Burn It Up

by Cara McKenna

  Though what am I really afraid of? she had to wonder. James’s anger, or everyone finding out the truth about me?

  False names aside, she’d been two very different girls in her short life. One sweet and lost, one thoroughly ugly. Neither quite what they seemed to be.

  If the truth came out, everything was at risk.

  Duncan might want to fire her. The Churches might not be so keen to have Abilene staying under their roof. Casey might quit seeing her as a scared young mother in need of protection, and people could start wondering if maybe she shouldn’t be trusted with Mercy.

  Because Abilene wasn’t what she appeared to be. She wasn’t even Abilene, technically. She wasn’t twenty-four, and while she might be in danger, she wasn’t a complete victim in any of this.

  She wasn’t anywhere near as innocent as she seemed.

  • • •

  Casey got to Benji’s at eleven and let himself in through the front door.

  He and Duncan were having a kitchen installed, its space cannibalized from the former stockroom and an adjoining corner of the bar. It was going to be a boon to the business, and hopefully keep the drinkers from vanishing each night at dinnertime, keep the place relevant once the Eclipse—the massive and controversial resort casino just resuming construction in the foothills—arrived, along with its attendant competition. Casey had waged an epic battle with his new partner over the future menu, and won—they’d be specializing in roadside-style barbecue. Nice and simple, tough to fuck up. Duncan probably wished they could serve kale and quinoa and artisanal mulch or whatever he’d eat if given his snooty druthers, but Casey had stood firm. Ribs, chops, steak. That was the recipe for success, fitting their existing clientele and the vibe of the joint.

  “I want to choose the sides, then,” Duncan had insisted, cowing to the greater logic. “You can cook more than just meat on a grill. Even bikers and ranch hands eat vegetables, surely.”

  “Course. Corn on the cob and, um . . . Are baked beans a vegetable?”

  “I’m not rebranding this place ‘Benji’s Coronary Artery Disease Depot.’”

  “We can argue about this later, darling.” And no doubt they would. They were mismatched, as partners—and indeed friends—went, but it worked, somehow. Casey and commitments were mismatched as well, but this place meant a lot to him. It was his own first watering hole, and a business that embodied the soul of Fortuity in every floorboard, every beam. If nobody stepped in, invested their money and time and energy in keeping it viable, it’d go the way of the local mining industry in no time, a quaint footnote in a struggling town’s bleak history.

  Kitchen construction had kicked off a little more than a week ago, with a three-man crew working daily before the bar opened, six a.m. to two. The project was due to wrap in early March, just a few weeks away.

  To judge by the racket, the contractors were busy sanding something this morning. As if to confirm, Duncan strode out from behind the temporary partition covered in dust. He spotted Casey and raised a hand.

  Casey waited until Duncan took his ear protectors off, then called out, “No doubt you’ll be changing before you open this afternoon.”

  “No doubt at all.” Duncan moved his safety goggles to the top of his head and glanced down at his beige-dusted clothes—jeans and a T-shirt, not his typical style. He looked naked in anything less than a suit. He was a British expat, a disillusioned former lawyer for the casino’s development company, and pretty much nothing about him made any sense whatsoever in Fortuity. Casey supposed love did that to people. Changed their priorities, changed their assumptions about who they were and what they wanted.

  “You look like a normal person, man. What’re you doing back there anyhow, aside from getting in the way?”

  “Micromanaging. It’s been my experience that people work quicker and do a better job with some annoying prick hovering over their every move. When’s your brother due?”

  “Any minute. We should probably talk upstairs, away from the noise. Raina home?”

  “Yes, but she’s with a client.” Duncan was dating the bar’s former owner, and Casey’s good friend, Raina. Her dad had been Benji Harper, the bar’s namesake. She made no more sense paired with Duncan than Fortuity itself did, but the sex had to be off the fucking wall, because the two of them seemed to be as tangled up as ever, five months in. They lived together in the apartment above the bar, where Raina also did tattooing.

  Out front, the rumble of Vince’s arrival cut through the contractors’ din, then died as he killed his bike’s engine. Casey met him at the door.

