Текст книги "Burn It Up"

Автор книги: Cara McKenna

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“Just about how good that feels.”

He added his ring finger, the penetration changing, heightening. His name fell from her lips.

“You want me to make you come?”

And she knew he could. Knew it as a natural fact. But she wasn’t ready for this hunger to be over. She wanted to still be feeling all of this as he sank inside her. “Not this way, not yet. I want to feel you, first.”

His hand slowed, then withdrew, and he knelt beside her. “C’mon.” He urged her to him by the waist. One of his hands was slippery, the detail feeling dirty and exciting and new. She came close to straddle his hips, lifted up, and he held his cock steady as she eased down.

“Oh.” The sensation was potent, this way. Obscene and a little intimidating, with her on top, and the friction all smoothed away.

“All right?”

“Yeah.” She found the right angle, and with a slow, steady push she was seated tight against him. She could feel him inside, thrumming faintly.

“Christ.” He wrapped his arms around her, pulling her close. Her collarbone was at his mouth, and he kissed her there, humming a hungry breath.

“You feel good,” she said, starting to move. Her hips felt stiff, out of practice, but the motions were exciting. Something in the way her muscles flexed deepened the sensations inside, doubled them. Casey held those hips. His gaze was nailed between them, right at that explicit point of contact.

“Do whatever feels good,” he murmured, sounding hypnotized. “Whatever you want from me.”

She’d never come on top, but was eager to experiment. In time she found an angle that brushed her clit against the base of his cock when she eased forward and back, taunting with a tease of hair and the lip of the condom. The friction flared, urged her with a hit of heat and a tightening of her sex. She kept at it, and with each roll of her hips, she felt the pleasure drawing deeper, warmer, more urgent.

Casey moaned. He seemed to have noticed her fixation, and she nearly abandoned it, feeling self-conscious. But he held her hips tighter, locking them into those short, taut little strokes. They couldn’t feel like much to him, but her excitement must. And she couldn’t deny how good it was, how wild it felt, chasing the mounting pleasure.

Inside her he felt sinful, thick and hard, yet somehow patient, like he could do this forever, just be what she needed. And isn’t he? Isn’t he exactly what I need? In too many ways to ponder without losing track of her emotions.

One of his hands drifted higher, tickling her belly, her ribs, then cupping her breast. It was rough, but not scratchy, and he eased her into the touch, merely holding her first, letting the shock of it dull. In time he drew his palm up and down softly, stiffening her nipple and leaving her breath short. Her eyes closed and she moaned, every ounce of simmering pleasure doubling. Next came his thumb. He didn’t tweak—she’d never liked tweaking—but ran it back and forth, back and forth, such perfect friction she felt an orgasm solidifying, growing heavy and hot inside her.

“Casey.”

“What do you need?”

“This. Just this.” She needed nothing except to keep going, and inside a minute, it came—that scary-hot rush, the desperate crest, the quenching plunge on the other side.

He stroked her cheeks and her hair, smiling as she came down, looking what could only be described as besotted. His complexion gave away his own excitement, his flushed skin not matching his patient, bemused expression.

“Wow,” she huffed, slumping bonelessly into him.

“Wow is good. I’ll take wow.”

“Now show me.” She righted herself, energy kicking back up. “Show me what you want.”

“Move like you were.”

She did, taking him in those tight little motions, on now-achy hips.

“Good. Now make it a little longer.”

She lengthened the strokes, claiming nearly the full length of him with each push. He groaned against her shoulder, kissed her there, bit softly, swore. “Just like that. Exactly like that.”

She didn’t think she’d ever felt this way, taking orders from a guy. She’d been eager to please, or intimidated, or plain old obedient, but never this. Never so . . . powerful. Her muscles stiffened as she made the strokes a little quicker, a little rougher, and he was panting now, breath huffing like steam at her throat.

“Fuck, please.” His hands were on her butt, riding the motions, not rushing them. Not forcing or even urging. He was taking what she gave, and excitedly. She excited him. That thought alone had her body racing with his.

His plea heated her skin. “Don’t stop.”

No chance. This was too thrilling. This moment, like the brightest, hottest current flashing between their bodies. It all built to a frenzied head in a breath, as he clasped her hips and began thrusting himself, driving his cock quick and deep and rough, then finally going utterly still, pinning her to him as his body clenched, released, clenched, and ultimately relaxed.

Their skin was slick, collective breath rushing in the otherwise silent space.

