by Devney Perry
No. I staggered away, shaking my head. “No. It’s not possible.”
“Maybe that was why Amina came here to meet with Draven. To discuss their daughter. It makes sense.”
“No way. If I had a sister, I’d know.” I balled my hands into fists, pacing in front of her. Could I have a sister? Dad had been a different man after Mom had died. Maybe he’d gotten Amina knocked up sometime after the funeral.
“How old is she?”
“Twenty-six.”
All the air escaped my lungs and I couldn’t breathe. Dropping my hands to my knees, I struggled to stay off the ground. Mom had died when I was twelve. I’d been a middle-school kid riding home in my older brother’s car to find my mother dead. To find her blood soaking the front sidewalk next to a plastic tray of yellow flowers.
If this sister was twenty-six, then she was nine years younger than me. Three years old when my mother had been ripped away from us. Three.
“No. Impossible.” Mom and Dad were hopelessly in love. Always. I couldn’t remember a time that they’d fought. I couldn’t remember a night when Dad had slept on the couch because he’d pissed her off.
“Dash, she could—”
“No!” I roared. “Dad wouldn’t have cheated on Mom. It’s. Fucking. Impossible.”
Bryce kept her mouth shut, but there was judgment in her eyes. She was sure Dad was a murdering cheat. And I’d defend him to the end.
“Get in the car.” I walked around the front of her car, ripping the passenger door open. When Bryce didn’t move, I bellowed across the roof, “Get in the car!”
Her body jerked into action. She spun around, getting in and strapping on her seat belt. I climbed in too, not bothering with a belt.
“Drive.”
She nodded, putting the car in gear. But before she let off the brake, she looked at me. “I’m sorry. I thought you knew.”
“There’s nothing to know.” I stared out the window, my hands gripping my thighs. Every ounce of my willpower went to not putting my fist through the glass.
Bryce’s hand stretched across the console. “Dash—”
“Don’t. Touch. Me.”
Her hand snapped back to the wheel.
I didn’t want comfort. I didn’t want the smooth heat of her skin on mine. I didn’t want to believe a word that had come out of her mouth.
She was wrong. She was dead wrong. And I’d prove it to her. Tonight.
“Drive,” I ordered again.
“Where?”
“Right.”
Bryce silently followed my one-word directions through town until we turned onto the quiet street of my childhood. I pointed to the curb in front of Dad’s house and she pulled over. Without a word, we got out of the car and she trailed behind me to the side door.
Five punishing knocks and a light flipped on inside.
Dad made his way to the door to unlock it. “Dash?”
I pushed past him inside, marching into the kitchen.
Mom’s kitchen.
The one where she’d cooked us meals every day. Where she’d packed our lunches into aluminum boxes with cartoons on the front and filled our thermoses with chocolate milk. Where she’d kissed Dad every evening and asked him about his day.
Impossible. Dad had loved Mom with every ounce of his being. He’d never cheat on her. Bryce was wrong and I wanted her to stand witness, to hear the truth in his voice when he denied having a daughter.
Dad came into the kitchen, his eyes squinting as they adjusted to the light. He was shirtless, wearing only a pair of plaid pajama pants.
Bryce slipped in behind him, choosing to stand against the refrigerator. If she was scared, she didn’t show it. If she was doubting herself, she didn’t show that either.
Fuck her. She didn’t know. She didn’t know that I’d grown up with two people who loved one another more than life. That Dad had almost died of a broken heart when Mom had been killed.
“What’s going on?” Dad asked.
“I want the truth.” My chest heaved and I fought to keep my voice steady. “And you’re going to give it to me.”
He stood motionless. Calm. “The truth about what, son?”
“Bryce went to see Amina’s daughter.”
Dad’s eyes closed and his chin dropped.
No.
Dad always hung his head whenever he disappointed his sons.
“It’s true then? She’s your daughter?” A slight nod and I flew across the room, my fist colliding with his cheek. A crack filled the kitchen and Bryce let out a small scream as she jumped. “You’re dead to me.”
