Just My Luck (The Kings)

The buzz of a packed evening at Abel’s Brewery pulsed with life as I navigated through the boisterous crowd. Laughter and the clinking of glasses melded into a friendly hum, creating an atmosphere that was invigorating and alive. The scent of hops and malt wafted through the evening air floating out of the open garage door that faced the beach. I soaked in the comforting embrace that wrapped me in the familiarity of this small town I was learning to call my own.

“Hey, Sloane, we could use another round over here!” Tall Chad’s voice cut through the chatter, and I shot him a playful salute before making my way to the taps. In Outtatowner, it seemed the majority of people who’d grown up there held random nicknames, but it only added to the small-town charm.

I dried my hands on my hips and slipped behind the bar. The draft poured smoothly into the glasses, creating a cascade of amber as I bounced to the beat of the music and rolled the stiffness from my shoulders.

Layna, the first friend I ever made in Outtatowner, sat at the bar, strumming chords on her acoustic guitar. The twang of sad country songs floated above the din of the crowd, blending seamlessly with the hum of conversation. I couldn’t help but smile as Layna caught my eye, her playful wink acknowledging our shared connection to the rhythm of the town.

After Tall Chad picked up his drinks, I walked toward Layna, sidestepping the other bartender who was serving with me that night.

I smiled at my friend. “You’re giving the Grudge a run for its money tonight.”

The Grudge was Outtatowner’s downtown honky-tonk, and if people weren’t at Abel’s, they were there. Layna grinned, fingers still strumming. “Someone’s gotta inject some life into this joint. But if I get a gig at the Grudge, I’m gone.”

We laughed, sharing a moment amid the lively ambiance. Layna’s music added a layer of warmth to the brewery, the familiar country tunes resonating with the patrons who swayed to the rhythm. It was these connections, these shared experiences, that made this town feel like more than just a collection of people—it was a place of shared stories and laughter.

As the song ended, Layna set her guitar aside. I moved quickly to slide her a fresh beer, and she leaned in. “So what’s new? I feel like if I don’t see you here, I never see you.”

I rolled my eyes, playfully nudging her. “You know how it is. I’m just the purveyor of good vibes and well-poured pints. Flying solo with two kids doesn’t make a social life that easy.”

She smiled, an understanding softness in her eyes. “You’re doing a great job with those kids.”

A knot formed in my throat. Most days I was white-knuckling it through life, but if I had my best friends fooled, maybe I was doing something right.

The front entrance swung open, and Abel stormed through the doorway. Mischief glittered in my eye as a zip of excitement ran through me. I’d been thinking of other—less naked—ways to needle him since this morning’s incident went awry.

“Jesus, he’s scary.” Layna’s voice was barely a whisper as she leaned in. Together we watched the owner skulk and disappear down the darkened hallway of the brewery. Like it always did, his brooding presence stood out amid the lively patrons.

My brow furrowed. There was a sharper edge to his demeanor tonight, a heaviness that hadn’t been there before. Something weighed on him, and my mischievous instincts sensed this wasn’t the time for playful banter.

My shoulder lifted as I aimlessly wiped down the bar top. I thought back to how endearing it had been when he’d tried to apologize for staring at my boobs. “Sometimes he’s not that bad.”Property © 2024 N0(v)elDrama.Org.

A disbelieving scoff escaped my friend. “He did hard time in prison, you know.”

My back tightened. “Yeah, I heard.” I’d quickly learned that rumors were just as much a part of small-town Michigan life as the gossip in LA. The commonality was that Abel had served jail time, but the reason varied greatly—drug trafficking, espionage, and my personal favorite, smuggling chickens across state lines.

Like, what the fuck?

Layna looked around and leaned in to whisper. “Russell King did everything he could to keep it under wraps, but there are some things you can’t completely hide. He killed a kid.”

My stomach plummeted as my mind raced to catch up. “What?”

With wide eyes, she shrugged. “That’s the rumor I heard, at least. The records are completely sealed, so no one really knows the truth.”

