The Price of Grace

by Diana Muñoz Stewart

  “What we do? Rescue people? Stop pedophiles? Stop abuse? Defend those without power?”

  “That’s not your job.”

  She honestly could not get enough air into her lungs to tell him about her creeper detection software, her work. He disapproved of her. Not Momma. Not the League. Her.

  Her stomach roiled with sticky tentacles of regret. “We need to talk about this, John. I’m not going to go away this time.”

  “Don’t say that.” He surged forward, hands balled into fists. The crisp blue suit, polished and professional, contradicted the impulsive anger behind the action. “I’m not putting up with any of that craziness in Ty’s life. I have another son. A wife. Don’t come around. Don’t test me.”

  “Are you threaten—”

  “No. No. But I will do what I have to do to protect my family. Remember that.”She hadn’t recognized when he’d taken Ty what he’d been capable of. So what was he capable of?

  “You realize that’s a threat, right?”

  He glared at her, turned, and stormed out, slamming the door behind him—on her, on their past, on the lies—with a firm click.

  She sat back and clasped her trembling hands tightly between her knees.

  Chapter 30

  Entering Club When? Dusty noticed a guy coming out the front door. He held the door open for him. The guy’s eyes traveled up, widened at the sight of Dusty. That made two of them. Gracie’s ex, John.

  Dude looked pissed. What was he doing here? Probably none of his business, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t going to find out.

  Passing through the club, Dusty went into the kitchen. The smell of French fries reminded him he hadn’t eaten this morning. He shouted hello to the chefs, gave a thumbs-up to the distracted dishwasher before heading to Gracie’s office.

  The door was open a crack. He toed it with his boot and it opened the rest of the way. Gracie sat behind her desk, sobbing into her hands.

  Shit.

  She looked up and immediately buried her face in her hands again. “Go way.”

  She probably meant away, but that’s not how it came out, so…

  He closed the door, walked around her desk, spun her chair toward him, and took a knee. He leaned close enough that his shoulder practically kissed her forehead. “Gracie.”

  She slumped forward, dropped her head onto his shoulder. He put his arms around her shaking body. His own heart picked up its pace. What had John done? What had he said?

  He lifted her up, brought her onto his knee, and held her tighter. “What’s wrong?”

  For a few wracking minutes, she sat there crying. Her tears dripped onto the shoulder of his gray henley, her fingers dug through the fabric into his biceps. Then her breathing evened out, her tears slowed. She slid off his knee and into her chair. “I’m not sad. I’m angry.”

  He shifted onto his haunches, reached over to the tissue box, got a tissue, handed it to her. “At what?”

  She blew her nose, tossed the tissue into a can beside her desk. “At myself.” She looked him directly in the eyes. “I gave up my son to protect his father, who could not have cared less.”

  Her stare was a direct challenge. If he admitted knowing she had a son, he as good as admitted to investigating her. Her family. And after what Mack had just said…time was not on his side. His throat grew tight. Aw, hell. “Tyler. Your son. You gave him up to protect John.”

  She closed her eyes in what looked like relief, exhaled, opened her eyes, and told him the story. Well, the bones of it. Her family didn’t “get along” with John. He didn’t approve of some of their “business practices.”

  After saying that, she blushed a red so deep he could feel the heat on his own face. “How did John find out about those particular business practices?”

  She shrugged. “I told him. I know it sounds hard to believe, but I was naive.”

  Not hard at all. “You’d been educated in the Mantua school, adopted into the Parish family. All your experiences, schooling, spirituality, had been filtered through that world. You got out and fell in love. Wanted to share your truth with someone. Not so hard to believe.”

  He adjusted his position. Gracie stood so abruptly, he had to grasp the desk so he didn’t fall over. She moved around the desk, got the chair there, and dragged it to him. “You look uncomfortable.”

  Now why did that make him want to hug the stuffing right out of her? He took the chair, set it beside the desk, and sat. “Thanks.”

