Homecoming (Dartmoor Book 8)

by Lauren Gilley

  “Oh, honey,” she said, in response to whatever Leah’s face was doing, her voice softening. “Something’ll turn up.”

  An array of local business cards sat perched in plastic holders on this part of the counter, free advertising for the florist, and the salon – and Dartmoor Cycle Repair. Leah traced the corner of the card, with its familiar black dog silhouette – with a fingertip. She’d matched the pink of her nail polish to the pink of the hibiscus on her shoes. “Maggie’s offered to help me find something,” she said in an undertone, reluctantly.

  “She did? Well, let her!” Marie laughed. “There’s your answer right there!”

  Leah lifted her head, frowning, already forming a response – but a customer arrived, a harried-looking young woman with a laptop bag and a Tennessee sweatshirt. Marie held up a finger and stepped aside to take her order.

  Leah picked up one of the Dartmoor cards and swiveled around on her stool, surveying the mostly-crowded shop, the pedestrians passing the windows out on the sidewalk. The air smelled of strong, freshly-ground beans, flaky pastry, gooey chocolate. Sweet, soothing, familiar scents. I should just work here, she thought, but then caught sight of a high school-age boy in a blue Cook’s Coffee apron bussing a table. Her paycheck here wouldn’t cover her expenses, and she refused to take a job from a teen who needed it.

  She glanced down at the card in her hand, that symbol that drew love and hate, awe and contempt in this city. For her, the Dogs had always meant Ava, her best friend; had always meant plenty to eat, and a free car tow, and a cheeky grin from Aidan. They’d never frightened her.

  “Maggie has contacts,” Marie said, and Leah turned back around. Mom had her hands braced on the counter, head titled to a no-nonsense angle. Imploring. “You just interviewed with my contact. What would it hurt to let Maggie help if she’s willing?”

  Nothing, she knew, logically. It would hurt nothing. The Dogs got things done in this city. Maggie could open all sorts of doors: sometimes with sweetness, and sometimes with force. Leah’s parents had never seemed bothered by that fact. Dad had served in the Marines – stationed in South Korea, where they’d found her, and adopted her – and he was a realist under his good cheer. She’d asked him once, when she was a kid, why Ava got picked on at school because her dad was a Dog. Her own father had shrugged and said, “Some people are assholes, and like to beat up on others. And some people get shit done: that’s Kenny Teague.”

  “I guess I’m just being stubborn,” she admitted.

  Marie nodded, and bit back a smile. “Wonder where you got that.”

  Leah snorted, and replaced the card. “Did you guys know the Dogs bought up most of this block of shops?” Cook’s sat at the very end of the strip that housed Bell Bar and the future Maude’s.

  Marie nodded and picked up a rag to wipe at the spotless counter. “Yeah. They’ve got the construction going all the time now. This section of street’s really gonna look good and cleaned up. It’s needed a makeover for a while.”

  It had. But Leah saw a twitch at the corner of her mother’s mouth, a faint sign of tension. She thought of what she’d seen when she first walked in, those shadows beneath Marie’s eyes.

  “Mom,” she said, carefully, and Marie’s head snapped up. “Is everything okay?”

  “What? Yeah, of course.” Marie laughed, a forced, brittle sound, and glanced down at the counter.

  “Mom?”

  Marie’s head lifted again, and she gathered a breath. Leah watched a variety of emotions flicker across her face; saw the debate happening behind her eyes.

  But then the bell jangled above the door, Marie’s gaze shifted toward it, and she put on a mostly professional smile – one tinged with true warmth. “Afternoon, boys.”

  Leah turned to see Aidan, Tango, and Carter walking up toward the counter. Carter was sporting two ugly, but healing shiners; he wore a bit of tape across the bridge of his nose, still, the skin around it mottled purple and green. He looked exactly like someone who’d been punched in the face by a jealous boyfriend.

  “Hi, Mrs. Cook.” Aidan propped a hip against the front of the counter and perused the cookies that waited there behind the raised, glassed-off display case. “You got any peanut butter chocolate chunk today?”

  “Always.” Marie snapped open a paper bag. “Carter, honey, what happened to your face?”

