by Tia Fielding
Uncle Will sighed. “Well, the MacGregors are still the MacGregors. I’m still chasing after Ian MacGregor the way Paul did with Robert MacGregor. Different cast, same old story.”
Aaron’s stomach twisted. “I hope yours has a better ending.”
“Shit, Aaron, so do I.” A cloud passed over Uncle Will’s face. “So do I.”
* * * *
Grocery shopping was a pain in the ass. Everything nowadays was a pain in the ass. Aaron filled his cart with pasta and frozen meals and shit that would be easy to make. Getting around the store with a cart with a wobbly wheel was a trial, but at least there was a kid bagging the groceries who helped him load them into his truck. Getting them out at the other end was a fucking trial though.
Aaron was hurting and sweating by the time he was done, and wanted nothing more than to climb the stairs and crash for a few hours—a painkiller with a whiskey chaser would do the trick—but Uncle Will was right. He needed to stop wallowing and get shit done.
He climbed the stairs and went into his bedroom. It was mostly empty now, except for the mattress he slept on. He hobbled forward on his crutches and tugged his closet door open. Stared for a while at the My Chemical Romance poster taped to the inside of the door, the edges yellowed with age and turning up at the corners.
His eyes stung as he remembered the way Quinn had loved them. He remembered that night down at the creek. Quinn had stolen some alcohol, and he’d been drunk and angry, screaming the lyrics of “This is How I Disappear” into the night. He’d been so angry he’d been crying, and Aaron had never felt so helpless. Not just helpless to stop him, but helpless to even understand the depths of his pain and the places that this sudden, terrifying anger came from.
“Stop! Just stop it!” He’d shoved Quinn up against a tree.
“I need to leave, Aaron. I need to get the fuck out of this town, away from…away from all of them! Away from everything!”
Aaron had threaded his fingers through Quinn’s long hair and made a million promises to the boy he loved, and Quinn’s tears had shone in the moonlight. And then, later, every single one of those promises had been shattered by a bullet in the night.
Aaron reached for his prosthetic leg and slammed the closet shut.
He wedged his leg under his chin as he made his way carefully downstairs again. He knew better than to try to put it on from ground level. He needed a chair.
In the kitchen, the tap was dripping: another broken thing to fix.
Aaron winced as he tugged the liner on over his stump. He smoothed the liner out, and then fitted the prosthetic. Using the table for balance, he stood. The air hissed out of the valve as he applied his body weight cautiously to the prosthetic. He’d seen so many videos of amputees walking and even running with prosthetics, but Aaron still couldn’t trust it. It was all in his head, he knew, and it was something he needed to work on, but he still couldn’t get past that fear that he’d take a step and the leg would fail him.
Maybe he needed Uncle Will to gently bully him about his leg as well.
He stepped away from the table, his stomach twisting and all his muscles tightening as he anticipated a fall.
“Walk like you mean it!” his physical therapist had told him more than once, but Aaron just hit that same mental barrier every fucking time.
He made his way carefully into the den, and then realized his toolbox, with the paint scraper he needed to start stripping the wallpaper, was back in the kitchen.
Such a tiny fucking thing, but it was enough to make his eyes water and sting with tears.
Shit.
He hated this.
He hated how pathetic he was, and how he was here wallowing in self-pity over his goddamn leg when the two other guys he’d been walking with that day hadn’t come home at all. How they’d all been riffing on something—or someone, probably—or telling some stupid joke, and then Aaron’s world had turned upside-down in a blast of heat and noise and dirt and blood…but theirs had just ended, right there in that moment.
It wasn’t fair that they’d died, and it wasn’t fair that here Aaron was, months later, getting worked up because his life was suddenly inconvenient.
