Burn It Up

by Cara McKenna

  Casey’s eyes were wide, his lips pursed. He looked scared, and she’d never seen such a thing before. Not like this. Scared with no ferocity behind it. Helpless.

  “I still appreciate everything you’ve done,” she said. “I’m still grateful. But if I’d known then what I do now, I don’t think I could have accepted any of it. Not anymore.”

  After a long, tense pause, he asked, “And so what does that mean for us?”

  She shook her head, the gesture pure despair and uncertainty. “I don’t know.”

  “I won’t do that last job. I promise you that.”

  “But not for the right reasons. You’d turn it down now, but you . . . You were still going to do it.”

  “I was thinking about it. And only to help you, like I said.”

  She laughed softly, sadly. “That doesn’t make it okay. That doesn’t make you Robin Hood, Casey. That only makes you a criminal.”

  He flinched as though she’d struck him.

  “You’re still a good man, in a lot of ways.”

  “But not good enough?”

  She shook her head, her heart breaking to realize it was true. Here she was again, falling for a bad man.

  “Could I ever be good enough?” His expression doubled all that hurt in her chest.

  She sighed again, the sound venting every bit of confusion and frustration weighing on her. “You don’t regret it,” she said. “You don’t feel bad for what you’ve done.” It was James all over again, only hidden behind an easy smile, instead of a stern scowl. A con man, indeed.

  “I do now,” he said softly.

  “But—”

  “I know, I get it. Not for the right reasons.”

  “Why doesn’t that terrify you?” she demanded, barely recognizing her own voice. “Thinking about how easily you could have cost someone their life, and all for some money?” Abilene was no angel, but she’d only ever gambled with her own safety. She refused to fall back on victimhood now, but she’d never been the villain, she didn’t think. She may have used men, but not a one of them hadn’t been anything less than willing to take the implicit trade-off. Well, none except James. He’d fought her. Failed in the end, but fought, and none of the others had.

  “I guess I never thought about it that deeply,” Casey said, seeming to tease the truth out as he spoke. “I suppose maybe I couldn’t have thought that hard about it, not without second-guessing myself. Losing my nerve.”

  “You make it sound like a game.”

  “I can only be honest with you, and say that yeah, that’s exactly what it felt like to me.”

  “Are you . . . Are you proud of that stuff?”

  A long and loaded breath seemed to inflate then collapse his posture. “I was. Not so much recently—not since I met you, and wished I could tell you I’d been something better than a con artist for the past decade. But yeah, in the moment, I was proud of it. Not because I was getting away with something, and not because of the money, even. But I was proud I’d never been caught. Proud that not a single one of those fires had ever been deemed arson. Proud, because I’d never been so good at something in my entire life. Better than anybody else I knew, anybody else on the planet, I hoped.”

  He called it talent, perhaps, but it struck her as no better than blind luck.

  Still, this wasn’t a debate they were having, but an airing of secrets. I’d always assumed it would have been mine that came between us. She’d assumed she could have forgiven this man anything short of violence. But in the end, it wasn’t even the recklessness of his crimes that disturbed her most. It was his lack of remorse.

  He spoke. “You can’t see me anymore.” It was a statement, not a question.

  “No, I can’t.” Her voice hitched and she couldn’t meet his eyes. “Not like I have been, this past week.”

  “I hope you can still work for me and Duncan, at least.”

  For now, she had little choice. Fortuity wasn’t rolling in jobs, and Mercy needed a roof, and heat, and food in her belly. “I’ll keep working for you. I don’t know how I feel about it all yet, but I still need to support myself.”

  He nodded. “Good.”

  “Will you tell Duncan now, where all that money came from?”

  “If he asked, I might. If you told me it’d go some way to fixing this—us—then I would, yes.”

  “I can’t say it would. But he seems like he respects the law. You might owe him that much.”

  Casey nodded. “Maybe.”

  They fell silent for a long time, and in those minutes their breath lengthened, as did the shadows as the sun dipped closer to the hills.

