Caught Up

by Rya Stone

  Silence.

  “You hang in there,” Cassie said. “Please.” Was she spraying false hope in the air? Both Lucas brothers had slammed the proverbial door in her face…

  No. No, she would find a way.

  “Think I’ll get one of those hot male nurses you see on TV? A Ricardo maybe? Shelly’s really let herself go the past few months, you know.”

  Cassie chuckled, inhaling the scent of brewing coffee. Her mother was absolutely nuts, always had been, and thank God. “We’re going to get you someplace nice. And I promise, we’ll find you a…what was it? Geraldo?”

  “Ricardo. And he doesn’t like it when you get his name wrong.”

  Yeah, humor definitely helped. As they said “Goodbyes” and “I love yous,” Cassie’s gaze drifted over her file-strewn rent-a-bed. A breaking news alert banner on the muted TV set caught her attention, and she reached for the remote.

  Marian County investigators say a FedEx truck containing Mexican citizens ranging in age from two years old to fifty-four years old was discovered near the Refugio County line after the driver abandoned the vehicle. The driver failed to unlock the cargo bay of the truck, and all eighteen victims succumbed to the boiling Texas heat within hours.

  A photo of the suspected driver, taken from what looked like a convenience store surveillance camera, flashed across the screen.

  South Texas has long been a hotbed of human trafficking, but the past few years have seen an uptick in activity across the state, as this recent tragedy shows. Anyone with knowledge about this incident is asked to contact the Marian County Sherriff’s Department…

  Cassie switched the TV off.

  Jesus.

  She snatched a Tobin map from atop one of the files and forced herself to focus on the problem at hand.

  Jason Lucas.

  He was out there, somewhere, sweating his ass off on a rig in Marian County’s hinterlands. He had no physical address, no trace of social media. And he’d flat out told her he didn’t want to be found.

  Too damn bad.

  The fracking of the Eagle Ford Shale surpassed that of North Dakota’s Bakken and dwarfed Pennsylvania’s Marcellus. It was breathtaking in magnitude, especially at night when the rig lights lit up South Texas, burning blue and yellow over the oaks and mesquite. She’d read that the glow could be seen from space and didn’t doubt it.

  Arcing from the Mexico border all the way to the Southeast Texas coast and producing both oil and natural gas, the Eagle Ford had Texas poised to become one of the top energy-producing states in the world. Cassie needed a piece of that, just a miniscule fraction before it all came crashing down. And it would.

  Landmen like her constituted the first wave, conducting the title research, negotiating the leases, and cleaning up loose ends before drilling commenced. After that? On to the next play. Normally, she’d never see derricks going up, but in Marian County, on the northeast fringe of the shale, rigs moved in as soon as the ink dried on the leases. And the rigs were everywhere.

  Forgetting the coffee, she grabbed the only pair of jeans not in a laundry bag. Wriggling her hips, she shot a glance at the bathroom mirror, conveniently located next to her bed, and…yeah…a little tight. Not her usual attire, but she decided it didn’t matter, not in the grand scheme of things. Plus, she didn’t look so citified.

  She reached for her purse and glanced over the bed at her alarm clock. It was a quarter to nine. Every joint in town would be open until midnight or later. Landmen, roughnecks, and all manner of oil-field opportunists packed every hole-in-the-wall boasting a menu and a beer.

  Which was why she usually stayed away.

  Not tonight.

  Tonight, she was diving into the heart of the beast.

  Chapter Three

  The Backstreet Bar & Grill fronted what amounted to an alleyway just off Marian’s sleepy main drag, and Cassie scored a prime parking spot between a new Harley and an old dumpster.

  The place was packed. Still popular with the locals, the Backstreet served up Southern comfort at its down-home finest. Christmas lights hung from exposed rafters, mismatched tables and chairs sat atop creaking hardwood floors, and fresh-cut fries came with a side of cream gravy. But as the on-top-of-it waitress with the pretty smile slid a monster of a club sandwich across the table, Cassie wondered if she’d have been better off at a dive joint. It didn’t look like the rig hands were in attendance tonight.

