Better (Stark Ink Book 2)

by Dahlia West

Her lips tightened as she glared at him just before ducking back inside.

  After the door closed, Pop took a long, thoughtful puff. “So,” he said finally. “Zoey.”

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Dalton looked down at his boots, inspecting the laces. It wasn’t a conversation he really wanted to have, but Pop wasn’t going to let it go.

  “I’m thinking I missed something there,” the old man said. “Your mom said Zoey left. Then someone else said there was a wedding. I didn’t ask about the details, but I’m sure that’s the way I heard it.”

  Dalton sighed. “She did leave and get married to another man. I was drinking pretty hard. She couldn’t take it anymore. She met someone else. The wrong someone. She married him. She just wanted to be happy.”

  The old man held Dalton in a steely gaze. “Is she still married?”

  Dalton grimaced as he looked away.

  Pop blew out a breath, fog and cigar smoke hanging in the air between them. “Whoo, boy. Not exactly the way the good Lord drew up, is it?”

  “It’s not her fault.”

  Pop took a puff. “Didn’t say it was. Doubt it’s your fault, either. And even if it was, I suppose you’re carrying enough weight on your shoulders already for just one man. Some people are just meant to be together, Dalton. They just keep coming together until they finally stick that way. I met your mother at a dance, two weeks before I was headed out to basic. I told her not to wait for me. I suppose, technically, she didn’t. She dated a few other guys while I was gone, but every time I came back, there she was. There we were. The third time I came home, I married her.” He nodded to Zoey through the plate glass. “Is it yours?”

  Dalton’s jaw twitched. “I want it to be.”

  “Then it is,” Pop declared.

  Dalton turned to look at him. “Is it really that easy?”

  The old man took a moment to think about it. “It’s easier than you think it will be. Harder, too, though.” Through the window, he glanced at Jonah who was at the sink rinsing off the dishes. “Might be easier for you,” he mused. “You’ll get this one from the start, before any fucking bastard can hurt him and put thoughts in his head that you’ll spend a lifetime trying to scrub out.”

  “Jonah’s doing better,” Dalton pointed out.

  Pop grunted his agreement. “I suppose he is. Don’t like that shit in his face, though,” he said, meaning Jonah’s pierced ears and eyebrow. He sighed heavily, “Could be worse, I guess. And if that’s what I have to deal with to finally have my boy, then that’s how it goes.”

  They were both silent for a long while, watching the group assembled in the house. Neither one of them wanted to give voice to the fact that it had taken so long for Jonah to come around that Pop was now starting to slip away. In the end, they wouldn’t have much time. “You won’t let me hurt him,” Pop said finally. “Say anything nasty to him, nothing like that.”

  “Jonah knows you love him,” Dalton assured him.

  “I know he does, but words stick in your craw just like any other goddamn thing. They stay with you longer, I think.” Pop reached down and brushed off his pants. “Mind your words around your kid, Dalton. Not just your hands.”

  Dalton leaned back in his chair. “That’s the easiest part.”

  The old man raised an eyebrow at him. “Depends on how much like you the kid turns out to be.”

  Dalton barked out a laugh.

  Pop grinned. “I swallowed some choice nuggets with all of you over the years.”

  Dalton nodded. “I bet you did. Like when Adam stole your bike.”

  The old man’s hand paused, cigar half-raised. “He stole my Harley?”

  Dalton shifted in his seat. “Oops. Guess Mom didn’t tell you about that.”

  Pop glanced toward the house.

  “It’s Christmas,” Dalton reminded him.

  “Uh huh.”

  The red tip of Pop’s Dominican glowed in the dark. It probably matched the old man’s rising anger.

  To deflect it, Dalton turned the conversation back. “Zoey’s husband wants to use him to bargain with. The kid, not Adam,” he added.

  Pop took another long draw. “I got it the first time.” He leaned forward and tapped his ash on the frozen grass. “Kids aren’t poker chips, Dalton. You don’t ante ‘em up, angling for something better.”

  Dalton sniffed. “I know it.” He tilted his head back and looked up at the night sky. Clear, black, littered with stars. “I want to kill him.”

