Betting on Grace

by Nicole Edwards

  “He mentioned that he had to go see his dad,” Lane stated.

  “Really? His dad?” she asked, shocked.

  “Yeah. He wouldn’t go into detail, but something was off.”

  “They don’t get along,” Grace said, figuring Lane already knew as much.

  “I got that part. I know he doesn’t go see them often, but this seemed like a demand, not a request.”

  Grace didn’t know what to make of that. She didn’t know much about Grant’s parents, just that Grant’s relationship with them was tense. Come to think of it, Grace didn’t know much about Lane’s parents, either.

  Wow. For a woman who was sexually intimate with two men at one time, she’d just realized how little she actually knew about them. Then again, that was mostly her fault because she’d spent the last couple of years avoiding them at all costs.

  What the hell did that say about her?

  Oh, who really cared?

  “Did he say when he was coming back?”

  “Nope. And when I suggested dinner, he blew me off.”

  Grace could tell that Lane was holding something back, but she didn’t get a chance to question him about it because — speak of the devil — her sister Mercy came walking up.

  “Time to get to work, kiddos. No smoochin’ on company time.”

  “Shut up,” Grace bit out, sounding like a petulant, irritable child. Feeling like one, too.

  Mercy brought out the best in her, clearly.

  Grace was met with a shit-eating grin from her sister.

  “Sorry, no can do. I’m comin’ to let you know that we’ve got a family meetin’ goin’ on in just a few minutes.”

  “What? Another one?” Grace hadn’t heard about another meeting. Hell, she’d just wasted the better part of an hour listening to Faith give them a stern talking-to about spending money.

  “Yep, Hope’s on a tangent. She wants to hire three more people. Time to talk it out.”

  “Where?”

  “At the rec hall,” Mercy said as she turned to face Lane. “And as much as we’d love to see your bright, shinin’ face there, you’re not invited. Not unless you’ve proposed to my sister and now I get to call you Bubba.”

  Lane smiled, which put Grace on high alert.

  “Not yet, ma’am,” Lane drawled. “But trust me, when it comes to that, I’ll be sure to let you know.”

  Grace’s head twisted around on her body hard enough to give herself whiplash. “Lane!” she yelled. “No more fuel for the fire, please!”

  Just as he always did, Lane brushed off her warning. The guy didn’t seem to have a care in the world. She had to wonder just what he’d say if her father were to confront him on some statement like that.

  The sound of the screen door slamming behind Grace told her that Mercy had moved on.

  Thank God.

  “I’ve gotta run. We’ve got a group comin’ in around noon, and I need to help out. How ’bout dinner?” Lane spoke to her directly, but he might as well have been talking to the whole damn ranch for as quiet as he was.

  “We’ll see,” Grace said, tempted to search their surroundings, wanting to ensure some nosy-ass wrangler wasn’t passing by.

  “In my book, ‘we’ll see’ is the equivalent of yes. I’ll bring dinner to your place. How’s that sound?”

  Grace was just about to lay into him when he pulled her up against him, his mouth finding hers. “Your sister’s gone, and there ain’t another soul anywhere close.”

  Grace couldn’t help it; she turned to liquid in his arms. As much as she wanted to punch him for freaking her out like that, she damn sure enjoyed when he put his mouth on hers. Or anywhere, for that matter.

  “Gotta run, gorgeous,” Lane said as he backed away slowly, his mocha-brown eyes peering into hers. Grace wanted to grab his arm and pull him into a dark corner somewhere for a few minutes of catching up, but she didn’t.

  She was restraining herself and all.

  Something she found was getting more and more difficult as each day passed, especially the days when she didn’t get to spend any time with Lane or Grant, or, which she preferred most, both of them at the same time.

  “Dinner,” Lane called out when he was several yards away. “Your place. I’ll bring the food.”

  Grace nodded, praying like hell that no one was listening because…

  Yeah, they were really going to have to do something about this sneaking around thing.

