Текст книги "Burn It Up"

Автор книги: Cara McKenna

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Chapter 8

Good job, Grossier, Casey thought as he turned bacon rashers over on the griddle, pleased with how the first half of his talk had gone with Abilene. You sounded like a stern-ass man there. Not some stammering, horny mess, like Monday night, barely able to hit the brakes. That was what she needed in her life right now—a decisive, firm, reliable man.

She needed Miah, basically, but Casey could fake it for the sake of the situation.

Miah and his dad strolled in soon, both dressed for work, and Don lingered long enough to fill a thermos and eat a test pancake before heading out on ranch business. Vince and Kim were next to arrive. Christine excused herself, and Abilene stuck around until Kim seemed to have gotten her fill of baby ogling.

“Better be careful,” Casey muttered to his brother, and nodded in his girlfriend’s direction. “You might be next.”

“Thanks to all the Mom-sitting she’s been doing, I think I’m safe for a few years, still. All Kim seems to fantasize about is travel.” His attention turned to the heaps of pancakes and eggs and bacon laid out on the table. “Goddamn. Tell your mom thanks, Miah.”

“Hey, I helped,” Casey said. “I did the bacon. And Abilene did the eggs.”

Raina and Duncan arrived last, a few minutes past six. Had to be Raina’s doing—Duncan would rather slam his dick in a door than be late for anything.

“Sorry,” Raina said as she brushed past, making a beeline for the coffee. “I forgot there was no gas in the truck.”

“S’fine,” Miah said evenly, refreshing his own mug. He cast Duncan a cool look, nodded once in acknowledgment. Duncan returned it.

Miah took a seat on one of the two long benches, grabbed a wooden pepper grinder, and thumped it on the tabletop. “Let’s get this thing under way—I’ve got a feed delivery coming at seven. Item one, we need to get the security coverage worked out.”

“I took the liberty of printing up a blank roster,” Duncan said, pulling papers out of a leather dossier.

“You know,” Casey said, sliding the pancake platter over, “on TV, when motorcycle clubs hold meetings, it’s to discuss who gets to murder the rival drug lord.”

Duncan ignored him, clicking out the tip of a mechanical pencil. “Raina and I can cover the bar, through this week and also next, if necessary. That frees Casey up to stay here for much of the time, with smaller windows of cover so that he can attend to his personal domestic matters.”

He shot Duncan a funny look. “You’ve been to my apartment. I don’t even have any plants.” And he didn’t intend to leave Abilene alone for a moment longer than was necessary. He was already mixed-up from his nascent attachments to her and the baby, and that awkward-hot couch incident had only crossed the wires further. He was all messed up in his body with protective instincts he’d never felt for a woman before. He supposed that must happen when sleeping with somebody was off the table. Your dick transferred all that aggression elsewhere.

“You’ll want to at least escape to do laundry and check your mail now and then,” Duncan countered. “Vince, do you have any evenings free?”

He nodded and glanced at Kim. “You could watch Mom by yourself a couple evenings, right? If Nita could take the afternoon?”

“Sure.”

“And I can relieve Case for a few hours now and then,” Miah said. “After dinnertime, at least, but only until about midnight.”

They spent twenty minutes hammering out everyone’s shifts, and eventually a schedule came together. Vince had even offered to take the overnight watch duty on Friday so Casey could get an actual night’s sleep in his own bed, but Casey had declined—he’d only spend every last minute lying awake, worrying. Miah left for a minute to make photocopies in the office. He passed them out, grabbed a scoop of eggs, and plowed onward.

“Item two—the Ware situation itself.”

“Been working on that,” Casey said. “I talked to Abilene this morning. She’s promised to talk to him, if a meeting can get arranged. If anybody runs into him, give him my number. I’ll set it up.”

Everyone nodded except Duncan, who, with the admin portion of the meeting wrapped, had gone silent, clearly feeling out of place when it came to matters that couldn’t be solved with a spreadsheet.