  “I got you something,” Casey said, shattering the stillness. “I didn’t buy it with dirty money, either—I bought it after I cashed my paycheck. Can I give it to you?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “You don’t ever have to open it, if you don’t want to.” He stood. He reached into his front pocket and took out a little wad of red tissue paper and set it in her palm. “You can open it now, or next week, or never. But I want you to have it, either way. It’s just a tiny thing.”

  She tucked it in her own pocket.

  “Should I take you back?”

  She nodded again. “Yeah. I’d like to get back before Mercy needs feeding.”

  “Are we still friends?” he asked as they began the descent.

  She considered it. She still wanted James in her life—strictly on her terms, but she valued him in significant ways. Like James, she valued Casey despite his mistakes. She couldn’t be with him, knowing what she did now, but neither did she hope never to see him again.

  “I think so,” she finally said. “I need time to figure out how I feel about everything you’ve told me, but I hope we can be.”

  A frail ghost of a smile passed his lips. “Me, too.”

  And they didn’t speak again, not on the hike down, not on the ride back east, not a word until Abilene climbed off the bike.

  “I’m gonna go and check on my mom,” Casey said. “But tell Miah I’ll be back later, just in case any more weird shit decides to go down around here.”

  “I will.”

  He held a thought in, lips pursed.

  “What?” she prompted gently.

  “Thanks. For listening, I mean, even if it wasn’t what you wanted to hear.”

  She nodded. “Thanks for being honest . . . I won’t tell anybody, by the way. Rat you out, that is.”

  “I think I already knew you wouldn’t, but thanks all the same.”

  Her turn to pause, caught on a thought. “I never did tell you my own secrets,” she said at length. “If it’s any consolation, they might’ve had you second-guessing us right back.”

  He smiled softly, looking sad. “I never needed to know those things, Abilene. Whatever it is you’ve done, it couldn’t change how I feel.”

  Tears brimmed at that. “Even if we weren’t meant to be,” she offered, voice just on the edge of breaking, “it was real nice, for what it was, even just for those few days.”

  “It was.”

  “And even if we weren’t meant to be, at least you’ve still got your mental health, right? Nice long life ahead of you?”

  He nodded. “Yeah. I suppose so.”

  A nice long life, she thought, and in time, other chances at love. Other women, and eventually one for keeps, one who could either forgive his crimes or else live peacefully not knowing the details. The thought filled her up with sadness, and jealousy, too. But deep down she was proud of herself. She’d grown up today.

  “It’s cold,” she said.

  “Go inside. I’ll see you soon, tonight or tomorrow. If you want to avoid me for a while, I won’t be hurt.” His eyes said otherwise.

  “See you around, I guess.”

  And with another tight little smile, he backed his bike up, woke his engine, and rode away.

  She watched until he was out of sight, nothing left but a settling cloud of dust lingering in the waning sunlight. She w
atched the best man she’d met in ages disappear before her eyes.

  A good man in many ways, but still a criminal.

  Chapter 22

  Monday morning found Casey up early once again, though more for a lack of ever managing to fall asleep than anything else. He’d returned to the ranch around ten last night, knowing Abilene would likely be in bed and wanting to give her space. And yeah, to spare himself the sting of whatever he might see in her eyes—pity, or regret, or worst of all, disgust. That was what she’d thought of his past, after all, and in hindsight, he couldn’t blame the girl. Though that didn’t ease the ache in his chest any.

  He’d hung out downstairs while Miah had gone out on a late-night patrol of the property, on the off chance any of the hands came rushing over with news of another creep sighting. Nothing on either count, and nothing from the deputies stationed along the highway, and he’d fallen into a restless sleep on the couch around one.

  He’d heard Mercy wake an hour later, wailing, and his muscles had tensed, poised to get him up and moving toward the stairs. A reaction more instinctual than intentional, and he’d had to remind himself in that second to stay on his back, stay down here.