  It came out in a whisper, light as the smoke in the frigid air.

  Pop looked at him for a long moment. “I’ve been where you are, for worse reasons.”

  Dalton didn’t reply.

  “They say killing doesn’t solve anything, doesn’t make anything better. In some cases… they would be wrong.”

  Dalton went perfectly still, staring at his old man.

  Pop held his gaze. “In this case, in your case, though, it wouldn’t be worth it.”

  Dalton’s jaw tightened. “Even if he hit her?”

  Pop grimaced. “That’s a damn shame. A damn shame. But there’s a difference between wrong and evil, son. God’ll forgive you for one, but let Him deal with the other.”

  In the long silence that followed, Dalton’s phone chirped. He took it out and checked the screen.

  “What’s that?” Pop asked, stubbing out his stogie.

  Dalton took a long, deep breath, letting it chill his lungs. “Hopefully, my Hail Mary.”

  Pop nodded. “Well, there you go. Whatever you need, son, your Mom will provide it for you.” He stood up, turning back to Dalton. “Just remember, I gave you that .38, boy. Don’t you go using it out of turn.”

  Dalton stubbed out his cigar. “I won’t. I promise, Pop.” He slid open the back door and stepped inside the house. Zoey was on the couch. He put his hand on her shoulder and leaned down. “We have to go,” he said quietly.

  She turned to look up at him.

  “I got a call. I have to meet someone.”

  Zoey pressed her lips together and nodded. She didn’t ask for details, probably because of their circumstances. Ava and Jonah were just a few feet away, arguing good-naturedly over a game of Halo.

  Outside, Dalton helped her into the truck and drove them home. He waited for her to head into the bathroom to take a shower before he moved silently into the bedroom. Her keys were on the dresser. He slid her house key off the ring and replaced them. It would be morning before she needed them for anything. Standing in the middle of the room, Dalton took a long moment to consider all his options. He’d made a promise and he intended to keep it. Even so, he pulled open the top drawer. The .38 was heavy and solid in his palm. He double-checked that it was loaded then he slipped it into the pocket of his leather jacket.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Dalton felt comfortable enough to go to Maria’s alone, since he knew Barnes was actually there and waiting for him. He grasped the handle of the bar’s front door and stepped inside. It was loud as ever. He scanned the faces until he saw the one he wanted. As he threaded through the crowd, Barnes looked up and spotted him. Dalton’s heart sank. He didn’t need to hear what the man had to say. The look on his face said it all. Dalton approached the table and sat down anyway. He sighed. “You got nothing.”

  Barnes made a face. “I got a lead. But it’s just that… a lead.” He opened the folder and pushed it to the middle of the table.

  Dalton leaned in for a closer look. Mostly surveillance photos.

  “You’re right about the money. There’s something there. I followed him for a few days.” He looked up.

  The hair rose on the back of Dalton’s neck. “What?”

  “Does Zoey know about the strippers?”

  Dalton leaned back in his seat. “I doubt it. She never said anything to me, at least. Pretty sure she would have. She’s not the type to tolerate it.”

  Barnes nodded. “Could be new, but I doubt it. I followed him into the place. He seemed p
retty popular. The doorman knew him.” Barnes tapped the folder. “Anyway, Grant drops C-notes into G-strings like it ain’t no thang. But here’s the interesting part, in a solid two weeks of tailing him, I never once saw him hit the bank or an ATM.”

  Dalton frowned. “So, where’s the money coming from?”

  “Exactly.” The man tapped his thumb on the tabletop. “I have no idea. It wasn’t enough time to find out. I’d need access to his financials, his work computer, and a forensic accountant to sort through it all. Doable, but not cheap.”

  Dalton blew out a harsh breath. “I can’t swing it.”

  Barnes’ eyes softened. “I figured.”

  That was it, then. The trail ended when the money dried up. It was a huge gamble to pay Barnes when he might still come up empty. Then there’d be nothing left to pay the lawyer.

