by Cara McKenna
Duncan crossed his arms. “To what end? To find out the next projectile that comes flying through your window is a Molotov cocktail?”
“I don’t submit to bullies any more than you do,” she returned.
“We’ll get a watch organized,” Vince cut in, businesslike. “Two of us at a time, one around back, one on the road. One armed. Kim and I could take tonight’s—Casey can watch Mom.”
“You’d let Kim get anywhere near this?”
Vince’s jaw clenched. “She’ll want to help . . . and I’ll never hear the end of it if I refuse. We’ll plant her down the block with her camera—thing’s got a zoom like a sniper’s rifle. She’ll be safe. Miah and Case could take tomorrow’s watch, and you two could handle the day after. Between the six of us, we got this covered. If things quiet down in the next few days, maybe we can downgrade to a security camera. Sound good?” He looked between Duncan and Raina.
Raina nodded, satisfied. Duncan’s nostrils flared, but after a stubborn moment, he dipped his chin stiffly.
“Good. Better forget my fixing your paint this afternoon, though. I’ll need that time to steal a nap.” Vince cast the orange letters a final glance, head shaking. “The messes never fucking end around here.”
“Goddamn idiots, shitting where they eat. This bar’s more sacred than the church to most of the residents. There’d be a lynch mob forming if it gets out that somebody pulled this shit.” Unfortunately Duncan would be in protective custody the second the authorities got wind, so going public was out.
“Few weeks ago I’d have agreed with you,” Vince said, then turned to Duncan. “Sadly it looks like the pitchfork-wielding natives have already found themselves a target.”
“This could be one person’s work,” Raina said.
“Or a dozen,” Vince said grimly. “Though considering they’re sneaking around in the dead of night, I think you’re probably right. A whole posse of shitheads wouldn’t be so shy about it. Let’s just hope whoever it was is dumb enough to brag about it . . . Right, I gotta get to work. But me and Kim’ll be by around last call, to go on watch duty.”
Raina gave his arm a grateful slap. “See you later.”
Duncan offered a stony “Thank you,” his attention moving back to the vandalism.
“Good luck with the bike,” Vince said to Duncan, then took off.
“What bike?” Raina asked Duncan.
“I’ll explain later.”
And having enough mysteries on her mind already, she shrugged and got back to painting.
“Let me do that,” Duncan said.
“Nah. My clothes are way cheaper than yours.”
“I—”
“You can pay for the window, okay? Don’t act like this is your fault.”
“This wouldn’t have happened if I weren’t staying with you.”
“You wouldn’t be staying with me if I hadn’t made you,” she countered. “Go upstairs and make us some breakfast, okay?”
He relented, rubbing his face wearily. He looked handsome, even disheveled, annoyed, and underdressed, with messy hair. It burned away her own angst.
Blotting out the orange K, she awaited a protest, but all he said was, “I’ll make a frittata.”
Her mouth said, “Sounds good.”
But something in her heart chanted, He’s staying, he’s staying, he’s staying.
* * *
Duncan remained rattled through breakfast, dishes, his shower, and grooming. Happily, Raina went back to bed and slept through all his furious puttering.
There were layers to his anger. The thinnest was his indignation at having his own safety threatened. The thickest was his rage that Raina was being punished as well, whether it bothered her or not.
And nested between those two was a third layer, a hard and thorny one that had formed the moment he spotted those words, painted across the front of the bar. And it wasn’t the words themselves, or their meaning, or even that they’d been directed at Raina. Those things all bothered him, but it was the fact that the bar had been defaced.
Duncan couldn’t have guessed when he first walked into Benji’s, nearly two months ago, that he’d ever call himself a regular. To say nothing of it growing on him, and becoming a place he looked forward to going to. He’d never have guessed he’d wind up in its owner’s bed, or gazing upon the pages of her father’s notebooks, outlining the man’s dreams for the business. As deeply as Duncan had hated Benji’s upon first glance, he felt protective of it now.
