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“I’d rather Velcro myself to the devil than tie myself to a Sweet.” Tyrell sat back, crossing his arms and smirking at the rest of the table.
It took Logan a second to scoop his jaw up off the table. “You don’t get it. This could be a win-win situation. No one has to lose.”
Tyrell said, “No one wins when a Sweet’s involved. Do you remember that so-called documentary her sister did? A supermodel comes home for Christmas or some such shit? They made fools of us, made the whole town look like a live-action version of Honey Boo Boo on stupid pills.” Tyrell’s chubby cheeks burned with fury. “And then some fool high school kid recorded the damn thing and posted a YouTube clip of my rendition of ‘Boogie Shoes.’ That was supposed to be a private moment, just a man singing to his horse and dancing on a starry night. Instead, it went viral. I still get mail from prisons.” His glare encompassed everyone at the table before zeroing in on Miranda. “From. Prisons.”
The last words echoed off the dining room walls. His tirade had the attention of everyone turned toward their table.
Ignoring the gawkers, the mayor pushed back his chair with such vengeance that it screeched across the floor. He tossed his napkin on his plate and stormed out the front door, Cordell and Roger hot on his trail.
“Give me a minute.” Embarrassment and anger double-tapped Logan across the cheeks, and he rose from his seat. “I’ll talk to him.”
He maintained a leisurely pace through the country club, pretending for all the good it did that the world wasn’t imploding around him. Old habits died hard. Still, he couldn’t let this deal go south. He needed it. The town needed it. And Miranda needed it. Watching her stand up under the pressure of Tyrell’s tantrum was like having a blindfold removed and finally seeing how much it sucked to be a Sweet in Salvation. And he’d been a part of making it that way.
Pushing his way out the front door, he found Tyrell cooling his heels at the valet station.
The mayor left his toadies by the curb to confront Logan. “You’ve got a lot of nerve calling that clusterfuck a win-win.”
“Look, I know you have a problem with the Sweet family.”
“As does every person with two brain cells to rub together. They’re trash. Always have been.”
“Why can’t you give Miranda a chance? She’s not her mom, the woman who led the state troopers on a six-county chase when she snatched a baby tiger from a roadside zoo. She’s not her Uncle Melvin, the man who ran naked through the Miss Soybean Festival parade when the governor was visiting town. She’s Miranda, and she’s got a lot more going for her than all that.”
“You’d better hope your daddy doesn’t hear you talking that kind of crazy. I don’t care if she’s the reincarnation of Mother Teresa. We don’t deal with those people.”
Logan kept his tone calm even though his blood pressure had reached DEFCON levels. He refused to let Tyrell’s pride and his father’s prejudices sink this deal. “I know you don’t. But right now, Miranda’s offer is the best option we’ve got.”
“Then you’d better find another one.” The sound of the mayor’s car’s finely tuned engine purring to a stop a few feet away sounded as loud as a tornado. “At the next county council meeting, they’re going to approve a moratorium on alcohol production within the Hamilton County lines. That Sweet girl might get that brewery running again, but it won’t do her a damn bit of good.”
The mayor was chock-full of so much bluster and bravado that Logan almost felt sorry for him, but the fact that Tyrell was also a self-important jackass kept that from happening.
“You’ll never get a blue law passed. It’s been decades since Hamilton County was dry.”
“You forget who’s mayor here. I can and I will make it happen.” Tyrell yanked open the door of his shiny black Cadillac and slid into the front seat.
“You’re not even on the county council.”
“But who do you think helps the council members get elected? Who finds the fundraisers? Who sweeps their troubles under the rug?” Tyrell slammed the door shut and rolled down the tinted window. “You were doing fine to bet against her, boy. But if you want to bet against me now, you’d better be prepared to lose. I’m the guy that brings a fifty-caliber machine gun to a knife fight. You’d better make sure you’re on the right side when I pull the trigger.”
The mayor peeled out of the parking lot, leaving a pair of jet-black lines on the driveway and the scent of burnt rubber hanging in the air. The man was dangerous, devious, and determined to get his way. Tyrell had stewed over the perceived humiliation caused by that YouTube video for years, and now he was on a single-minded mission to finally get his revenge. And for the first time in his life, Logan was considering putting his chips in with the underdog.
Concentrating on keeping a neutral expression on her face was the only thing that stopped Miranda from exploding into a million pieces in the middle of the sedate dining room.
“Now that did not go as I’d expected.” Marc finished the last of his white wine and toasted Miranda with his empty glass. “You do things a little bit differently in Salvation. I’m used to less…emotional reactions in Harbor City.”
Harbor City stood as one of the global capitals of commerce and fashion, while Salvation represented every small town in America. To say there was a difference in cultures was an understatement, but that didn’t excuse the mayor’s cut-off-your-nose-and-ears-and-yank-out-an-eye-to-spite-your-face reaction to her proposal.
“Tyrell Hawson is a fool to even consider flushing this compromise down the drain, because a camera crew caught him dancing like no one was watching with his horse.”
Marc grabbed his phone. “Is it still on YouTube?”
“Put that away before someone sees you.” She laughed and some of the tension seeped out of her spine. “Salvation is different, no doubt about it. But the people here work hard. They’re good people.” She thought of Ruby Sue. The Franklins. Hud Bowden. Owners of some of the best businesses in Salvation. “They deserve the economic boost the industrial park would bring.”
“If it’s that good for the community, why not let them build the road for free?”
“Because it wouldn’t matter. You saw how Tyrell acted. It wasn’t the percentage that made him have a conniption. It was the idea of being connected—or indebted—to the Sweet family.”
Marc squeezed the bridge of his nose between his finger and thumb. “I can’t put my clients’ money into this deal without that road.”
