Drive It Deep

by Cara McKenna

  “I mean, what do you want most in life? Like, some people want a family. Some people want to be successful. Some people want . . . I dunno, they want to be singers or actors, or to travel the world.”

  I want to be somebody, to the people I care about. That was what came echoing back from his subconscious, though he couldn’t say if that was exactly true. He wanted to want that. He wanted to be capable of it. But he also felt lost here half the time, and his future was foggy in ways he couldn’t begin to explain to her, and all of that made the wanting a dangerous luxury.

  “I guess I’m not sure anymore. What about you? What do you want? Aside from a white house with a white fence, red shutters and a red mailbox?”

  A long pause. “I think what I used to want was security. I was on my own, from the time I was pretty young, and that was what I wanted. What I missed. But that’s more a need than a want. I think what I want most in the world now is to be a good mother.”

  “You’re already that.”

  “I dunno. I mess stuff up, like, every single day.”

  “So do all parents. You should meet mine.”

  “Maybe . . . But whether I’m there or not, that’s what I want now. I want to be a good mom, and to make a safe, stable home for Mercy.”

  “Did you have that yourself, when you were a kid?”

  “I thought I did,” she said, sounding far away. “But it wasn’t quite what it seemed.”

  “Sounds like life.”

  “I guess. But anyhow, I want better for her. I want to be better, for her.”

  And Casey wanted the same, he realized. To be better than he had been. He couldn’t say he had what Abilene did, though—a singular, solid reason to get there. He had Duncan and the bar to consider now, and his brother and mom, as well. But nothing so real and monumental as a child.

  “I want to work hard,” she went on, “and find us the nicest home I can. I want to save up my money, and get some kind of education.”

  “Oh yeah?”

  She nodded. “I don’t even have a GED.”

  “What do you want to study?”

  “Nothing glamorous. Just a skill, so I can get a steady job. I mean, bartending is great. It’s perfect, right now, more than I could ask for.”

  “But it’s not a career.”

  “Career isn’t even the word. It’s just . . . I don’t want to be doing that in ten years. I want something flexible, like being a hairstylist, maybe. Something I could do out of my home, make my own hours. I can’t assume I’ll ever have any help in raising Mercy. You know, from a guy. A boyfriend or a husband. But something like that would be nice. Just something I control, that pays the bills, and that I enjoy.”

  “Sure.” He wondered how much it would cost—beauty school or whatever modern term there probably was for it, and the cost to get some little storefront set up . . . Probably less than I’d make if I went in on one last job with Emily.

  Abilene spoke quietly, the words sweet and sad, detached from the current thread. “I hope somebody’ll look at me again someday, the way you used to.”

  He frowned, sad himself. “Course they will. Plenty of guys will. And still do.” Nightly, at the bar. Casey had fantasized about punching any number of them in the face.

  “I’m just a mom, now.”

  “For one, you’re more than that. And guys’ll come into Benji’s, once you’re back to work—guys with no idea you have a kid, and you’ll see. Some guy might just fall for you, find out you’ve got a baby and not even give a crap. Happens all the fucking time.”

  “You think?”

  “Well, bear in mind they’ll need to come in on nights when I’m not around, otherwise I’ll run them out on a rail.”

  A pause. “Why would you?”

  “Kinda hard to be charged with being somebody’s bodyguard and not getting a little protective,” he fudged.

  “Am I like your little sister now or something?”

  He shook his head. Far from it. I couldn’t wish to be so saintly. “Nah. You’re my friend, and my coworker and employee, and I happen to have been camped out between your legs during the most intense moment of either of our lives. You’re a lot of things, but a sister’s not one of them. Then again, I’ve never had a sister, so what do I really . . .”

