The Boss of Hampton Beach, Page 4

  Chapter 4

  Dan glanced around his small cottage, his gaze lingering on the beach memorabilia scattered here and there: A jar with shells and smooth stones he'd found walking along the beach with his kids. Framed photos of happy summers they'd had here together.

  All just memories now.

  That's when Dan started to think of making the call. He knew he shouldn't; it was a bad move. These calls had never turned out well in the past. Still, the more beer he drank the less that realization mattered. Finally the beer-soaked side of his brain rooting him on to make the call won out.

  Before he could change his mind, he picked up the phone, punched in the numbers, looked at the ship's clock on his cottage wall. 11:20 p. m. He adjusted himself confidently in his easy chair, listened to the phone ring.

  She answered drowsily on the fourth. "Hello?"

  "Hello, Sharon. It's me. How are you doing?"

  She suddenly sounded wide awake. "How am I doing? What are you crazy? You're not supposed to be calling here. I'm hanging up, Dan."

  "Don't hang up. I want to see the kids."

  "Are you high? It's eleven thirty at night."

  Dan cleared his throat. "I know what time it is, but I've been working a lot of hours and this is the first chance I've had to call. I'd like to see the kids. I haven't seen them in a while."

  "You are high."

  He felt his anger rising slowly; she still knew how to push his buttons. He tried to control his voice. "No, I'm not high. I've told you I'm not doing that anymore."

  Her voice became angrier. "You've told me a lot of things. A lot were lies."

  Dan took a couple of deep breaths. It didn't help. When he spoke there was a slight quiver in his voice. "You're right, Sharon. But all that is in the past. Everything's good now."

  "Calling at eleven thirty at night and demanding to see the kids doesn't sound good."

  Dan sat up straight. "I just want to see the kids. That's it. I won't even take them anywhere."

  For a long time, Sharon didn't say anything. Dan's stomach tightened. Maybe this time . . .

  "No."

  "There'd be no problem. I promise you." Now there was more than a slight quiver in his voice.

  "I've heard that before too."

  Dan stared toward the window. A set of dim headlights crept past the cottage. Probably the neighbor's kids sneaking off for a late night party. The two boys were older than his kids and were always getting into trouble, something their mother blamed on their father abandoning them over ten years ago. "You shouldn't keep those kids away from me. It's not good for them."

  "You should've thought of that a long time ago."

  "Nobody's perfect, Sharon. Not even you." Dan squeezed his eyes tight. "Are you going to let me see the kids or not."

  "You scared the hell out of them the last time I let you see them."

  "That was a long time ago."

  "Not long enough. I still remember it all. Want me to remind you?"

  "Forget that. I just want to make arrangements to see the kids."

  "I don't have to let you see the kids. Remember? The judge?"

  His voice cracked. "You can overlook that for one short visit it you want to."

  "But I don't want to. Go to bed, Dan. Sleep it off."

  Dan took a deep breath, struggling to keep the anger out of his voice. "I told you I'm not . . ."

  Silence. The line was as dead as the beach in winter.

  Dan slammed the receiver back into its cradle, then grabbed the entire phone and hurled it blindly across the room. The phone sailed over the couch, hit the end of its cord, and flopped onto the cushions like a fish he'd just hauled from the sea.

  He'd screwed up again. Made a bad situation worse. Sharon was never going to understand that today's Dan Marlowe was not the same person who in the past would regularly pass out in a beach motel after a three bender with no sleep.

  All because of cocaine. It had ruled his life for way too long. And he'd paid a big price for those mistakes. But he'd thought he'd left all that behind. That he was in control. But he wasn't in control. The bills just kept coming and coming.

  Dan looked at the dark bedroom door, envisioning the double-barreled shotgun lying under the bed. He'd picked Betsy up during a drug-induced bout of paranoia and couldn't quite seem to part with her now. He could feel her lying there, her two black eyes staring out at him.

  Daring.

  Like a man in a slow-motion movie, Dan stood and moved toward the bedroom. There was no life if he couldn't see his children. They were the reason he'd cleaned up his act. Resisted the cravings. The cravings he still suffered with every day. The cravings that bubbled up from his brain at the most inopportune moments, persistent and painful as a bloody sore.

  Two steps from the bedroom, Dan spun around and headed into the kitchen. There were other ways to forget all this. Less permanent ways. He tore open the refrigerator door, grabbed another beer, and popped it open. Sharon was right–he was hopeless. A worthless piece of shit not worthy to spend time with his own children.

  The bottle's lip banged against his teeth. The familiar scent filled his head. He tilted the bottle up, up, up. Felt the cold liquid touch his bottom lip.

  He killed it. Then opened another. He had to.

  ~*~*~