Roger’s jaw dropped, and a twinkle gleamed in his hazel eyes. “You little prick,” he said fondly.
Grant smirked. At first he’d been upset that Joe changed his name. But later, when he came to understand the horrific acts perpetrated by his family, Grant realized it was one of the kindest things Joe had done for him. If only a legal name change could also disentangle him from the emotional ties to his family.
Grant met Roger’s gaze and his slight smile faded. “Joe adopted me after my mom died. And it was fine with me. My dad, well, he’s not a good man.” He looked down and sniffed.
“I’m glad you have your Uncle Joe, then,” Roger said, his heart going out to Grant.
“Me too … Well, I better get to the head, now that you just trashed my clean bathroom. Is it going to smell like a bomb went off in there?”
Roger chuckled. “Actually, Madsen, I’ve got another job for you in mind. Put that stuff away. Tommy is going to be cleaning the shitters today.”
Arching his eyebrows, but not about to refuse, Grant did an about-face and began wheeling the bucket back to its home, while his boss fell in step with him and explained. “That faggy young kid, Blaine, I got working as server—what the fuck kind of name is that? Anyway, he can’t work anymore because his family is going to Paris or something for the summer. That lucky rich shithead just up and quit on me, so I want you to take over for him up top.”
“Yes, sir,” Grant nodded, closing the door to the supply closet.
“You know how to play waiter?”
“I think I can figure it out, Rog.”
“Good. That grungy jumpsuit has gotta go, though. Hightail it to the office and get yourself a waiter’s uniform.”
“Okay.” Grant followed Roger’s order and emerged from the office ten minutes later looking dapper in black pants and a white shirt. Hopefully this was the next step up the ladder to chief navigator. And in the meantime, serving drinks simply had to be better than cleaning toilets.
*
“May I take your drink order, ma’am?” Grant asked, peering down at a middle-aged woman in a low-cut blouse sitting on one of the benches on deck. An eight-year-old boy, likely her son, jumped up and down at the nearby railing in a hyperkinetic frenzy.
She glanced up at Grant with a harried expression, planning to dismiss him, but paused once she saw his aquamarine eyes and tall, lean body. A brilliant smile bloomed on her bright-red lips. “Well, yes. Yes you can,” she replied coyly. “My ex-husband tried to tell me never to drink alcohol before five p.m., but screw him. I’ll take a chardonnay.”
“One chardonnay,” he repeated, scribbling the order on his notepad. The woman had scooted her body closer to his and was batting her eyelashes. Grant blushed uncomfortably.
“Would your son like a drink too, ma’am?”
Her smile faded, and she turned to the boy in a Chicago Cubs baseball hat. “Henry! Do you want a Coke?”
The freckly boy remained perched on the second rung of the white railing, but nodded his head distractedly.
“Uh, he’s not allowed to climb on that railing, ma’am,” Grant warned.
“Henry!” the woman scolded. “Get down from there right now.”
The boy reluctantly climbed back onto the deck, whining, “This cruise is bore-ring, Mom!”
“Shh,” she admonished. “People are trying to listen to the man on the speaker!”
Grant took advantage of the distraction to slink away, relieved when his exit went undetected. He then relayed the order to the bartender, Dan, who filled it all too quickly. Grant barely slowed down when he returned to serve the drinks, swiftly moving on to take the next order. This was only the first cruise of the day, but after filling drink orders for more than thirty passengers, his new job was already getting old. However, he reminded himself, it was still vastly better than prison.
A short time later, the cruise was headed back to the dock. The last drink order had been filled, and Grant had finally earned a little respite from his duties. He stood by the stern, gazing out into the blue-green water. The ship’s engines left a churning trail behind them, and the steady hum and splashing lulled his mind into a peaceful state. The temperature on deck was at least ten degrees cooler than on land, and he shivered slightly. This would be a good day for his White Sox jacket.
His jacket. As he had so many times in the past few days, he remembered those gorgeous mahogany eyes gazing at him, warning him to take off his Sox gear before meeting with Officer Stone.
Her full, pink lips—inherently kissable lips. Her tall, lithe body with legs that stretched for miles—an irresistibly huggable body. Would he ever have the opportunity to get beyond their brief snatches of conversation in the courthouse hallway? He knew one activity she might enjoy: a baseball game. She was a Sox fan too.
The affectionate glow in Grant’s eyes darkened as he thought of the first White Sox game he’d ever attended. He’d been eight years old—just him and his Uncle Joe, sitting up high, far above the field.
His uncle’s invitation came only two weeks after his father began serving a life sentence at Gurnee, leaving Karita, Logan, and Grant Barberi to fend for themselves. Determined not to have her sons follow in their father’s criminal footsteps, Karita had promptly moved them north of Chicago to her brother Joe’s apartment at the Great Lakes Naval Base. Unfortunately, Logan refused to get on board with the change, challenging Joe’s authority at every turn.
Between innings, young Grant had inquired, “Why can’t Lo come to the game with us? Is he in trouble for running away?”
Joe peered down at the dark-haired, blue-eyed boy, kicking his skinny legs up and down in the black metal stadium chair.
“Logan is not going to stay with us for now,” Joe explained.
“What?” Grant’s voice trembled, and he blinked rapidly.
“He’s going to live with his godfather, your Uncle Angelo.”
“That’s where he went last night?”
“Yes. Your mom tracked him down at Angelo’s house this morning.” Joe sighed. “Logan decided he’d rather live there. But your mom and I want you to live on the base, with us. You’ll be safe on base.”
The crowd roared as the White Sox pitcher struck out the third batter in a row. Grant was silent for several moments before he asked, “Doesn’t Lo like me?”
“Oh, Grant, it’s not your fault,” Joe reassured him. “Your brother loves you. If there’s anyone he doesn’t like, it’s probably me. I was pretty hard on him.”
Joe glanced down lovingly at his younger nephew. Grant seemed awestruck by the sights and sounds of a major league baseball game. “We’ll have to make it without Logan, all right? That means you and I can go to lots of Sox games, just the two of us.”
Grant appeared pensive. “I’m sorry. I shoulda heard Lo leave our room last night.”
“It’s okay. Your mom didn’t hear him either.”
“Is Mom mad at me?” the little boy asked.