  And soon.

  Chapter Three

  “Dad, where are you?” Grant shouted when he walked into his parents’ rundown trailer about two hours later.

  If it hadn’t been for the fact he’d had to chase down Jerry Lambert to let him know he needed a few personal hours, and then to make sure he had backup in the event something went awry while he was gone, Grant would’ve come and gone by now.

  No such luck.

  Oh, hell. What the fuck is that smell?

  Grant’s olfactory glands threatened to revolt against him, but he forced his feet to move farther into the house, closing the front door behind him.

  No, wait, he was going to leave that bad boy open. And open the screen.

  “Kitchen!” Darrell Kingsley bellowed back from somewhere in the house.

  Grant raised the rickety glass on the cheap aluminum screen door, jamming it upward to keep it on the bent track, gulping in fresh air for as long as he could before turning back toward the offending smell.

  His sinuses were assaulted by the stench of stale cigarette smoke, what he assumed was burnt food, and … holy fuck, was that cat urine he smelled? Whatever it was, it wasn’t pleasant. Then again, the disgusting aroma of his parents’ house — usually made up solely of cigarettes and cats — wasn’t new to him, and, no, it wasn’t something he’d ever gotten used to, either, though it had gotten significantly worse in recent years. Glancing around the small trailer that he had once called his home, Grant fought the urge to vomit.

  How many fucking cats did they have now?

  He caught sight of one, a fat gray-and-white tabby, as it snuck behind the worn couch, another, this one orange and black with a patch of white around one eye, that was sitting on a box near the window, and a solid black one that scampered down the hall. His mother had an obsession with cats, but unfortunately, she wasn’t much for getting them spayed or neutered, so it seemed every time he came by, they’d multiplied in number. Which they probably had.

  Trying not to breathe through his nose, he gave the room a quick once-over, cringing as he took in the ramshackle furniture and torn carpet. It wasn’t that he was ashamed of where he’d grown up —that was a part of his life he couldn’t very well change. No, it was more that he was a little embarrassed about the way the place was being kept these days. Or not kept, as was the case here. He would be the first to admit that their house wouldn’t have won any sort of modern home award when he was young, but this… This was absurd.

  The living room was practically trashed, with two overflowing ashtrays on the coffee table, as well as beer cans and empty plates lying on every other available surface. The pillows that belonged on the sofa were on the floor; one of them was puking up the stuffing that had once been inside of it. Maybe the smell had gotten to it, too.

  Because of the mess, Grant didn’t notice what was missing in the living room right away, but he knew something was.

  Oh.

  Shit.

  It didn’t take him long to realize that the something missing was the one thing his dad coveted probably more than his gun collection, or even Grant’s mother, whom the man had been married to for going on thirty-five years.

  How they’d lasted that long, Grant had no idea, but that was a story for another day. Or perhaps a month-long session with a shrink. Either way, Grant couldn’t let his thoughts stray; he was too busy trying to … breathe.

  “Dad, where’s the TV?” he asked as he stepped into the kitchen, having to sidestep the crap littering the torn linoleum floor that probably
hadn’t seen a mop in a decade. Looked like a tornado had hit and the only casualty had been the dishes. They were everywhere.

  “Pawn shop,” Darrell said curtly, concentrating raptly on the laptop in front of him.

  “What the hell are you talking about?” Grant asked, his attention successfully focused on the old man sitting at the battered kitchen table. The same table where Grant remembered eating lukewarm TV dinners when he was a kid.

  Not only had the table seen better days but his father had, too.

  Darrell’s once-dark hair was sprinkled with gray, his usually clean-shaven cheeks were salt-and-pepper dark with at least three days’ worth of beard growth, and he had a cigarette dangling from his thin lips. If Grant wasn’t mistaken, his father had lost more weight recently. Not that it was that obvious because his gut hadn’t shrunk at all, which was probably thanks to the beer he chugged like water.