  The waitress topped off Cassie’s Mason jar with tea. “Eat up. I’ll be back to check on you in a bit.” The woman spoke with authority, and judging from the leather cuffs at her wrists and biker boots on her feet, she meant business. But Karyn—according to her nametag—had the sweetest face, like her eyes and mouth just couldn’t do mean. She was one of those women who’d always look younger than her years, though she probably had as many as Cassie under that way-cool studded belt. Cassie wondered if she was a local, if she’d gone to school with—

  “Excuse me,” she said before the woman could hurry off. “I know this might sound like a crazy question, but do you know a guy named Jason Lucas?”

  The waitress’s kohl-lined eyes narrowed. “Yeah, I know him.” Karyn cast a quick glance over her shoulder, and Cassie caught sight of an attractive blonde sitting at the busy bar. “Why do you ask?”

  The blonde woman’s back was turned toward the dining area, but Cassie instinctively knew who Karyn had zeroed in on. She’d noticed the woman as soon as she’d entered the Backstreet. Hard to miss the platinum hair, pixie-like face, and perfectly toned body. Yeah, she was a noteworthy woman. And, Cassie now assumed, someone to Jason Lucas. Just how much she didn’t like that surprised her, and she struggled to flip the professional breaker switch. Apparently, the damn thing tripped at will.

  “I’m just asking,” Karyn said, “because that’s his ex over there at the bar, and I like your dimples. There’s no way I’m going to be party to that pretty face of yours getting messed up.”

  The woman at the bar was going to mess her up for asking after an ex? Cassie thought she’d left junior high behind. Like twenty years ago. “Seriously?”

  “Yeah.” Karyn leaned in, and her lips twisted up in a half grin. “And she just blew back into town. That’s what people are calling the unfortunate occurrence anyway.” She delivered her aside with an eye roll then got serious again. “You’ve been warned.”

  “Well, I’m not after her man, I—”

  “Ex-man.”

  Cassie couldn’t help smiling. “Yeah, ex-man. I just need to talk to him about something.”

  The waitress arched an eyebrow, and Cassie realized she liked this Karyn, if not for her forthcoming information, then certainly for the way she delivered it. And she loved the Allman Brothers T-shirt. Eat a Peach was one of Cassie’s favorite album covers, and the way Karyn wore it, stretched tight across her chest, right in your face like a public service announcement… Yeah, Karyn seemed like a cool chick.

  “You working the shale play?” the woman asked, wiping her hands on her apron.

  “What makes you ask?”

  Karyn nodded toward the Tobins scattering the table. “Maps.”

  Duh. “Yeah, that’s what I need to talk to Mr. Lucas about.”

  “Mr. Lucas?” Karyn made a face, and Cassie chuckled at the assessment, drawing the attention of the blonde pixie at the bar.

  “Honey, Mr. Lucas is in the ground, and believe me, nothing about Jase says ‘Mister.’”

  Jase, huh? Picturing the tattooed landowner, Cassie smiled to herself. Pixie’s eyes narrowed. She’d caught her ex’s name. Cassie’s smile warmed. Hey, she’d been there. Nursing a breakup over a beer was something she’d done only about a year ago. The stunning woman didn’t smile back.

  “Sorry,” Karyn said. “I don’t know where you can find him.”

  Cassie sighed, thinking she might have to put Kyle on the case. “I appreciate the warning,” she said. “And I promise not to get my face messed up.”

  Karyn smiled
. “You need something, you holler.”

  “Will do.” Cassie paused for a breath. “Hey, Karyn?”

  “That was quick.”

  “His company…what’s the name?”

  The waitress’s brown eyes narrowed. “Black Drum Drilling,” she intoned suspiciously.

  Black Drum. Cassie winked as if confirming the obvious and took a huge bite of her sandwich. As soon as the waitress turned, she shuffled around for the drill site map she’d printed off the Railroad Commission’s website. Swallowing, she squinted down at the connect-a-dot locations, each tagged with a tiny description. Where are you hiding, Jason Lucas?