“Sounds good,” Vince said. “Keeping her safe’s priority number one, but it’s not going to work as a long-term solution. We need to know ASAP if this is going to end in some awkward convo or if a restraining order’s getting filed.”

Casey winced. Neither outcome appealed to him. Of course the latter was the worst-case scenario, but there was also a petty, insecure bit of him that couldn’t help but think that she’d liked the guy enough to be in a relationship with him. She might’ve loved him, even, provided she hadn’t stuck around out of fear. While a civil reconciliation was undoubtedly the best result they could hope for, his coffee curdled in his gut as he imagined them getting so good with each other that maybe they’d try to get back together, to make things work for Mercy’s sake.

His fingers curled up into fists underneath the table.

Chill out. What the fuck had happened to the old Casey, anyhow? Before last summer he’d have taken one look at this situation—seen an emotional girl, a baby, and some mysterious gunrunner ex—and booked it out of there quick enough to kick up dust. He should have left the Robin Hood scene to his brother; Vince was the one who enjoyed bleeding, after all. Casey liked his face and limbs just how they were.

“Let’s see where that goes,” Miah said, meaning the plan to get Ware in touch with Abilene, “and regroup from there.”

“Meantime,” Vince said, “we’re still on high alert. Especially you guys at the bar—no doubt he’ll be looking for her there.”

“I brought these,” Raina said, rooting through Duncan’s dossier. “Mug shot, plus a picture from the paper when he was arrested.” She handed out printouts with the two black-and-white photos on them.

Casey studied it, stomach dropping. He’d been avoiding this moment.

Ware looked about how he’d pictured. No face tattoos, but a mean mug, shaved head, scar through one eyebrow, glare like an angry dog. Guy must have some kind of winning-ass smile, he thought, if a sweet thing like Abilene had managed to fall for him, once upon a time.

Miah nodded, studying his copy. “Thanks. That’s way better than the photos I was able to find. Okay, item three: I’ve got some security concerns of my own.”

“That doesn’t sound good,” Vince said.

“It’s nothing compared to Abilene’s worries.” Miah sipped his coffee. “But last fall we found some evidence that pointed to possible drug dealing, out on the range. Or maybe not drugs this time—could be weapons or any other thing. But pickups and drop-offs of some nature, likely. Strange vehicles seen turning off the access roads, late at night.”

“Déjà vu,” Vince said.

Miah nodded. “It’s happened before—one of my hands once found a cooler full of weed just sitting at the junction of two of our private roads. Whoever was meant to pick it up must’ve gotten lost or detained or something. We filed a report but nothing ever came of it. In any case, the BCSD doesn’t patrol out here, and there’re no lights or any workers out after sundown. It’s an obvious temptation.”

“You want us to patrol?” Vince asked.

“No, I can do that myself—I have been for months, just a couple times a week. There haven’t been any known thefts or property damage, so it’s more a nuisance than anything. But also not a development anybody wants becoming a regular thing. But I was thinking maybe one of us could go sniffing around the shadier corners of Fortuity. Drop hints like they’re looking for a distributor, that sort of thing. I think that probably means you, Case. Too many people know Vince and I are friends to buy it, but you’re still a new face to any criminals who didn’t grow up here.”

Casey shrugged, game for it. He did enjoy a good con. “I can give it a shot. Not sure where to start—or when I’ll have the time—but I’ll give it a try.”

Vince said, “Dancer,” just as Duncan suggested, “Perhaps John Dancer.”

“Fuck me, that psycho? Last time I saw him he chloroformed me.” Ostensibly as anesthesia, when Casey had been taken to Dancer to get a bullet tweezed out of his thigh, but it wasn’t as though he’d consented to it.

“Count yourself lucky you got to be unconscious for most of that morning,” Kim said.

John Dancer was Fortuity’s least reputable resident—and that was saying something. He attracted enemies like horseshit drew flies, and lived in a creepy orange camper van way out in the badlands by the creek.

