Depth Perception by Linda Castillo Page B

seemed like a lifetime ago that he'd been bursting with dreams and ambition and the utter certainty that he was going to succeed if only by the sheer force of his will. Nick might have grown up poor, but be damn well hadn't liked it, and that discontent had bred ambition into his blood. At twenty, there had been no doubt in his mind that he would one day own a restaurant the same caliber as Arnaud's or Commander's Palace, and there wasn't a soul on this sweet earth big enough or strong enough to stop him. He hadn't counted on hooking up with a scheming partner and a two-timing woman ....
    Trying hard not to think of what a blind fool he'd been, Nick twirled the shot glass, slammed it onto the scarred bar, and filled it to overflowing with cheap rum and a thick wedge of lemon. "Dark rum with a twist. Two bucks."
    Someone shoved three dollars at him. Nick stuffed the tip into his fanny pack. placed the other two in the cash register. He glanced up to see a sunburned man wearing a muscle shirt and Tabasco cap ask for a draft. Nick snagged a mug from the ice machine, shoved it beneath the nozzle, and filled it to the rim.
    It was his first day on the job, and the place was as hectic as Bourbon Street on Fat Tuesday. But once Nick had settled down and found his rhythm, his years of experience had come pouring back. He was good at the bar. He knew his drinks, knew how to hustle. He enjoyed the contact with people. And if he closed his eyes, he could almost make himself believe he was back at The Tropics ....
    "You keep up that shit, and I'm going to fire all my help and turn this joint over to you."
    Nick looked up to see Mike Pequinot lift the pass-through door and limp behind the bar. "Hell of a business you do here," Nick said.
    "Helps that we're the only bar in town. Pequinot poured dark rum from a bottle of top-shelf stuff he kept hidden for his personal use and slammed it back. "Tanya came in a couple of minutes ago."
    Nick didn't let himself react at the mention of his ex-wife, but he felt the quick rise of tension. She was the one person in Bellerose he didn't want to see. Especially if she was fueled up on cheap booze and God only knew what else.
    "I'll watch my back," he said.
    Pequinot slapped him on the back. "And your front."
     For a few minutes Nick concentrated on his customers. A draft. A hurricane. Change the keg. Replenish the ice. Another shot of bourbon. Change for a ten dollar bill. But his thoughts kept going back to Tanya, and they were troubled. The last time he'd seen her was the day she'd walked out of the prison visitor's room after telling him she was filing for divorce. She'd been gripping little Brandon's hand so hard the boy's fingers were white. His son had looked at him over his shoulder and waved. Nick hadn't been able to do anything but stand there and let them go. He'd had no way of knowing it would be the last time he saw his son.
    In the two years since, he'd been able to forgive her for walking out on him. As desperately as he'd needed those visits, he'd known prison was no place for a little boy. Nick had been able to forgive her for sleeping with his business partner. He'd even been able to forgive her for testifying against him and helping to convict him of a crime he hadn't committed. But the one thing Nick hadn't been able to forgive her for was letting their son die. For letting a little boy wander into the bayou and drown in a deep pool of water. He knew that wasn't fair; he knew sometimes bad things happened, no matter how careful a parent was. But right or wrong, he blamed her. He would never forgive her. And in some small corner of his mind, he hated her for it.
    "I never thought I'd see Nick Bastille behind the bar at The Blue Gator serving up Mike Pequinot's cheap booze."
    Dread snapped through him at the sound of his ex-wife's drawl. Nick glanced up to see her standing at the bar directly opposite him, and an emotion he couldn't quite identify rushed through him like a shot of bad