“Kid! Your mom is hittin’ the road!” I shouted.

Ethan came in with a can of Sprite in his hand, looking at me.

“Later,” he said, mouth curved up.

No hug. No kiss.

I wasted several seconds of my life wishing I could turn back time, just a year, maybe two, when Ethan wouldn’t let me leave without both.

When I didn’t get my wish, I said, “Later.”

I grinned at him. I grinned at Mom.

Then I took off.

I hit the bar and saw that Morrie was the one in to start opening. This was good. Colt might have told Feb what had happened with Merry and me, and she’d hesitate half a nanosecond in getting up in my shit about it.

“Yo,” I called to Morrie as I hit the bar.

“Yo, babe,” Morrie returned, at the cash register, putting in our float.

I went to the office to stow my purse and cardie, grabbing my cell to shove it in my back pocket, came out, and hit the back of the bar.

“Just so you know, I owe you five hundred dollars, seein’ as me and Merry emptied that bottle of Talisker Friday night.”

As I spoke, Morrie’s eyes on me grew huge.

Now, Morrie Owens, he was cute. A big ole bear of a man with a protective streak, a great sense of humor, and a deep love of family.

“Say the fuck what?” he asked.

“Mia,” I answered quietly.

His surprise left and he looked to the cash register, muttering, “Shit.” His eyes came back to me. “Shoulda known.”

“Merry did the bottle some damage, but I kept him company after closing and we emptied it. Not his choice. He was up for calling a taxi. So I’ll catch you at end of shift with my tips and hit the ATM tomorrow before I come to work.”

He shook his head, attention back to the register where he was closing the cash drawer. “That’ll be me and Feb’s contribution to the cause of Merry bein’ a dumb fuck and not claimin’ back his woman.”

That pissed me off, and being me, I let it be known.

“All was fair in life, Mia Merrick would waltz her round ass in here and pay you that five hundred for being an even dumber fuck and not claimin’ back her man.”

Morrie looked back to me, and I might have worried about what he’d read in my words if I was the kind of woman everyone knew me not to be.

“Wasn’t her whose mom was murdered in her own damned home when she was a kid,” I carried on. “Wasn’t her sister who was in that house and heard that shit go down. Wasn’t her who had to live with that, grief buried deep, none of that family havin’ the tools to sort out their heads. But it was her who had a man who lived that, and it was her who didn’t stand by that man. So, far’s I’m concerned, he’s good that he’s finally shot of her. Maybe next time, he’ll find a better one.”