  Vince gave him a half hug around the neck with his beefy arm. “What’s up, motherfucker?”

  “Nothing good,” Casey said, and locked up behind him.

  Vince had inherited their dad’s enviable height and build along with his black hair, while Casey was five-eleven, much leaner, with their mom’s fair skin and hair. The latter was overdue for a trim. Any stranger seeing Casey standing beside Vince, with his clean shave and military-style haircut, would be surprised to learn that Casey and he were brothers. Hell, even Casey had his doubts about whether or not they shared a father. Unlike Vince, he didn’t look a thing like the shit who’d run out on them when they were little, and if that doubt ever got corroborated, he’d throw himself a fucking party. He didn’t want that deadbeat’s blood in his veins, didn’t want a thing to do with him. The feeling had been mutual, after all.

  “Upstairs,” he said, nodding to the rear of the bar, where Duncan was waiting.

  Vince nodded at Duncan. “Welch.”

  “Grossier.”

  The two were perfectly civil, maybe even secretly fond of each other, but aside from being tall and owning old BMW motorcycles, they had nothing in common. Duncan was fair, fussy, and high-strung and appreciated opera, while Vince was more into tattoos and fistfights. The three of them headed through the back and up the stairwell, into Raina and Duncan’s kitchen. A buzzing was coming from the adjoining room, telling them Raina was hard at work.

  “So when’d you talk to him?” Casey asked his brother.

  “Just this morning.”

  “And?”

  Vince pulled out a chair and sat, planting his forearms on the dining table. “And he’s a man of few words. And none of them were very encouraging.”

  Casey swore and sat.

  Duncan filled a teakettle, looking grave. “What precisely did he say?”

  “He said that nothing I could say was going to stop him from seeing his kid. I mean, I doubt he’d hurt the baby. But his ex . . . ? I dunno. I’ve only ever known the guy in the company of men, and he was no teddy bear.”

  “Violent?” Duncan asked.

  “Fights, yeah. Which is just what you do on the inside, but he enjoyed ’em, same as me.”

  “You’d never hurt Kim, though,” Casey said, meaning Vince’s girlfriend. “Or any woman. Or a kid.”

  “Course not. And maybe Ware wouldn’t, either—prison’s not exactly the best place to get a handle on a guy. But we’re not taking any chances. Can’t discount female intuition, and the girl’s fucking terrified.”

  “Did you tell him where Abilene’s staying?”

  Vince shook his head. “But I had to say how I knew her—that she came to me after he’d given her my name, and that I’d helped her get a job here at the bar.”

  “You tell him she doesn’t work here anymore? Last thing I need is him showing up and getting pushy.”

  “I did, but I have no doubt he’ll come by, demanding to know where she’s at.”

  “And what’s our answer to that question?” Duncan asked.

  “None of his fucking business,” Casey said.

  Vince shook his head. “We tell him she’s someplace safe, that the baby’s fine, and they’ve got support. But we don’t say where. Not until he proves he’s willing to approach the situation calmly. And Case, you’ve got to convince her to talk to him.”

  “Personally I don’t want him anywhere n
ear her. But I see what you mean.”

  “Keeping her in hiding’s not exactly sustainable,” Duncan agreed. “Plus the longer we put off brokering some sort of meeting, the more upset he could get. We don’t need a frustrated ex-convict roughing up the customers.”

  “Unless it’s me,” Vince said, smirking. He got excited about fights like a kid gunning for a trip to the waterpark.

  Casey knew they were both right—Abilene had to face the guy sometime. “I’ll talk to her, but don’t hold your breath.” She’d been putting up a brave front as her ex’s release loomed closer, but he could sense the fear behind it.

  “Has to happen. Even assholes deserve to meet their children,” Vince said, “until they prove otherwise.”

  Casey felt his insides sour, thinking of their own dad. It burned him something nasty to know Mercy might have that kind of disappointment in store for her—a deadbeat, or maybe even worse, if Ware was the hothead Vince and Abilene had both made him out to be.