  “You fuckin’ heard me,” Darrell spat. “I needed money.”

  “You needed… Wait. Back up. What do you mean you needed money? Why aren’t you at work?”

  “Laid off.”

  “You were laid off?” Grant couldn’t quite believe his ears. His father worked at an auto parts store in town and had for the last eight or nine years.

  “Well, technically, they said I was fired.”

  Okay, so Grant never quite knew what to expect from his parents. It wasn’t a secret that they barely got by, both financially and otherwise. The two of them had what they considered an extremely passionate relationship, one that had, yes, included plenty of abuse over the years — on both their parts.

  But even considering all that, something was off here.

  W-a-a-ay off.

  “So you pawned the TV?”

  “All the TVs,” his father corrected.

  Grant dared to look around, trying to see what else might be missing. It was hard to tell because the house was a fucking pigsty. Not only was it cluttered with crap, the smell was unbearable.

  “Why didn’t you pawn the laptop?” Grant asked, fear of the obvious becoming an oppressive, stifling stench that competed with the rancid odor of cat urine. The culmination of it all nearly had him heading for the door.

  “Why the hell would I do that? Then I couldn’t find a way to get more money.”

  “So you’re lookin’ for a job?” Grant asked, hopeful that his father hadn’t relapsed, but as he watched Darrell intently staring at the screen in front of him, a long string of ash about to land on his bulging belly, Grant already knew the answer.

  “Nope. But this last bet I placed is a sure thing,” Darrell answered confidently, his hazel eyes darting up to Grant only briefly.

  God, that was not what he wanted to fucking hear. “Where’s Mom?”

  “Left.”

  “Where’d she go?” Grant’s mother didn’t work, and for as long as Grant could remember, Sandy Kingsley had spent her days camped out on the sofa watching her soap operas … shit ... which she evidently couldn’t do because there was no television.

  “Don’t know. Don’t care,” was the response he received.

  Grant’s frustration was kicking in, and he feared that he was going to lose the cool he worked so hard to maintain around his mother and father. It was hard enough to have parents with such volatile personalities, but through the years, Grant had somehow managed. That included remaining calm when his father would break out the belt, or a fly swatter, or whatever was close at hand, for absolutely no reason other than he felt like it.

  In his father’s defense, Darrell always had an excuse for the punishment. Sadly, it was just usually not Grant’s fault — and Grant wasn’t trying to duck any responsibility, either. He had been a fairly good kid, staying out of trouble, making good grades, going to school every day. None of it seemed to matter when Darrell flew off the handle, though. Luckily, for them all, that hadn’t happened in nearly fifteen years. At least the physical aspect of the abuse, anyway.

  “Why’d you call me, Dad?” Grant asked seriously, lassoing the last of his patience and yanking it close. He already knew the answer, but he desperately hoped he was wrong.

  “I’ve got a favor to ask,” Darrell stated, this time actually taking the opportunity to look at Grant.

  “Which is?”

  “I need to borrow some money.”

  Grant sighed. They’d had this conversation repeatedly over the years, and it generally ended up in a heated argument. That was the last thing Grant wanted, so he opted to deflect. “Have you talked to Morgan?” Grant asked, referring to his sister.

  Morgan, older than him by three years, had packed up her shit and moved out as soon as she’d turned eighteen, foregoing her high school diploma to do so, which had been about four years before Grant had been given the same freedom. He’d finished high school, but college had been a pipe dream, which was why he’d settled for heading out on his own in hopes that he could come up with a plan that would allow him to end up a little better off than his parents.

  Not Morgan.

  She’d up and married some loser and moved to Arkansas but had since divorced that sorry bastard. Unfortunately, Morgan had merely traded one fuckup for another, and she was married again, this time living in Kansas with two kids in tow.

  “Nope. She told me never to call her again. Again.”

  Yep. That sounded like Morgan.