She could smell him, that ripe male smell that tricked her for a moment into thinking it was the height of summer. The height of summer vacation, perhaps, and this the perfect summer fling. All her responsibilities and all the questions surrounding her were gone for that moment, her world reduced to a realm no wider than this mattress.

At length, he coaxed her away. She climbed under the covers while he left the bed to dispose of the condom. She welcomed his body against hers when he returned, and though she was still panting and sweaty now, the chill would find them soon enough, and she held him close.

He kissed her forehead. All she could think was, That was perfect. That was everything. Everything, and far more than she’d ever imagined sex could be.

“Hey,” he whispered, when neither had uttered a sound in some time. He said that a lot, and the word felt like theirs. A miniature tradition, like how Casey announced, “Red alert,” when detecting a diaper situation.

“Hey.” She snuggled closer, no matter that his leg hair sort of itched her sweaty thighs, or that her face was probably all flushed and shiny. Everything was perfect, the way it was. She couldn’t remember feeling this content. Not in years and years.

Not without drugs, anyhow.

All in all, the sex had probably taken only ten minutes, fifteen at the most. And yet it had been the most intense and indelible encounter she’d ever had. No candles, no music; not even privacy, when you got down to it. She didn’t need those things when she had Casey. All the romantic trappings in the world paled next to the feeling of being so free with a man. So accepted, and so cared for.

“You sleepy?” he asked.

“Only a little.”

“Tell me about the house, then.”

“I’d like a garden,” she said. “Like my grandma and my mama had—beds all along the front of the house. Though the flowers here would be different. It’s so dry. But red flowers, to match the door and the mailbox.”

“Good. Now tell me something about you,” he said.

Her nerves prickled, chasing away the peace her body had found in the sex. “What do you mean?”

“Nothing heavy. Something nice. Just tell me something I don’t know about you, Abilene Price.”

That’s not my name, for one. “Like what?”

“Like, what were you like in high school?”

“Well,” she said, tiptoeing into the shallow end of a deep, dark pool. “I didn’t graduate, so that’ll probably tell you something.”

“No?”

“No. I only got through my sophomore year. Things got rough after that.”

“Okay, but before the rough stuff. What was it like then?”

“I liked school,” she said, realizing how true that was. She carried a lot of shame around how her education had concluded, and avoided thinking about it whenever possible. But that was true, she had liked school. And it had liked her.

“I got straight As. I had to try hard for them in algebra and during the physics parts of science class, but the rest was easy. I was on the junior varsity cheer team, too. And I sang in the school choir.”

“You sound like the opposite of me,” he said, a smile in his voice. “I aced all my math and science classes, but scraped out plenty of Ds in English and history. Mainly because I didn’t give a shit, though. I probably could’ve done way better, but I had, like, fuck-all motivation to try if it wasn’t something that interested me.”

“Were you a nerd?” she teased.

Casey laughed. “No, probably not. Fortuity shared a school system with four other podunk little towns, and it was pretty bare-bones. No math team, no chess club, none of those Advanced Placement courses. Plus I probably thought I was too cool for that shit, anyhow.”

“I was on the debate team for a semester.”

“Were you any good?”

“I dunno. At the research part of it, maybe. But honestly, probably not. I didn’t like standing up there, arguing with smart people. I mean, I used to think I was pretty smart myself, but I don’t like conflict. Not even civilized conflict.”

“Do you not think you’re smart anymore?” he asked, sounding troubled by that throwaway comment.

“Well, no. Not really. I mean, I’m not dumb or anything, but I’ve got a tenth-grade education. I was smart for a fifteen-, sixteen-year-old, but mostly because I was a good student. I doubt I’ve read more than a dozen books in—” She caught herself, about to say, in the past five years, which, if Casey was as good at math as he claimed, would’ve told him she wasn’t twenty-four, as most people believed. “Since then,” she finished lamely. A dozen books in five years, and at least half of those had been since Mercy had been born. Babies were good for providing sleepless nights and restless brains.

“I could be smart again,” she decided aloud. “If I ever had a chance to go back to school.”

“Is that what you want?”

“It sounds like a luxury. Like I said, I’d rather have a skill, like hairstyling or something. Getting a bachelor’s . . . I don’t even know what I’d want to study. If it can’t help me pay my rent, and quickly, it sounds too frivolous to imagine. But maybe in a few years, when Mercy is in school herself, I could take some classes. I’d like to learn Spanish again. I was good at Spanish, and it’d be useful around here. How, I’m not sure. Maybe if I ever got some job at the casino or something. Some kind of administrative job.” Such a thing sounded pleasant—steady and air-conditioned, with benefits, if not a ton of mental stimulation.