  She sat down again, swiveled so she faced him. “You’re right. I was sheltered enough that it was almost culture shock to find out what I’d been taught was dogma and not necessarily how the rest of the world worked.”

  “What had you been taught?”

  “You know, it’s my responsibility to fight for others, to seek out injustice, to right wrongs. Marvel superhero stuff.”

  Sounded like she was mocking herself. “So you got out into the world—to a bar, no less—and saw people drinking, screwing around, having fun, realized you’d been sold a bill of goods, and said—this is the teenage you, now—fuck this?”

  She shook her head. “No. Never. The responsibility was too deeply ingrained, but that fact—that I couldn’t give up the fight—made me F-word mad. I’d never been given the option of just worrying about my own problems, having a family, making money, taking care of my business. It didn’t seem fair.”

  “And then John showed up.”

  “Yep. An opportunity to just be me.”

  “You got pregnant.”

  “And for a while it was actually good. I got to be Gracie in love. Gracie pregnant. Gracie as a mom. Until, in a hormonal lovefest, I spilled the beans to John.” She bit her lip. “I guess you can say I’m not the least emotional of people.”

  So said the memories of her riding him in this very office, her boldness in Mexico, her tears right now. “So not-the-least-emotional-of-people tells her first love she comes from a family of”—he paused, adding secret weight to the words—“businesspeople. And all hell breaks loose. Family’s pissed. Boyfriend’s pissed. And Gracie Parish does what she can to make it okay.”

  Gracie’s shoulders slumped. “Not that simple. But, yeah. And everyone went back to their lives.”

  “Except you.”

  She nodded. “Ty was two when I gave him up. So I still remembered the smell of his baby skin, the feel of his hair against my cheek, the way his laugh made the world better. Naturally, I tortured myself with memories.”

  Her hands simultaneously swept tears aside from under both eyes. “Then a few years ago, Ty got sick. He was in the hospital for a month. During that time, I kind of lost it. I couldn’t be with him. Hold his hand. Brush back his hair. I blamed myself, a lot. But I also blamed Momma. I stewed on that anger. Then I did something to get back at her.”

  She stopped there, looked at him. Though she’d never admitted to sending that email to the FBI, he could see that confession in her eyes. He nodded. “Got it.”

  She let out a breath. The tears came again. He reached across the desk to the tissue box and pulled out another and handed it to her.

  She took it, wiped her eyes. “Ty’s getting sick made me realize I could lose him without even knowing him. So after Mexico, after Tony…I decided to try to live a different life. I thought I could return to being in Ty’s life. Not as his mother. But in his life.”

  He could see where this was going. “John came by today and told you that was never going to happen.”

  She nodded. “Yeah. Guess I can’t blame him.”

  “I can.”

  She shook her head. “You don’t get it. My life is dangerous.”

  Like hell. He was investigating her mother for vigilante activities, and he understood better than most. Naw, he just couldn’t square a man who’d keep his son away from a caring and loving mother. “More dang
erous than a cop, a detective, FBI or CIA, a solider? Lot of parents with those jobs.”

  She rubbed at her forehead.

  “Gracie, when your biological mother showed up, after giving you up for adoption, Mukta, your momma, let you go live with her?”

  “Not without stipulation—I returned for classes, training, Sunday dinner—but yeah.”

  “You think that was okay?” he prodded. “Sheila had lymphoma. That wasn’t going to end well. And she was taking you away from everything you’d ever known, to a bar, no less.”

  Gracie blinked, squared her shoulders. “Wait a minute. Momma let me go because she loved me. She wanted me to know my mother. And all of that judgmental stuff didn’t matter.”

  “Why not?”

  She stared at him. “Love matters more.”

  He stared at her. “Yep. Love matters more.”

  Hearing her own words echoed back to her, she drew in a shaky breath. She reached out, as slow as if she were approaching a dangerous animal, and rubbed a thumb over his jaw. “I really like you, Dusty.” She dropped her hand. “But I still can’t trust you.”