  He’d gotten to a point where that baby’s needs felt like they were half his to meet. And he’d be smart to knock that shit off and content himself to help only when asked.

  If she ever asks again, that is.

  He’d never purported to be a good guy, never told himself there was anything redeeming about what he did in order to sleep at night. He’d slept just fine, knowing he was one of the bad guys. Not a terrible person, but no Boy Scout. Not unless fire starting had its own badge.

  He did regret it all now—how couldn’t he, when just as he’d been poised to step up and become the man he’d been wanting to be, it all came around to bite him in the ass? In the deepest pit of his heart, he felt a little broken, a little sick, to realize he’d always reserve a fond, nostalgic place in his heart for those three years’ work. He’d enjoyed every second of those jobs, from the promise of a new gig through the planning and the sweet, torturous anticipation of a thousand Christmases, the adrenaline of the nights themselves, the euphoria of success, the trophy of the payout.

  He supposed, for that reason, there wasn’t much arguing with Abilene.

  Fuck, this shit burned. In the fashion of every lame metaphor he could think of, his heart hurt. Like a cut, a vise, a bruise, a hole. All of them.

  He’d fucked up a lot of things in his life, but never anything this good, and never anything he regretted half as much. So there was her remorse, right there. If only it weren’t such a selfish strain of the stuff.

  He hauled himself off the couch, knowing these thoughts would be following him for days, maybe weeks, trailing after him like a bad smell, asserting themselves the second he stood still long enough to catch a whiff. Keep busy, he thought. Keep your mind on other things. More useless advice he’d never given himself.

  Perspective was key. She’d be working with him again soon enough, and he intended to help her move out when she was ready. Beyond that, he’d meant what he’d said—he was her friend, whether he got to sleep with her or not. It would hurt like fuck for a while, but Casey consoled himself with the lie that it wasn’t as though he’d been in love with her. He’d never said it aloud.

  Of course in the back of his head he knew he’d intended to, had yesterday’s talk gone according to plan. It had been scrawled between every single sentence in giant pink glitter letters when he’d told her how much he cared for her and Mercy.

  At least he had plenty to keep himself busy. He’d collect his crap from around the farmhouse and take it back home. Vince and Kim had dropped Abilene’s car off in the front lot last night, so she wasn’t stranded anymore. Casey’s stomach dropped as he remembered that the baby’s seat was currently set up in the Corolla. That thing was a pain in the ass to take in and out, but today the chore would unleash some pangs a little closer to his heart.

  He went around the house, finding his shaving bag, toothbrush, his hoodie from the front hall, a few items of clothing that had made it into the last wash and been folded and left on the dryer for him. Man, his apartment was going to feel like a tomb after this place.

  He waited until he heard the shower running upstairs, then crept into Abilene’s room. He found a shirt and a pair of his shorts. The ball of red tissue he’d given her sat on the dresser, looking unopened.

  Better there than in the trash, he consoled himself.

  Before leaving, he crossed the room to stand over the empty crib, running his hands along its rail and the yellow fleece blanket draped there. At first he’d found that soft, sweet scent of baby things alien and a little unnerving, but lately he hardly noticed it. Until now, that was, knowing he’d be catching it less and less.

  They’re not dead, you sad sack.

  Then how come this felt so much like mourning?

  He went back downstairs to pack his duffel. By the time he’d stowed it in his car and gotten the baby’s seat out, the lights were on in the kitchen and he could smell the coffeemaker doing its job. He left the seat in the front hall and headed for the light.

  Both Christine and Miah were up. She was pulling butter and bread and jam out of the fridge, and he was stretching his back, arms overhead, tugging at each wrist in turn.

  “Morning, old man,” Casey said, passing to take a seat at the table.

  Miah turned, looking surprised. “Was it you who’s been creeping around since four thirty?”

  “Didn’t realize it was that early, but yeah.”

  “Baby wake you up?”

  He lied. “Yeah.”