His hot burst of self-hatred gave him the energy to get to the kitchen and back, lugging the toolbox with him. He thought suddenly of some cartoon he’d watched as a little kid that had terrified him: rows upon rows of toys that had come to life, marching along stiff-gaited. He wasn’t even sure if they were meant to be so scary and robotic—it had probably been the result of some old animation technique rather than anything else—but Aaron had run screaming to Mom and Dad anyway. And now he felt like one of those cartoon toys, jerking as he walked, like bits of him were made of clockwork.
He set his toolbox on the couch to save bending all the way to the floor, and opened it and dug through for the paint scraper. Then, clutching the tool in his hand, he approached the closest wall. He laid his hand on it, searching for a seam in the wallpaper.
He wasn’t sure why this was so hard. He’d cleaned Mom’s place out a few weeks ago. Maybe it was because Mom’s condo in Phoenix had never really felt like home. Aaron had only lived there a few months in total, and that had been spread over the years. This house though, this unassuming little house in Spruce Creek, Nevada, had been his home once. He’d been happy here. He’d formed his earliest and most enduring memories under this roof.
His Dad had lived here.
And the problem, Aaron supposed, was that he hadn’t been ready to let his Dad go. Nowhere near it. Mom…Mom had been in a slow decline with her cancer, and Aaron had known from the moment of her diagnosis that there would come a point she’d stop fighting. And it wasn’t about the expense, or even the toll on her body. A part of Mom had died when Dad had. She’d never been the same after his death. It hurt to admit, but she’d wanted to go. Whether she believed there was some sunlit place beyond death where she’d be with Dad again, or whether she was just tired of living with her grief, she’d wanted to go.
At least she wasn’t in pain anymore.
Aaron’s shaking fingers found a seam in the wallpaper, and he levered it up with the edge of the paint scraper.
It was time. It was time to stop wallowing. It was time to stand up straight again. It was time to move forward into a new life, even if he didn’t know yet what shape that new life would take. It was time to come to terms with his past, both here in Spruce Creek and in Afghanistan, and to stop letting it drown him. Hell, maybe it was even time to stop drinking.
His mouth quirked into a bitter smile at the thought. Well, baby steps, right? Because he had an idea that he’d really be able to use a beer after today. A beer, and probably at least one of those unopened bottles of whiskey he’d stashed upstairs where Uncle Will wouldn’t find them. Because after tearing the scab off this wound, oblivion sounded good.
He thought again of how his parents had put this wallpaper up, long before he was even born. Thought of how they’d bought this little house and made it their own.
And then he levered the paint scraper in under the sheet of wallpaper and ripped a wide strip of it from the wall.
Chapter 5
Quinn fixed himself breakfast, gave some of his lunch meat to the cat who had slept next to his pillow all night, and then let her out.
He briefly wondered if he should leave a window open for her, but if she had many other homes she probably had somewhere else she wanted to be, and he had too many weapons inside to feel safe with the idea. Not that closed windows and locks would deter anyone wanting to get to his stuff, but still.
Since his only real agenda today was to go to the diner for whatever reason, he had some time on his hands. He ended up sitting on his couch and going through every possible police report of the area from the last year or so he could get his hands on.
There was a lot of stuff if you knew where to look. He hadn’t had time to do much of the research before he got into town, but he realized he really needed to figure out how t
hings seemed to be running without asking anyone in town.
In the next couple of hours, he scoured through information. It hadn’t changed much, really, from what he’d figured out happened in the “family business” when he was a teenager. Mostly, it was drugs. The MacGregors manufactured and distributed meth in several places and they had a bit of a reach, some to Las Vegas, too.
The thing was, they weren’t big operators, and one key point Robert has always made was to be careful not to step on any toes when it came to the Vegas drug scene. Quinn’s dad had been a bastard, but he’d also known his limits. Ian did too. The fact that they could fly under the radar was partially because they didn’t do too much. They just ran a working little empire and that was it.
However, Quinn knew what Jimmy was like, and so did Karen and Ian.
Jimmy’s problem was never being satisfied with anything. He always wanted more. If Jimmy took over the MacGregor business, it would mean changes. It would mean bruised toes and it would mean fish too big landing in their small-town pond to get rid of the natives.