  Aidan snorted. “He tripped and fell on some dipshit’s fist.”

  “What happened?” Marie asked, tone taking on a distinctly maternal edge. Women of all ages were fooled by Aidan’s bad boy swagger and good looks, but never Leah’s mother.

  “Nothing, ma’am,” Aidan said. If his grin was aiming for innocent, it missed the mark by a long shot. “Shop accident.”

  Leah studied Carter; the way he stood with his head ducked, shoulders drooping, hands shoved in his pockets. He’d come along with his club brothers, but he didn’t want to be in here; didn’t want anyone to see his face, probably.

  When he lifted his head, she caught his gaze, and offered a smile.

  He turned around.

  “Mrs. Cook,” Aidan said, as Marie passed him a bag full of cookies. “Thanks. But I’ve got a favor to ask, too. Can we watch your security footage?”

  ~*~

  “According to my guy at the city, three people have asked to see the records for our new properties,” Ratchet said, bringing up and then minimizing files on his laptop screen at a dizzying pace. “Rodney Cosgrave, who owns that strip mall over by the AMC theater. Doug Wallace, who’s doing all those house flips on the east side of town. And – here’s the interesting part – Pete Weston.” He pulled up a driver’s license photo of a young guy with pale hair and a red-and-white striped tie.

  “Why is that the interesting part?” Ghost asked.

  “He works for the mayor’s office.”

  “He own business property?” Walsh asked, standing behind his other shoulder.

  “No, nothing. He’s a glorified secretary. My guess is: he wasn’t down there looking at property records for his own benefit.”

  Ghost itched for a smoke. He settled for scrubbing at the back of his neck when the skin there prickled with a premonition. “So the mayor’s looking at who’s buying up property on Main Street.”

  Walsh, who, to Ghost’s knowledge, hadn’t promised his wife he’d quit smoking, took a drag off his cigarette and sent Ghost a lifted-brow look. “It makes sense that a mayor would want to know who’s buying property in his city.” There was the faintest note of doubt in his voice, though.

  Ghost said, “Forgive me if I don’t believe in coincidence, or responsible mayors.”

  Walsh snorted.

  “What about the security footage?”

  “That. Okay.” Ratchet clicked across his keyboard, and opened up a six-way split screen view of paused black-and-white security footage. “This” – the upper left – “is from the Cooks’ coffee place. This is Maude’s, the café, the empty spot, and Bell Bar.”

  He pressed play, and the videos must have all been synched up, because Ghost got to watch two people in dark clothes, faces shielded by hoods, walk down the sidewalk and take spray paint to their store fronts. He got glimpses of both their faces – but only pale flashes of chins and noses.

  “Could be kids,” Walsh said, again with doubt.

  “Could be.” Ghost didn’t think they were dealing with anyone his own age, at least. But they lacked that lanky, loose-limbed gait he’d come to associate with furtive teenagers out for a bit of vandalism. “Did the cameras catch anything specific?”

  “Kinda,” Ratchet said. He pulled up one of the videos, and zoomed in. There was a logo on one of the guys’ hoodies, blurry and out of focus. But it was a large, simple design. “Is that a fish?”

  Walsh snapped his fingers. “That custom boat place.”

  “Flash,” Ratchet said. “Yeah, that’s what I thought.” He twisted around to regard them. “They sell shirts and stuff there in the office.”

 
“Yeah,” Ghost said, and scratched his neck some more.

  He could envision the way it would play out: taking a trip to Flash, maybe producing a grainy photo of this footage. Asking around. Getting lots of nos and no way, mans. Learning nothing – looking like idiots.

  Or…

  “I’ve got an idea,” he said.

  Eight

  Jazz hadn’t asked him to meet her over at the high school this evening, but guilt had been gnawing at Carter’s gut ever since their last night together. He found her car in the parking lot, left his bike in the space beside it, and made his way slowly toward the side entrance as a sugar-pink sunset tickled the bottoms of the clouds.