  He leaned forward. “Don’t trust me. Don’t.” He let that hang there a moment, acknowledging that she was right. It was a moment in which the lies, like wisps of an old spider web, clung to him. “Don’t trust. But let me help you. That’s why I’m here.”

  She balled up the tissue and put the fisted hand to her forehead; bits of white tissue poked out from her fingers. “I don’t need rescuing.”

  “What do you need?”

  She dropped her hand. “Right now, I could really use some Motrin.”

  He nodded, leaned the rest of the way forward, and kissed her lightly on her cheek. “Okay, then, we can start with that.”

  Chapter 31

  Off nearly every surface of Club When? the light show flashed red, white, and blue. Music pulsed from the speakers. People crowded onto the dance floor, bumping and grinding.

  Dusty had to admit, he liked working here. A lot. The rhythm of the bar, the way the air began to buzz as people streamed inside. One second prep work, the next he ran around, exchanging pleasantries with people from all walks. And then there was Gracie.

  Though she’d started the night in a haze of gloom, her mood had lifted. Now as she worked, she swayed those hips, that ass, in a way he was sure God himself deemed to be one of the most pleasant sights on this planet.

  Damn, being here with her felt right.

  It felt right when she bent to get something from a fridge and his eyes found their way to her fine, round ass. Made his palms itch.

  It felt right when she caught him looking, smiled without reprimand, and all that guardedness, all the hostility meant to ward people off was suddenly not there.

  It felt right, so right, when Gracie, rocking her hips to one of his favorite songs, shot him a what-are-you-waiting-for look, and he forgot for a moment those things called boundaries.

  He put an arm around her waist and drew her back against the front of his body. He’d expected her to elbow him hard enough to give him second thoughts, but she moved with him. Against him.

  People hooted approval. He dipped his head to her ear, and sang with “Make You Feel My Love.”

  And when she turned to him with a blush? Oh, he liked how she blushed. He could make a game of it—all the ways he could get Ms. Gracie Parish to blush.

  It felt right, so right.

  Until he remembered exactly why he was there. Then he felt like shit. He had to talk himself into focusing on his investigation. Remind himself of exactly who he was after and why.

  As the night wore on, he had to remind himself again and again. Especially when Gracie whizzed by him smelling like candy and whiskey. Nearly bit his lip in half. Nothing could be more irresistible.

  Too quickly, the evening of laughter and drinks and darting here and there quieted down. The music switched off. The lights came up. And the club went into standby mode.

  As he put away bottles, Gracie sat at the bar with a clipboard, taking stock. She looked so damn earnest. Not a “trace”? of makeup. Hair pulled back. Chewing on the tip of her pen and closing one eye to evaluate her paperwork.

  Dusty waved goodbye to the last of the servers and returned his attention to Gracie, who’d turned her attention to him. She took the pen from her mouth. “Where did you come from?”

  Why did the fact that she wanted to know about him cause his heart to beat faster? Finished cleaning, he began to count the register. “I thought that was obvious. Kentucky.”

  “Not so obvious. Let me guess. Your dad is one of those typical Southern fathers, super into his family and God and horses.”

  “Well, I could ride a horse long before I could ride a bike. But my dad was more interested in himself than family or even God. He was a faith healer.”

  Gracie cradled her chin in one hand. “That sounds pretty religious to me.”

  Finished counting, he wrote down the number before answering. “The way my dad operated had nothing to do with God. He was a fraud.”

  The corners of her eyes creased. “So you never saw any miracles?”

  He shut the register. “I saw what he classified as miracles. People pretending to be healed, because only unworthy or sinful people didn’t get healed.”

  “Pretending? If someone shows up and can’t walk, you can see if they’ve been healed or not, right?”

  He raised an eyebrow. Funny she should choose that example. He moved over to her, picked up a rag, and wiped the bar. “I once saw an old woman who couldn’t walk. We’re in this big meeting hall. Folding chairs set up, fluorescent lights, incense, and Tiger Balm.”

