Текст книги "Burn It Up"

Автор книги: Cara McKenna

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Текущая страница: 12 (всего у книги 24 страниц)

Chapter 15

Casey was planted in the rocker, with a clear view of the second-floor landing and Abilene’s door. His muscles were tensed, ears trained for the flare of voices. So far, nothing but a dull murmur, no discernible words. Then, after what felt like three hours but was probably closer to thirty minutes, the door opened above. He gripped the arms of the rocker, resisting the urge to jump to his feet.

Abilene emerged, followed by Ware. She looked calm; he looked stony. As they came down the steps, her eyes locked with Casey’s and she smiled, giving his heart permission to slow.

Ware also looked his way, unreadable. The guy could have been pissed or relieved or frustrated or plain old tired, for all the emotion that glance gave away.

Look at Mercy with that expression and I’ll break your face, Casey thought.

The two paused at the bottom of the steps, and Abilene said, “We’re going to go and see Mercy.”

Casey nodded. “Okay.” The baby was in the office—Christine was keeping an eye on her while she did paperwork. Nobody had thought it would be a great idea for Ware to show up and find Casey holding his daughter.

They disappeared down the back hall, and Casey released the chair arms, fingers prickling as the blood rushed back to their tips. He took a deep breath, shoulders shaking as it drained back out. He wanted a beer. Wanted a shot, but his pride was interfering with the impulse—he didn’t care to exchange any words with Ware and have the guy smell booze on him. Which was fucked, really, to care so much about the opinion of a criminal, only he wanted so badly to appear worthy of all the trust Abilene had put in him.

He listened to the office door open and close, caught soft voices. Christine appeared shortly wearing a cautious smile. She held up two sets of crossed fingers.

“She seem okay?” he asked.

“I’d say so. I think she looked relieved. Nervous, but relieved.”

He nodded.

“Coffee?”

“No, thanks. I’m counting down the hours until it’s socially acceptable to hit the bourbon.”

“Don’t blame you. It hasn’t been this tense around here since the last property scout came knocking.” Christine headed for the kitchen.

Casey focused on the clinking of dishes and the rush of running water, trying to distract himself. He wanted like hell to sneak down the hall and listen at the office door. He wanted to know what they were saying. He wanted to know if Ware was holding the baby, and whether or not she seemed to like him. The sharpest, fiercest bit of him bared teeth at the thought, a jealousy he’d never even conceived of before. He didn’t consider himself Mercy’s father by any stretch, but a part of him did identify—and with secret pride—as the primary man in her tiny life. His fingers curled up tight again, forming fists atop his thighs.

A clatter drifted from the front of the house, then a hiss—the screen door shutting, followed by the inner one. He heard Miah call a greeting to his mother; then the man himself entered the den. He looked funny. A touch pale and upended.

“Hey,” Casey said, standing. “They’re in the office now.”

Miah kept his voice low. “That’s not the truck.”

“What’s that?”

“The black truck parked in the lot—that’s not the one I saw the other night. It’s got a faded old bumper sticker on the tailgate, and I didn’t notice that on Tuesday. And I took a look at the plate, to see if it looked like there’d been duct tape on there, any dust stuck to it—nothing. That’s not the truck.”

Casey frowned. “So what the fuck does that mean? That he was telling the truth? That he didn’t come around here?”

Miah shrugged. “That, or he borrowed someone else’s pickup. I dunno, man, but it seems strange. Something’s not right.”

Casey’s mind raced, trying to turn this news into a threat he could wrap his head around. “You think Abilene’s in trouble?”

“Not necessarily. Not unless she has some other shady character from her past who might’ve come sniffing around. I don’t know what the fuck this means, aside from that maybe Ware isn’t the only person we have to be worried about.”

“Who else could it have been?”

Miah shrugged. “No clue. We get poachers, and whoever’s involved in the drug dealing or whatever it is, but not here. Not at the house. Scratch what we said at the meeting, about you asking around town about somebody dealing out here. That’s not what this is about.”

“Burglar, maybe?”

“They’d have some fucking balls on them, with all those lights on, all those vehicles parked out front.”

Casey nodded. “Doesn’t add up.”

Miah leveled him with a look. “You gotta tell me if you’ve got any enemies out there, Case. You don’t have to tell me what you’ve been up to in Texas, but this is my business now. You owe anybody anything? You cross anyone who might come looking for you?”

He shook his head, stumped. And uneasy. None of Casey’s former clients knew his name or even what he looked like. The only unexpected visitors who might worry him were feds. He and Em had been careful, real careful, but you could never know if your name was on some watch list someplace, some database. Plus if Emily fucked up and got busted, he couldn’t honestly say he trusted her not to sell him out for a reduced sentence. Hell, he’d probably do the same to her.