“If you’d ever forgive me,” she added, wondering what kind of a future Benji’s had, once the Eclipse was up and running. The coming crowds could have them thriving, or the accompanying competition could choke them into oblivion. It was hard to guess.

“You do whatever you need to do,” he said. “And pretending the casino’s not coming won’t make it so. I’m all about exploiting a given situation, so if you decide it’s what you want, I’d never tell you not to.”

“Your brother would probably say it’s disloyal.”

“My brother would also say that family comes first,” Casey said. “And you have to do what’s best for Mercy.”

She nodded, mussing her already chaotic hair against the pillow. “I’m trying to, anyhow.”

Casey shifted his legs, giving her own a little breathing room; their skin was clammy now, and she turned onto her back, freeing her arms and welcoming the cool, dry air on them. He did the same, and took her hand atop the covers, in the little hammock the blanket made between their hips. He yawned, the sound long and lazy, and telling her this pleasant chat was coming to an end. Before he could nod off, she shared a little more of that truth that had for so long eluded her.

“This was really nice, just now.”

“The talking, or what came before it?”

“Both.” She hesitated before going on, unsure if it had been exceptional to him or not. What if the best sex of her life was nothing more than a typical encounter for him? He didn’t hold back the way she did, after all. Tonight had felt like a deep, dark surrender to her, whereas a man like Casey probably put everything on the table, every single time he went to bed with somebody.

Still, her cowardly days were done. She was sick of hesitating, sick of deferring, sick of holding back her opinions, for fear they were wrong or dumb.

“That was amazing,” she whispered.

She heard his head turn on the pillow, felt his eyes on her face without even needing to glance at him.

“You mean that?” he asked.

“Yeah, I do. Not just because . . . You know, because I came,” she said shyly. “I just felt really connected, I guess. It was . . . I don’t know what the word is.”

“Intense.”

She nodded again. “Very.” But more. She’d had intense sex before, and it wasn’t always a great thing. Sometimes it could feel a little scary. But tonight . . . “Intense, but kind of freeing, I guess. I don’t think I’ve ever felt like that, with a guy. Wild, maybe. Not out-of-control wild, just . . . Shit, I dunno.”

He laughed, possibly to hear her swear, or possibly at the way she was dancing around an eloquent explanation but so completely failing to pin one down.

“Electric,” he offered.

She nodded vigorously. “That’s a good word.” Maybe not precisely the one she was after, but close.

Casey sighed. “Someday, honey, I’m gonna get you alone, I swear to God. In my bed, where we can be as noisy as we want.”

She smiled at that. Their hands were clasped limply, and she threaded her fingers with his, squeezing until it nearly hurt, then letting them fall slack.

He kissed her forehead, whispered, “Turn over.”

She did, enveloped by his strong arms. Enveloped in so much, it seemed. In feelings so much deeper than she was used to, and so much deeper than she’d ever expected them to get with this man.

I’m falling for him. Falling quick, and hard, and knowing beyond a shadow of a doubt, he had no plans to fall in return. The thought should have had her nervous, had her pulling herself up short, hitting the brakes.

But hearts didn’t work that way, did they? And even if this falling could only ever lead to a painful crash, after all this time it felt too good to care.

Chapter 18

Lazy winter light woke Casey a few minutes shy of seven. Beside him, Abilene was snoring faintly, a wheezy hum of a noise he knew well now. He sat up slowly, not wanting to rouse her. Soon enough, she’d wake and no doubt be proud to realize that for the first time, Mercy had slept through a full night. Casey was proud himself, come to think of it.

Neither of them had thought to switch the light off before they’d conked out, and he sat at the edge of the bed for a time, watching Abilene’s face. Her mouth was slack, her expression a mix of angelic and drunk. She didn’t look dignified, but she looked goddamn adorable.

Last night was different, he thought, remembering it all with a warm flush. Abilene had been different. Fiercer. Needier, in that way that made a man feel a hundred feet tall.

Knock it off with that shit. Whether he was ready for something serious with her, he couldn’t say anymore. But one thing was set in stone—he had no business even fantasizing about it until he got those test results.

Saturday morning proved quiet, culminating in a late, drawn-out family breakfast around eleven, once Don and Miah had finished their morning tasks. It was a somber affair, cast in the shadows of the previous night’s drama.