  “For what it’s worth,” Barnes said, “I think he’s skimming at work. Not that I know much about it, but I asked someone. It’s not too difficult to set up a couple of fake accounts and funnel some client money into them. I doubt his boss is in on it, but who knows? Anyway, you can rack up a fat stack before anyone notices. If they ever do.”

  “You mean he might never get caught?”

  Barnes shrugged. “Depends on who he’s ripping off. If he’s pinching from a sharp guy who could be trading for himself, but just doesn’t have the time or thinks a professional can do better, then yeah, eventually the client’ll cotton onto the fact that the numbers don’t add up.”

  Dalton grunted. “But if he’s stealing from some sweet old blue-haired ladies who are just happy to keep the kitties in kibble… Jesus. This guy’s a piece of work.”

  “Well, he’s a piece of something, I agree. He keeps his coke stashed in his nightstand drawer, but I didn’t see anything else.”

  Dalton raised an eyebrow.

  Barnes shrugged. “The doorman at the club slipped it to him. And the fewer questions you ask, the better for all of us.”

  Dalton considered his options for a long moment. “Give me the code.”

  Barnes’ eyes narrowed. “Sorry. If you didn’t bring your Little Orphan Annie secret decoder ring, I can’t help you.”

  Dalton leaned forward. “Cut the crap. You know what I mean. Give me the code.”

  “Drink more Ovaltine.”

  Dalton pressed his finger so hard into the surface of the table his nail turned white. “I want this man out of our lives. I’ve got a woman and a kid to protect from this asshole and I don’t care what it takes.”

  “Maybe you should calm down and order a drink,” Barnes suggested.

  Dalton gave him an icy glare. “A year ago I would have punched you in the mouth.”

  “You been sober a year?”

  Dalton shook his head. “Nope, but no little pissant’s going to fuck it up for me. I’ve come too far.”

  Barnes turned away and watched the people on the dance floor. “I’m exposed.”

  Dalton shook his head. “No. No way. I don’t take other people down with me.”

  Barnes turned back to him and raised an eyebrow. “Really? Not even your brother?”

  Dalton’s jaw twitched. “I’m paying him back.”

  The man nodded. “Working under the table for Midway Construction. With overtime hours that would kill a man half your size.” He raised his beer. “Or drive him to drink. But you haven’t been to a liquor store in six months.”

  Dalton froze.

  Barnes took a casual sip of his lager. “Gotta know who you’re dealing with,” he said by way of explanation.

  Dalton considered the advice. “You shot a man for threatening his wife with a kitchen knife.”

  “I did.”

  “But the way I heard it, there’s more to that story.”

  Barnes shrugged. “People change.”

  “You wouldn’t do it again?”

  The man studied Dalton for a moment. “If you get caught—”

  “It won’t come back on you,” Dalton promised. “No one needs to know where I got the code.”

  Barnes’ gaze darkened. “They’ll think you got it from her.”

  Dalton shook his head. “I’m not going to tell her about it. She never needs to know. And if anyone comes asking, not that they ever will, they’ll know she’s telling the truth. Besides, I made a promise. I’m not going to kill Grant.”

  Barnes pursed his lips. “A promise, huh?”

  Dalton nodded. “To my old man.”

  The ex-cop shrugged. “So? He won’t remember tomorrow.”

  Dalton tensed before taking a long, deep breath. He met the man’s eyes. “You keep trying to bait me.”

  “Grant’s gonna do worse than that. Just seeing him is going to make you want to forget all those promises, all those noble aspirations. Coming face-to-face with the man who put his hands on your woman is not a thing you should take lightly. Trust me.”

  “Sounds like you’re speaking from experience.”

  Barnes didn’t answer.

  “What happened to him?” Dalton pressed.

  “Well, I’m sitting here. So you know he didn’t die.”

  “Grant won’t die. I’m not even going to touch him.”

  “Famous last words.”

  There was a time to talk and a time to wait. Dalton had made his case to the Gods of home invasion. Their chief prophet, Lord Lockpick, took his time mulling it over.

  “Flip the page,” Barnes finally said.

  Puzzled, Dalton reached out and turned over the paper in front of him. On the back was a five digit number, scrawled on the bottom left corner. Dalton snorted.