But since when does the ATF skulk around in ski masks and shitty old trucks?

“I got no clue, man. Maybe we ought to give the whole town a good cruise, see if we can’t spot that pickup in somebody’s driveway . . . ?”

Miah sighed, crossing his arms. “Maybe. If the alternative’s waiting for them to come back.”

“Maybe it was just some dumb-ass burglar, casing the place. Maybe you scared him out of thinking he’d ever try that shit here again.”

“We can hope. But I won’t sleep easy until I know for sure.”

Miah took a seat on the arm of the couch, posture weary. He was dressed in dirty jeans and there was dust in his black hair.

“Go shower,” Casey said, waving him in the right direction. “Once Ware is gone we’ll have a beer, talk this over.”

Miah nodded and hauled himself to standing. “Best idea I’ve heard all week.”

Casey clapped Miah on the back as he passed, thinking his friend was becoming more like Don every season. More serious, and burdened by more pressure. The casino chaos couldn’t be helping, nor the looming inevitability of Miah becoming the sole captain of this ship.

Regarding any other person on earth, Casey would’ve thought the notion was stupid, but he wondered if maybe Miah needed setting up, romantically. If he was stuck working himself into the ground the way he was, he ought to at least get to tumble into bed with a warm female body every night. Shame that probably half the eligible women in town were his ranch hands. No doubt he’d have some ethical boundary about—

The click and squeak of the office door snapped Casey’s head to the left. Ware appeared first from the hall, followed closely by Abilene, the baby in her arms. They were talking softly but trailed off as they reached the den.

Ware cast Casey a cool glance, then told Abilene, “I can see myself out.”

“Okay.”

“Tomorrow afternoon?” he asked.

She nodded. “Two o’clock.”

He touched the baby—or her clothes, anyway, the collar of her tiny shirt—then turned and headed for the front. Abilene watched him go, and Casey watched Abilene.

“Tomorrow?” he prompted, once the front door had hissed shut.

“Yeah.” She seemed to snap out of a trance, bouncing the baby. “It went well. I said he could see her again.”

“Did you let him hold her?”

She’d been studying the baby’s face but looked up at that, expression curious. “Just for a minute—he gave her back pretty quick. I’m not sure he’s ever held a baby before. He looked a little freaked-out.”

Casey bet that was a first in itself—James Ware showing fear. That novel and fierce jealousy burned the back of his neck, and in a petty way he was glad to hear that the guy wasn’t a natural with the kid. That maybe fatherhood was earned by how many hours you put in, not just whose DNA went into the mix. That made him think of his own dad, and his mood darkened.

“Miah saw your ex’s truck in the lot,” Casey said. “And he said it’s not the same one he saw on Wednesday night.”

She blinked. “Really?”

“Doesn’t absolutely mean it wasn’t him . . . But I have my doubts now.”

“I had some of my own. He told me it wasn’t him, and I’ve never known him to lie.”

What was to be done about it, though? Nearly nothing aside from hoping someone spotted that other truck . . . But there had to be dozens of dark, midsized, older pickups around town, to say nothing of the county at large. Not so much needle in a haystack as needle in a needle factory.

“You didn’t eat lunch,” Casey said, setting the mystery aside. She’d been too nervous, earlier.

“No, and I’m starving.”

“Feel like a trip into town? Grab something at the diner?”

She considered it. “I guess I could, now.”

“Course you can. Celebrate your freedom—no more reason for house arrest that I can see.” Her ex knew where to find her now, and it seemed perhaps he wasn’t, in fact, crazy enough to stalk her.

“Okay, then. Let me just get Mercy’s stuff together.”

“Great.” He accepted the baby so Abilene could head upstairs. She returned with a diaper bag, and they swung by the kitchen and chatted with Christine, filling her in about the meeting while Abilene fixed a bottle.

“It’ll feel nice to get yourself off the rez for an hour or two, I bet,” Christine said.

“Maybe a little. No offense.”

She smiled and waved the thought aside. “It’s no fun feeling trapped, especially with a new baby. When Miah was tiny, I used to look forward to my sister visiting, so I could get a little time to myself. I remember driving into town and just wandering the aisles of the drugstore, elated just to be someplace else. Anyplace else. I’d offer to take her now, in fact, except the vet’s coming in twenty minutes.”

“No, it’ll be good for her to get a change of scenery, too,” Abilene said, and kissed the baby’s head, with her palm on Casey’s shoulder. His face went warm and he was glad everyone was focused on Mercy.

“Dinner’s at eight,” Christine said, turning back to the laptop open on the table.