Quinn rubbed his face and sighed. There was another possibility he had to take into account here. If Jimmy had wised up, which he well may have, he might find a bigger operator on their side of Nevada and join forces. And these days, that meant human trafficking.
Spruce Creek was perfect for human trafficking. There were plenty of remote areas and several ways out of town. If Jimmy wanted to expand into that direction, well, the whole MacGregor clan would be fucked. Homeland Security was well aware of Nevada being one of the biggest human trafficking states and bringing that sort of attention to Spruce Creek would fuck things up for everyone.
Quinn heard a car roll to his front yard and cleared his browser history with a press of a button. He closed the laptop and went to the door.
If he tilted his head just right, he could see through the curtain in the window.
Well, this certainly wasn’t a surprise. He opened the door and grinned at the man getting out of one of the MacGregor SUVs.
“Where have you been hiding?” Quinn asked, unable to stop smiling.
“It’s these old bones, can’t move as fast as before,” Arthur Jenks, his dad’s former enforcer said, making a show of approaching slowly and leaning heavily into his cane.
He wasn’t trying to fool Quinn, nor could he have. Arthur was most likely armed to the teeth just like Quinn would be as soon as he left his trailer.
They embraced each other quickly, and Arthur held onto his shoulder to look at him properly.
“You grew up good, kid.”
“Thanks. You don’t look bad yourself, Uncle Arthur,” Quinn said, and the slight tension around Arthur’s eyes relaxed.
“You have coffee in this castle of yours?”
Quinn scoffed. “I’m a MacGregor, aren’t I?”
Soon enough, they sat at the table, the laptop set aside, and sipped at their coffees.
“Do you ever visit him?” Quinn blurted out, then internally cursed himself.
“No. I tried for a couple of years, but he doesn’t want anyone to come. He won’t reply to letters, either.” Arthur tapped his fingers on the side of the mug as he gathered his words. “The only one I think he’s replied to was the divorce papers your mother sent him.”
Quinn didn’t jump into conclusions. He could’ve taken the statement as an accusation toward his mother but he didn’t. Instead, he hummed.
“She had no choice. She needed to have her freedom and her maiden name back.”
Arthur nodded. “Right. You didn’t change yours, though.”
Quinn chuckled a bit bitterly. “I have quite a few names by now, Uncle Arthur, and MacGregor isn’t the most useful one of them.”
Arthur’s gaze got sharp then, a bit worried, before he relaxed again. “I see.”
“I know you’ve heard the rumors and I would say eighty-five percent is true.”
Arthur snorted. “The last fifteen?”
“Man’s got to have some secrets, eh?” Quinn put on his best rakish grin.
Arthur laughed. “Jesus, I didn’t think you’d remind me of Robert this much. When he was your age, I mean.”
Quinn didn’t know how to take the statement, so he ignored it. Instead, he smiled at Arthur in a more real way. “How’s the family?”
Arthur launched into telling him all about his wife and his elderly father who had once been the enforcer to Quinn’s grandpa Callum. When he got to his kids who were around Quinn’s age, Quinn was both relieved and a bit sad—for Arthur and his wife—to hear they had all moved out of town.
“So, what do you make of Jimmy?” Quinn asked Arthur.
“Are you asking my gut feeling or my professional opinion?”
That was a valid question. Arthur’s professional opinion would always be colored by the fact that he was a MacGregor enforcer first and anything else second.
“Gut feeling.”
Arthur sighed and looked out through the window. “I have a backup plan for the missus and I. Our eldest has a garage apartment in Portland if it comes to that, and Dad has said he’ll be happy in his retirement home if we choose to go there.”
Without saying anything direct, Arthur had just validated every worry Quinn had.
“Good. Will you take Aunt Karen?”
Arthur chuckled and finished his second cup of coffee. “I suspect she has an exit plan of her own, and that she’ll use it as soon as Ian is in the ground.”
