Not lost, Zach Castro amended. He knew where he was. At the corner of Main and Kennedy Streets, downtown Shady Grove, surrounded directly by squat buildings, most of which looked to be one hundred years old, the outer area nothing but rolling green hills. The sun warmed his head, but the cool breeze ruffling the empty right sleeve of his T-shirt reminded him that though it was late April, this small town was a world away from Houston in more ways than one.
Yeah, he knew exactly where he was. He just didn’t know where he was going.
Story of his freaking life.
The cab driver had dropped him off, insisting this exact spot was the address Zach had given him. Lying bastard.
He pulled out his phone, opened the maps app and typed in O’Riley’s. Two blocks away. He could do that.
He hoped.
He shifted his weight onto his left leg, but the ache in his right thigh remained and would no doubt grow in intensity. Pain was his new normal. There was nothing he could do about it except grit his teeth and bear it.
His right leg had stiffened up during the plane ride from Houston to Pittsburgh and had only gotten worse in the forty-minute cab ride that had brought him here. Moving would help. Eventually. But first, he knew, it was going to hurt like a son of a bitch.
New normal, he reminded himself. Bending at the waist, he grabbed his duffel from where the cabbie had dropped it at the curb and slung the strap over his left shoulder. Following the directions on his phone he turned—slowly and carefully—to the east and began walking.
Pain shot from just above his knee up to his hip. Sweat formed on his upper lip. He breathed through his mouth, fighting the nausea rising in his throat, and kept going, his stride awkward, his limp heavy, his gaze straight ahead. He felt people staring at him, scurrying out of his way, watching him as they passed. Wondering who he was. What he was doing there.
Their curiosity rolled off him, but their sympathy—and worse, their pity—grated. He didn’t want it. Didn’t need anyone feeling sorry for him, for what he’d lost. He was getting through it, wasn’t he? He’d already made progress, had gotten himself out of that wheelchair and on to a prosthetic leg. The surgeries, the grueling physical therapy, learning how to walk again had all been worth it. Each step he took, no matter how small, was a victory.
One that would be easier to celebrate if it didn’t hurt so goddamn much.
He passed a hardware store with a row of colorful, decorative flags waving in the breeze, then a bookstore’s bright and cheerful window display. At the corner he turned right. Halfway there, he told himself, squinting against the sun.
By the time he reached the next corner, his shirt was damp and sticking to him and his breaths were coming in gasps. He leaned against a street lamp and looked across the street at O’Riley’s.
It wasn’t what he’d expected at all.
Thank Christ.
Knowing the bar was owned by Kane Bartasavich, of the Houston Bartasaviches, Zach had pictured an upscale place, all sleek lines and plenty of glass. A place where the country-club set went to drink their lunch or stopped by after work for a fancy cocktail that cost as much as a decent meal.
He hadn’t pictured a two-story gray building that seemed to list to one side, a parking lot that needed repaving and neon beer signs in the windows.
It wasn’t the first time he’d been wrong. Wouldn’t be the last.
Unlike certain members of his family—namely his father and eldest brother—he didn’t get bent out of shape when things didn’t go his way. Didn’t carry the illusion that he had all the answers. He liked to think the arrogance that ran in his bloodline, the huge egos that had been handed down generation to generation, had somehow skipped him, but the truth was, he’d worked damned hard to be as different from them as possible.
He had spent his entire life pushing them away. Keeping them all at a distance.
Now, here he was—not quite broken, but a far cry from being whole—and who was the only person he could think to turn to?
A Bartasavich.
Fate was a coldhearted bitch with a twisted sense of humor.
Readjusting his duffel bag, he crossed the street, then made his way past a number of vehicles in the parking lot. Something else he hadn’t counted on or, to be honest, considered when he’d decided to come here—that there would be people inside a small-town bar in the middle of a Wednesday afternoon.
All there to witness his humiliation.
He’d faced worse, he reminded himself as he stopped in front of the door, the muted sounds of music and conversation floating through the wood. Had faced much worse than public embarrassment and survived. Was still surviving it.
That wasn’t to say he looked forward to what he had to do. He was just realistic enough to know he didn’t have many other choices.
Jaw tight, shoulders back, he reached out to open the door—only to realize he was lifting his right arm to do so. He quickly dropped it. His arm, like his right leg from above the knee down, wasn’t there anymore, but unless he consciously thought about an action—opening a door, brushing his teeth, signing his name—his brain still wanted to use it. Call it habit, instinct or just the fact that he’d been right-handed his entire life—whatever the reason, it wasn’t that big a deal.
Just a reminder that even the simplest tasks were now anything but simple.
He grabbed the handle with his left hand, swung it open and stepped inside before he changed his mind. Beggars couldn’t be choosers and all that bullshit.
And that’s what he was. A freaking beggar, come to plead for scraps.
He rolled his head a few times, trying to ease the tightness in his shoulders, then moved forward. The bar was like any other dive he’d ever been in. Dimly lit with wooden floors that needed refinishing, tables and chairs that had seen better days and walls decorated with more of those neon beer signs. The scents of grilled meat and barbecue sauce filled the air. People occupied a few of the tables and the booths lining the walls, eating a late lunch or getting an early start on their evening drinking. There was a pool table in the back along with a dartboard, and the bar ran the length of the room to the left.
A waitress with a neck tattoo, her dark hair cut in a weird, uneven style, wove her way through the tables, delivering drinks and food. And behind the bar pulling a beer was none other than the owner himself. Kane Bartasavich, second son of Clinton Bartasavich Sr.
One of Zach’s three older half brothers. And the man Zach had come to see.
He made his way to the bar and noted how Kane momentarily stilled when he caught sight of him, saw the surprise in his brother’s eyes. But by the time Zach reached him, Kane’s expression was clear, his posture relaxed.
“What’s this?” he asked, shutting off the beer tap. “Slumming?”
“Looks like.” He nodded at the beer Kane set on a tray next to a soda. “I’ll take one of those.”
The waitress came, picked up the tray as Kane got a clean glass. Drew Zach’s beer.
Older than Zach by more than five years, Kane still looked like the hell-raiser he’d once been, in faded jeans and a black T-shirt, his dark blond hair pulled back in a ponytail, the edges of his tattoos visible just below both shirtsleeves.
His leg aching, Zach shifted, but that didn’t take enough weight off it. He eyed the empty stool next to him, feeling as if he was going into battle once again. He should have sat at a table or a booth, let Kane come to him. Too late now. There was no easy—or smooth—way to do it, but he’d be damned if he wouldn’t try. He dropped his bag at his feet, laid his left hand on the bar and lifted with his arm while he pushed off the floor with his left leg.
His ass hit the