  Duncan’s striped cat came strolling through, bashing itself bodily into Casey’s shins. He nudged it away. “Back off. I’m allergic to you.”

  “Talk to her,” Duncan said, pouring steaming water into a cup and bobbing a tea bag. “It would be helpful for us to be able to tell this man that she’s willing to talk, in time, if that’s true.”

  “Yeah, fine.”

  “And I’ll make it a point to be a regular downstairs until he shows up,” Vince said.

  Duncan nodded. “That sounds wise. I can’t imagine anyone would take me seriously as a bouncer.” He turned to Casey. “Is Abilene on tonight?”

  “Yeah, her last shift. I told her I could handle it by myself, but she’s desperate for the money.”

  Vince rubbed his chin like he wasn’t happy about this plan, but held his tongue.

  “You can try to talk her out of it, but I don’t recommend it,” Casey said. “Plus the poor girl’s basically in witness protection as of tomorrow morning. Three C’s roomy but it’d still feel like a prison if you weren’t allowed to leave.”

  “Make sure Miah talks to all his ranch hands again—they’re in the bar often enough, and we don’t need one of them running into Ware and spilling the beans.”

  Casey nodded.

  “Right,” Vince said, standing. “I’m supposed to be at Petroch for a half day. See you fuckers later.”

  Duncan inclined his head and Casey said, “Bye.” As Vince thumped down the steps, he asked Duncan, “What are you up to now?”

  “I’m trying to have a late lunch with Raina before I open, so I thought I might get the delights of sweeping and mopping and toilet scrubbing out of the way now.”

  “Glamorous. Guess I’ll be on my way, then.”

  They headed downstairs together and Casey snagged Raina’s motorcycle helmet off the coatrack. “Tell your better half I’m stealing this. Just for the night.”

  “I doubt she’ll notice. She’s got two more appointments after lunch. I daresay no joyriding will be happening today.”

  Not for you, Casey thought. But he intended to give Abilene everything she had coming to her, on her final night of freedom.

  Chapter 4

  From down in the Churches’ den came Casey’s shout. “You about ready?”

  Abilene checked the clock—twenty minutes of seven. Oops.

  “Almost!”

  Mercy was already fed and dozing in her car seat in the office where Christine was working, but Abilene herself was a mess. She dashed into the guest bathroom and dried her hair, hunted down two shoes that matched, and realized too late she hadn’t shaved her legs. So much for the skirt she’d pulled on, and too bad—she always made better tips when she showed her legs. Men really didn’t care if your legs were all tanned and svelte like a gazelle’s, or plump and pale like her own, as long as they were bare. Oh well. She dug out some jeans and named herself presentable. She didn’t much care what she wore, only where she’d be spending her night. Behind the bar, with Casey, for the last time until she didn’t know when. It took her back to a simpler time—before he’d known she was pregnant, before he’d been her boss or watched her become a mother. Back when he’d still hit on her, and still looked at her with fire in those blue eyes.

  “Ready,” she called as she shut her door and shouldered her purse. The second-floor landing on this side of the house overlooked the big den, and she could see Casey leaning on the back of the couch, checking his phone.

  He glanced up as she hurried down the steps. “Grab your coat, why don’t you?”

  “I’ll be okay. Your car warms up quick.” She didn’t have a ride of her own just now, which sucked. Her little crapbox ’94 Colt was in the shop, needing a whole new engine. She couldn’t really afford the repair, but as it was Vince who’d gotten it towed into town for her last week, she had a sneaking suspicion the bill would never arrive.

  The Grossiers and Raina, and even Miah to a lesser extent—he was by far the most upstanding of their tight little group—had all made her nervous, once upon a time. She was no stranger to shady company, but the lot of them were all so much more . . . something, than she was used to. Like they knew and trusted their own places in their dusty, scrappy hometown.

  Abilene, on the other hand, felt lost most of the time, and more insecure than ever now, with Mercy to worry about.

  “We’re not taking my car,” Casey said as she met him downstairs.

  “Whose, then?”

