’t decided yet,” Brock answered in his courtroom voice that went with his tailored business suit.
“Well, you just take your time, Honey,” Sally looked at him and grinned, showing the gap of a missing incisor.
“We’d all like water, please,” Carter said.
“With lemon?” the waitress asked.
At his nod she asked. “Coffee?"
“God, yes,” Carter said. “I could use a gallon.”
Brock echoed his response.
When she left to get their water Drake muttered, “Probably should’ve ordered bottled water.”
Though Brock thought Carter flinched beside him, he didn’t bring attention to it.
Carter took a glance at the plastic sheet menu and put it back. “I know what I want.”
Drake glanced over the menu he held by the edges. Maybe he’d like plastic gloves. “What?”
Carter grinned. “I’ll have pecan waffles with peach syrup and coffee, lots of it.”
“Oh, maybe I’ll have the same,” Drake said, still frowning.
The waitress leaned over the counter at the end of the table to place their glasses of water in front of Carter, who gave each man one.
Brock couldn’t remember having a waitress lean over a counter instead of coming to the table. Then she put cups and saucers on the table. He couldn’t remember having a booth butted against a counter behind which the cooks cooked and waitresses grabbed food and utensils, either.
At Drake’s frown, she said. “I’ll bring you gents fresh coffee in a second." True to her word she bustled to their table, poured steaming coffee, and pointed to the sweeteners. “Cream?” she asked. She reached into an apron pocket and placed creamer packets on the table.
“Thanks,” Carter and Brock said together.
“Yes, thank you,” Drake echoed with a bit of attitude.
Carter got things moving by ordering. “I’ll have pecan waffles and a couple of eggs over light.”
Brock ordered a cheese omelet and hash browns. He didn't get those often.
“Scattered and smothered?” she asked.
“I guess,” he said.
Carter laughed at him.
By the time Sally went through all the other sides he could have with his omelet, Drake seemed to have his attitude under wraps and ordered the pecan waffles. Looking around at the clientele, Brock noted that Drake looked the most out of place here. Though some men wore nice clothes, none wore ties and suit coats. Even the November chill hadn’t brought out coats or sweaters yet.
Brock couldn’t remember ever eating in such a hectic atmosphere or around so many different types of people. A young woman sporting a nose ring and a blue Mohawk dangled a combat- booted foot beside a man whose clothes looked frayed and as dirty as his longish white hair and scraggy beard.
When Sally brought a stack of plates to the booth beside Brock, the aroma actually reached out to make his stomach growl.
A yelp drew Brock’s attention. A young woman rose to leave. She wasn’t a person who would have drawn his attention, but he couldn’t miss the yelp of pain when the burly man in the booth across from her grabbed her wrist and tugged. Carter obviously saw the interchange because he pushed against Brock.
Brock was halfway out of their booth when the man slapped his companion.
The jerk had gone too far. Brock had been taught boys don’t hit girls and real men don’t hit women.
Expectant quiet replaced the noise of conversations and dishes hitting tables and counters. Brock took three steps forward. “Take your hands off the lady, now,” he ordered.
“Sez who?” Jerk Man turned on Brock, though he held fast to the woman’s thin wrist. “No fancy boy tells me what to do.” The snarl in his voice should’ve made any man with good sense back away.
Brock kept his face expressionless and his voice even, though the burly man looked tough enough to toss him aside. “Just take your hand off the lady and let her go.”
“Lady? You gotta be kiddin’, pretty boy. Get outta my business.” The or else might as well have been spoken. The threat was loud and clear.
Carter stepped around Brock. “Do like my friend said and let go of the woman. You can’t assault a person.” He turned to the woman. “Do you wish to press charges against this man?”
Carter could really put on the lawyer official attitude when he needed to.
“No, I just want to get as far away from here as I can.” Her voice sounded thin and full of fear.
“That bitch let me buy her dinner. She says she ain’t puttin’ out.” With that he yanked on her arm again. More than one gasp caught Brock’s attention. No one else said anything or made a move to help the woman.
A blur moved past Brock and Carter. Jerk Man fell back onto the bench, losing his hold on the woman. Before Brock could process that Drake had left his seat, he placed a well-aimed chop to the jerk’s wrist and a fist to his gut.
“I hate hearin’ a man call a woman a bitch.” Drake dusted his hands and straightened his tie. “Ma’am, do you need a ride home?”
“Uh, no, thanks.” She glanced from her companion to Drake and to Carter and Brock. She dug a cell phone from her large handbag. “I’ll call my brothers. One of ’em ‘ll come get me.”