  Halfway through her sandwich, she’d identified four Black Drum locations, and a quick search on her phone indicated another drilling permit pending. Hmmm. Maybe she should just make it easy on herself and park in front of his gate again. That had seemed to do the trick.

  The Backstreet crowd was thinning, and she leaned back in her seat, mentally prepping her sales pitch—something she did when she needed to tear her mind away from an unsolvable problem. And she needed all the help she could muster after the disaster with Big Scary Cowboy—also known as BSC, as she’d shorthanded Clint’s name in her notes.

  Laughter cut through her concentration as she rehearsed her closing spiel. Turning to the bar, she found Pixie no longer alone. Head thrown back in mirth, the woman’s hand rested on the knee of the man sitting next to her.

  Cassie dunked a fry.

  The man entertaining Pixie turned, and the french fry tumbled down Cassie’s white shirt, leaving a smear of gravy in its wake.

  Reid?

  She scrambled for napkins. No, no, no, she chanted as she wiped. She must be in the Twilight Zone because this shit did not happen in real life.

  “Oh, no,” Karyn said, approaching with her ticket. “I’ll go get you a wet towel.”

  “No!” Cassie grabbed her arm. “You said to holler if I need anything…” She glanced at the bar. “I’m hollering. That’s my ex at the bar with Pixie.”

  “Pixie?” Karyn’s head swiveled. Then she busted out laughing.

  “Seriously, Karyn. Is there a back door or something?”

  Karyn erased her grin. “Yeah, girl. Follow me.”

  Cassie threw a twenty on the table, scooped up her maps, left her half-eaten sandwich, and followed Karyn through the kitchen. Ignoring the strange looks, she clasped her files to her chest and commenced cursing Reid. Of course, they’d end up in the same county. And as Karyn pushed open the flimsy back door, Cassie wondered if Reid had tried his luck with Clint Lucas yet. The thought made her even more convinced she needed to find his brother, stat.

  “Hey,” Karyn said from the door. Her killer figure was silhouetted against the light pouring from the kitchen, making Cassie long for less height, less hip, less…hell, she’d take less gravy stain at the moment. “Can you wait about twenty minutes?”

  “Uh…” Cassie shot a glance down the alley, not sure why Karyn was asking.

  “I lied.” The waitress screwed up her lips like she was chewing the inside of her cheek, deliberating. “I think I know where you can find Jase.”

  Oh. “Yeah,” she said, probably too enthusiastically. “Yeah, I’ll wait.” Till morning if I have to.

  Only after Karyn disappeared back into the kitchen did Cassie wonder where Jason Lucas might be hanging out at ten o’clock on a Tuesday night.

  And why she’d taken that change of clothes out of her trunk.

  …

  Angry shouts erupted from the yard outside Jase’s office—the ten-by-twenty portable building that had seen almost as many drill sites as he had. He crossed it in three strides, wondering how any of his men had the energy to go at it after their twelve-hour shift.

  “Take a walk, bro!” a deep voice boomed out. “Ain’t tellin’ you again!”

  He wrenched open the door and squinted under the halogen lights as two men in stripped-to-the-waist coveralls circled each other atop the gravel drilling pad. The closest rig hand—and the more vocal of the two—shot him a challenging grin as Jase barreled down the creaking wooden steps.

  Dixon.

  He’d almost sent the welder packing last week for showing up for his shift reeking of alcohol. But the man could run a bead like an artist, and Jase had been damn reluctant to let him go. Dixon had spent the day on his bunk instead, his tattooed forearms folded across his chest and his eyes simmering with rage.

  “I seen her first!” the welder shouted above the growing din.

  “More than enough to go around, by the looks of it,” Miguel countered, cracking his knuckles.

  Jase glanced over the bearded tool pusher’s shoulders, and his heart sank.

  Daphne.

  That blonde bob was unmistakable. But what the hell was she doing here? He was tempted to turn around, slam the door, and ignore the brewing fistfight, which was beginning to draw a curious crowd out of the trailers that served as temporary onsite housing. Even the on-shift men were beginning to crowd the drilling deck railing, ignoring their respective tasks at hand. He couldn’t have that. If there was one area he played the drill sergeant he swore he’d never become, it was safety.

