by Cara McKenna
“You read far more humanity into my motives than I dare give myself credit for.”
Liar. He was achingly human, she knew that now, beyond a doubt. But she let the why of it slide. Duncan had been put to enough screws for the time being. “Can I ask you something?”
“You may.”
“You really only took a couple of your pills, right? That wasn’t like a . . . you know. An attempt or anything?”
Those eyes were all at once wide and awake. “What, a suicide attempt? Dear God, no. How insufferably melodramatic.”
“Okay, good. I know some people’s identities are tied up in their jobs, is all. And, no offense, you seem like one of them.”
“People aren’t everything they appear,” Duncan said mildly, his attention moving to the screen, to some laugh-tracked sitcom.
She considered that, knowing he was right. About himself, surely. She’d never have imagined he was a man capable of a panic attack, before tonight. He’d seemed so . . . contained. She thought of Vince, too, and how he advertised as something far harder and more self-serving than he really was. Did his brother have hidden depths? she wondered. Doubtful. For a man whose erstwhile job demanded pure guile, Casey Grossier was a hopelessly open book. Abilene had some shadows to her, though.
As for Raina herself, she liked to think that what you saw was what you got. Same as Miah. There were simple people, and tricky people. And Duncan was growing trickier by the minute.
“Have you ever been married?” she asked.
He met her eyes. “No. Not even close.”
“Huh.”
“Why? Do I seem like the marrying kind?”
“No, but you seem like the divorcing kind somehow.”
His lips twitched. “I suppose that’s fair. I’m exceedingly difficult to date.”
“Oh yeah?”
“I possess a winning combination of impossibly high standards and stunted empathy.”
“At least you know it, I guess.”
“Arrogance without self-awareness is unbearably gauche. No one’s cataloged my faults as studiously as I have. I wonder sometimes what I’m paying my therapist for.”
She laughed. “You’re so weird. Weird and fancy. Easily the fanciest man who’s ever sat on that couch. What are your parents like? Crazy-posh?”
His smile faded at that. “No comment.”
“Fine. I’ll let it go, only because you’ve spent enough time getting interrogated for one day.”
“Appreciated. As is this,” he added, and held up his cup.
She shrugged. “Bringing people drinks is kind of my bag.”
He turned to meet her eyes. “Just say, ‘You’re welcome.’”
“You’re welcome.”
Apropos of nothing—or perhaps apropos of the chemical crisis—he asked, “Why’d you end it with Church?”
She shrugged, hiding her surprise. Surprise at the sudden change of topic, and undeniable pleasure that he cared. “He wanted to make a decent woman of me.”
“The cad.”
She looked to the TV, fighting an urge to open up to him. She’d gotten deeper inside Duncan’s head than she’d ever guessed she might, and the imbalance it created felt cumbersome. After a long pause, she told him, “I don’t like feeling like I’m being taken care of by anyone.” With her father, she’d been both the child and parent, and as much as she’d loved him, she’d never felt entirely secure in his care. Never entirely trusted him. Not because he’d been mean, but because he’d been weak—flighty at the best of times, and straight-up useless when he drank. About as reliable as a teenage boy. Good intentions, poor results. “I’d much rather be needed than do the needing,” she concluded.
“Ah.”
She sought his gaze. “You want to analyze me?”
He didn’t reply.
“Feel free. Seems only fair.”
“Go on, then.”
She toyed with her tea bag’s string. “I loved my dad. I cared for him well before he was sick, and nursed him when he was. I relied on him and nobody else, when I was little, for better or worse. Confided in him. Lost him. Most of the things a woman feels for a man, I used up on him. My tank’s empty, for all the love that matters.” She met his gaze. “Any needs I have left over, any decent, convenient, good-looking man is welcome to satisfy. But my heart’s spent. And Miah wanted my heart.”
Duncan’s reply was quiet and a touch earnest. “That’s rather tragic.”
“Nah. Tragic’s giving everything you have to one man, then getting it handed back all banged up and smelling of another woman’s perfume.”