“One of the hands found two shell casings this morning,” Don said. “Twenty-twos.”

“No shortage of those in Fortuity,” Casey said.

Miah nodded. “No sign of a dark truck on the roads last night, but the sheriff’s going to station patrolmen along the highway for the next few evenings.”

“That’s something,” Abilene offered.

Christine delivered a plate of toast to the center of the table and took a seat. “We’ve had more than enough excitement for one week. I won’t sleep until they catch this jerk. Oh—speaking of jerks, that rep you told me about e-mailed this morning,” she added to her husband and son. “You weren’t exaggerating when you said it was a hard sell.”

Casey tuned out as the topic shifted. He was seated next to Abilene, acutely aware of how close their legs were, and acutely aware of that awareness. He tried to blame his edginess on the stress of those looming DNA results, but some of this agitation had a distinctly pleasurable edge to it.

Ware came by that afternoon to see Abilene and the baby, and it went much like the first time, except they passed the hour in the den, not in privacy. Once he’d left and Casey had made sure Abilene was pleased with how the visit had gone, he shoved a sandwich in his face and headed out.

The sun disappeared behind the hills beside him as he drove toward the highway. Stop one this evening was the grocery store in the next town, and he hurried through the aisles with the cart. He imagined doing this with Mercy in the little seat someday. Would that be fun, or a total pain in the ass? Parenthood struck him as a muddy mix of both those things. Then he realized he’d better save such theorizing for an hour or two from now, once he knew if he had any business contemplating such a commitment. Too much to wrap his head around. Too much to hope for.

The sky was black by the time he got back to Fortuity, and he parked in front of his mom’s house and headed up the driveway with a bag of groceries under each arm.

No sign of Vince’s bike, but he passed Kim’s orange Datsun in the driveway then jogged up the steps to the side door, knocking before he barged in. “It’s just me,” he called. “I brought food.”

It was Nita who appeared from the den, not Kim. “Casey, this is a nice surprise.”

“Kim texted me a list this morning.” He set the bags on the counter and started unpacking them. “Christine offered to help Abilene so I could swing by.”

“And get a break from diaper duty, no doubt.” Nita grabbed the yogurt and cold cuts and took them to the fridge.

“I don’t mind that stuff.” Sure beat the heck out of straining at every little creak and crack in the old farmhouse, expecting imminent disaster. You’d have thought that crap would’ve ended with Ware now placated. “Where’s Vince?”

“Garage. Finishing up Abilene’s car, I think. Kim’s with him.”

“Cool. I need to take a phone call in a few minutes. Mind if I hole up in my old room?”

“Not at all. It’s still your house, too, you know.”

Maybe, Casey thought as he closed himself in his tiny childhood bedroom. But also not. It was still his single bed under the one window, still his faded Super Bowl XXXIII poster on the door. The walls were still painted bright blue, but he’d moved on. Kim had a load of her things in here now—random furniture and a bunch of photography equipment—and he welcomed the change. He had an uneasy relationship with his childhood. On the whole, it had been happy enough, he supposed, but he’d left it behind. And maybe it was the leaving it behind that he wasn’t entirely comfortable with. His dad had taken off when the stress of family life had become too much for him. Casey had taken off when the reality of his mother’s decline had become too disturbing to bear. And when he thought hard enough about that parallel, the shame burned, and deep.

He pulled out his phone. Four minutes to six. Four more minutes, and the question that had been haunting him for five years or more would finally be answered. One phone call, and he’d know with more certainty than any vision could offer what his future would look like. Funny how he’d been only too capable of ignoring this shit for all those years, but now that the truth was about to come out, four minutes felt like fucking forever—

Brrrzzzz. His cell vibrated; then the chime kicked in. It took him three full rings before he brought his shaking thumb down and accepted the call.

“Hello?”

“Am I speaking with Casey?” asked a cheerful female voice.

“Yeah, that’s me.”

“Casey, good evening. This is Carrie Albini, calling from LifeMap. Does this time still work for you?”

“Yeah. Lay it on me.”

She laughed politely, and there was typing behind her voice. “Great. So I’m one of the analysts here at LifeMap, and it looks like we’re going to be consulting this evening about three different tests—yours and also Deirdre and Vincent. Is that correct?”

“That’s right. That’s me, my mom, and my brother.”