“He’ll know you and me are friends,” Miah said, “so no need to pretend you’re after something shady.”

“Bribe him if you have to,” Vince agreed. “I’ll comp you out of the club’s account.” Meaning the many coffee cans full of cash Vince kept secreted around the auto garage—proceeds from his sideline as an unlicensed bookie and the sale of questionably acquired cars. “Ask Dancer if he’s ever done business with Ware, while you’re at it,” Vince added. “He’s been kicking around here for twelve years, probably, and I still got no clue what he does for money. But I wouldn’t be shocked if illegal weapons factored, here and there.”

“Fine, fine.” Casey glanced at his photocopy of the roster. “It’ll have to be an evening. I’ll try tonight, actually, if Miah can be with Abilene for a couple hours . . . ?”

Miah nodded. “Sure.” He sipped his coffee and glanced around the table. “Any other business?”

Everyone shook their heads, so he gave the peppermill another rap and stood. “Meeting’s adjourned. Thanks for coming so early, everybody. Stick around for the grub. And load the washer if you want my mom to stay sweet on you.”

“I got it,” Casey said.

Raina filled herself a plate, as did Vince and Kim. Duncan seemed content to eat nothing, sitting stock-still until Miah bade everyone a good day and disappeared.

Vince grinned at Duncan. “Now, that wasn’t so terrible, was it, Welch?”

“He promised to punch me once,” Duncan said. “Forgive me for finding it difficult to relax.”

“We’ve all wanted to punch you now and then,” Vince replied. “Take comfort in the fact that none of us actually has, so far.”

“Yes, how reassuring.”

“I’ve never wanted to punch you,” Kim offered.

“I have,” Casey said. “Real bad.”

“I’m the only one who’s actually managed it,” Raina added. “Though technically that was an elbow.”

“You also slapped me once.”

“And this from the woman you love,” Casey said.

Duncan rolled his eyes and pulled a stray newspaper over.

Vince ate fast and downed a cup of coffee. “Gotta head to the quarry.” He swung his legs over the long bench, kissed Kim good-bye, then said, “Case, walk me to my bike.”

Ah shit, what now? He set down his fork. Please not some serious-ass talk about Casey’s glaring absence around the old homestead. Not that he didn’t deserve it, after nine years away. He’d done better since he’d been back, but lately, between the bar and Abilene, he might as well still be in Lubbock for all the use he’d been to his brother. He felt a burning sensation along the back of his neck. Guilt.

Once they were outside, he asked, “This isn’t about Mom, is it? I can go back to watching her mornings when this is all over. Then Nita could take a couple nights, and you and Kim could—”

Vince waved his words aside. “Chill the fuck out. I know you’re busy.”

“What, then?”

They reached Vince’s old R80 and he pulled on his gloves. “Just wanted to say, good job.”

Casey blinked. “What with?”

“You know, everything. Watching Mom when you can. Kicking in for the bills. Taking the lead around here, for Abilene. You’ve been acting like a grown man for a change.” He smiled, the gesture’s snide quality taking some of the edge off all this brotherly earnestness. “You’re doin’ good, kid. Keep it up.” He gave Casey a hard slap on the arm, then mounted his bike.

“I’m thirty-three, you know,” Casey said. “Don’t act so shocked.”

As he stomped his engine to life, Vince shot Casey a look, one that said, Bet you’re just as surprised as me. Or something to that effect. Something snarky and annoyingly accurate. Yeah, he was thirty-three now, but that only meant he’d given his brother three-plus decades’ worth of reasons not to expect him to ever step up or stick around. Casey rolled his eyes and watched Vince ride away.

He wasn’t really annoyed . . . or shouldn’t be, at any rate. That little moment had actually been really kind and genuine, two qualities Vince didn’t display without some personal discomfort. By Grossier standards, you could’ve slapped some touching music behind that conversation, cued an “I love you, Dad,” and rolled the credits.