My eyes flicked back to where Abel had disappeared down the hallway toward his office.

He had harmed a child?

My mind didn’t want to believe it. Sure, he was surly and antisocial, but I would have never guessed he would actually hurt someone, let alone a child.

And your track record makes you an awesome judge of character?

I tamped down the judgmental voice inside my head and focused on my friend. Layna pulled the guitar strap over her head and went back to playing as though she hadn’t just dropped a bit of universe-tilting, bombshell news.

The brewery hummed with the joy of community, a stark contrast to the struggles Abel faced in fitting into his own town. The melodies shifted, the tempo of Layna’s music adapting to the ebb and flow of the night.

Eventually I found a moment to slip into the back hallway, my sanctuary away from the energetic chaos of the brewery. Addressing the previously dim area, Abel had installed a few more overhead lights after catching one too many customers fooling around in the darkened space.

At the far end of the hallway, Abel’s office door was slightly ajar. After looking back over my shoulder, I quietly tiptoed closer to the door.

Abel’s rough voice quietly spilled into the hallway. “I tried, Syl. He wouldn’t budge. Said I was a liability to the bank.”

I knew eavesdropping was wrong, but I was pinned in place by the urgency—the sadness—in his voice.

“If I want to buy Dad out, the money will have to come from somewhere else. It’s that or I walk away. I’m not sure I can do this much longer.”

For heavy moments, Abel was silent, presumably listening to his sister on the other end of the telephone. I knew from Sylvie that Russell King was a hard man to have as a father. Sure, he put on the appearance of a kind and benevolent businessman, but those close to him knew the truth—he’d give up his own children to maintain his pride. I hated him for how he had treated my friend, and to hear the sadness seeping from Abel, Mr. King had officially planted himself into enemy territory.

I was a loyal friend and just petty enough to hate him on principle.

Abel’s solemn sigh was heartbreaking. “Yeah, I’m leaving now. I’ll fill you in on the rest at dinner. I have some news from the private investigator too.”

Private investigator? What the hell?

Hearing the conversation was a peek into a vulnerable side of Abel that I suspected few were privy to. I couldn’t help but feel a pang of sympathy for the man who bore the weight of his past and present struggles.

Why did he need a PI? Had he really killed a child?

Sylvie was my best friend, and she’d never spoken a word about any of it. My brain couldn’t wrap itself around the idea that it was true. I carefully exited the dimmed hallway and resumed my duties with a knotted pit in my stomach. The town’s heartbeat thrived in the brewery, each interaction a testament to the interconnected lives that shaped this close-knit community.

All the while I considered Abel’s unspoken burdens and wondered if the rumors were true. At some point I realized that maybe sometimes the loudest stories were the ones left unsaid.

My shift came to a close, and I never did see Abel slip out to leave. After cashing out, I left the lively atmosphere behind, driving home under the soft glow of the streetlights.

Thanks to Granddad, the kids were already in their bed when I entered the cabin, though they’d waited up for me to finish their nightly tuck-ins of back scratches and cuddles.

I steadied my breath and plastered on a smile before cracking open the door to our bedroom.

Ben and Tillie were too old to be sharing a bed, but we had limited options. They’d constructed a wall of pillows between them and were currently tugging at the shared covers.

“Stay on your side!” Tillie groaned. Ben took the opportunity to fart loudly, and he laughed as Tillie squealed in disgust.

I shot him a serious look. “Benjamin.”

He did his best—and failed—to hide a grin. “Sorry, Mama.”

I sighed and sat on the edge of the bed. “I missed my chickens today.” One hand smoothed over Tillie’s brown locks as the other patted Ben’s calf.

“Mama, can I join the soccer team?” Ben’s hopeful voice rang out. “Everyone is on the soccer team at school.”

“Oooh, I want to take dance lessons!” added my daughter, the twins’ eyes shining with excitement.

