Forever Found

by Allyson Charles

  “No. You’ll be good for him.”

  Marla blinked rapidly and reached for a bottle of mango guava juice. Maybe they were making progress. Gabe had gone from outright loathing to a grudging acceptance that Marla wasn’t a superficial bimbo. Could he actually start to like her as a person? Her hopes rose.

  Until Gabe said, “He’ll need an owner who can give him a lot of time. Your not having a job will actually come in useful. You won’t be leaving him at home all day.”

  And there went her idea they could have a relationship based on mutual respect. She dropped the juice bottle on the counter with more force than necessary and turned to Gabe. She lifted Hoover out of his arms. “You can show yourself out.”

  He sighed. “You’re taking my words the wrong way again, aren’t you?”

  “No.” She turned to the frosted-glass cabinet and pulled down a clean tumbler. She poured the juice with one hand, near to overflowing. “I understand you perfectly. And you’re right. Unemployed people do make good dog owners. As long as we can afford the kibble, of course. But my trust fund resolves that issue. It’s a good thing I’m not qualified for a real job.”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  He also didn’t jump to a vociferous defense of her abilities. Never said that she had a brain in her head. That he valued anything about her except her checkbook, her good intentions, and now her body. And why should he? She didn’t have a career. Accomplishments. She couldn’t even get a volunteer position on the board of her father’s foundation.

  “Like I said, it’s fine.” She smiled brightly at him.

  He moved in close, the tips of his socks nudging her bare toes. “You came to me wanting a physical relationship.”

  “I did.” Did she regret that yet? She wasn’t sure. He didn’t make her feel good about herself, but then, that wasn’t any different from how she felt any other day of the week. Gabe was more a mirror, reflecting her own insecurities back on her, than anything else. And as every self-help book she’d ever read had told her, finding her worth was her job. Not Gabe’s.

  She twisted her lips. But a little external validation would have been nice.

  “We’re good together.” He tangled his fingers in her hair and tugged at the ends.

  She didn’t want it to, but her body heated at even that small touch from Gabe. “We are,” she admitted. Hoover wiggled in her arm, and she scratched his chin.

  The right side of Gabe’s mouth notched higher. “So, is this a one-and-done deal, or do you want to keep scratching this itch? Because from where I’m standing, I think we’ve got more to work out of our systems.”

  She ignored the mixed metaphors and chewed on her bottom lip. Her stomach twisted and twirled like a tilt-a-whirl at the thought of potential future scratchings. “It’s not smart to keep picking at something. It’s usually best to ignore itches.” And if she’d said that in a confident voice, maybe Gabe would have believed her. But there had definitely been a questioning lilt to the end of that sentence.

  “You’re the one with the fancy degrees. I never claimed to be smart.” Bending his neck, he brushed his lips across her cheek. He took her glass, gulped down half her juice, and handed it back. “Talk to you later, babe.” And without a backward glance, he sauntered out of the kitchen to her front door.

  She hurried to the doorway. Her gaze dropped to his tight ass as he bent to pull on his shoes. “You have a doctorate!” she shouted after him. Fancy degrees, her patootie. He liked to play the working-class Joe to her high-class socialite, and she didn’t understand why.

  With a backward wave, he slipped out the door and pulled it shut behind him. Leaving an odd stillness in his wake. The mantle clock above the fireplace in her living room measured the seconds, the ticking of the thin hand echoing in the large space.

  “Well, how do you like that?” she asked Maddie. The poodle tossed a long ear over her shoulder and stalked across the room to her dog bed. She lay down with her back to the room. And Marla.

  Hoover squirmed in her arms, and she let him down. He trotted over to Maddie, climbed over her side and disappeared on the other side of the dog bed.

  “I get it. You both think I screwed up.”

  Silence from the dogs. Marla narrowed her eyes. Their quiet disappointment was worse than her father’s. Well, they had nothing on the disappointment welling in her own body.

  She drank the rest of her juice and put the glass in the dishwasher. She pulled out a tub of bleach wipes from under the sink and wiped down an already pristine counter.

  She had no moral issue with casual sex. If it was between two consenting adults, and no one got hurt, where was the problem? And women had needs, oats to sow, just like men.