Without another word, I marched out of the room. The walls were closing in on me. I flew through the mudroom and burst outside, gasping for breath in the night air.
A hand, gentle and light, landed on my spine. “I’m sorry.”
“She loved him. And he . . .” My throat closed on the words. I couldn’t say it. I couldn’t believe Dad had cheated on Mom.
My mother had put up with so much shit from him. And it had cost her her life. Meanwhile, the man I’d loved, the man I’d looked up to, had gotten her best friend from high school pregnant.
Mom and Amina’s fallout made sense now. They hadn’t drifted apart. Did Mom know? Or had Dad kept Amina and his daughter from all of us?
“Fuck.” I stood and walked to Bryce’s car, her footsteps echoing behind.
Inside her car, she didn’t utter a word as she drove away.
I dropped my head, shoving my hands in my hair. “I have to tell Nick.”
After years, my brother and Dad finally had a decent relationship. One phone call and I’d destroy it all over again.
“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” Bryce chanted over the steering wheel. Her eyes were glued to the road ahead. “I thought you knew. I thought you were lying to me and covering up for your dad. I would have handled it differently. I should have handled it differently.”
“You’re not the one who cheated on his wife and just lost the respect of his son.”
Her shoulders fell. “I’m still sorry.”
“Not your fault.” My hand drifted to her shoulder and she tensed. Shit. Was she scared of me? I was angry, but not at her. “Sorry. For earlier.”
“Don’t worry about it.” Bryce relaxed. “I always figured you had a temper. And I’m a big girl. I can handle a man yelling at me. Just don’t make it a habit.”
“I won’t.” I didn’t want Bryce to ever fear me. I watched the road as she drove toward The Betsy, but when we got there, she didn’t slow. She blew right past the bar. “Where are we going?”
Bryce gave me a small smile as she turned into the parking lot of Stockyard’s, a bar two blocks down from The Betsy known for its greasy food. “Are you hungry? I’m starving. All I had for lunch were cookies.”
Chapter Eighteen
Bryce
“I like it here.” Dash looked around the dim bar, holding a huge cheeseburger in his hands. “I haven’t been here in ages. It’s so much quieter than The Betsy. Food’s damn good too.”
“So good.” I took another enormous bite of my burger and moaned.
My parents loved Stockyard’s. It was more their speed than a seedy ruckus bar like The Betsy. It catered to the low-key crowd in Clifton Forge with its subtle music and an abundance of tables for people to sit and visit. It was no surprise that, at nearly midnight, the place was mostly empty.
I figured the only reason they stayed open late was because it was the only place in town to serve food this late. They’d probably get a rush from The Betsy soon, drunks looking for a heavy meal to combat the alcohol. And then, of course, they were open to serve the poker players at the table along the back. Seven men sat hunched over their chips as a young redhead with a pretty smile dealt their cards.
Dash’s back was to them, but every ten minutes, he’d glance over his shoulder, throwing a glare across the distance of the room.
“Not a fan of poker?” I asked after another one of his scowls
.
“The one in the gray hoodie is Presley’s fiancé, Jeremiah.” He frowned. “She’s probably sittin’ at home alone while he’s here losing money and getting loaded. Guy’s a tool but she puts up with his shit.”
“And I’m guessing she doesn’t like it when you express that opinion.”
“Not much.” He shook his head. “We’ve all tried to talk to her but it always ends in a fight. So now we keep quiet. At least, we will until they actually decide to get married. Then we’ll all gang up on her.”
“An intervention?” I laughed. “Good luck with that. You’ll have to tell me how it goes.”
From my brief encounter with Presley at the garage, I imagined she was the type who’d make up her own mind. Telling her no would probably work about as well as it did on me.
Dash and I didn’t speak as we finished our meals. Since we’d come in and ordered, neither of us had spoken about what had happened at Draven’s house. But with every bite swallowed, it was coming. What had happened couldn’t be ignored forever.