  He trailed off, distracted by her hand. Her fingers were opening and closing, bunching the cotton of his shirt loosely, letting it go, again and again. It seemed wise to write it off as an absent, thoughtless sort of touch, but he couldn’t. Not quite. There was something else in the contact. Something mischievous, or curious. Something that got his blood moving quicker, pulsing lower. Heading in dangerous directions. He swallowed, and felt her attention on his mouth or his beard or his neck. Am I dreaming this? No, he couldn’t be. Everything was too real—the smell and the dry heat of the fire, the scent of her shampoo or lotion or whatever that was.

  And in a breath, it became very real. Very bold.

  Her restless hand slid lower, fingertips finding his belt. He sucked a breath, confused and a touch alarmed. “What’re you doing, honey?”

  “Something I want to.” Her fingers slipped under his hem, tracing his buckle.

  His brain screamed, Stop her, but his cock screamed, Let her. Kiss her. Pull her onto your lap and show her what she does to you. The rest of him was paralyzed, trapped between the two instincts. All it seemed he could do was watch. Watch as her small hand freed his buckle with an easy, knowing motion.

  Fuck, I’m hard. Whatever words his brain managed to bully into his mouth to speaking were going to look monumentally out of line with his body’s obvious vote.

  He grunted as she slid his zipper down, then covered her hand quickly. He’d meant to pull it away, but his fingers weren’t complying.

  At a loss for anything else, he said, “I’m your boss.”

  She seemed to sense how thoroughly toothless that argument was, and squeezed softly.

  Tell her this is wrong. That you don’t want it. Lie, quick. But the only sound his mouth offered was a ragged exhalation, a noiseless moan.

  “I never stopped having a crush on you,” she whispered. “But I don’t expect this to turn into anything, I swear. I just like you. And I want you.”

  “This doesn’t feel right,” he said, but the lie came out breathy and weak, the limpest protest. Nothing felt as right as this. She had to know what he really wanted, as she stroked her palm up the ridge of his erection through his shorts and fly.

  “Fuck.” His eyes shut, and his hand grew limp atop hers. “It’s late.”

  “I don’t care.”

  And shit, he didn’t either. “The baby might wake up.”

  “And she might not.”

  Become that better man you’ve been telling yourself you are right fucking now, asshole, and move her motherfucking hand away.

  But that voice was so small, and her touch felt so goddamn good . . .

  His own hand slipped to her hip, up her side, but she caught it before he could cup her breast.

  “Don’t,” she whispered. “I don’t . . . I’m not ready for that, yet. I just want to touch you. Make you feel good.” With that, she let his hand go, only to head for his waist once more. This time, at least, he halted it in a firm grip at his belly.

  “Jesus, honey, slow down.” He laughed, feeling drunk, and did his fly and buckle back up. “Can’t we kiss, instead?” Do things in the right order, at least. He’d wanted this girl for too long to rush now.

  “Yeah,” she whispered, “we can do that.”

  His hands were on her again in a breath, but more innocent, this time—that soft cheek against his palm, silky hair in his fingers. Every nerve was screaming for him to dive right in, but he slowed himself down before their lips touched. He’d savor this moment, even as everything about it screamed high-school grope-fest, right down to it happening on a friend’s parents’ couch.

  He held her gaze for breaths on end. Her eyes were bright in the sunshine, blue as sapphir
es or robins’ eggs or any other insanely blue thing. But here in the den, lit only by the fire and a reading lamp, they were dark and deep, full of secrets, it felt like. Her lips looked just as they did in every fantasy he’d ever had about her—her mouth small but her lips full, seeming as innocent as the rest of her. Deceptively so.

  Did those lips come up to meet his? He couldn’t say how it happened, but they were kissing, light and distracted, voices hushed, hers faint and sweet, his deeper and rough, now. He heard her name on his breath, the sound coming from no conscious corner of his head. As the final syllable settled between them, he took it further.

  She tasted minty. Just like she ought to, he thought, the notion nonsense. Like he really knew her at all, had any clue what to expect from her. Not anymore, not now that he’d felt her hand between his legs, more brazen than he’d ever have expected. She was everything, here on this couch, in this moment. Sweet and wicked, a seductress and an innocent. A temptation and a terrible idea, and a foregone conclusion.