Perhaps because Raina herself would never put up with protecting. True. She’d never welcome his concern or doting . . . But this didn’t feel like a simple case of projecting. He really had grown fond of the bar.
So fond, in fact, in idle moments, he found himself fantasizing about funding its renovation. Getting Raina to accept such a gift might prove a challenge, but he could afford it. A onetime gift of fifty thousand, perhaps, a good-bye present, when the time came for him to return to his own world. Back in his clean, modern condo on the harbor, he would be pleased to know that seven hundred miles away, the dive bar that had served as his strange little sanctuary during the worst period of his adult life was doing well, and in part, because of him.
If that’s what you really want, though, he thought, you’ve no business going back to Sunnyside. The biggest threat to Benji’s was the casino and its attendant commercial boom. And Duncan’s sole function at Sunnyside had been to help ensure its completion.
It was a case of “You’re either for it or against it.” If he was for the casino, he was against Benji’s. If he was for Benji’s, he’d better pack up and find a new job the moment his name was cleared.
Stay with your job, bask in her venom for two more years. Tell Sunnyside to fuck off, and lose your only reason to ever see her again. He had to assume that the latter was the only real option; he didn’t think he could handle sticking around and risk witnessing it if Benji’s got sold or shuttered or demolished, to make way for the future. The future of an entire town, as envisioned by a soulless, out-of-state conglomerate.
So keep your money, you idiot. The gift would prove about as useful as his gifting someone with a makeover seconds before pushing the poor sap in front of a speeding train. After helping lay the tracks himself.
And that thought had him striding to the kitchen, emptying the cabinets of dishes, and scouring the shelves.
It wasn’t until ten—with the kitchen half-cleaned and a window replacement service scheduled for the next afternoon—that Duncan found himself able to take a deep breath again.
This still beats protective custody, he told himself, looking around the place. And even if he went back to the motel, Raina would only take it upon herself to follow. With a plan in place to keep watch at night, perhaps this was for the best. Better to be semisafe and comfortable here than considerably less safe on his own, and miserable to boot.
He allowed himself a moment’s pleasure, remembering how they’d fallen asleep. He’d not spooned with anyone since his last girlfriend, and that had been over six months ago. Tall as he was, he’d always been the big spoon before. Leave it to Raina to steal the pants in any given situation . . . though this time, he had to admit it had been heavenly. He hoped it wouldn’t take another scare to entice her to do that with him again. Perhaps something more akin to a date could find them there just as easily.
With that in mind, just after two, Duncan entered the kitchen with a bag of groceries cradled in one arm. A high buzzing noise came from behind the closed door. Raina had mentioned over breakfast that she had a client that afternoon, but Duncan didn’t allow himself the petty indulgence of frowning. He oughtn’t care.
I also oughtn’t be in the center of a criminal investigation or the target of death threats, he reminded himself. Since when did I start expecting life to be fair?
Not caring to linger, he put the gr
oceries away and changed for his appointment with Casey Grossier.
By the time Duncan left his room, Raina had emerged and was in the kitchen, puttering. No company in sight. She met his eyes for a beat and smiled, the gesture warm but tough to read. She’s likely just exhausted.
“Your client’s left, I take it.”
“He has,” she said, loading the dishwasher.
He. Duncan rankled.
“He liked your cat. And she seemed to enjoy the attention, so I guess last night didn’t traumatize her too deeply. I just hope she doesn’t require any shots for fraternizing with bikers.”
His cat? No, Astrid could do as she pleased, and was quite capable of fending off unwanted affection. But had this man hugged Raina? Called her sweetheart or honey or girl? Called her baby, as she’d called Duncan yesterday? Hit on her? Fucked her, ever? Oh, those trespasses were another matter entirely.
Raina straightened, shutting the washer, and did a double take at Duncan. “Wow, you look . . .” She scanned him slowly, seeming to approve. “This for your riding lesson?”