* * * *
Quinn had almost forgotten the mysterious order to get his ass to the diner, but after Arthur left, his stomach suddenly remembered the agenda.
He pulled on his leather jacket. The day was cold enough to warrant wearing it, and it let him carry his Glock unnoticed, just in case. He didn’t expect to need it, but he felt a lot safer with the familiar weight against the small of his back.
He parked in the side parking lot of the diner and went inside. There weren’t many people there, but those who sat at their tables and booths looked at him and quickly averted their eyes.
“Be right with you!” someone called from the back and Quinn went to sit in a booth where he could see both the street and the door.
He stared out of the window until quick, efficient steps approached and—
“Fuck me sideways, it’s yet another MacGregor!”
Quinn’s gaze whipped to the woman standing next to his table with a pad in his hand and an apron around her waist. Her hair was red as ever and tied back in a familiar way.
“Charlie?”
She gave him a “duh” kind of look and he got up, and hugged her close. She returned the hug, but as they were pulling back, she punched him in the tit, really fucking hard.
“Ow, what the—”
“That’s for leaving.”
“You knew I wasn’t going to stay,” Quinn whined, rubbing his chest.
“Yeah, I did, but I also didn’t know what would come after—”
“Charlie, can I get a refill?” someone called from the other end of the diner.
“What do you want?” Charlie asked Quinn, flipping open her notepad.
“Uh, chocolate milkshake, burger, and fries?” The order came out as a question because it was what he’d always eaten here in their youth.
“Alright, be right back.” She marched away, picking up a coffee pot from the counter as she went.
Quinn watched her move. She had filled in the way women did when they got out of girlhood. Much like Quinn wasn’t the boy he’d been at eighteen, she wasn’t the same girl either.
She had a smile for everyone and patted an old guy on the shoulder when he got out of his seat and headed toward the door.
She took his order to the kitchen and then ignored him until the chef rang the bell and she had to bring him his lunch.
Once she’d plopped the plate in front of him and placed his shake down more carefully, she took a seat and stared at him.
“You look old. The hair is nice.”
/> “Easier to maintain.”
“Uh-huh.” Charlie looked out of the window. “You know, I never thought I’d stay here.”
“I never thought I’d come back.”
“Yet here we are. Your cousin will turn our peaceful little haven of meth cookers and poor people into a violent, bad place.”
Quinn didn’t have anything to say, so he bit into his burger. They sat in silence, and Quinn’s gaze wandered to her hands. There was no ring, and he would’ve thought she’d be married by now.
“Why didn’t you leave?” he ended up asking.
She laughed without humor. “With what money? My dad…”
“He still around?”
“Sort of. He’s…”
“Up to his old habits?” Quinn made an educated guess.
Charlie’s mom had left when she was little and her dad was a junkie. Charlie had been the parent since she was a little girl, always taking care of her dad instead of the other way around.
“Yeah. It is what it is.” She looked tired for a moment, as if she let herself relax into her seat and felt the weight of it suddenly.
He didn’t tell her she wasn’t responsible for her dad. He knew how she’d felt about the old man then and could guess how she felt now. Family was fucking complicated.
Charlie observed the street while Quinn ate, and he was happy just to have her there as company. Nobody seemed to need her right then, or maybe she’d taken her break, he didn’t know.
“For fuck’s sake!” Charlie got to her feet so fast that Quinn jerked back, almost spilling his milkshake.
He watched, alarmed, as she opened the diner door, reached out a hand, and pulled in a kid. She then marched the boy back to Quinn’s booth and sat him down.
“Why are you here?” she asked sharply.
The boy looked contrite yet stubborn and Quinn could relate.
“I was in math class and I saw grandpa out the window,” the kid said. “He looked really bad, but the time I got out of class and went to look for him, I couldn’t find him.”
Charlie cursed under her breath. “You are not allowed to leave school grounds during the school day, Lennox, you know that!”