“Great. And I see we’ve got disclosure waivers all signed and ready to go, so let’s dig in. Now, in the mail you’re going to receive very, very detailed reports on all three tests, but when a client requests a personal consultation, it usually means they have some specific concerns they’d like to address. Is this correct, in your case?”

“Yeah, it is.”

“Okay, great.” Man, she sure liked the word great. “Where would you like to focus our thirty minutes together, then?”

“Well,” he said, sitting on the edge of his old bed, “my mom’s, um . . . Her mental health is declining. She’s never been diagnosed by a doctor, though.”

“Okay, let’s take a look.” More typing and clicking. “I see here in the APOE allele for her test that, yes, she does carry the gene for non-Alzheimer’s dementia.”

He nodded, no words coming. Luckily, the woman went on.

“Are you curious to know if you also have this gene?” she prodded gently, voice lilting upward.

“Yeah. I am.”

More clicking—easily three hours’ worth of clicking, it felt like.

“I have good news for you, Casey. You and your mother do not share that gene.”

He froze, eyes glued to a dark patch on the carpet. “We don’t?”

“No, you do not.”

“How sure are you?”

She laughed. “Ninety-nine-point-many-nines sure. Genetic testing is extremely accurate.”

“Dude,” he said, and flopped back on his covers. “You have no fucking clue how much of a relief it is to hear that.” Such a relief, he felt tears welling in his eyes, snot building in his sinuses. He sat up and wiped his lashes dry.

“I can only imagine,” she said.

“And my brother—is he cool, too?”

More typing. “Yes, your brother also doesn’t share it. Though of course your chances on that one were a bit less nerve-racking, I’m going to bet.”

Casey frowned, confused. It wasn’t as though she knew about him getting spells and Vince not. “Why do you say that?”

Silence—a pause deep enough to park a car in.

“Hello?”

“Sorry.” Click click click, tap tap tap. “You do know that you and Vincent don’t share a biological mother, correct?”

He stared at the carpet stain, blank. “’Scuse me?”

“Deirdre is not Vincent’s mother. Not genetically speaking.”

“The fuck?”

Another pause. “I take it this is news to you . . . You have the same father of course,” she went on quickly, like that even fucking mattered.

Fucking fuck, but Casey had always known the two of them couldn’t be full-blooded brothers. They didn’t look a thing alike. But all this time he’d hoped it was because he must have a different dad, somebody way better than the asshole who’d left them . . .

“I’ll be goddamned.”

“Would you like to speak with an emotional counselor?” she offered.

“What? Fucking no, I just– Sorry. It’s fine. What else can you tell me? Are there any other weird neurological things in my report?” Anything that might explain the visions, if his mother also shared them.

Apparently not. The woman went through a bunch of results with him, but aside from a predisposition for anxiety and depression, Casey’s brain tested deceptively normal.

“And of course those are very, very common across the board,” the data chick said. “And depression and anxiety are also strongly influenced by environmental factors.”

“Sure.”

A pause. “Are you all right, Casey?”

“Yeah, I’m cool.”

“Well, our thirty minutes are just about up. Have I answered all of your questions?”

“Yeah, I think so.”

“Great.”

Yeah, fucking great. You just ripped a huge fucking hole through my goddamn family.

“Now, when your reports arrive in the mail, don’t be surprised if you feel overwhelmed. A lot of it’s very technical, but if you go to our website, we have tools to help you make sense of . . .” She launched into her closing spiel, and Casey tuned out, peering around his room. Staring at the wall he’d shared with Vince, and trying to conceive how it was that they didn’t share the one fucking thing he’d always trusted they had in common. Their mom. The one thing that had bound them together enough to even lure Casey back here in the first place . . .

He mumbled a half-assed thanks and a good-bye when prompted, and ended the call.

“Fuck me.”

Casey wandered out of his room, numb, and dropped onto one of the kitchen chairs. How in the fuck was he supposed to break this to Vince? Tell the guy that he’d spent the past decade watching the heartbreaking mental decline of a woman who wasn’t even his real goddamn mother?

No matter how Casey tried to word it, all that came echoing back was a big fat tangle of confusion.

He looked up as Nita entered the kitchen. She’d always been like an aunt to him and Vince—their next-door neighbor and childhood babysitter. She’d also been a way sterner taskmaster than their mom, probably because she’d had the energy to be. Dee Grossier, on the other hand, had seemed forever on the verge of a nervous breakdown after their dad took off. To be fair, Casey and Vince hadn’t exactly been the easiest boys to raise. She’d been on a first-name basis with half the nurses in the Elko ER, for Christ’s sake.

