Chapter 5 - The Confrontation on the Docks
By Friday, the rumor mill had metastasized like mold in an unventilated bilge.
I was at the shop, working on the carburetor of an old Johnson outboard, when the rumble of a high-end European exhaust rattled the tools on my pegboard. I didn't have to look up to know what it was. Brent had traded his sensible company sedan for an Audi RS5 the year before—a metallic-charcoal coupe that cost more than my entire inventory.
The car stopped right in the middle of my concrete apron, blocking the bay doors.
Brent got out. He was dressed in his Friday-casual uniform: pressed Peter Millar polo shirt, salmon-colored khakis, and Italian leather loafers with no socks. His hair was parted with surgical precision, held in place with high-end pomade. To anyone passing on Masonboro Loop Road, he looked like the picture of coastal wealth and composure.
Only his eyes gave him away. They were twitchy, darting around the shop interior before settling on me.
"Travis," he said, stepping across the threshold onto the oil-stained concrete. He walked with his hands out, palms up, the universal gesture of a reasonable man dealing with unreasonable people. "We need to talk like grown men."
I laid the flathead screwdriver down on the metal bench. I didn't wipe my hands. I stepped out from behind the boat, keeping six feet between us.
"You’re trespassing, Brent," I said.
"Come on, Trav. We’ve been family for six years," Brent said, his voice dropping into that smooth, boardroom timbre he used when he wanted people to sign commercial leases they couldn't afford. "I understand you're being protective. She’s your baby sister. I get it. But this has gotten completely out of hand."
"Out of hand?" I barked a laugh. "You stood up at my ten-year-old daughter's birthday party, called your wife a whore in front of twenty-eight people, accused my best friend of ruining your marriage, and then stole sixty-four thousand dollars of Lacy’s money out of the bank. And you think *this* has gotten out of hand?"
Brent’s jaw tightened, the polished exterior cracking for a fraction of a second.
"She humiliated me first!" he hissed, taking a step forward. "Announcing a pregnancy without telling me? Springing it on me at a party like she was presenting me with a trophy? Did she think I’d just smile and play the happy daddy to another man's bastard? Did she think I’d forgotten what I did in Charlotte?"
"Why didn't you tell her, Brent?" I asked, staring him dead in the chest. "Five years. Why didn't you tell her you had the snip?"
Brent waved his hand dismissively, as if swatting away a fly. "Lacy was obsessed. From the day we got back from the honeymoon, it was all she talked about. Ovulation charts, basal thermometers, what preschools had the best waiting lists. I was building a career, Travis! I didn't want my life derailed by dirty diapers and soccer practices. I figured after a few years of trying, she’d accept that we weren't meant to have kids, and we’d buy a house in Bald Head and live our lives. It was a white lie to keep the peace."
"A white lie?" I took a menacing step toward him, and Brent flinched, stepping backward toward his Audi. "She let doctors pump her full of synthetic hormones! She had surgery, you cowardly piece of shit! She spent five years crying herself to sleep because she thought she was broken, and all the while you were sitting on the other side of the bed knowing damn well you did it to her!"
"I don't have to justify my marriage to you!" Brent snapped, his face flushing red, his composure completely dissolving. "The point is, the marriage is over. Vance served her yesterday. But I’m willing to be generous. If Lacy signs an agreement acknowledging that the child is not an heir to my estate and drops her claim for alimony, I'll drop the suit against Jody. I’ll even let her keep twenty thousand of the money from the joint account."
"Get off my property," I said.
"Listen to me, Travis!" Brent shouted, stepping up to my face, his finger jabbing into my sternum. "Jody is going to lose everything. His wife is filing for divorce on Monday. Arthur Vance will take his tools, his truck, and his retirement account. You want to save your buddy? Tell your sister to sign the goddamn agreement!"
A shadow fell across the concrete behind Brent.
Brent turned around just as a heavy, calloused hand grabbed the collar of his Peter Millar shirt and slammed him backward against the hood of his eighty-thousand-dollar Audi.
The metal groaned under the impact.
Jody stood over him, breathing hard, his knuckles white around Brent’s shirt. Jody was covered in drywall dust, his work boots caked in red clay. His eyes were wide, burning with the unhinged rage of a man who had lost his home, his wife, and his reputation in less than a week.
"Say that again," Jody growled, his face inches from Brent’s manicured nose. "Say my name again, you little trust-fund parasite."
"Get off me!" Brent shrieked, clawing at Jody’s wrists. "Travis, call the police! He’s assaulting me! Vance will have you in jail by sunset, you illiterate redneck!"
"Jody, let him go," I said calmly, stepping forward and laying a hand on Jody’s forearm. "Don't do it. That's exactly what he and Vance want. An assault charge makes you look like the violent, unstable home-wrecker they’re painting you to be. Let him go."
Jody trembled, every tendon in his neck standing out like steel cables. For three long seconds, I thought he was going to break Brent’s jaw right there on the hood.
Then, with a disgusted grunt, Jody shoved Brent back against the windshield and let go.
Brent scrambled away, stumbling over his own loafers before pulling himself upright. His shirt was ripped at the collar, his hair disheveled, his face mottled with purple rage.
"You're both dead," Brent choked out, fumbling in his pocket for his car keys. "Both of you. I’m going straight to the magistrate's office. You’re getting an emergency restraining order, Jody. And Lacy will never see a single copper penny of my money as long as she lives!"
He scrambled into the Audi, slammed the door, and reversed out of my driveway so fast the rear tires shredded the gravel, throwing small stones against the metal siding of my shop.
Jody stood in the middle of the drive, his hands hanging limp at his sides, his chest heaving as the Audi roared away down Masonboro Loop Road.
"Dan filed the motion this morning, Jody," I said quietly. "Court date is next Thursday. We’re getting the swab."
May you like
Jody wiped a mixture of sweat and sheetrock dust from his forehead, looking at me with dead eyes. "Pray to God it’s his, Travis. Because if it ain't... Sherry’s lawyer served me this morning. She’s taking my boys to Tennessee."
***