Their requests tugged at my heartstrings as my smile flattened. I wanted to give them everything, but the weight of my financial worries pressed down on me. When I’d fled LA after the divorce, I had no job, and getting the twins enrolled in school was my top priority. Every penny I had squirreled away had been spent on the divorce and on moving us across the country to where we could have a fresh start. The burned-out husk of the farmhouse and crumbling state of my grandfather’s cabin only added to my growing list of concerns about how I was going to continue making ends meet.

“Let’s talk about it tomorrow, okay? I promise we’ll figure something out,” I reassured them, leaning in to give each a good night kiss.

With them placated, I tickled their backs and tucked them in, then slipped into the hallway. Before I closed the door, I heard Tillie whisper, “Soccer and dance are too expensive.”

My chest ached. They were too little to understand the stressors of money troubles. Hell, my upbringing was a stark contrast to the tiny run-down cabin. As a seven-year-old, I had wanted for nothing. Now I was scraping to get by, and my kids were feeling it.

In the dim light of the living room, Granddad sat in his well-worn chair, staring into the distance. His once-lively eyes now held a hint of sadness, and the lines on his face had deepened.

“Granddad, are you okay?” I asked, my voice a gentle murmur.

He sighed, his gaze lifting to meet mine. “I’m just tired, Sloaney. Tired and feeling the weight of time. But don’t you worry about an old man like me.”

His words hung in the air, and I couldn’t shake the feeling that the threads holding our world together were beginning to fray. The challenges ahead seemed insurmountable, but as I sat beside my grandfather, I felt peace.

“I can fix this,” I promised, sitting on the arm of the recliner and folding my body over his with a hug.

My grandfather’s creases deepened with concern as he patted my hand. “Nothing to fix, Sloaney.”

His words were meant to comfort me, but instead I could feel the resigned sadness in his tone. I had to figure something out—for the sake of my children and the fading light in my grandfather’s eyes.

Unable to slow my mind, I sat at the small kitchen table and worried as I doomscrolled through social media. The soft glow of my phone illuminated the room, casting an ominous glow on the rustic surroundings. Frustrated with myself, a plan started to form in my mind. It was a long shot, but there was a chance it could work.

With a sense of determination, I closed out the social media app and opened my email. Tapping away, I fired off a quick inquiry to the bank holding my trust fund, wondering whether there was any way to unlock those funds now that there was some time and distance between Jared and my divorce.

In that moment, with the quiet hum of the cabin around me, I felt a flicker of hope. Maybe, in the midst of life’s twists and turns, there was a chance not just to rebuild my granddad’s farmhouse but to shape a brighter future for my kids and me.

Subject: Inquiry about Trust Fund Access

Hi Mrs. Cumberton,

I hope this email finds you well. My name is Sloane Robinson. We’ve spoken before regarding a trust fund with your bank. I was wondering if there’s any possibility or process to access my funds for a significant life event. I understand there might be certain criteria or steps involved, and I would greatly appreciate any guidance or information you can provide.

Thank you for your time and assistance.

Warm regards,

Sloane Robinson

As I hit send on that email, a mix of emotions swirled within me. The very notion of navigating the complexities of my trust fund, a result of my father’s hard work and savvy business decisions, often stirred resentment. After my father’s unexpected death, my stepmother cut all ties with me. She was irritated enough that his entire fortune didn’t automatically transfer to her and made no qualms about her concerns with my then-husband.

At the time I had been married to Jared, and I ventured a guess they both saw the signs I had chosen to ignore. Jared was nothing but impulsive decisions and reckless actions. Now that I was a bit older and finally free of him, there had to be a way to use the money my father had set aside for me to get us out of this shithole.

In the quiet darkness of my granddad’s cabin, a quiet pride emerged as I set aside my shame and reservations. The email marked a tiny step toward independence, a choice to carve my own path beyond the weight of family history and the poor choices of a defiant young woman.

A small smile played on my lips as I stared at the screen. Venturing into the unknown, I embraced the possibilities ahead, recognizing that taking charge of our destiny meant confronting the shadows of my past.

I had already done hard things and, damn it, I’d do them again.