But Casey was rankled nonetheless. Irked. If it felt patronizing, it ought to—before returning to Fortuity, he hadn’t ever given anybody reason to expect him to be reliable or responsible or do anything that didn’t directly benefit him. Vince knew that better than anyone. And if he was a little pissed, it was only because he had witnesses to this transformation, a load of people who’d known Casey the self-interested opportunist before now, and had every right to be surprised.

So maybe it wasn’t annoyance at all. Maybe it was a little bit of shame, a little bit of hard-earned humility.

He watched until Vince disappeared around the bend, and replayed that parting look his brother had shot at him.

Keep this up and maybe you won’t turn into Dad after all.

Maybe that’s what that expression had been saying.

Even if it hadn’t been, the thought sent a shiver through him. He headed for the house, rubbing his arms against the morning chill.

•   •   •

James Ware found what he was looking for right around high noon.

Fucking Fortuity, he thought, slamming his door, eyeing the scrubby, desolate badlands, squinting against that relentless sun. The old camper van was right where he’d expected to find it, parked where the creek banged an angle from south to west. And if the van was here, its owner couldn’t be far.

“Dancer,” he called. No reply. He walked straight up to the van, rapped on the passenger door. “Dancer.”

A shriek came from inside– Goddamn, that terrible fucking bird. Sure enough, a white parrot came clambering over the seat’s headrest to stare at James, its black eye judging, head bobbing, feathered mohawk flaring.

He turned at the sound of the rear doors squeaking open, and circled around to the back.

The man of the house hopped out of the van in jeans and little else—no shoes, no shirt, a bent, hand-rolled cigarette smushed behind his ear, half-lost in his messy black hair. His eyebrows rose and he smiled blearily—just awoken or thoroughly stoned? James didn’t care to guess.

“Well, well, well, look who’s been released. You get good behavior or something?”

“No, I got a good lawyer.”

“This calls for a toast.” Dancer leaned into the van and straightened with a bottle of rum, his long, fatless body moving with a weird, tweaky grace.

James put his hand up. “Here strictly on business.”

“Suit yourself.” Dancer uncapped the fifth and took a swig, then tossed it back inside. “Our last transaction got lost in the shuffle. You want your shit?”

“Or the cash value. Frankly I could use the cash more.”

“Well, that’s real good, as I already sold that inventory to an interested party. Not exactly the sort of thing a man needs lying around under his bed, you understand.”

“Perfectly.”

Dancer cupped an elbow, stroked his little beard. “So lemme think. I found you, what? Twelve units?”

“Fourteen, you fucking prick.”

“Right, of course. Fourteen. And you paid me what, to source them? One twenty-five each?”

“One seventy-five. Try to cheat me one more time, John. Just try. I gave you twenty-four fifty up front, and I want twenty-four fifty in my hand before I leave here.”

“Let’s call it fifteen hundred, taking the burden of handling and storage I assumed into the equation.”

“Let’s call it fuck you, I want my twenty-four fifty.”

“Two grand.”

“I’m not gonna fucking say it again,” James warned. “I know you made yourself a nice profit; now, comp me or we never do business together again.”

Dancer sighed. “You drive a hard goddamn bargain—you know that?”

“Most of your associates too high to keep track of their own math?”

Dancer grinned at that and climbed back inside his van. He returned a minute later with a thick stack of fifties and twenties. James counted them out, then tucked the wad into his front pocket. “Better. You’re off my shit list, if barely. And you can get on my good side if you can tell me anything about Abilene Price.”

“That a girl?”

James nodded. “Twentysomething brunette, looks about sixteen.”

“Sounds just like my type. Go on.”

“Big blue eyes, Texas accent.”

“This gets better and better. I’ll give you five hundred bucks.”

“She was working at that shithole bar downtown, but I haven’t seen her come or go yet, and I need to know where she’s living.”

“Ah. I do know who you mean, actually.”

“You’ve seen her?”