  Barnes shrugged. “I wanted to know who you were. Peoples’ characters fascinate me.”

  “I thought you were exposed?”

  The other man laughed. Rows of white teeth flashed in the dim light, sharp, a grim reaper grin. “Well, my old boss sure doesn’t carry a torch for me, but I know a few judges. Good luck making anything stick. No one has yet.”

  The live soldier stood up and tucked a bill under his dead one. He nodded to Dalton and disappeared into the crowd.

  Dalton shoved the paper back into the folder and scooped it up off the table, checking his watch. Not even midnight. He could be there and back by dawn if he drove fast.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Dalton veered off the sidewalk of Zoey’s old street and headed straight for the front door of the house she used to share with Grant. He’d parked two blocks away, circling the house on foot twice already. Grant had security lights on a motion detector aimed at the back door, but not the front. No one would be dumb enough to break in that way since it was too exposed to the street.

  Under normal circumstances, Dalton wouldn’t go in the front either, but this wasn’t breaking, in the most technical sense it was just entering. Key at the ready, he slipped it into the lock. In one smooth motion he turned the deadbolt, opened the door, and quietly slipped inside.

  The alarm control panel lit up like a Christmas tree as the siren began blaring, piercing and shrill. Dalton had expected it to be set and, moving quickly in the dark, he shut the front door behind him, flipped the bolt back into place, and punched in the alarm code. The racket stopped as suddenly as it started and Dalton was already off down the hall. He just stepped into the dining room by the stairs just as the bedroom door above opened. He held his breath as he waited.

  “Hello?”

  Jesus, even the man’s voice was annoying.

  “Hello? I’m calling the police.”

  Dalton suppressed a snort. Fat chance of that.

  Instead of going for the phone, Grant headed down the stairs. The floorboards groaned.

  Dalton smirked. Shit builders. And like all shit builders, their work was annoying in a thousand little ways. Stairs that creaked, doors that weren’t hung properly, wiring that was spotty.

  Doubtless that’s what Grant was thinking now as Dalton watched him inspecting the panel. Why had the alarm gone off? More importantly, how had
it stopped on its own?

  How indeed?

  It was a mystery Grant didn’t seem to be able to solve.

  “Piece of shit,” he muttered.

  Dalton silently returned the sentiment.

  The phone rang. Grant clicked the button and held it up to his ear. “It’s fine,” he said into the receiver. “False alarm.” He gave the password and hung up before heading back upstairs.

  Dalton waited a full ten minutes before he crept back down the hall. He punched the panic button, let it scream for a few seconds, then disabled the alarm altogether. Before Grant could emerge from the bedroom, Dalton slipped into the kitchen at the end of the hall. He eased the other cordless extension off the cradle.

  Grant stomped down the stairs, cursing loudly. He glared at the panel then slapped at it. “Goddamn it!”

  Dalton stepped out from the shadows of the darkened kitchen and into the lighted hallway.

  Grant was too busy shouting to notice.

  The phone chirped again. Dalton brought up the extension he was holding in one hand, along with the .38 in the other.

  Grant frowned at the phone in his own hand, which had cut off mid-ring.

  Dalton gripped his extension tightly. “Hi. Me, again,” he said into the phone.

  Grant spun to face him, eyes wide.

  Dalton leveled the gun at him and sighed dramatically. “You know, I just turned it off for the night. Could you have someone come and look at it? Not until the morning, though. I’ve got to get some sleep. The password? Trade.”

  Grant gaped at him.

  Dalton pulled the hammer back, emphasizing the need for the man to remain silent. “Thank you so much,” he told the dispatcher. Without taking his eyes off Grant, Dalton disconnected the call. “Trade,” he repeated to the man. “Interesting password. That’s exactly what I came here to do.”

  Grant took a step backward, his body tensing.

  Dalton knew he was going to run. “I’ll shoot you before you even get one finger on the knob.”

  It was a lie. Maybe. Dalton could certainly blow out the man’s kneecap, or even his foot. Neither would be fatal and Dalton’s word would remain unbroken. He didn’t plan on actually pulling the trigger, though.