  “Dixon!” he shouted, earning the immediate attention of every soul onsite. “Miguel!”

  The woman spun at the sound of his voice, and—

  It wasn’t Daphne. He hated to admit it, but his ex was more attractive—delicate and fragile in a way this woman wasn’t. He swiped a hand over his eyes. He needed some sleep, preferably more than a few hours at a stretch. “Enough!” he yelled.

  The Daphne look-alike squealed and ran, right for him, right through the havoc she’d created by materializing out of effing nowhere. And no joke. The Richardson well, lit up like an art-deco Christmas tree, sat twelve dusty miles off the nearest paved county road. Jase kind of felt sorry for her. Only the desperate ones found the rigs. His men called them rig rats. And he had very little doubt that’s what he was dealing with here.

  The woman barreled into his chest, her mascara beginning to run down her cheeks. “I’m sorry,” she keened over the catcalling men. Most of them hadn’t seen a woman in going on two weeks, and Jase imagined the scene intimidating to say the least. “I shouldn’t have come here, but my cousin said you didn’t care.”

  That wasn’t exactly true. He maintained a certain tolerance level, but this went way beyond some fogged-up truck windows.

  He swept the woman behind him, using his body to protect her, and continued toward the posturing men, both bent on claiming their evening’s entertainment.

  Jase grabbed Dixon by the back of his T-shirt just as the welder lunged toward the best tool pusher Black Drum Drilling had ever employed. The roundhouse didn’t surprise him, and he ducked as Dixon’s scarred fist caught air where Jase’s face should have been. These guys were all fists and no feet. With little effort, Jase took the welder to the ground with a simple ankle hook, and the subsequent roar was all but deafening.

  He circled the scowling roughneck, shaking his head. Dixon wasn’t well loved, and just as Jase suspected, no one charged to the rescue of the rising welder. But he’d embarrassed the man before him, and Jase knew with certainty Dixon wasn’t finished.

  “Please don’t call the cops,” pleaded the prostitute shadowing his back.

  Call the damn cops. Right.

  “Go inside,” he told her. His inner sanctum was the last place he wanted the twin of the woman who’d betrayed him, but he wasn’t a complete asshole and definitely wouldn’t have this woman leaving his drill site with a bruised face thanks to the brewing fistfight. “Now.”

  He barely registered her retreating footsteps as a pair of headlights washed over the pad site. Great. Just like the Railroad Commission to send out an inspection crew in the middle of the night. The regulatory agency wasn’t above that, hoping to catch drilling crews with their pants down. Who else would be pulling up like they owned the damn place?

  Jase sidestepped Dixon�
��s grunting advance, opting for the high road, mostly for show as he imagined the interrogation that would surely commence in three, two…

  Dixon staggered and stared at the female forms emerging from the headlight-illuminated dust.

  Jase took an astonished step backward as Karyn Hawkins, Dixon’s ex, parted the bloodthirsty crowd. And by her side…

  No. Hell, no. What in God’s name was she doing here?

  His heart flip-flopped behind his rib cage as the landman who’d appeared on his property yesterday clasped Karyn’s hand in shock at the sight before her.

  Dixon bellowed something unintelligible and began shoving men aside as he pounded toward Karyn. Jase was trailing the live grenade before he knew it, intent on staving off yet another explosion, but one he’d be willing to pay the fines for. He’d even be willing to go to jail if it came down to it. Wouldn’t be the first time. Dixon had a history of domestic violence and no way in hell was he laying a hand on either of those women—out of their minds for showing up at a drill site or not.

  “Not here for you, loser,” Karyn said, crossing her arms.

  Jase’s face broke into an involuntary grin. His former classmate was a bona fide tough girl. And if she didn’t lay Dixon out for all the heartache he’d put her through, her brothers would. Again. That was after Jase got a piece.

  “Told you I didn’t want your fat ass anymore,” the welder snarled.

  The man was blind as well as stupid. Karyn knew it, too, and countered Dixon’s insult with laughter. “Who are you calling fat?” She poked him in the belly.