  Great. And now Darrell had had another falling out with her, which explained the phone call Grant had received just that morning. If Morgan was in a tizzy, Grant’s parents usually turned to him. Again, as his father had said. It seemed that every other week, Morgan and their father were going at it for one reason or another. Grant did his best to stay out of as many of their squabbles as he possibly could.

  Grant pulled his hat off his head and thrust his fingers through the mess that was his hair. He’d crawled out of bed half an hour late that morning, and instead of running through the shower and then grabbing breakfast, he’d tugged on clean clothes and run out the door. Now he was starving and in desperate need of a shower. Not to mention, he was in a shitty fucking mood because of it all.

  “So, you gonna loan me money or what?”

  Had he not been so pissed, Grant would’ve found his father’s use of the word “loan” slightly amusing. The man had never paid Grant back a dime in his life, and he suspected he never would. Which was why he replied, “Sorry, I don’t have any money to loan.”

  Not that it was far from the truth. Grant had a little in his savings account, but not nearly as much as he had hoped to have at this point in his life. Considering his lack of bills thanks to living on the ranch, he would’ve expected to have significantly more. So not the case.

  “I didn’t fucking call you over here to listen to you bullshit me, Grant. I asked to borrow some goddamned money. You know I’m good for it.”

  Right.

  Arguing with Darrell had never gotten him anywhere, and Grant wasn’t going to give in to the taunting today. As it was, he was in a crap-tastic mood, and the last thing he needed was to have a run-in with the local police.

  Figuring it was best to get while the gettin’ was still good, Grant pressed his hat back on his head and turned toward the door. “Sorry, Dad. Ain’t got money to loan. But I’ll be more than happy to check around and see who’s hirin’.”

  “Fuckin’ worthless piece of shit,” Darrell mumbled beneath his breath.

  Yep, Grant had heard it all before.

  Had people been required to get a license to have children, Darrell and Sandy Kingsley would’ve been shit out of luck. Unfortunately, there wasn’t a law governing who could and couldn’t procreate.

  “I’ve gotta get back to work, Dad,” Grant called as he moved toward the door.

  From experience, he knew exactly where this was going, and he damn sure didn’t have the wherewithal to put up with any of his father’s abuse today, verbal or otherwise.

  When Darrell began his rant, Grant double-timed it to his truck, never bot
hering to look back until he was safely inside. By the time he was backing out of his parents’ driveway, Darrell was on the front porch, his fist flying as he tossed whatever verbal obscenities he felt were necessary to get his point across.

  Grant could’ve saved the old man the energy. He’d already heard every damn one of them.

  But the good thing was — if anything could be considered good in this fucked up situation — the fact that seeing Darrell served as an appropriate reminder of exactly why he had no intentions of having kids. After all, what the hell did Grant know about being a father? Look who his role model was, for fuck’s sake.

  ■□■□■□■□

  “Have you seen Grant?” Hope asked Lane as he made his way to the main house.

  He had bypassed a shower in lieu of getting some grub before heading over to Gracie’s as he had promised her he would. In fact, the possibility of seeing Gracie, having dinner with her, was what got him through the day, the one and only thing he was truly looking forward to besides seeing Grant.

  “The technical answer to that is yes, I’ve seen him. If you mean now, then no,” Lane retorted as he continued on his trek. He had spent the last two hours with Hope snapping at him for one reason or another, and if it was all the same to her, he just wanted to get the hell away from her.

  It was after six, and Lane was desperately searching for food. And Grant. But he didn’t bother to tell Hope that.

  “Thanks, smartass, but you know what I meant.”

  Yes, he did. He knew exactly what she meant, but he wasn’t in a talkative mood, and being stopped for a chat by the woman who’d made his day a living hell was not high on his priority list at the moment.

  “He went into town this morning,” Lane offered, keeping his hat low and his eyes focused on the big ranch house that was blessedly only a few yards away. So freaking close he could smell the food that wafted through the open screen door.

  “I know that. But he was back before noon.”

  Really?

  Now why should he be surprised by that?