She looked to be in shock and afraid, even of them.
As if on cue, each lawyer extracted a business card from his pocket. Carter gave his to the woman.
“Ma’am, you might want to wait inside until your ride gets here. My partners and I will watch out for you. We’re lawyers, and we’ll be glad to help you take legal action to keep that jerk away from you.”
She nodded and scurried to the other end of the room where she could watch for her ride. Maybe she liked lawyers less than she liked the burly guy. Carter’s soft-spoken “ma’am” hadn’t reassured her.
Carter slid back into the booth, while Drake headed toward the men’s room down a narrow hall.
As Brock took his seat, Carter spoke up. “What the hell happened with our partner?”
Brock laughed. “Drake is into martial arts. It takes a lot to make him lose his temper, but when he does, look out.”
“Never would’ve guessed that.”
Drake returned, looking as though nothing had happened just minutes earlier. He did examine his knuckles but said nothing. He held his coat against his body as he slid onto the bench across from his partners.
This didn’t feel like one of those times for a play-by-play rehash of Drake’s rescue. A glance at Carter made Brock want to laugh. Gentle Carter’s face shone with the glow of new hero worship. Drake narrowed his eyes, a clear indication he didn’t want the admiration.
Their waitress hurried to their table. “Gentlemen, I’ll get you hot food if yours is cold. Order anything you want, no charge.”
“Food’s fine, thanks to Drake the little confrontation didn’t take long.”
Brock enjoyed his cheese omelet, every moist bite. In spite of everything, not one scrap of food remained on his plate.
Carter ate like a starved man and Drake, of course, ate his waffles as though they were crepes.
The woman Drake saved rose when three large men entered. “You took long enough. I was scared. My blind date was awful, but three nice men came to my rescue. Can we go now?”
The largest looked like he’d make two of most men. “What about the asshole who hurt you, Sis?” he asked.
“He left in a hurry.”
“You didn’t call a cop?” another brother who could probably bench press the building asked.
“No, I figured my big brothers would handle things.”
“And we will.” The third guy led the way out.
Carter finished his coffee, then waved his cup for a refill. “Those men will do more to the jerk than the police would.”
“Let’s go have a couple of drinks and relax for a while,” Brock suggested.
Drake ginned. “Sounds like a plan.”
Twenty minutes later they stood in the parking lot of the Hotlantis bar.
“Come on, Carter,” Brock called. “Let’s have a couple of drinks and relax.”
“Yeah,“ Drake said. “You are not to return to the office and work. We could all use a break.”
“Fine,” Carter said, making Brock want to laugh at him. He took almost no time to play.
The Buckhead bar was loud, even after eleven-thirty on a Wednesday night. Several men and women sat on tall stools at the long, black bar.
All around the three men, couples sat at small round tables, staring into each other’s eyes or cuddling. Brock was starting on his second drink when the noise level lowered enough for him to hear Drake whistle.
Drake’s drawl became so exaggerated Georgia born Brock turned to see why. “Would you look at that?”
“What?” Carter asked. He turned toward the door. He grinned.
Brock looked in the same direction. His mouth went dry. The woman standing in the doorway looked like any man’s fantasy, with her long black hair and nearly nonexistent little green dress. “Now that’s my kind of woman,” he said. “She’s gonna look great on my arm at Mama’s fundraising party next Friday evening.”
“Don't think so.“ Drake straightened his tie. “I’m more her type.”
Carter snorted. “You two are so out of your league with that one. She’s too good for both of you.”
Brock couldn’t suppress the feeling there had been a challenge or two issued there. No way would he let that pass. “Watch and learn,” he stood taller and straightened his shoulders. He gave his partners a big confident grin. “Betcha I’ll get her number and a date.”
Carter shook his head and took a swallow of his drink. “Betcha don’t. And if you don’t, we get to set the price of the wager.”
“And if I get her number or a date?”
Carter looked at Drake, who nodded. “You can name your prize.”
“Works for me.” Brock ran his hand through his hair and smoothed his shirtfront before he started across the room.
The woman strutted toward the other end of the bar.
Her runway model hip action sent heat way south of his belt. He felt that slight sweat that comes with a testosterone increase, and he could swear he could feel her sexual vibes aimed at him. When he was close enough to smell her subtle perfume she turned toward him.
