Rich Blood (Jason Rich #1)(2)

It didn’t matter. Jason’s billboards were everywhere, and in each of the highway posters he flashed his bleach-whitened teeth and dirty-blond stubble, which some woman—probably his trashy ex-wife or his bitchy law partner—must’ve told him looked cool. Jana thought he looked ridiculous, and she’d told him as much the last time they’d spoken. She’d told him a lot of things then, and he’d fired some choice words back. Seeing him now, smiling down at her as if he were enjoying the crisis she was in, made her want to vomit. She stuck her middle finger at the advertisement and slid into the driver’s seat. Before starting the car, she sucked in a deep breath and felt her heart rate speed up.

She glanced at the clock on the dash. 8:55 p.m. The meeting was supposed to happen at 9:00. As she backed up her vehicle and turned for the exit, she glanced out the window at the dark water and full moon. A cascade of roman candles lit up the sky followed by the machine-gun sound of God knew how many other kinds of fireworks.

It was the Fourth of July. She should be sitting on the screened porch of her home on Buck Island, watching the show with her husband and daughters. Maybe walking down to the dock for a better look. Grilling dogs and burgers. Listening to Darius Rucker or Kenny Chesney or some other lake-appropriate artist. Maybe the girls could’ve had friends over. Or perhaps a boyfriend?

Jana felt her eyes welling up, and she ground her teeth, refusing to wipe away the tears. She glared at the billboard of her brother again.

She would not be weak. That had never been her style, and it wouldn’t be now.

She pulled the Mercedes onto Highway 69 and accelerated east toward town. As the strip mall drew near, she clicked the right-turn blinker and pulled into the lot. She parked under an unlit streetlamp. Ten seconds later, the passenger-side door opened, and a man climbed inside. He smelled of mint chewing gum with the slightest tinge of body odor. Jana fought the urge to gag.

“Ready?” he asked.

Jana tried to speak, but the words wouldn’t come. She glanced at him, nodded, and edged out of the space.

Seconds later, she was back on the road.

As she passed the causeway, fireworks illuminating the lake, Jana thought of her girls. And Braxton. Her husband.

What in the hell am I doing?





3


The club felt good in the surgeon’s hand.

The grip was sticky, and though he wasn’t wearing his customary FootJoy StaSof glove, he still had firm control over the eight iron. He looked down at his feet, which were adorned with blue-and-black Tevas, and then the scuffed Titleist golf ball. He waggled the clubhead and set it behind the ball on the green nylon mat. Then he began his swing, turning his shoulders behind the ball and cocking his wrists. At the top, he shifted his weight from his right leg onto his left and fired the clubhead at the ball. There was a satisfying thwack at impact, and the ball lifted into the air and out over Lake Guntersville. Because of the full moon and the fireworks being shot in every direction, he could see that the ball curved gently from right to left, traveling perhaps 130 yards before disappearing into the dark water.

Dr. Braxton Waters breathed in the humid air and took a few seconds to admire his handiwork. He was hitting balls off the dock just like in his favorite Darius Rucker song, “Beers and Sunshine,” which he’d listened to a few minutes earlier. Now playing on his Alexa: “Wagon Wheel,” another goody by the pop star turned country artist. Normally, these tunes would have lifted his spirits, even if he was in a bad mood. Launching balls into the water usually helped relieve stress as well, and the shot he’d taken was as close to perfect as could be.

Alas, nothing seemed to be working tonight. He set the club down and grabbed his empty pint glass, then stuck it under the keg tap and began yet another pour.

Braxton took a long pull from the glass and then snatched the bottle of tequila and poured another shot. Chasing Patrón with pale ale. The rich man’s guide to getting wasted, he thought, chuckling bitterly and kicking back the shot. Then he raised the pint glass and took a long sip of beer. No lime. No salt. No problem.

Braxton burped and grasped the golf club, stumbling back to the mat as Darius sang about dying free in Raleigh.

“Dying free,” Braxton bellowed out over the lake, knowing his words would be drowned out by the wind and sound of firecrackers. He placed another ball on the green carpet and gazed out at the muddy water. Then he turned back to his empty house, lit only by the overhead chandelier in the den. There was a time when the Fourth of July had meant that the lawn between the boathouse and mansion would be filled with people of all ages mingling, drinking, and dancing. Four years ago, he’d hired a live band, and a lot of the neighbors had come over along with some of the girls’ friends. That was while things with Jana were still cordial.

Braxton sighed and lined up to the golf ball. He jerked the club back and brought it down onto the mat. The ball squirted dead right. A cold shank. The worst shot in golf.

“Figures,” he said. He rolled another ball over and hit another “lateral shot,” as he preferred to call it, hating even to whisper the word shank. Braxton closed his eyes and felt unsteady on his feet. He thought of his oldest, Niecy, a rising sophomore at Birmingham Southern College. He’d almost begged her to come home. “Your sister could really use some time with you,” he’d pleaded. He dropped the club and pulled out his phone to look at her text, which had been nice but firm.