by Cara McKenna
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 com
e 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.