“Benji’s only has about three bartenders,” Dancer said with a shrug. “Kinda tough to miss. Also tough to miss that you didn’t list ‘vastly pregnant’ among her many physical charms. You got yourself a dependent, Jimmy?”

“You know where she lives or not?”

“I don’t. But I know who would—Casey Grossier.”

“Grossier? Some relation to Vince?”

“His little brother, though they don’t look much alike. He’s the girl’s boss. Him and this British prick named Welch bought the bar off Benji’s daughter last fall. I doubt Welch would tell you shit about his employee’s whereabouts—he’s a cagey motherfucker. But Grossier might. He never fucking shuts up, and he can be bought, if nothing else. He just moved in above the drugstore on the main drag.”

“What’s he look like?”

“Hard to miss. About your height, red hair, red beard. Drives a silver Corolla, or sometimes an older Harley-Davidson, also silver.”

“He pack like his big brother?”

“Not sure. But he’s not dangerous like his brother—not in any obvious way. Smart, though you’d never guess it. Smartest dumb-ass you’ll ever meet. Rumor mill says he ran a bunch of cons downstate and in California and Texas, but exactly what, I’m not sure. But he’s friendly with the girl, and chances are, her employers know where she lives. I can ask for you, if you want. Asshole owes me one—I took a bullet out of his leg last summer.”

“No doubt that offer comes with a fucking price tag, so no, thanks, John. But I’ll bear you in mind for future transactions.”

Dancer smiled, smug. “Much obliged. Anything else you need? Just got a case of what I think are quaaludes. Haven’t tried one yet. Yours for a song.”

“Not my product.” James offered a final nod, then turned to head back to his truck.

He locked the cash in his glove box and started the engine.

Next stop, Casey fucking Grossier.

Chapter 9

Casey parked his bike on Station Street in front of the drugstore just as the streetlights were blinking on. He unstrapped his duffel from the back of the seat and found his house keys, circled around, and let himself into the stairwell that led up to his apartment. Miah was on bodyguard duty for a couple hours, so Casey could run some errands.

On the floor beneath the mail flap sat a small mountain of envelopes, mostly junk with the previous tenants’ names on it—catalogs for medical supplies, that kind of sketchy, DIY shit. But sitting on its side, up against the wall, was a small brown box. He stooped, heart pounding. Sure enough, it had his name on it, and the cheerful purple logo for LifeMap, the DNA testing company, above the return address.

“Goddamn.”

He’d paid for expedited shipping but hadn’t expected it to come overnight. He could’ve used a couple extra days to wrap his head around the possibility that this little box might just be better at predicting the future than him or his mom. It could tell him he was fine. Or it could tell him he’d be crazy by the time he hit forty.

“Fuck.”

He’d been going the ignorance-is-bliss route for so long, the idea of knowing the truth was undeniably terrifying. It could open up an entirely new future—one worthy of getting into a serious relationship for, of starting a family someday. And while that would be good news, he thought as he climbed the stairs, duffel bag bonking the wall with every other step, it was also what scared him. He’d spent the last few years diligently avoiding commitments and personal connections, too afraid of losing them if he wound up like his mom.

If he found out he didn’t share whatever breed of crazy she had, he might just have to grow the fuck up, once and for all.

But I have, already. A little. Even Vince had noticed. He unlocked the door to his apartment, found the light switch, and dropped his bag on the floor. But if it turned out he wasn’t going nuts, well, that landed him at a major crossroads. Keep going as he always had, or step up completely. Become the sort of man who somebody might be proud to call their lover or partner or husband, or maybe even father, someday.

Hold your horses there, bucko.

Even if he dodged his mom’s misfortune, he feared inheriting his dad’s legacy nearly as much as the mental illness. At least if he went nuts, it wasn’t his fault. If it turned out he was just a flighty, selfish deadbeat who took off the second things got ugly on the home front . . . ? Yeah, that was all on him.