With rumpled and grease-stained napkins tossed over the few remaining french fries on our plates, Dash’s gaze met mine. “So . . .”
“So. Want to talk about it?”
He ran a hand over the stubble of his jaw. “Can’t believe he’d do that to Mom. She was amazing. This carefree, loving woman. She didn’t deserve a cheating husband. God, I hope she never knew. That she died thinking he was faithful.”
“Can I ask how she died?”
“She was killed outside the house.” He leaned his elbows on the table, speaking in a low voice full of pain. “We found her, me and Nick.”
My hand came to my sternum. It was unimaginable. Heartbreaking. I wanted to hold Dash, but for now, I settled for a whispered, “I’m sorry.”
“Nick was sixteen and had a car. I begged him to give me a ride home from school that day so I didn’t have to ride the bus. He was pissed because there was this girl he was chasing and she wanted him to drive her around. But he took me home instead. He always put me first, our family first. Even as a teenager. We got home and saw Mom lying on her side on the sidewalk. She’d been gardening, wearing the gloves I bought her for Mother’s Day.”
I put my hand over Dash’s, holding tight.
He turned his over, threading his fingers with mine. “There was another club in Montana who’d been causing the Gypsies some trouble. They were called the Travelers. Dad and the club had plenty of petty beefs with them over the years, but it had been nothing too serious. Nothing dangerous. Then Dad and the club got aggressive about expanding. They took on more drug routes to up the club’s income, even poached some from other clubs. The Travelers didn’t like losing and made some threats. Dad dismissed them, not taking them seriously. Until they took it further.”
“They came after your mom.”
He nodded. “Drove up to our home. Shot her in the back of the head while she was planting yellow flowers. You couldn’t even recognize her face. The bullet just tore through her.”
My hand tightened around his and I closed my eyes. The cheeseburger wasn’t sitting well, not when I imagined myself in Dash’s shoes. Finding your mother’s dead body was a horror no child should have to see.
“Dash, I’m . . . I’m so sorry.”
“Me too.” He stayed quiet for a few minutes, his eyes on the table. Even when the bartender came by to take our plates and refill our waters, he didn’t move. He just held my hand until it was the two of us alone. “Dad and the Gypsies killed all of their members. Every last one.”
I opened my mouth to respond but I didn’t have the words. It was hard to fathom that kind of murder and violence. Hard to see Dash in that life. And at the same time, I was glad he, Nick and even Draven, had gotten their vengeance. It wasn’t black and white, this world he’d pulled me into. There wasn’t a clear-cut line between right and wrong, not like I’d believed before.
He looked up from the table and adjusted his grip on my hand, wrapping it up completely. “We aren’t good men, Bryce.”
“Maybe. But you’re a good man to me.”
“You sure about that? I got you thrown in jail. Haven’t always treated you right. Yelled at you tonight.”
I locked my eyes with his. “I’m sure.”
Dash loved the people in his life. He was loyal and kind. He enjoyed pushing my buttons, but he’d never once pushed too hard. When he had crossed a line, they’d all been forgivable acts. And an apology hadn’t been long to follow.
Even the whole jail thing.
Because had our roles been reversed, I probably would have done the same to him. I wouldn’t admit it anytime soon, but I’d pardoned him for it all.
After paying the check, Dash and I made our way out into the dark night.
“Where to?” I asked as we walked to my car.
“Mind if I crash at your place?”
I fished the keys from my purse. “I’m punching you in the ribs if you snore.”
He chuckled. “I don’t snore.”
My alarm blared me awake at four in the morning. I scurried to shut it off and not wake Dash.
The man was sprawled on his stomach, his face turned away from me. But his hand was on the small of my back. His thumb moved, rubbing a tiny circle. “It’s early.”
“I have to go to the paper and make sure everything gets out for delivery,” I said, sliding out of bed.
Dad was probably already at the newspaper, bright-eyed and smiling. I was anxious to join him. Sunday and Wednesday mornings were the two days I didn’t want to linger in bed.
