by Cara McKenna
“Them contractors not paying you enough already? You gotta skim off the top, too?”
“Calm your shit down, Bobby,” Casey cut in. “Like you know what the fuck you’re even talking about. This motherfucker helped get Tremblay and Levins arrested.”
Duncan told Bobby, “I’m going to go out on a limb and, based on your grammar and demeanor, conclude that you’re not the county judge. Therefore I could give half a fuck what you think of me. Thanks for your interest all the same.”
The man turned to some nearby buddies, pointing back at Duncan. “This here’s that fancy faggot who took them bribes off Levins. He ain’t even American.”
Now Duncan was pissed. But nervous as well. He hadn’t been in a fistfight in half a lifetime, and he’d never been much good at the sport. He was built like a runner, and he’d exploited that fact, escaping the schoolyard at a dead sprint more often than not, racing away from whatever antagonism his appearance had inspired. He probably could’ve been a track star, had he stayed at any school long enough to pursue it.
His running days were long over, though, and he never could seem to keep his snarky mouth shut in the face of bullish dickery.
“My nationality and sexual orientation are neither here nor there,” he told the assorted, attentive thugs, adrenaline pulsing. “But I didn’t take any bribes. And considering how much I’ve spent in this bar, I’ll not be made to feel unwelcome.” On the contrary, this place had begun to feel distinctly like his.
“Yeah, we seen your car around town,” said one of Bobby’s cohorts. “Somebody said those things go for a hundred grand.”
Duncan strained at the mob’s mingled, muttered comments for keywords—for jackal, chiefly, for any clue whether his more calculating accusers might be present—but the rabble was pure static. One thing was clear, however. He was about as popular as a foul smell.
He straightened his spine and slid inside his armor. “Being paid a disgusting amount of money for being excellent at one’s job isn’t a crime, thank you very much.”
Someone countered, “Asshole.” His neighbor added, “This bar’s for locals. Your foreign ass isn’t welcome here.”
“Is that so?” Duncan asked coolly. “Is this bar only for ignorant twats? Because I hadn’t noticed a sign—”
“Fucking Christ.” Casey whapped his shoulder from behind. “You trying to get lynched?”
“It’s all over the news, what you did,” an older woman shouted. “It’s just a matter of time before you get yours.”
Duncan cocked his head. “Is that a threat?”
“You called my kid trailer trash,” cut in a short tank of a man.
Duncan had to think a moment. “Ah. Now, technically, I believe I called your son a redneck little shit.”
Casey groaned. “You just can’t fucking help yourself, can you?”
The redneck little shit’s father took a step forward, and Duncan braced himself. Then he heard a couple of thumps to his right, and the sound of glass breaking. For a beat he feared someone had just smashed the neck off a bottle, but now Casey was standing beside him—he’d vaulted the bar, knocking an empty to the floor.
“Everybody back the fuck off,” he told Bobby and associates. “You don’t get to come in here and start shit without knowing what the fuck you’re even talking about. Chill the fuck out.”
“He called my kid a redneck—”
“And he’s fucking right, Ducky. Your kid was shooting dogs with a pellet gun when he was still in Pull-Ups. He’s a dick—buy yourself a bumper sticker and tell the world.”
Another guy nodded. “That’s true, Ducky.”
“Boys’ll be boys,” Ducky said, sounding defensive.
Duncan muttered, “Spoken like the proud father of a future date rapist.”
“Would you fucking shut your face?” Casey hissed, though the others hadn’t caught it.
Ducky cooled off a little, but Bobby wasn’t done yet. “None of that changes the fact that this asshole’s in cahoots with Levins.” He got close, close enough for Duncan to smell the liquor on his breath and tense his jaw, praying he wasn’t about to get any more teeth broken. But Casey pushed in between them. He had to be maybe five-eleven to Duncan’s six-two, but anyone would’ve given Casey the odds in a fight—it was like choosing between a junkyard scrapper and a greyhound. Too bad they were facing down a pit bull; Casey really wasn’t the ideal Grossier for the job.