He’d changed into jeans, a tee, and his toffee-colored leather jacket. The latter was fitted and designer and outrageously expensive. “I suspect this pairs better with a button-up and a six-dollar coffee than a motorcycle ride. But it’s better than nothing.” He’d told her about the bike that morning, but not the real mission of the exercise—to look for those bones. He wouldn’t be telling anyone about that; the naïveté of the goal was too laughable. He’d said he missed driving, and with the Merc limiting him to the finite miles of pavement within Fortuity town lines, the bike seemed an interesting diversion. Whatever kept him away from the bleach, she’d said with a shrug.
Now she came close and touched the seams at his shoulders, the contact warming him like a hot gulp of tea. “How can clothes even look this good on somebody?” she asked. “Everything you wear looks like it just . . . snaps on. Like a phone case.”
“It’s called tailoring.”
“It’s freaky,” she said, stepping back. “But keep it up. It’s worth every penny.” She glanced at his feet and let out a theatrical little gasp. “Red Wings? Are you trying to get fucked, Duncan?”
He’d found the boots at the blue-collar outfitters at the edge of town. So not his style, but he hadn’t owned anything that covered his ankles. He smiled. “If only I had the time.”
“Too bad about your eye,” she said, ever adept at skirting an actual apology. “Let’s hope that fades before the feds call you back in for another round of scrutiny.”
“How did your strategizing with Kim go last night?” He’d neglected to ask, with everything that had gone on.
She shrugged. “Good. I’ve got to see how many of my clients I can convince to come by for a little photo shoot in the next couple weeks.”
“I’m sure it’ll make very interesting subject matter.”
“Kim’s certainly banking on it. She’s got the props and shots all figured out in her head.”
“Props?”
“Oh, bottles and glasses and shit. Pool cues. Bikes, out front. She wants the bar to be a character itself, or something like that.” Her expression dulled.
“And you don’t?”
Raina turned away, filling the kettle. “It’s fine.”
Liar. He knew her well enough to sense that something was not fine.
“What?” he asked.
“What, what?”
“It’s not fine. Why?”
Another shrug. “I dunno. Everything to do with the bar just feels funny now.”
“Since the vandalism?”
“No, no. Since the notebooks.”
“Ah.” His heart sank, and his stomach squirmed, and he had to squeeze his hands into fists to keep from blurting, I’ll give you the money! Let me give you the money!
“That’s all I feel like saying about it,” she said.
And Duncan didn’t have the luxury of pressing now. He pulled his fingerless driving gloves from his pockets and tugged them on.
Raina sucked a dramatic, overwrought breath at the sight and bit her lip. “Why is that so fucking sexy?”
“I couldn’t begin to guess.”
“Let me know when you’re back so I can watch you peel them off, real slow.”
He smirked at that. “Only if you slip some singles down my trousers.”
She sighed a little laugh. “Trousers. You’re the best.”
He rolled his eyes. “I picked up groceries, and someone will be by to fix the window tomorrow between ten and noon. I hope that serves.”
“Wow, busy boy. Knowing me, the cardboard would’ve stayed up through New Year’s.”
“You’re welcome. What time do you go downstairs tonight?”
“It’s a Monday, so Abilene’ll probably be fine alone until eight, eight thirty. Why?”
His heart beat quicker. Like a bloody teenage boy, angling to spend time with a certain girl. “I’m cooking us dinner.”
She smiled. “Are you? You good for more than just a frittata, then?”
“I suffice. And I’ve not had access to a kitchen in two months, so the urge is strong.”
“Some of your urges mystify me,” she said. “But other ones have an awful lot to recommend them. Count me in. What are you making?”
“You’ll see.”
“Guess I will.”
“Seven thirty.”
Her brow rose a fraction.
“What?” he asked.
“That leaves no time for sex.”