Though today, with Dash here, I was tempted.
I took an efficient shower and swiped on the minimum makeup to hide the dark circles under my eyes. Staying up past midnight on a Saturday wasn’t something I’d normally do. But last night had been an exception. To a lot of things.
Dressed in a pair of jeans, tennis shoes and a T-shirt, I walked toward the bedroom door, ready for coffee, but hesitated when I glimpsed Dash. Should I say goodbye? Or just leave?
He was probably asleep. Not snoring now that I was on my way out.
“Bryce.”
“Yeah?” I whispered.
“Come here.”
I tiptoed around the bed, bending low. “What?”
“Kiss,” he ordered with his eyes closed. Those dark lashes were lying perfectly on his cheek.
I smiled, putting my hand on his forehead to push his mussed hair away before dropping my lips to his temple. “Bye.”
It was impossible to keep the smile off my face as I drove to the newspaper. Even with only a few hours of sleep, I was rested and fresh.
Dash and I had fallen into my bed last night, emotionally exhausted and full. He hadn’t made a move for sex. Neither of us had. He’d slept in his boxers. I’d pulled on a tank top and shorts. Then, with his hand slipped underneath the hem of my shirt, we’d fallen asleep.
His palm had stayed warm on my skin all night.
He’d probably be gone when I returned home. Dash had been hit by an emotional steamroller last night and needed time to work it all out. I only hoped he knew he could turn to me if he needed a sympathetic ear.
Last night, things had moved way past my story. This wasn’t about me anymore. Or Amina Daylee. Or Genevieve. Or even Draven. This was about Dash.
My feelings for him could no longer be ignored. When Dad asked me for a story on the Tin Gypsies, I’d tell him a lie. There wasn’t one worth printing.
A story wasn’t worth breaking Dash’s heart. He’d had enough of that in his life. He wouldn’t get more from me.
Coming through the rear entrance to the pressroom, I found Dad standing by the Goss. “Hi, Dad.”
“How’s my girl?” he asked as I kissed his cheek.
“Good. How’s it looking?”
He handed over the sample paper in his hands. “We’re about done. I’ve got one last run here. BK is working on the bundles.”
Scanning the front page, I smiled at t
he last of Willy’s articles about the railroad travelers. People had loved his segment, me included.
“It couldn’t have turned out better,” I told Dad. “I’ll go help out BK.”
After an hour of bundling papers and organizing them into stacks, we greeted the delivery drivers in the loading dock. Five parents with their five kids pulled into the parking lot about the same time. They’d be driving papers through town and the surrounding areas this morning.
Most of our subscribers would have their news before seven.
“What are you up to for the rest of the day?” Dad asked as he shut off a row of lights in the pressroom. BK had left already, making a few of his own deliveries before going home.
“Not much. I need to do laundry,” I grumbled. “What about you?”
“A nap. Then your mom wants to go out to Stockyard’s for dinner. You’re welcome to come along.”
“Thanks. We’ll see.” Which we both knew meant no.
I was cheeseburgered out. The thought of another made my stomach roll. The coffee I’d guzzled while bundling papers wasn’t sitting well either, probably from all the heavy food right before bed.
When I got home, I was going to make myself a piece of dry toast and hoped that it would soak up some of the residual grease.
“I have a couple new story ideas I want to run by you. Will you be in tomorrow?”
“Of course. By eight at the latest. We can talk about them then.” He hugged me and I waved as I walked for the door. “Bryce.”
“Yeah?” I turned.
“You’ve been quiet about the Tin Gypsies. Did you really give that up?”
“Turns out, there isn’t much to tell.” It was a relief. Dad wouldn’t pressure me to write the story, but by telling him I was letting it go, it gave me permission to do just that.
“All right. And the murder investigation? Has Marcus released anything new?”
“Not lately. I doubt there will be much until the trial. I’d like to do a memorial piece about Amina Daylee, but I think it’s too soon after the murder.” Too much was up in the air. “I’d like to give it some time.”