But maybe, he thought, setting the box on the arm of the previous tenants’ fugly plaid couch, just maybe, the test’ll tell me what I’ve suspected since I was ten. That that deadbeat was never my real father to begin with. Man, that’d be the ultimate load off, knowing he wasn’t Tom Grossier’s kid after all. Didn’t seem so far-fetched. Vince looked just like their father, so the guy had strong genes. But Casey, on the other hand . . .

His head was racing with too many questions, and the answers were still days away, even if he overnighted the test back, even if he shelled out for the expedited lab processing. He had plenty to worry about outside of a cheek swab in that time, and he’d be smart to keep his head screwed on.

He looked around the apartment.

Nothing special, but it was spacious. To judge by the state of the place when he’d moved in, the previous tenants who’d lived above the drugstore had been enthusiasts of a different breed of pharmaceuticals, but for three hundred a month he wasn’t about to bitch. Taking it in now, the space was barely recognizable. Not because anything had changed—just because he’d spent so little time in here since he’d signed the lease. That had been a week after Abilene had given birth, and he doubted there’d been a day when he hadn’t seen her since then. Either they’d been working together or he was swinging by with something she needed—first at her old place and more recently at Three C. And when he hadn’t been doing that, he was loitering at Duncan and Raina’s or his mom’s house. He’d abandoned his few bits of furniture in his apartment in Lubbock and had some more important items in a storage unit down there—a unit he paid the rent on religiously, under a fake name. At some point he needed to make a road trip and dispose of that shit.

He’d spent almost no time awake in this place, he realized as he scooped his dirty clothes out of his bag. He tossed them in the laundry basket in his bedroom and grabbed some clean ones from his open suitcase. A stranger might think he’d been burgled, or skipped town in a hurry. He owned so little, and half of what he did call his was still in boxes.

When he’d lived in Lubbock, he’d made some effort with his place. Made it nice enough so if he got in a position to get laid, it wouldn’t scare any willing women away. But here, well, he was just too busy. For the first time in his life, he had shit to keep on top of, every single day of the week. Between the bar and Abilene and his mom, he really didn’t get much chance to do more for himself than sleep and shower and eat.

And if Casey was completely honest, he was proud of that fact.

He zipped his clean clothes and the LifeMap box into his bag and locked up. He’d swing by Benji’s, make sure there’d been no Ware sightings, then see if Duncan or Raina—whoever was behind the taps—needed anything. Then he’d go by his mom’s house and maybe get her and Vince to swab their cheeks and sign their disclosure forms, do the same himself, and get the thing packed up and ready to ship out in the morning.

He bungeed his duffel to his seat. It’d be fine for a few minutes—Benji’s was barely two blocks west.

The bar’s lot was half-full, not bad for this hour on a Wednesday evening, Casey thought, his shoes crunching across the gravel. And soon enough, this place might just get busier at suppertime, once the kitchen was functional. Christ, he hoped so. He hoped they did a killing, and fuck all the corporate chains that came to town to bleed the casino tourists dry—

“Hey!”

Casey turned to the front corner of the lot, where the shout had come from. His guts were immediately bunched up around his throat like a scarf.

Fucking James Ware himself. Looked just like his mug shot. Same scowl, same scar through the eyebrow. The recognition trickled down his spine, cold as ice.

Ware had been leaning against an older black pickup, but now he was moving, marching toward Casey. There were no smokers out front, nobody coming or going. Just the two of them.

“You Grossier?”

“Who the fuck wants to know?” No sense being polite, when that was the greeting he’d been offered.

“I’m James Ware.” He stopped maybe four paces from Casey. His hands were balled at his sides, face set in a stern glare. His shaved hair had grown in just a little, enough to reveal he had a receding hairline. But he wasn’t a bad-looking guy—just scary. The same height as Casey, but built more like Vince behind the gray T-shirt he wore.

“I heard you’re the one who can tell me where to find Abilene Price,” the guy said.