  Don appeared, heading straight for the old laptop he kept on the hutch with a mumbled good morning. A radio farm report of some sort was streaming shortly at low volume, though Casey couldn’t guess what the man got out of those. In Fortuity, it felt like the forecast was just about always the same. Dry and sunny.

  Though today was different, it turned out. At the very end of the segment, the droning weather guy closed by saying, “And don’t forget to look skyward just after one p.m. this afternoon.”

  “That’s right—the eclipse is today,” Christine piped in, toast in one hand, mug in the other. “We should all take our lunch breaks late and enjoy it.”

  “I plan to,” Miah said. “The hands have organized some kind of picnic, so I should probably check on them anyhow. No doubt somebody will pack beer.”

  “Eclipse,” Don muttered. He’d shut the laptop and was rooting through the hutch’s drawers. “Can’t stand that word since the goddamn casino referendum passed.”

  Steps came down the hall, setting Casey’s pulse on edge. A moment later Abilene joined the assembly, baby strapped to her front. She returned the Churches’ greetings, looking shy, eager to blend into the background. Casey had to work hard to keep his eyes off her and his ears focused on the conversation.

  “You have to watch, Don,” Christine said.

  “Yeah,” Miah added. “The paper said the next total solar eclipse Fortuity will see won’t come for nearly seven years.”

  “Seven years is nothing at my age. But forty-two grand is—somebody wants to come and look at that ancient John Deere that’s been collecting dust in the junk barn.” He meant the biggest of all of Three C’s barns, a drooping wooden behemoth, its flaky red paint faded nearly to pink. Casey and his friends had wasted long summer afternoons poking around in there, climbing all over the disused vehicles and otherwise trying their level best to break their necks.

  Don straightened triumphantly with a set of keys. “I need to make sure the engine still starts before they come by.”

  Christine rolled her eyes. “You’re no fun.”

  “You knew that when you married me. Right. I’m off.”

  “Me, too,” she said to the room at large, setting her plate in the sink. “Got business to tackle now if I want to enjoy the natural spectacle of the universe.”

 
That left Casey, Miah, Abilene, and the baby. Casey couldn’t decide whether he was eager or petrified for Miah to take off and leave him and Abilene alone. There was so much he still wanted to say . . . though he doubted a word of it would do much aside from make him feel more helpless.

  Perhaps for the best, the baby began to cry, and Abilene excused herself to change a wet diaper before her toast even got a chance to pop up.

  Miah watched her go, then looked to Casey. To the hall. Back to Casey.

  “What?”

  “Something’s up with you two.”

  “What makes you say so?”

  “Usually she’s got stars in her eyes every time she looks your way, but just now, I don’t think she glanced at you once.” That stung. And Miah’s brain was usually too crammed full of to-dos to notice stuff like that, so the cloud in the room must not be confined solely to Casey’s head.

  He shrugged. “I don’t think she slept well.”

  Miah walked over with a fresh coffee and straddled the bench, facing him. “You fuck something up, Case?”

  He heaved a heavy sigh. “In a way.” In another way, he’d done the right thing. Been honest. But he’d fucked up what they’d had, that was true.

  “You guys didn’t . . .”

  “We already had been.”

  Miah looked to the ceiling as though beseeching a higher power for strength.

  “Like you’re even surprised,” Casey said.

  “No, maybe not. For how long?”

  “Only a few days.”

  “Jesus, Case—now, of all times? Must be the most chaotic week of her life. Tell me you didn’t break it off last night. Because the last thing that girl needs is another man letting her down.”

  “No, no. She ended it.”

  “You give her a good reason to?”

  “Yeah, but not like you’re thinking. Things were at the edge of maybe getting serious. We needed to tell each other about what our lives have been like, before we both wound up in Fortuity last summer.”

  “And she didn’t like what she heard?”

  “No. No, she did not.”

  Miah frowned, looking more sympathetic than judgmental now, at least. After a sip of coffee he asked, “What have you been up to, Case?”