Duncan looked back to the television. They drank their tea, watching the crap flashing by on the screen, not talking. She wondered if he felt as naked as she did, finding the two of them on this new level together. Not friends, but something above their usual bartender-and-customer flirtation. Kind of scary, kind of pleasant. Definitely doomed to flee once Duncan sobered up and the sun rose to fade the memory of this talk.
And when he did leave, the fear would take his place—fear that the next time Raina watched him go, it could be the last time she saw him alive. Mutinous locals would be dangerous enough on their own if his accusation went public, but Duncan was on Levins’s bad side as well, and who knew if that shit still had coconspirators on the outside?
Raina had lost Alex only two months ago. They’d grown apart in recent years, as his drinking had begun corroding him, a habit snowballing into an addiction she’d known all too well, as the daughter of a functioning alcoholic. It had felt too familiar, too scary. And too fraught, when her role as Alex’s friend had become overshadowed by her role as his bartender, the distance growing each time she’d had to cut him off and send him home. It had only made losing him harder. Though she had no idea what she ought to have done differently, she couldn’t help feeling she’d failed him. As she’d watched his casket being lowered, all she’d thought was I’m sorry. I’m sorry.
Duncan Welch might mean far less to her than Alex had meant, but she couldn’t bear the thought of suffering all that regret again. Of feeling as though she hadn’t done enough, when she’d had the chance.
Eventually she stood and juggled the empty mug and kettle and pot holder. Her guest would probably want to go back to the motel now. The idea made her queasy, but he’d be tough to convince to stay, for the night. But she could be tougher.
“More tea?” she asked.
No reply, and she looked to his face for the first time in twenty minutes. He was asleep. Tilted gently to one side, eyes shut, lips parted. He looked . . . peaceful. As loose as she’d ever seen him, and she had to smile.
She grabbed the old afghan off the back of the rocker. She held her breath as she lowered the heavy thing over Duncan from the shoulders to the shins. Tucking it along his sides, she was struck by how soft his skin was, and how hard his biceps were. His hair was uncharacteristically messy, and she smoothed it off his temple. Also soft. Three crisp lines creased his forehead, etched by a million dry eyebrow raises. He had little lines beside his eyes, too, and at the corners of his mouth. She wanted to touch his dignified nose, his pale eyebrows, his perfect ears and neat brown lashes, his near-blond stubble. He . . . he fascinated her. She wished she could lay her body against his without waking him. Spoon him as she had done Miah for these past few weeks, see how much warmer or colder or harder or sweeter he’d feel.
Psycho. She stood up straight, backed off. Took the sugar and milk to the kitchen and poured a glass of water. She left the glass on the table before Duncan and switched off the television. Behind the muffled din of the bar, she heard his breathing. Faint and steady.
She flipped off the light, studied his face a final time in the glow of the moonlight. She wondered if she’d see that face again in the morning, or if he’d sneak out in the dead of night. She knew now, she couldn’t gue
ss.
She didn’t know this man at all.
Chapter 7
Duncan woke from the heat—from a beam of hot sunshine baking one side of his face. He opened his eyes, recognizing nothing at first. Nothing aside from the smell of toast; a faintly burned scent, echoing the disturbing dream he’d been tangled in. Charred black bones, just out of his reach.
“Good morning, star-shine.”
He turned, finding Raina leaning along the frame of her kitchen door, and it all came back to him. He’d fallen asleep, slumped on her couch. A cold wave washed through him, chased by the heat of humiliation. He couldn’t think of anyone he’d less rather have been so weak in front of.
She’d draped a blanket over him; it pooled in his lap as he sat up straight. He faked nonchalance even as the burn of embarrassment warmed his throat and ears. “Good morning. I didn’t expire in the night, then?”
She shook her head. She was wearing . . . not a lot. A tank top, as usual, but her jeans had been replaced with quite-short shorts. Soft little cotton things with a taunting drawstring, barely more modest than panties. Her wavy hair was bundled up in a messy knot, giving Duncan a fine view of the part of her he found most alluring of all—her neck. That shifted the heat, embarrassment giving way to darker sensations, if not completely.