  He finished with the rag, put it in the bucket under the counter, leaned against the bar. “Dad came over to her. Now he’s a big, powerful guy. The kind of fellow who can intimidate with mannerisms and voice. Dad puts his large hands over hers, and his voice rings out.” Dusty raised his hands to demonstrate. “Walk.”

  He lowered his hands. “Moments like that you could feel his power, feel the tension in the room, everyone standing up from their folding chairs, looking. It was something.

  “This lady’s feet began to move spastically. My heart started to pound. It was going to happen. I knew she’d walk. People oohed and aahed. Everyone praising God. My dad commanded louder that she rise. His powerful voice gave me goosebumps.

  “Her feet went twice as fast, she put her bony hands on the armrests of her wheelchair and tried to lift herself. Her arms shook, her legs gave, and she fell back into her seat with a cry.”

  Gracie’s face followed the story, showing interest, then puzzlement, then sadness. She got it. Some wouldn’t.

  “Dad told her, told all of us, it was her fault. She’d done something in her past, some wrong she needed to be forgiven for. If she repented and trusted God, she’d be healed. She began to cry. The whole congregation, including me, blamed her.”

  “That’s awful.”

  “Yeah. But back then, because I’d never been taught to think any other way, I believed him.”

  Gracie rubbed at her arms. “When did it change for you?”

  “I was seven. Nearly died from a bladder infection. Dad’s thinking was if he couldn’t heal me, or anyone in his ministry, and I use that term very loosely, then God had deemed us unworthy.”

  Her face showed stark disbelief. “That’s crazy.”

  “It seems crazy to me now too. Back then, trembling and sick and dying, I thought, ‘Why did I lie about that cookie? Why did I forget to say yes, ma’am? Why won’t God let me live?’”

  Her face softened with empathy, not sympathy. He appreciated that. Nothing to feel sorry about. That part of his life had helped make him the dogged, determined man he was.

  “I’ve never heard you say yes, ma’am.”

  Had to smile at that.
“You Northern girls beat it out of me. Nothing harder than trying to explain to some hot thing you’re trying to make time with that yes, ma’am is just upbringing.”

  She laughed. Got serious. “How’d you survive the illness? Did you get better?”

  He looked past her to the empty bar, the strip-lights along the dance floor. “My mom went against my dad, reached out to my uncle Harvey. He worked in law enforcement. Showed up with his gun and his partner, threatened an investigation if Dad came after us. An idle threat, but the old man wasn’t so well-educated. He agreed. Uncle Harvey raised me, helped deprogram me. Thanks to him, I came to see the world differently. Maybe got a bit of a chip on my shoulder for people who try to force their views on others.”

  She lifted her eyes to his. He could tell she knew what he was saying. It was out there. Why he was here. Why he was investigating her family. Why he cared.

  Ball was in her court.

  Chapter 32

  Seated at the bar, her chin propped in her hands, in the after-hours quiet, Gracie absorbed what Dusty was saying about his father. A manipulative and abusive man.

  She let his statement “Maybe got a bit of a chip on my shoulder for people who try to force their views on others” expand into the quiet between them. She let it echo inside her. He was sending her a message about Momma, about the League, and his motivation.

  Though she wanted to, she didn’t feel the need to respond immediately, to fill the silence with her side. Their eyes met, stayed locked. She enjoyed it, the way his sun-soaked eyes heated her.

  “We had similar upbringings, but not exactly the same. Your father would’ve sacrificed you for his own sense of self-importance. Momma sacrifices herself to save others.” Gracie saw that more clearly since John’s visit. For years Momma had taken Gracie’s anger over John. When in truth John had planned to go all along.

  He leaned toward her. “I certainly am interested in learning more. Mind if I ask some questions?”

  Oh boy. Time for a subject change. “Your breath smells really good. Did you eat one of my candies?”