  Emphasis on the terrible idea, his higher brain interjected.

  Fuck off.

  Her hand was drifting once more, seeking him between their bodies, cupping his aching flesh through his jeans, then rubbing.

  “Oh God.” Tell her to stop, for fuck’s sake. “Jesus, honey, don’t stop.”

  Wow, well done.

  Her mouth was at his throat, her hair a soft, heavenly weight draped over his wrist and knuckles. And her hand . . . Christ, her hand was everything. He hadn’t been touched like this in six months or more. He’d almost forgotten how essential it was. His head dropped back, inviting her kisses. He tangled his fingers in her long hair—

  The worst sound in the world. The rattle of his phone buzzing on the coffee table.

  “Oh, for fuck’s sake.”

  Abilene went still. “It’s late. It might be important—Vince or somebody.”

  Doubtful. But he knew exactly who’d just be sitting down to start on her evening’s business. With Abilene’s hand still on him, he leaned forward and snatched the phone, accepted the private call. “I told you no, now fuck off.” Hit END, tossed the thing aside.

  “Not Vince, I take it?”

  “No, it was nothing.”

  “Didn’t sound like nothing.”

  The intrusion had sobered him. It offered a chance to end this, do the smart and honorable thing—the thing a better man would do—and land himself with the blue balls he deserved for having succumbed in the first place. He put his hand over hers once more, coaxing it to the relative safety of his thigh. “We should stop.”

  Her lips pursed, expression changing in an instant. “That wasn’t, like, your girlfriend or something, was it?”

  “No, just an old colleague. I mean, hey, I’m not a great guy, but I’m not a complete shit.”

  She looked deflated for a breath, then smiled faintly. “You don’t think you’re a great guy?”

  “Oh, hell no.”

  “How come?”

  “You don’t want to know, trust me.” She was a good, Christian girl. He hadn’t heard her so much as swear in the past four months—not since the pregnancy mood swings and the throes of labor had passed. She didn’t need to know about his old life. Best case scenario, it’d disappoint her. Worst case, those pesky morals would have her phoning the fucking feds on him. The latter felt unlikely, but in any case, the truth of his past was a burden this girl needed like a hole in the head.

  “You’ve been good to me,” she said. “And to Mercy.”

  “That’s different.” And it was new. He was a good boss, he supposed, and tried to be a good friend. But he’d not always been the best son or brother, and while Casey had never intentionally hurt anybody, he was far from an upstanding citizen.

  As his body cooled, his thoughts turned to that little fantasy house of Abilene’s.

  There were lots of places around Fortuity that fit the bill—modest little ranches that you could buy for pretty cheap. For now. When the big resort casino that was just getting under construction was up and running, who knew what might happen to the property values, but until and if that all went through, you could get a decent place for as little as fifty grand.

  Casey thought about that job Emily had called with. His own savings was all tied up in the bar, but right there was an easy twenty grand. A fat down payment, and with a couple more gigs like that, he could buy a place outright for Abilene and her daughter. She couldn’t afford it herself, not on a part-time bartender’s wages, but it sure would do her good, that kind of stability. Before she’d come to Three C she’d been living in a rented room in a cranky old lady’s basement—not exactly home-sweet-home.

  Maybe three final jobs, and I could be her goddamn hero.

  Except she’d want to know how on earth he was able to afford it, and telling her wasn’t an option.

  Fucking shame, too. The thought of it excited him. For plenty of good reasons, he couldn’t ever be her man, but a benefactor wasn’t such a bad consolation prize.

  They’d gone quiet, and Casey’s heart was all warm and mixed up. The kiss needed acknowledging, that much was clear. Hot as it had been, right as it had felt, they needed to agree it could never be repeated. Last thing this girl needed in her life was another complication.

  “What just happened,” he said, trailing off. “The kissing, I mean. That was unexpected. Real nice, but . . .” Tell her it can’t ever happen again, dumbass. “Unexpected,” he repeated.