“You want coffee or tea?” she asked. “Or a shower?”
“No, no.” He had to get back to his motel room. Even jobless, he still had some responsibilities. Astrid would be wanting breakfast. “Thank you.”
“I’m meeting with the Grossiers and Miah today, at noon. I’m going to tell them you’ll be needing our help while you ride out this legal drama. We owe you that much.”
He frowned. “I have plenty of money, thank you.”
“Not money. Protection.”
He shivered, blaming it on the desert’s morning chill. “That strikes me as unnecessary.”
“Don’t care what it strikes you as,” she said, rubbing her bare calf with her heel. “There’s no guarantee that the corruption ended with Levins and Tremblay. And after what happened to the sheriff, and to Alex, we can’t take any chances. Plus, Kim helped us, and we made sure she stayed safe. Same applies to you.”
“I don’t require protection.” He had done so, once upon a time as a child, but hadn’t been offered the luxury then. Without it he’d suffered kicks and slaps and cigarette burns, but lived to tell. Well, not to tell—to suppress, mainly. But in any case, he didn’t need anyone’s protection. “I appreciate your concern, as well as your logic. But no. I’m not some helpless victim in need of a safe house.” Not anymore. Not ever again.
“Like I said, I don’t care what you think you need. Just know it’s being arranged. Sure you don’t want anything to drink? Or some toast?”
He stood, folding the blanket. “I’m perfectly fine.” As if she’d buy that, when he’d been steered bodily into her home, intoxicated and shaking. It shamed him to remember, with a clear head. She was the last person in this town he’d ever have wanted to see him in that state.
So why did I go to the bar in the first place? Indeed. Straight to her. He stuffed the thought down.
He found his shoes and sat on the coffee table to lace them. He longed for his oxfords, for a suit and tie, for his car. For the trappings of the man he’d worked so hard to become, whom he’d lost yesterday when his job was taken from him. He was like a screen, the position a projection he relied on to give him his identity. Without it, would the clothes even be enough? Or would everyone see him for the flimsy, blank expanse of nothing he was?
“I’ll let you know what we decide,” Raina said.
He met her dark eyes, letting his irritation drown out the distress. “I thought Vince Grossier was pushy, but you’re giving him competition.” It was obnoxious and patronizing, and strangely, it made him want to pin her against the doorframe and remind her which of them was the more aggressive sex.
Her stare was steady. “If pissing you off and pushing you around means I don’t wake to the news that someone shut you up, the way they silenced Alex and Tremblay, in that crummy little motel room . . . Then yeah, I don’t have any issue with that.”
“Being pushed around requires consent,” he said, checking his pockets for his wallet and keys. “And rest assured, I won’t be tendering any. Thanks very much for the tea and sympathy, Ms. Harper.” He brushed past her into the kitchen.
“If you’re going to be stubborn, somebody could stay with you, instead. Unfortunately it’d probably be Casey. He’s the only one of us with time on their hands.”
“No one’s helping me. No one ever has before, and I’m perfectly comfortable with that.” And he was showing far too much emotion. He steadied his voice and met her eyes with his hand on the doorknob, recalling what she’d said last night. “If you want to be what a man needs, Ms. Harper, we both know there’s another one waiting, more than willing to volunteer.”
Her smile was sharp and dry. “We’ll resume this conversation later, Mr. Welch.”
* * *
Raina was first to the spot. She dug out her keys to open the left-hand bay door and hauled it up, sunshine spilling into the old auto garage, glinting off the carcass of a touring bike Vince had liberated from the junkyard. She’d lugged a case of beer up the street from Benji’s, and she stocked the fridge. Miah would need a couple of early ones, if he was going to be convinced to open up Three C to yet another endangered outsider. And God knew what Duncan would take, to be convinced to accept the help. He’d gone from an accessible, sedated mess last night to his old impenetrable self this morning. She’d been stupid to think something had truly changed, just because of the things they’d said, the new sides of him he’d let her see. Dumb, when she knew a drunk’s promises could never be trusted, and he’d been wasted, as surely as he’d been vulnerable.