  “It’s your last night of freedom until this all blows over. Thought we might brave the cold and ride into town in style.”

  “What, on your bike?” Jeez, she’d never ridden on a motorcycle before. “I dunno.”

  “Bundle up. Bring gloves, too—it’ll be real cold by the time we close up.”

  She weighed her anxiety against Casey’s confidence. Maybe he was right. Maybe she ought to relish the wind in her hair one more time, icy though it undoubtedly would be.

  “Fine.” She grabbed her winter coat off its hook in the front hall and pulled on her mittens. “What about a helmet?”

  “Got you covered.” Casey led the way outside, down the porch steps to the big front lot. As she eyed his Harley, the last of her hesitance waned. This machine no longer looked like a frigid threat to her life, but rather a perfect excuse to wrap her arms around the man she was otherwise in no position to embrace. Twenty socially acceptable minutes, each way, to spend with her body hugged close to his . . .

  Sign me up.

  Casey handed her a black helmet and clipped his own silver one on.

  “I’ve never seen you bother with one of these before,” she said, fiddling with the strap.

  He helped her tighten it, seeming tall and exciting. “Got to start setting a better example, if you’re gonna keep letting me hang around your kid.”

  Her goofy smile went blessedly unseen as he swung his leg over the seat.

  “Thank goodness I didn’t wear a skirt.” And thank goodness Casey was busy digging in his pockets for his keys and didn’t see her graceless first attempt at getting her leg up and over the back.

  “Little help?”

  Without a word, he hooked out his arm and she used it to haul herself into position.

  “Thanks.”

  “Hold on tight.”

  She did, looping her arms around him. He was wearing a hoodie, and a sweater underneath, she could tell. And under that, she could just make out the shapes of his trunk. Man, you smell nice. Probably just his soap, she guessed, but sexy all the same.

  The engine rumbled to life, puttering loudly as he cruised them toward the road.

  “I’ve never done this before,” she shouted.

  “Bit more fun in the summer,” he called back, once they were on the pavement.

  “I’ll bet.” And would she still be in Fortuity come the summer, she wondered? She hoped so. It was tough, though. Once everything calmed down, she’d have to find her own place and pay for some kind of childcare so she could work more hours.
In all honesty, the math just didn’t add up, not without any family nearby to lean on . . .

  I won’t go back to Bloomville. Even if her pride somehow let her, even if things got that desperate, there was absolutely no guarantee her parents would talk to her, baby or no baby. She felt tears well as she imagined the worst—what they might say about Mercy, if they found out who her father was. You haven’t changed a bit, have you, Allison? You and these older men. When are you going to learn to keep your goddamned legs closed? That’s what they’d say—what her father would say—and her mother would flinch at the cuss and start praying. Crying and praying.

  So, no. No way in the darkest, hottest corner of heck was she ever going back.

  She locked her arms up tight around Casey, shut her eyes, and tried to forget.

  • • •

  It wound up being a busy night at Benji’s, and Abilene counted up two hundred and eleven dollars in the tip jar. “Wow, good haul for a Monday.”

  Casey was loading the washer with the final few last-call glasses and tumblers, and he shot a smile over his shoulder. “How much?”

  “Over two hundred.”

  “Shit, that is a good haul. And it’s all yours.”

  She frowned, clutching the bills in a fat, messy stack to her middle. “No way.”

  “Fuck yes way.” He straightened and switched the washer on. “You think I earned even a quarter of those tips, anyhow? You’re actually polite to people. Plus you’re a girl. You keep it all. I’m your boss; I’m telling you to.”

  “Gosh. If you insist.” She could certainly use it. “Thanks.”

  She eyed Casey as he went around the now-empty barroom, wiping tables down with a wet towel. They’d been busy, and the place had grown warm. He was down to his T-shirt, and she bit her lip as she watched his circling arm.

  It wasn’t merely a blush of lust she was feeling for her boss. There was that, but also more, something almost fiercer than sex—appreciation. He signed her paychecks and babysat for her, had been giving her rides for the past week, and got creepy customers to back off when necessary. He did so much, and she took so much.