  “I know. I wasn’t thinking straight, exactly.”

  “Me, neither.” He rarely was, not when this woman’s body was within ten feet of his.

  “I don’t regret it,” she added.

  “No, I don’t either. But given everything you’re dealing with right now, I think we ought to agree not to do that again.” He lay his arm along the back of the couch. “Not to pretend it never happened, but just . . .”

  “Yeah . . . But it was real nice, just like you said. Nicest thing I’ve felt in ages.”

  He smiled, and in a breath he felt sad. He wished this was last summer. Wished this was the ignorant and blissful world he’d lived in when he first met her, back when he’d had no clue she was pregnant, no clue about her ex, no ties to her aside from his attraction. No ties to Fortuity, so when he inevitably fucked it all up, he could just roll back out of town with his sights glued firmly on whatever came next.

  Oops. Should’ve thought of that before you bought a bar and started bonding with her goddamn baby. Shit. He’d gone from a completely free agent to a business owner, boss, babysitter and bodyguard in what felt like a breath.

  Guess when I step up, I step all the fucking way up.

  “What’s the deal with your tattoo?” Abilene asked him, her voice spacy and quiet, barely louder than the crackle of the fire.

  He glanced at his outstretched arm, his sleeve pushed up to expose the ink on his shoulder. “What about it?”

  “Why a horseshoe, but then a thirteen in the middle of it? Doesn’t that kind of cancel out any good luck you’re gunning for?” She traced the simple black design—dark gray, really. He’d gotten it in Vegas during his gambling days, probably seven years ago, now. He shivered at the touch, chest and neck warming in its wake.

  “Horseshoe’s only lucky if its ends are pointing up,” he told her. “Like above the entrance to the stables, out back. Like a cup, to catch the luck or something like that.” His was the inverse.

  “Oh. Then why on earth would you get an unlucky horseshoe?”

  “Because fuck luck.” He smiled at her. “Luck is for idiots. If you’re smart enough, you operate above that nonsense.”

  She looked thoughtful a moment. “You used to count cards, didn’t you?”

  He nodded. “It’s legal, even if it doesn’t make you too popular with the pit bosses.”

  “Was it just you, on your own?”

  “No. I worked with a team of about twelve to fifteen, and we moved around constantly, trying to stay forgettab
le. You never do, though. But anyhow, fuck luck. Only suckers gamble for real.”

  “Huh.”

  “What?” he asked. He eyed her hair, wishing he could touch it, but curling his fingers into a fist behind her.

  “I dunno. I believe in luck, I guess. I mean, it feels like the only thing propelling people through life, some days. I wouldn’t be sitting in this beautiful old house now if it wasn’t for having the good luck of meeting all of you. I wouldn’t have a job, either. Though I wouldn’t have wound up here to begin with if it hadn’t been for a bunch of bad luck. And some good stuff mixed in too, I guess.”

  “That’s bullshit,” Casey said. “Bad luck is just what people who make shitty choices blame their problems on.”

  She sat up, frowning, looking hurt by that.

  “I don’t mean you, honey. Abilene,” he corrected quickly. Can’t go calling the girl ‘honey’ now, can I? Fucking dangerous territory to go wandering into. Though which of them he was worried about getting attached, he couldn’t say.

  “Sometimes our circumstances are out of our control,” he said. “And that’s not bad luck either—there’s no such thing. That’s just life.”

  “I guess,” she said slowly, still frowning, but looking more curious than offended now. “I never thought about it like that. About choices. I always thought I was just getting shuttled around by these things that would happen to me, like a leaf in the wind. I’d end up someplace bad, or maybe someplace good, and I was either scared or thankful about it. I guess I never gave much thought to it being all my doing.”

  “Well, not everything is within a person’s control. But it’s not luck, that’s for fucking sure. At the end of the day, there’s always someone to blame. And in my experience, it’s almost always your own self.”

  “Huh.”

  “Luck’s just an excuse that dumbasses use so they never have to smarten up.”