But Nita Robles was made of sturdier stuff, physically and mentally. She was a deceptively warm, soft, stocky woman, and the glittery blouses she favored belied the thick skin hiding underneath. She’d been left by her husband a few years before Dee had, and they’d bonded over that. In time Casey had come to learn that if he fucked up anything especially bad, it was best to tell Nita first. She’d come down on you hard, but she wouldn’t fall to pieces crying like his mom had. Plus she was way better at relaying the news that you’d, say, burned down the neighbor’s shed, in a way that wouldn’t throw Dee over the edge.

Casey’s phone was still in his hand, and he couldn’t guess how long he’d been sitting there, shell-shocked. He ought to be over the fucking moon—and he would be, in time. But that shit about his brother . . .

Half brother. Just like you always thought.

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” Nita said, uncorking a bottle of red wine at the counter.

“I just talked to the DNA people. The company I sent that test off to.”

She froze with a glass in her hand, gaze glued to his face. “Oh?”

He nodded.

She filled the glass nearly to the brim and carried it to the table.

He managed to crack a smile. “You gonna get drunk, Nita?”

“I was going to enjoy a little taste while I watched the news, but I think maybe you could use a bit more than that.” She slid it over.

He shook his head and pushed it back. “I got too much to wrap my head around just now.”

Nita took a sip, swiveling the glass around by the stem. “I take it the news wasn’t good. About you having the dementia gene.”

Hearing her say it aloud, Casey snapped out of his stupor, sitting up straight. Of course that was what mattered most. His entire perception of his childhood and his family was fucked way up, but it wasn’t the most important news. He wasn’t going to go crazy. He had a motherfucking future.

“Fuck it,” he muttered, and stood. He grabbed a second glass from the cabinet and filled it for himself, sat back down across from her. “Fucking cheers,” he said, holding it up.

Looking mystified, she clinked it with hers. “This some kind of gallows humor?”

He took a deep drink, wincing, and shook his head again. “No. No, it was good news. I don’t have the markers for dementia. Mom does. I don’t. Neither does Vince.”

Her shoulders dropped in almighty relief. “Jesus, Casey.” She crossed herself, then immediately reached across the table and slapped his arm. “Why didn’t you say so? And why do you look so rattled? Actually, wait—let’s let the good news sink in first.”

A-fucking-men. He tried to absorb this new state of reality with every cell in his brain. I’m not going crazy. In ten, twenty, thirty years, I’ll be the same person I am now.

What would he have done different, if he’d known this before? He’d first started getting those disturbing episodes when he’d been living in Vegas, counting cards. He’d assumed the visions must be the first indication that he was going nuts, as his mom had. That had been the first sign of her decline, after all—sudden spacey spells, mumbled nonsense.

After that, his priorities had shifted. To make money while having fun had always been his life’s main focus, and while card counting had accomplished that on a small scale, there was one thing he found far, far more compelling than gambling, and indeed more compelling than money. And so he’d pursued it, and in the end banked himself more cash than he ever could have in the casinos, working on a team. And fuck that it was felony-level illegal, because if he got caught, he’d suffer, what? Five, ten years of a sentence, maybe, before his brain floated off into the ether. So fuck consequences, fuck the future. Fuck everything outside of doing what fascinated him, and enjoying every cent it brought in.

Except now . . .

Maybe he’d known all along, it was time to get out of that scene. Time to accept that the future did matter—a terrifying, exhilarating relief, nearly too much to process. He’d spent so long living his life as though it were about to end, the possibilities that this news had opened were overwhelming. He could make commitments now, sure, but he had fuck-all clue if he was capable of keeping them, of offering them.

He slowed his racing thoughts, pictured Abilene and the baby. If they were his future, he couldn’t say, but he was free to find out. Free to fall in love and have a family, if he was ready for it. Big-ass if.

“Motherfucker.” He couldn’t even believe it. Best news of his life. News that he still had a life.

“I ought to smack you for the cussing,” Nita said, “but I’m too relieved to care.”

“Before we get carried away with the celebrating, there was some bad news, along with the good. Unexpected news, at any rate.”

“So spill—” She paused when Dee’s voice drifted in from the den, needing something or other—the channel changed, a glass of water, the ceiling fan switched on or off. When she wasn’t predicting certain doom, her worries were pretty simple. Nita stood and cast Casey a look, one that told him this conversation wasn’t over, merely paused.