Duncan felt his face flush hot and was pleased he wasn’t prone to blushing. “I suppose it doesn’t.”
“Come down to the bar tonight.” She stepped close to trace his lapels with her thumbs, gaze on his chest. “We can eye-fuck each other until last call, then head up here together for the real thing.”
He swallowed. With Vince on top of security, Duncan might even be able to relax enough to enjoy such a thing. “Sounds like a plan.”
“And you seem like a man who likes plans.” She stepped back, just when he’d hoped they might come together at the mouth.
He tried to look blasé. “I’d better head out for my riding lesson.”
She smiled, grabbing a mug off the table. “Which of you is less excited about this little playdate—you or Vince?”
“Casey’s taking me, actually.”
Raina snorted, dropping a filter in the cup. “Man, what I would pay to see the outtakes from that. I’ll look forward to hearing how it goes, over dinner.”
“I’m sure you will.” And late tonight, they’d head upstairs after last call and teach each other a few different sorts of lessons. His body was crackling at the promise of it. “I’ll see you at seven thirty.”
Only a week ago, Duncan’s car had been a gleaming, enviable manifestation of his ego, but now shit-spattered and vandalized, it hit way too close to home as a representation of how banged up he was feeling himself. He cast it an apologetic glance before skirting the side of the bar, preferring not to be seen in it.
He walked three blocks up Station Street and found the garage wide open, Casey pacing around Duncan’s appointed bike, eyeballing this and that, buffing the tank and mirrors with a cloth.
Duncan entered, the shade offering a respite from the baking sun. “Good afternoon.”
“What’s up, motherfucker?” Casey put his hand out, inviting some sort of clutchy high-five thing. Duncan submitted to it, pleased when he was let go.
“Heard you’re getting death threats.”
“Yes . . . Sorry about any sleep you might lose this week, thanks to the watch Vince organized.”
Casey shrugged. “Doesn’t bother me. Just try to maybe not fuck Raina too loud that night so I don’t have to spend my shift listening to Miah’s teeth grinding.”
; Duncan felt his face warm. “Yes. Well. I doubt—”
“What’s up with your eye?”
“No comment.”
“Suit yourself. So, you ready to become a man?”
“I’m ready to learn how not to kill myself on this thing,” Duncan said, studying the bike. It had changed a lot since yesterday. The dirt was gone, its enamel scuffed and a touch faded, chrome similarly savaged, but the overall effect was one of sturdiness. Capability. It did resemble Vince’s quite a bit—not many frills. Responsive-looking suspension, straight bars, knobby tires fit for the rough terrain. Duncan gave it a quarter mile before the desert dusted it rusty red.
“Looks good,” he said. “I hope I prove worthy.”
“You’ll live. Probably. Got the money?”
“I’ve got a personal check. Will that do?”
Casey grimaced. “Fuck no.”
“Oh. I haven’t got five grand in cash.”
“No, but you’ll get it. You’re good for it.”
“But I’m not trustworthy enough to accept a check from?”
Casey smiled. “Not about trust, Welch. It’s about keeping things simple.”
Duncan inventoried his wallet. “I’ve got about three hundred on me. I’ll give you that as a deposit and get you the rest as ATM withdrawals allow. Deal?”
“Works for me.” Casey disappeared into a back office with the bills. When he returned he said, “There’s no deed, since Vince rescued her from the scrap yard.”
“I’ve no aversion to strays.” Duncan had become one himself, of late; Raina had taken him in as surely as he’d adopted Astrid. “Did I dress properly?”
Casey studied Duncan’s ensemble. “Close enough. Jacket’s a bit metrosexual, but it’ll keep the skin on your arms. Boots look good. You got a license?”
“Not for operating a motorcycle, no.”
Casey stared a moment. “You’re willfully breaking the law?”
“I am, yes.”
“Fucking awesome. You’ll match the bike—her plates are expired. Let’s find you a helmet.”