  No, it wasn’t the act that had her feeling a bit ashamed.

  It was the man.

  She liked Gabe. Respected his dedication to his job and to the dogs of Crook County.

  He didn’t respect her.

  True, the sneer was gone from his face when he looked at her. He didn’t consider her a brainless party girl. But he didn’t respect her.

  Did she need the man she was having casual sex with to respect her? She scoured the grout of the counter until her elbow ached. No, she finally decided. She didn’t need it.

  But it would have been nice.

  Chapter Nine

  “Where the hell is that boy hiding them? I know he’s got some.” Gabe’s uncle puttered around his kitchen, poking into cabinets, checking under the sink. His slipper snagged on a buckled piece of linoleum tile that had peeled back from the floor.

  Gabe steadied him, then wiped his hand on his jeans. “What are you looking for? And where’s Jethro?”

  “These little marshmallow cookies I like. I know that little bastard is hiding them.”

  Gabe rolled his head in a circle, trying to ease the strain in his neck. He hadn’t slept well the night before. He’d either been replaying the highlights of his fun-time with Marla, or worrying about what he might have done to bring that pinched look back to her face after they’d finished. Having a conversation with his uncle did nothing to alleviate the pain. “It must be tough that you have a son concerned about your health.”

  “You have no idea.” Simon pulled out a box and tossed it in an open garbage bin. “Rice cakes! He buys me rice cakes.”

  “I didn’t come here to discuss your diet.” With every second, Gabe wished more that he hadn’t come at all. He’d managed to avoid his uncle’s company for fourteen years. It should have been longer. Pulling his phone from his front pocket, he checked the display. Still blank. “I need names, Simon. From the old crew, who’s still around?”

  Simon snorted. “Crew. You were always such a drama queen about our business.” Shoulders sloping, he picked up the box from the garbage and pulled out a yellow-dusted round. “Maybe if I put some peanut butter on it.”

  “I know Casey moved to Minnesota a couple years ago.” Gabe ran through a list in his head. “Northum married that vegetarian woman, and there’s no way she’d let him fight dogs. Tiny is in prison for car theft. Who does that leave?”

  “Walsh is still living in that trailer park over on the east side of Marysville.” Simon touched the tip of his tongue to the rice cake and grimaced. “And Clarice is still kicking around.”

  “Clarice?” Gabe rubbed his forehead. “That mousy little thing in the back office?”

  “Our accountant. She manages the books for a lot of small businesses in the area.” He took a grudging bite and stared at the rice cake suspiciously as he chewed. “But she liked watching the fights. And betting on them.”

  “Huh.” He’d missed that when he was a teen. Mrs. Pocket had always seemed like such a sweet lady, giving him a butterscotch candy whenever she saw him. “Anyone else?”

  Simon lifted his chin and shot him a narrow-eyed look. “Go get me a strawberry mil
k shake and I’ll write you a list.”

  “Dad!” Jethro filled the doorway to the kitchen. He shoved his fists in his front pockets and shook his head. “You know what Doctor Ellison said. Have you tested your sugar today?”

  “Bah.” Swiping his hand through the air, Simon pursed his mouth into a disapproving pucker. “You see this?” he asked Gabe. “It’s like I’m in jail. Bad food. Bad TV. He even took my keys!”

  Jethro turned his owl stare on Gabe and shrugged. “The state of Michigan did that.” He blinked, then a smile slowly lit up his face. “You’re back! I didn’t think you’d come back.” He drew his eyebrows together and pointed at his own eye. “You don’t look so good.”

  “Minor accident.”

  “He’s only back for information.” Simon pushed between Gabe and his cousin and into the living room. He flopped onto the couch, his rear end filling the hollow his weight had formed on the cushion over the years. “Only comes around when he needs something.” He stabbed a finger at his son. “You remember that, boy.”

  “Don’t say that.” Jethro shifted from foot to foot. “Gabe’s family.”

  A sliver of guilt burrowed under Gabe’s skin. They were family, and Gabe had cut them out of his life like a tumor. His uncle he might have had cause to avoid, but he should have done more to stay connected to Jethro. His offers of a job and place to stay had been about separating his cousin from his father, a rotten influence. He hadn’t been trying to keep the family together.