“You chill your shit out or we take this outside,” Casey told Bobby.
“Not your fight, Grossier.”
“You accuse my friend of taking bribes off a man who helped murder Alex Dunn, this sure as shit is my fight, cocksucker. So you calm down, or else we head outside. Even if you kick my ass, you’re never drinking here again.”
Aside from the music and the din of muttered wagers, the bar had grown quite quiet—quiet enough for every last person to turn at the sound of Raina’s boots stamping across the wooden floor.
“What’s this about?” she demanded, glaring around at everyone.
“We was just talking shit out,” Bobby said, glancing between her and Casey and Duncan.
“Who broke the bottle?”
Casey raised his hand.
“Clean it up and get the fuck back behind the bar. Duncan, get in the office and help me.”
Bobby blanched. “I didn’t know you and him was friendly—”
“Go home, Bobby,” Raina said, eyes blazing. “You’re barred for three nights.”
“We heard he was—”
“Shut up now or I’ll make it a week. The rest of you,” she said, rounding on the entire barroom, as though it were filled with her misbehaving children, “show’s over.”
Abilene passed Casey a dustpan and a bar towel to clean up the glass, and Bobby headed for the door without much drama, one of his pals following, but most of them getting back to drinking.
“Christ Almighty.” Raina glared at Casey and Duncan in turn. Then to Abilene. “Pass me a longneck?”
“Sure.” The girl handed Raina a beer and a napkin, and Raina stalked into the office, slamming the door. So much for coffee and tea.
Casey went back behind the bar, and Duncan watched him mix a vodka and tonic, unbidden.
“Thank you for that,” Duncan said quietly, and it had to be clear that he wasn’t talking about the drink. He took out his wallet, but Casey waved it away.
“You got some big-ass balls on you, Death Wish.”
“And a rather large mouth, unfortunately. Thank you for being my second just now, or whatever that was.”
“You’re a beautiful man, Welch. Shame if you got your pretty face all busted open, now that it’s all you got left to your name.”
“Shame if you get blowback yourself, for coming to my defense.”
Casey shrugged. “Fuck those assholes.”
Duncan raised his drink to that. After a minute he said, “I won’t hold you to what you said, about us being friends.”
Another shrug. “Why not? You screwed your comfortable life up to help my brother. You’re fucking my friend. You hauled my concussed ass into a truck—whether I’m happy about the fuss that got made or not. What the fuck else does a person need, to qualify?”
Duncan considered that, and raised his glass in appreciation.
“Don’t get me wrong—I still think you’re a dick. But that never disqualified anybody from earning my friendship before.”
Why on earth did that tainted honor hum so warmly in Duncan’s chest? Why should he care what a wayward con man thought of him, as a man, or a peer? God help him if that meant he desired Casey’s friendship in return.
Still, that didn’t much help the fact that this little informal opinion poll had Duncan’s popularity rating looking grim. And his potential enemies list looking extensive.
“I�
�d better go and face Raina,” he said. “I’ll see you later.”
“Probably. Maybe we could take another ride tomorrow,” Casey said.
“Perhaps.”
Duncan smirked as he aimed himself back toward the office, head held high. No one said anything to him. No one intentionally bumped his arm to make him spill his drink, or even shot him any dirty looks. Even if they had, he couldn’t really care.
For the first time in his adult life, Duncan Welch had made himself a friend.
Chapter 20
With the barroom brawl averted and its attendant adrenaline waning, Duncan’s evening shifted back to far less thrilling pursuits, and by one thirty, they had Raina’s finances in good order.
She’d mellowed in the past few hours, and as she straightened the final stack of invoices and closed them in a folder, she proclaimed, “Done. And how about that? I’m even getting off early for a change.”
Duncan stood and stretched. “Our dinner date was rather overshadowed by the demands of accounting . . . and by my brush with bodily harm. Would you care to supplement it with a nightcap, or dessert?”