“Hi.” He knew his voice sounded too low and too hoarse, but he couldn’t help the natural reaction to so much gorgeous woman so near and so well displayed. Her green eyes matched the dress, but something about her expression seemed wrong. Well, duh, he hadn’t even introduced himself.
He recovered and held out his hand, prepared to hold onto hers a little longer than necessary while he gazed into her eyes. Worked every time. “I’m Brock Hamilton. You just made my day.” He cleared his throat. “I’d like to buy you a drink.”
She ignored his hand. “No thanks,” she said and turned back to the bar.
Now what? “You look like someone I should know.” That should work. It usually got him a smile, at least.
She looked back over her bare shoulder at him. Her green eyes held no warmth for him. “No reason you should know me. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’d like to relax and enjoy the drink I ordered.”
Brock seldom needed to do more than smile at a woman to get her name and phone number. This lovely creature wouldn’t shake his hand or even let him buy her a drink.
He reached into his pocket to withdraw a business card. Could she be playing hard to get, creating that extra mystery? He tapped her elbow and placed his embossed card beside her glass. “In case you ever need a lawyer.”
She shook her head and picked up her drink. After a swallow she put the glass back down on his card. “I won’t.”
Finally he gave up and strolled back to his buddies. What would they want him to do since he’d lost the bet? How bad could it be, anyway?
Carter tried to look disinterested, but Brock knew better. He was just curious as Drake, who was grinning like an idiot.
Drake grabbed Brock’s shoulder and squeezed. “Sorry, old buddy. Shot you down, did she? Maybe you aren’t her type. She probably isn’t impressed by guys with messy black hair.” He straightened his jacket over broad shoulders, then smoothed his tie, which was already perfect. “Let a man show you how it’s done.” Drake didn’t bother to smooth his brown hair. There was never a hair out of place, anyway.
Carter’s raised eyebrow meant he was thinking, which could be dangerous. “So, if you can’t get her number, either, I get to name both penalties?”
“Hell, yes, ‘cause I’ll get it. And if I do, I win and I’ll think of something good for you and Brock to do for me.
“Deal,” Brock said with little enthusiasm.
“Deal,” Carter said.
Brock tried to keep his observation of Drake from being obvious. He didn’t want to look as though he thought Drake could win where he had failed. Drake strolled across the room and stood beside the target without looking at her. He ordered a drink, likely scotch and water, and pretended he had just noticed her. Drake was predictable, if nothing else, and he could make a full-on attack look spontaneous.
Carter sipped his drink and shook his head when Drake spoke to the lady in green. “No, say no,” he muttered.
“Did you say something?” Carter asked.
“Nah, just talking to myself.”
Drake was facing the woman who still faced the bartender. Brock couldn’t hear what she said, but he could see her reflection and Drake’s in the mirror behind the long bar. The woman looked annoyed. Drake looked puzzled, his brow definitely furrowed.
Carter’s voice held a smile, which contradicted his serious expression. “He’s striking out, isn’t he?”
Brock didn’t try to hide his smile. “Yeah, he is. In fact, he’s on his way back.”
Drake’s walk back seemed to take forever, since he moved in slow motion. Brock tried to be a good sport about it. He couldn’t. “So when are you going out with her?”
“Never. She’s not so great looking up close. Maybe she prefers women.”
Carter nodded. “Probably has BO and bad breath, too.”
Brock couldn’t resist rubbing it in. “Yeah and her voice is screechy and her teeth are crooked. Who wants a date with her?” Me, me!
Carter drained his glass and left his barstool. “Looks like I won this one.”
Brock narrowed his eyes at Carter. “Aren’t you going to try to get her attention?”
“Nah,” ol’ Carter blushed to the roots of his blonde hair. “if she didn’t go for either of you, why would she go for me? I don’t have the finesse you both have.”
When Carter looked back at the prize both men lost, she looked back at their group and stared. Was she smiling at one of them? Surely not at the two men she had turned down. Carter nodded at her but didn’t make a move to go to her. Well, Carter didn’t seem to date or take time for fun. He sent money home to his mama, so maybe he wouldn’t try to date a woman who looked high-maintenance and worth the time and money she’d need.
Drake brought Brock’s attention back to Carter. “What torture do you have in mind for us?” He grinned as though he didn’t expect anything really awful.
Carter rubbed his chin. Not a good sign for either loser. “Hmmm. Neither of you two ever had a hard day’s work in your lives. You’ve been sheltered from the kind of people you saw tonight at the Waffle House. I’ve worked places like that and worse. I don’t think either of you could do it, but…”