Casey crossed his arms, faking toughness as he had his whole life. He wasn’t afraid to fight—he’d certainly been in his fair share of scraps and probably come out on top in half of them, but that was Vince’s scene, really. And this guy had just spent eight months in fistfight heaven, honing his skills, no doubt. Casey mimicked his brother’s tough-guy posture and cocked his head. “Who told you that, exactly?”

“John Dancer told me that.”

Anger flashed, hijacked his mouth. “Goddamn.” All the more reason to pay that motherfucker a visit real soon.

“So you know?”

“I’m her boss, but I don’t just go giving out my employees’ addresses to whoever asks for ’em. What the fuck do you want with her?”

Ware’s eyes narrowed. “I need to talk to her. About some business we have.”

That how you think of your daughter? Some business? Casey rankled, something dangerous crackling through him as he pictured the baby. He’d been feeding and changing and rocking and bathing that so-called business, and all at once he could understand Abilene’s fear and stubbornness. To imagine letting this guy near Mercy made his blood go cold and hot at once.

“I know who you are,” Casey said.

“I know you, too. You’re Vince’s little brother. I’m sure you know all about me, including the fact that Abilene’s been keeping my kid a secret from me.”

“That girl’s my employee, and my friend, and her safety means way more to me than your hurt feelings, so don’t hold your fucking breath. You give me a compelling reason to trust that you won’t hurt her, and she agrees to it, and sure, I’ll get you two in the same room. But just now I can’t say I’m too sure of your intentions.”

“My intentions are my own goddamn business. Same as that kid’s welfare.”

“And your other business involves illegal guns, I hear. I can tell you that I got no problem being a narc if it means Abilene stays safe. So you ever pull something out and threaten me or anybody I know for information, I got precisely fuck-all qualms about reporting it to the Sheriff’s Department and getting you shipped straight back downstate.”

“I’m not here to start trouble,” Ware said, though his tone and posture hadn’t softened a jot. “I’m here to talk to my ex. Now, you might think you know Abilene, but you don’t. Not like I do. She’s fucking helpless at the best of times, and I need to see with my own eyes that my kid is in good hands.”

“I can tell you they’re both fine.”

“I have no desire to turn this into some legal proceeding, Grossier. Or any other ugly scene. I just want to see my kid, like any father would. Though if I don’t like what I see, I’m prepared to make this nasty, I promise you that.”

Casey’s temper flared at that, skin going hot, brows drawing tight. It was the threat that had him seething, but there was more to it. And what do you know about being a father, precisely? Unless this guy had other children out there in the world, Casey was the one who’d put in the hours, lost the sleep, surrendered little scraps of his heart, one tiny connection after the other.

“You want to see her, you propose a time and place, and you tell me what it is you plan to talk about, and I’ll see if she’s willing. And there will be witnesses.”

“Who the fuck are you to tell me my rights, exactly?”

I don’t know what she and I are to each other, apart from a whole fucking tangled lot of something intense. “I’m someone who cares about her safety.”

“You fucking her? That what this is about?”

Casey’s neck flushed hot, and he was glad it was too dark for Ware to see. Last thing he needed was this asshole knowing he’d struck a nerve.

“That all you know about men and women?” Casey asked. “That they fuck each other sometimes?”

“I’m that kid’s father. Not you. It’s my job to make sure she’s in good hands, and I will fuck you up if you try to stop me.”

“Talk all the shit you want, but I’m the one who’s been there for them since your daughter was born, and I’ve got a sneaking suspicion I care more about both those girls’ welfare than you do. So here’s what’s gonna happen. I’m gonna give you my number, and when you’re ready to talk like a civilized person, we’ll talk.”

“I’ll take your number,” Ware said, “but don’t believe for one second that I think what’s going on here is right.” He pulled out a phone, and Casey gave him his unlisted, pay-as-you-go number. So much for the wood chipper. And one more reason to dread that thing’s chiming.