“Would you tell Miah where we got to?” Casey asked. “I owe him a beer and a talk.”

“No problem.”

Abilene took the baby and they headed out.

“I wonder when my car will be fixed,” she said as Casey was unlocking his Corolla.

“I’ll ask my brother. Hopefully this weekend.”

“And when do you think I could go back to work?” She got the baby strapped into her seat. Casey’s car would look weird without it, he realized, once Abilene was driving again.

“Let’s hold off until after a couple more meet-ups, okay? But if the next two or three go well, and we can get you some childcare sorted out, I’d say there’s no point in waiting. But . . .”

“Yeah?” She buckled her seat belt, eyeing him.

“Maybe stick with babysitters you know really well, okay? Just to start. Just to be safe. Me, or maybe Kim.” Raina had the time and was equally trustworthy, but he couldn’t picture her taking care of a baby. He tried imagining Duncan’s attempt as well, and nearly laughed aloud. Though perhaps the two of them together might be able to survive it, some night when Casey and Abilene were both closing. He’d be tempted to videotape it, just to see Duncan’s expression when faced with a filthy diaper.

“I miss work,” Abilene said, once they were moving.

“It misses you. Or Duncan and Raina miss the two of us, I’m sure. Though before you say it,” he added, noting her darkening expression, “don’t feel bad. It’s only a week, and I’m sure they’re more than happy to help while things settle down for you.”

“Everyone’s been so nice about it all.”

He shrugged. “It’s what friends do.” And he was proud to count himself a part of that group, he realized, after all those years of only looking out for number one.

“You’re a very generous motorcycle club.”

He laughed. “And you’re very generous, even applying that term to us. Bikes just happen to be the thing we all bonded over when we were kids. The bunch of us are well overdue for a nice, long group ride, too.” Duncan made things tricky; he rode just fine, and being with Raina, he ought to be invited on such an outing. But if he went, Miah likely wouldn’t. Church would come up with a million work-related excuses, no doubt, so maybe some weekend soon they’d just have to trick him into it. He seemed to be getting over his shit with Raina, at least.

“You could come,” Casey added. “Ride with me.”

“That’d be the most exciting thing I’ve done in ages, if I could find a sitter.”

“Confronting your gunrunner ex not thrilling enough for you?” he teased.

“The most exciting fun thing.”

The speed limit dropped to thirty as the town materialized around them, homes and businesses growing dense as the rural route morphed into Station Street. It gave Casey a funny feeling and made him nearly wish he was working that night. He was in the mood to listen to the gossip, to pour drinks and take in the smells and sounds of the bar, the same smells and sounds from his childhood. Lubbock had been hot, but not like here. Not dry like northern Nevada, not half as dusty. Even Vegas hadn’t smelled quite like Brush County did, like clay and sage, and distant fires, come summer. No place felt quite like home, he thought, as familiar buildings slid into view on either side of the road.

“Hey, it’s your shitbox,” Casey said, nodding to the auto garage. Vince had both bay doors wide open and was standing by Abilene’s Colt with a wrench in his hand. Casey honked. Vince waved. “You’ll be back on the road before you know it.”

“I hope I can make all of this up to you guys someday,” Abilene said. “Especially your brother, for the money he gave me, and now my car. And you, of course, for a million things.”

“You don’t owe me crap.”

“I beg to differ.”

Casey assembled his feelings, trying to get his mouth to go someplace soft and sentimental here in this car, as he’d managed in bed with her.

“Everything I’m experiencing, because of you and the baby . . . It sounds stupid, but it means a lot. I’ve never been for anybody what I’ve been for you two. And it’s hard and it’s exhausting, and I don’t know what I’m doing half the time, but I like it. I feel useful in a way I haven’t before. So you don’t owe me a thing. You’ve given me plenty, trust me.”

He was relieved to turn into the diner’s lot and cut this conversation short. Nice as those things were to say, they also made him feel insanely naked. Which was fine when you were under the covers with somebody, but something else entirely out here in the larger world.

He got the car seat out and lugged the baby into the diner while Abilene held the door. He registered a mix of pride and awkwardness, carrying her in, and was pleased not to recognize any faces as they entered and scanned for a booth. Having been away for nearly ten years, he was always getting grilled by old neighbors and classmates about what he’d been up to, and he never had enough answers. Now, to get spotted with a woman and a baby in tow . . . ? He didn’t have the energy to explain.

Once they were settled, an older waitress came by. Abilene had worked here for a few months the previous year, and there was the requisite fawning over the baby before coffee was on the way.

Casey didn’t need to see the menu; it hadn’t changed since he’d been a kid. He ordered a cheeseburger and Abilene got soup and a sandwich.