  The door she normally used was over by the art rooms, where the windows overlooked the soccer and practice fields. The low bleachers there offered the perfect place to sit and wait for her; to enjoy the breeze, and the sunset. And, tonight, he noted with a stirring of nostalgia, football practice again.

  The team was split into smaller groups tonight, running position drills. The quarterbacks were set up right in front of him, working on passes, two young coaches doing all the actual catching, then passing the balls over to the QBs to be thrown.

  It didn’t take long for Carter to pick out which was first string: his assuredness with the ball, the easy, athletic way he stood. He turned something as simple as warm-up drills into a show.

  His long ball, though, when they shifted on the field, needed a little work. He wasn’t bad. He was plenty accurate enough to handle most of the high schools around here. But if he was trying to play college ball – which he surely must be, given his grace, his musculature, the ready way he offered advice and guidance to his backup, friendly, not threatened by the other boy, but with an authority that commanded respect – he needed to be more precise about being a deep ball right in his receiver’s hands.

  A pass was set up: over fifty yards. The wide receiver swung right past the bleachers where Carter was sitting, stiff-armed the defensive back trying – gently, it was only practice – to bring him down, turned, and put a gloved hand up for the ball. The quarterback threw; a beautiful, arcing spiral that caught the now-orange gleam of the setting sun.

  And Carter stood up and caught the ball on the third row.

  Downfield, he saw the quarterback drop his arms and kick his head back in disappointment.

  The wide receiver trotted to a halt and burst into laughter. “Hey, man!” he called to his QB, hands on his hips as he caught his breath.

  The quarterback made an I know, I know gesture and turned to listen to what his coach was saying, too far away for Carter to hear.

  When the WR turned, Carter tossed him the ball. Not a true pass, not enough to tweak his bad rotator cuff. But far enough for the old thrill to light up his gut.

  “Hey, that’s pretty good, biker man,” the wide receiver said.

  Carter twitched him a grin and nodded before he jogged back up the field. “Used to be,” he murmured to himself.

  ~*~

  When Jazz emerged from the school, he was surprised to see that she wasn’t alone. She was walking with two other women: one lanky, young girl with a shy face, and a middle-aged woman with curly red hair who he was pretty sure worked at Smokey’s. He swore he’d seen her waiting tables there. They made an incongruous picture, the three of them, as they headed down the sidewalk three-abreast. The matron, the school girl, and the biker chick. Even if Jazz was dressed a little more conservatively these days – at least for class – there was no dampening her general sex appeal. But they were all talking animatedly. The shy-looking girl said something, and Jazz’s laughter floated along on the evening breeze.

  She hadn’t been expecting him to show up, if the surprise on her face was anything to go by when she finally spotted him. “Well, hey – Carter!” His name sounded funny on her lips, and he realized it was because she hardly ever used it. He was always “baby boy,” just like Tango had been. She had a type, obviously.

  He offered a little wave, very aware of the stares of the other two. “Hi. I thought I’d come make sure you got home alright.”

  “Aren’t you sweet?” But she bit her lip and did something she never did: she hesitated. Her gaze shifted left and right toward her classmates – her friends, he realized. They were friends. “But actually, honey, I wasn’t gonna head home just yet. The girls and I were gonna go grab something to eat. Bev gets an employee discount at Smokey’s.” She gave the older woman a friendly nudge with her elbow. “And it’s hot wing night.”

  The woman – Bev – chuckled. “Every night’s hot wing night. Tonight they’re just bottomless.”

  “I could eat all of them. I’m starving,” Jazz vowed. “But you could come with us,” she offered to Carter, smiling – it wasn’t a hopeful smile, like she wanted him to come. Maybe she didn’t. This felt like charity. “We’re gonna be studying, so we’ll be real boring, but you’ll give us something cute to look at.” She gave an exaggerated wink and the other women laughed. The shy one covered her mouth with one hand and blushed.

  He considered it a moment. Pictured all three of them spread out at one of the ugly orange booths at Smokey’s, picking at hot wings and turning textbook pages with sauce-stained fingertips. Cokes, and girl talk, and all three of them so different, but working toward the same goal. Trying to better their lives. It was a picture that, when he shoved himself in, looked more like awkward chit-chat. Looked like being on the outside of this experience.