“I actually want to hang around out front until Miah shows up for his watch. I haven’t had a chance to talk to him about what’s going on. Plus, I owe him some thanks—no doubt he’s going back to start another fourteen-hour workday after he’s finished playing security guard.”
“Right.”
So she felt she owed Miah her appreciation, and Duncan had heard her tender the same to Vince, the previous morning. Had she ever once told Duncan thank-you? He had to wonder. For cooking tonight’s dinner, or yesterday’s breakfast; for buying groceries, or for making sure the window got taken care of? What was different about him, that she seemed so incapable of gifting him with her gratitude?
He’d been through enough therapy to know it must make her feel vulnerable. And yet that only made it sting worse, when last night he’d thought there were no walls left standing between them. He’d told her, Hold me, naked and hurting with need, yet she couldn’t tell him thank you for something as banal as supper?
He wheeled his chair back to its corner. “I daresay Miah wouldn’t be pleased to watch us go upstairs together.”
She shrugged. “That’d be Miah’s problem.”
“Yes, in all fairness, though, it would feel rather rude all the same. Especially as he’s exhausting himself for my benefit, and I’m sleeping with an ex he doesn’t seem all that over. So I think I’ll head up now.”
“Suit yourself.”
“Should I wait up?”
That brought her eyes to his, and he was surprised to detect a moment’s hesitance in her gaze. Then she nodded. “Sure.”
His body warmed straight through. “Good.”
He went upstairs and opened the kitchen window to let in the cool night air. Astrid kept him company while he loaded the dinner dishes in the washer and cleaned the pans. Chores tackled, he poured himself a vodka and tonic and sat at the table, scanning the day’s news on his phone. Comforting to see there remained larger problems in the world than the ones he was mired in.
Just after two, the sound of a vehicle pulling into the back lot drew his attention off his phone. He shooed the cat from his lap and moved to the open window. The motion sensor lights had come on, illuminating Miah as he got out of his truck and slammed its door. A moment later, light was spilling out of the building and Raina appeared through the back door. Duncan tried to leave the window to go back to his time-wasting, but his feet were rooted, stuck fast as suction cups to the linoleum.
Don’t hug, he willed them.
They didn’t. They spoke, Miah nodded. Raina gestured to the defaced side of Duncan’s car, Miah ran an agitated-looking hand through his long hair. Duncan hated to admit it, but the two of them looked terribly right together.
But looks are deceiving. And she’s not with him, she’s with me.
For now, anyhow.
But she loved him. She said she still does. And he’ll likely remain a part of her life decades after she’s forgotten my name.
Miah’s dog was in the bed of the truck. As they continued to talk, Raina turned her attention to it, rubbing its ears and setting its tail wagging. Miah gestured to the west; Raina nodded. He pulled out his phone again, spoke to it briefly. A thermos was procured from the truck’s cab; then Miah lowered his tailgate and hopped his butt onto it, settling in with the dog at his side. Raina pointed to something behind him, and he reached back and then held out a rifle. She perched it on her shoulder, looking through the sight, then passed it back. Then, freezing Duncan’s heart, she put her hand between Miah’s shoulder blades, rubbing. He shook his head, flicked his hand as though telling her to go inside.
Duncan ducked away from the window, feeling like an insecure ass.
The lights out back went dark; then steps sounded in the stairwell. Duncan hoped he looked casual when she came through the door a minute later, phone aglow with some news article he’d not absorbed a word of.
“Neighborhood watch in place?” he asked.
“Yup. Now with added guard dog.”
“Care for a drink?”
“Sure. Mix me a Duncan Welch special.”
He did, and they moved to the den to sit on the couch. She took a taste of the cocktail and smiled. Duncan held his breath until she set it on the coffee table and propped her feet beside it. Then he couldn’t bite his tongue any longer. “May I ask you something?”
“Sure.”