He hunkered down on his elbows and smiled at her. “Your first taste of freedom in almost a week.”

She nodded. “Feels good. Smells even better.” She held his gaze, then looked to the window, her smile goofy. “What you said, in the car . . .”

“It’s all true. That’s all we need to discuss about it.”

“It was sweet,” she said, meeting his eyes once more. “That’s all. I don’t think anybody’s ever said something that nice to me before.”

“Their loss.”

She smirked. It wasn’t a gesture she made often—her smile was typically broad and sudden, like clouds breaking wide, sun streaming down. Her cheeks still dimpled, but there was something sly about those lips, something vaguely wicked. He liked it.

“Did I actually find something that makes Casey Grossier bashful?” she teased.

His gaze went to the window, and the back lot beyond. In a second his mood darkened, his attention catching on an ancient orange-trimmed camper van, just pulling across three spaces beside the Dumpster.

“Hang on one sec,” he muttered, rising. “I need to talk to somebody.”

“Sure you do.” Her tone was chiding; she thought he was avoiding discussing his feelings.

“No, I really need to talk to somebody.” The van’s driver’s-side door had popped open, and John Dancer emerged.

Abilene turned in her seat to look. “Not that guy?”

Casey snapped his head around. “You know him?”

“He came into the bar once when I was pregnant. He didn’t even buy a drink—he just wanted to talk to Raina. He took a look at my belly and said, ‘Guess this spot’s taken.’ Something gross like that.”

“One more reason to break his fucking arm,” Casey said, sidling out of the booth.

Her eyes widened. “Don’t do that. Whoever he is, it’s not worth it.”

“Not who he is, honey. What he did. I’ll be right back. Don’t watch.”

Casey strode down the diner’s aisle and pushed the door open, setting its bell jingling. As he rounded the building, he shifted his pistol from the small of his back to his front waistband, at his hip, obscured by his jacket. He didn’t want to use it, and doubted he’d need to, but Dancer was about as predictable as a feral raccoon.

“Hey,” he shouted, marching toward the van. It took a major effort not to glance to the diner’s window, to see if Abilene’s blue eyes were on the scene.

Dancer turned lazily, clearly no stranger to getting yelled at. He had a lit cigarette in his mouth and wore aviator sunglasses against the bright winter sun. Casey could see himself approaching in the mirrored lenses.

“Grossier. What can I do for you this time?”

“You can hold still while I kick the living shit out of you.”

Dancer’s eyebrow rose, a dry smile tweaking his lips. “Neither you or your brother ever thanked me for that little favor I did you last summer. Can’t say I appreciate the hostility.” He turned his back to shut the door, seeming not at all intimidated. The crazy were obnoxiously fearless, Casey thought.

“You tell an ex-con with a shaved head where he could find my bartender?” he demanded.

Dancer took the cigarette from his lips and blew a jet of clove-stinking smoke to the side. “Ah. Well, that’s not exactly private information, now, is it? More like small-town gossip.”

That was as good as a yes in Casey’s book. “You get straight with me right now, or I swear to Christ I’ll beat you senseless.” Dancer had an inch or two on him but probably weighed twenty pounds less. Whether he could scrap or not, Casey couldn’t say, but he was only happy to find out.

“Last time our paths crossed I picked a bullet out of you, Grossier. Patched you up nice. It’d be real ironic if this time you gave me a reason to put one back in you.”

Casey eyed Dancer’s jacket, one pocket filled with his hand and quite possibly more. He cooled some. In all honesty, he didn’t want Abilene seeing a fight, and though he bet Dancer was bluffing, he sure as shit didn’t want her seeing him get shot in the thigh, or anyplace worse.

“You got any clue who you were talking to?” Casey demanded.

“Name he gave me was Ware. We had a little business transaction to settle, now he’s out. He wasn’t a hundred percent pleased with my service, so it seemed prudent to placate the man with a little harmless intel. Customer service and all that.” He took a long draw off the cigarette. “And as all your bones appear to be intact, I don’t quite gather what your beef is with me.”

“A gunrunner, fresh out of prison, comes to you and asks where to find a girl? And it doesn’t occur to you to lie and say you got no fucking clue? You got any sense of human decency at all?”

Dancer shrugged and pushed the sunglasses up to his forehead. He exhaled more smoke in Casey’s direction. “I don’t know the girl. I got no loyalty to the girl. I got no loyalty to anyone who doesn’t owe me something I’m hoping they’ll live long enough to deliver, so what the fuck do I care about her?”