  Jazz deserved a study evening with her friends, and he wouldn’t intrude on it.

  He shook his head. “No, thanks. Y’all go have fun. Ghost needs me to do some stuff anyway.”

  Jazz tilted her head, her gaze searching, worried. “Are you sure?”

  He scraped up a smile. “Positive. We’ll catch up later.”

  She nodded, reluctant, even more worried. But stepped in to kiss his cheek. “You can come by tonight,” she whispered, as she pulled back, and then gave him a real wink, private and just for him, full of promise.

  “Sure,” he said, already envisioning his dorm, his bed, and a drink.

  As they walked off toward the parking lot, he heard Bev whisper, “You’re just a regular cougar, aren’t you?”

  “Oh my God, you can’t say that,” the shy girl said, and then all three of them laughed.

  Carter sat back down on the bleachers, and…just sort of stayed there.

  A part of him knew that watching young, healthy guys play football, all of them only just now getting a feel for the dreams that lay ahead, wasn’t good for his psyche. Being reminded of what he’d lost – even if it was a career, a sport, a too-big dream and not a flesh-and-blood person – would only make him feel worse. About everything. But he’d missed this: the smell of the dewy turf, the calls back and forth; the smack of pads colliding and the war whoops of triumph. Football was the sort of thing that got in your blood, and stuck around forever; flaring up in moments of intense fondness, great swells of emotion too nebulous to categorize.

  He supposed Aidan had grown up feeling that way about the club. About one-percenter life.

  But no matter where that life took Carter, football would always be his first love.

  It was nearly dark and the lights had come on with big, echoing thumps by the time the coaches called practice and the boys all packed it in. Carter hadn’t meant to stay so long – he really did have club work to do – but he’d been lulled into a sort of trance by the ebb and flow of practice: reminiscing, wishing.

  He felt nearly loopy with it; endorphins, he thought, vaguely. He’d gotten a contact high just from watching people play. That was what he chose to blame his sudden burst of forwardness on.

  As the team trooped past, chatting, complaining of sore muscles, and playing with their phones, Carter spotted the first-string quarterback and said, “Good arm.”

  The kid froze and lifted his head, gaze already suspicious when it landed on Carter. Most of his teammates continued on, but a few stopped
, glancing between the two of them.

  Belatedly, Carter realized that maybe the older guy lurking in the bleachers with a Lean Dogs cut didn’t look like welcome company.

  “Uh, sorry,” he offered. “I was waiting for my girlfriend, and I watched you guys practice.”

  “Dude,” one of the other players said. “Your girlfriend goes to this school?” Two others laughed.

  “No, not like – she’s getting her GED. Evening classes.” He gestured over toward the building.

  “Didn’t that let out, like, an hour ago?” another kid asked. “Why are you still sitting here in the damn dark?”

  “Dude, are you a pedophile or some shit?”

  Another player struck a fake scandalized pose and fanned his hand dramatically over his crotch.

  Carter wished he hadn’t said anything, now. He’d forgotten how tricky it could be talking to teenagers, and now he felt old, and creepy, and wrongfooted. “I didn’t – I’m not–” he tried, as laughter swelled among the group. He sighed. “I used to play here, in high school. Wanted to go pro. Sorry. I won’t come by again.” He stood, and started down the bleachers while the players feigned terror, screaming, and covering themselves. Something bounced off his forehead: a wadded-up paper cup, he saw, as it landed on the grass.

  The quarterback hadn’t spoken a word through all of this, standing tall and rigid, phone clenched in his hand. When Carter reached the bottom row of bleachers, he said, “Knock it off.”

  The other players went silent, cutting off mid-laugh, mid-taunt. They froze. True authority had rung in their QB’s voice, and it was obvious they respected him as a leader, going by their reactions.

  “Go on,” he said. “Go on and wait by the cars. I’ll be a sec.”

  Some doubtful looks were thrown, but the rest trooped off toward the parking lot.

  When they were gone, Carter stepped down onto the grass and turned to the quarterback. “Thanks. I wasn’t trying to start shit. I won’t come back.”