“Why is it you seem incapable of telling me thank-you?”
She stared at him, glanced at the tumbler, back to him. “It’s good. Thank you.”
“Not for the drink. For anything. For dinner. Groceries. You’ve never thanked me for a single tip I’ve ever left you, nor for getting the window mended . . .”
“I never asked you to pay for that.”
He sighed, exasperated. “I’m not saying you did, I— Christ. Never mind.”
She frowned. “What’s brought this on?”
“I don’t know. It’s been a long day.”
“Well, I’m not good at thank-yous. Or apologies. Or saying please, for that matter. I’m kind of a cagey bitch, in case you hadn’t noticed. It’s bad manners, but don’t take it personally.”
“You waited for Miah to arrive, specifically so you could thank him. And did you?”
“Yes, I did.” She sat up a little straighter. “You know why?”
“No. I don’t.”
“Because I feel bad for him. He’s not sleeping tonight, and he still has feelings for me, but he knows I’m up here with you. I thanked him because I feel shitty that he’s bound to be feeling shitty. If there’s some deep reason I don’t thank you, it’s because I’m not worried about hurting you.”
But you could. And so easily. “I see.”
“If you hide a thin skin underneath those suits of yours, I’d never have guessed it.” She paused, then picked up her drink and resettled on the couch, kneeling, facing him. She held the glass in both hands, studying it before she spoke. “Do you know what the sexiest thing about you is, Duncan?”
Confused, he frowned. “My pocket squares?”
She cracked a smile. “No. It’s the fact that you couldn’t give less of a shit about what anyone thinks of you.”
“I care very much what people think of me. If I didn’t I’d drive a Hyundai and shop at Sears.”
“You don’t, though. You care how you look, and how you advertise, but you honestly don’t give a flying fuck if anybody likes that man or not, do you? You do it for you. Whatever Bobby and Ducky and those guys called you, I know for a fact it didn’t hurt your feelings.”
“Well, no. But I don’t respect them. And I . . . I rather respect you.”
She sat back, looking surprised.
“So I’d like it if you’
d say thank-you now and again,” Duncan went on, “when I’ve done something to warrant it.”
She looked down at her drink.
“I trust that’s not such a hardship . . . ?”
She was on her feet a breath later, setting her half-drunk glass on the table. Duncan started, thinking she was about to stomp out of the room.
“What did I—”
“Come with me,” she ordered, putting out her hand to demand his. He gave it, and she drew him to standing, led him to her room. She kept the blinds closed this time, though the neon sign painted them pink. She sat on the end of her bed and pulled off her boots. Unsure what to expect, Duncan followed suit, pushing off his shoes where he stood.
He looked up when he felt twin tugs at his hips, and let her draw him close by his belt loops, into the V of her spread thighs. He was hard in a beat, dizzy when his erection pressed between her legs. He’d quit lamenting how much easier this would be if she’d simply wear a skirt. Since they had their little soul-bearing session, he’d begun to worry there was a reason for her self-imposed dress code. One he didn’t care to hypothesize about.
Her hands roamed low, stroking his trapped erection, freeing his belt buckle. She got his pants open and his cock bared, the dry air greeting his flushed skin.
“What’s all this?” he murmured.
“This is me,” she said slowly, “thanking you.”
“I see.”
“Believe me when I tell you, Duncan, I’m a great liar—and a coward, just like you called it. You want to know how I feel, you listen when my body’s talking, and quit worrying about what comes out of my mouth. You understand?” She clasped his cock, gaze burning up into his.
All he could do was nod, struck dumb by the long, tight strokes of her fist. He held her hair and nailed his gaze to her spoiling hand.
Boiling alive, he peeled away his shirt. He could come in no time, just from this. But then she was tugging at his arms, coaxing him onto the bed, stripping his jeans and shorts and socks. He held her head as she trailed kisses down his neck, his chest, his belly, tickling the hair that led from his navel to his cock. There was no mistaking what came next.