She sighed. “One step at a time.” She’d talked her dad into going to the doctor, four years ago, a seemingly impossible feat accomplished by threatening to sell his record collection. She could handle Duncan, provided she figured out his leverage.
The rumble of a motorcycle grew in the distance—no, two of them, she saw, as the Grossiers rolled into the lot, Kim on the back of Vince’s old R80.
Once the engines were muted she called, “Afternoon, kids.”
“Hey,” Kim said, first to reach her.
Vince offered a slap on her arm, and Casey cut to the chase. “What’s this shit all about?” Apparently his foul mood from the night before had followed him to bed. Though whether it was Duncan’s slight or an awkward night spent skirting Abilene behind the bar, who could say?
“Let’s wait for Miah.” Raina handed him a beer, which shut him up like a pacifier stuffed in a toddler’s face. If only Duncan would prove so simple a creature.
“This about Welch?” Vince asked, just as Miah’s Triumph came growling down Station Street. He caught the bottle Raina tossed him, but didn’t open it. He wasn’t as easily distracted as his brother, and plainly he’d been tipped off about Duncan’s little breakdown. Kim declined a beer.
Miah parked and strode in, greeting everyone and meeting Raina’s eyes last.
“Beer?”
“Nah. I’m only on a break. Too much to do today. This about Levins?”
“Kind of.” She opened a bottle for herself and hopped up onto the worktable. “But Vince called it—it’s mainly about Welch.” It felt funny calling him that. He’d come to feel like plain old Duncan to her, since last night. Since she’d seen him in his socks.
Miah crossed his arms, gaze jumping irritably to the street. The claustrophobe was annoyed, and eager to escape back outside.
“What about that dick?” Casey asked. “What happened last night? You sober him up?”
Miah was suddenly all eyes and ears, eyebrows drawn.
“I did,” Raina said. “It wasn’t anything
self-destructive, I don’t think. Not really. He just went off the rails.” She glanced between Miah and Vince and Kim. “You guys missed it, but he showed up all doped out on his prescription meds. Sunnyside fired him yesterday. Levins accused him of taking bribes, in exchange for ignoring corner-cutting.”
“Damn,” Kim said.
“You sure it’s not true?” Miah asked. “What’s to say he wasn’t taking bribes?”
Vince’s expression darkened. “That was Tremblay’s scene. Why the fuck would Welch have risked his own job to help me, fucked up a lucrative arrangement with Levins, then put himself on the man’s bad side by spilling what he knew to the feds?”
“It gets a little more complicated,” Raina said. “A witness came forward, corroborating what Levins said. A construction worker for VRC, it sounds like. That’s about all Welch knows.”
Vince shook his head. “This is starting to stink of some major planning.”
Raina nodded. “Duncan’s innocent,” she said, catching the familiarity of the name too late, relieved she wasn’t one to blush. “I believe that. It makes no sense as anything aside from a distraction, on Levins’s part. And payback, because yeah, Welch did help you, Vince, and Levins got busted. Duncan’ll get his job back, eventually. He can afford a good lawyer, if it comes to that.”
“So what’s the issue?” Casey asked.
“The issue is that we don’t know if Levins set this shit with the witness up on his own or not. And who, if anyone, might’ve conspired with him to have Tremblay offed, and how loyal they still are to him. We’d be fools to assume Levins is harmless, just because he’s locked up.”
“To say nothing of how angry people are about anything to do with the developers,” Kim added. “If Duncan’s name gets out before he’s acquitted, Levins might be the least of his problems.”
Raina nodded. “Duncan’s stuck in town until the feds decide they’re done with him. That could be weeks, and the Nugget’s about as secure as an outhouse. We offered Kim a safe place to hide out, when she needed one.” She said it to the group, but looked at Miah.