Casey’s blood was pounding in his temples and throat and fists, but he held himself steady. Kept his hands at his sides, well away from the gun. What had he expected, anyhow? An apology? A show of fear? This motherfucker had about two emotions, and neither of them looked a thing like regret.

“I’m feeling real hurt, here, Grossier,” Dancer said, brows drawn up in a false show. “I mean, I give you medical attention, out of the kindness of my heart—”

“So my brother would owe you,” Casey corrected.

“And I help your little business partner find those pesky old bones and clear his good name.” He meant Duncan. And true, Duncan had said he wouldn’t have gotten to the bottom of last year’s drama without John Dancer’s advice. “Now this is my thanks? I share a bit of innocent information—about a girl I got no obligations to, to a man who’d pistol-whip me as soon as ask twice—and I get your ass up in my face, demanding what, exactly? An apology?”

“You got some fucking nerve on you.”

“Your girl—your employee, or your fuck, or whatever she is to you—she okay? Did he hurt her?”

Casey didn’t reply, fuming inside. Guy had a point. Had something bad happened to Abilene as a result of all this, he’d have more than adequate cause to break Dancer’s teeth. But as things seemed to be turning out okay, he’d only look like a psycho if he got violent. He stepped back a pace.

“I’m fucking watching you,” he said, jabbing a finger in Dancer’s direction.

A smile. “I’ll be sure to wear my good panties, then.”

“Fuck yourself, Dancer.”

“Somebody has to.” He turned his attention to his cigarette, killing it with a long suck, then grinding the butt under his heel. That done, he turned his back on Casey and headed to the rear of his van.

Casey returned to the diner fuming. The bells jangled violently, pulling him up short. He cooled himself, hand seeking his lighter in his pocket, fingering the smooth corners, seeking calm. No doubt everyone in here had heard his shout and watched that interaction, and he felt their eyes on him now.

Casey rarely showed his anger. He didn’t feel angry all that often, in fact, and didn’t like the sensation. If an emotion was going to leave him feeling out of control, let it be euphoria or excitement or lust. Shame enveloped him in a breath. His dad had hit Casey and Vince when they’d been little. Not a lot, and never too hard, though there’d been a couple times when their old man’s hand had risen, open palm, knuckles out, only to get lowered again with a slow, purposeful effort. Casey shoved his own anger down, resenting this sensation. Resenting anything he found inside himself that painted him as his father’s son.

As he walked between the booths and counter, he heard somebody tell their friend, “I really thought he was gonna deck that pervert.”

By the time Casey reached Abilene, he was calmer, though he knew his cheeks and nose were red and condemning. He slid in behind the table, shifting his gun around as discreetly as he could.

Abilene’s lips were a flat, white line, and she watched him as he sat.

“It’s fine,” he said. “Just had some things to say.” He doubted she’d heard anything they’d said apart from the first shout.

“What’d he do to you?”

“He’s the one who told your ex where to find you. Sort of. Who told him to come after me, anyhow.”

“Oh.” Her gaze went to the back lot, but Dancer was gone. “That’s crummy, but I suppose plenty of people could have done the same. It’s not exactly a secret that I work for you. Or that we’re close,” she added softly, turning to free the baby’s head from her tiny hood. “Anybody from Benji’s could’ve told him as much.”

“That may be true, but trust me—that asshole still needed telling off.”

She shot him a look for the swear.

“Sorry. I’m angry.”

“I can tell . . . I’ve only seen you this angry once before.”

He frowned. He didn’t ever want her to see him this way. “When?”

“Last fall, when some of the rednecks were giving Duncan a hard time in the bar.”

“Oh, right.” Casey considered that, a tiny bit relieved. In that sense, he had his dad beat. Tom Grossier would snap if you annoyed him. Casey saved his rage up for when somebody disrespected or threatened his friends.

As that realization dawned, he felt the anger lift for good. And just in time—their food arrived then. He didn’t want those emotions here with him. Didn’t want them infecting the little bubble that he and Abilene inhabited here and now. He didn’t want to be like his old man or like James Ware or any other hard, angry man. He didn’t want to be how his brother had been, before Kim had shown up, so emotionally constipated he had to get into fistfights to vent himself. He didn’t want to be the kind of man that Fortuity demanded its boys become.

But he also had to admit, it had been way easier this past decade. Way, way easier when you didn’t have any commitments, nothing and no one you felt protective enough toward to tap into these macho bullshit lava rivers that flowed in men’s bodies, just waiting to erupt when a big enough fissure formed.

Fucking feelings, he thought, registering a rare and uneasy kinship with his brother and father. He turned his focus to his French fries, feeling hard and soft and completely bare-ass naked. Unarmed, even with the barrel of his pistol warm at his back.