  Jethro shuffled to his dad and sat next to him on the couch. He linked his hands together between his knees. “Gabe, Pop don’t run with that crowd anymore. He doesn’t know anything. Promise.”

  Rubbing the back of his neck, Gabe nodded. He didn’t believe it, but his cousin did. Why destroy that illusion? “Okay, Jethro.” He opened his mouth, closed it, and had a fight with his conscience. For once, his better angels won. He sighed. “Hey, I bought too many shingles to repair my roof and I see you could use some. What do you say I come back this weekend and you show me how to wield a hammer?”

  “We don’t need your charity.” Simon aimed his remote and clicked on the TV.

  “He has extra.” Jethro nudged his father with his arm. “Didn’t you hear that part?” He turned to Gabe. “That would be great. My girlfriend, Celia, is gone this weekend so I’ve got lots of time.”

  Gabe raised his eyebrows. “Girlfriend, huh?” He pulled his phone from his pocket and added a reminder about that weekend. Still no messages. He scratched his chest and shoved the phone back in his pants.

  “Trouble, that one, if you ask me,” Simon grumbled. “She’s the one who’s telling the boy not to feed me the good stuff.”

  “I didn’t ask you,” Gabe said. He nodded to Jethro. “You can tell me all about her this weekend.” Turning, he strode to the door and escaped into the night air.

  The screen door creaked open and slapped shut behind him. “Gabe?” Jethro asked, his voice soft. “Why don’t you stay for some dinner? I’m cooking spaghetti.” He leaned forward and whispered. “And for dessert, I’ve got some cookies stashed in the trunk of my car. Don’t tell Dad.”

  Gabe’s phone buzzed and his heart thumped. “Thanks,” he said pulling the phone out again. “But I have work to do.”

  Marla’s name lit up the screen, and Gabe huffed out a sigh, a smile tugging at his lips. Finally, a response. Knowing she already thought he was a dick, Gabe had tried to do the good-guy thing, text her the day after. Or was he supposed to call? Screw it. He’d made contact and asked about her day. A total non-asshole thing to do. He hoped he got points for it.

  His cousin laughed. “Sure. Work.”

  Gabe looked up. “I do.” With the names his uncle had given him, he now had two more people to question.

  “That’s the kind of work I wouldn’t mind doing.” Jethro attempted an eyebrow waggle but the snail’s pace of the brow-raise made him look surprised instead.

  “What are you on about?” Shoving his phone away, Gabe bumped his cousin’s shoulder. He’d read the message later. Instead of just replying with a ‘doing good,’ Marla seemed to have written a dissertation in her reply. Something to read when he was lying in bed. Or better yet, in her bed.

  Jethro jerked his chin at Gabe. “That’s the face you got whenever you used to see Nancy Littleton? You remember her? That cheerleader you were gaga for in high school.”

  Gabe remembered. Nancy had been a junior when Gabe was a freshman, and every boy at Clarion High had been half in love with her. But he didn’t see what that had to do with anything.

  “Marla Popov is no Nancy Littleton,” Gabe said. “I’m not going to plow her name in a cornfield.” Her or any other woman. Infatuation was for children. “She’s just a woman I know.”

  “Uh-huh.” With a backwards wave, Jethro ambled toward the front door. “Just a woman. You keep telling yourself that.”

  Gabe pressed his lips together and watched his fool of a cousin disappear inside the house. He really hadn’t spent enough time with the guy if Jethro read him so wrong. But he could change that.

  Climbing into his Chevelle, he revved the engine, letting the vibrations from the V8 massage away his irritation.

  It returned quickly. One butterscotch later, and he was still no closer to knowing who was running the dog fights. Mrs. Pocket was more interested in cockfighting now, and wasn’t that just another headache Gabe would have to make the cops aware of.

  One last social call for the night, and then maybe he could convince Marla of another go-around. Nothing would ease the ball of tension lodged below the base of his neck like a workout in her bed. Seeing her pretty smile light up her face worked pretty well, too. And watching her mismatched eyes crinkle with humor wasn’t bad. But bed first.

  He pulled into Sunshine Park, his headlights slicing across neat rows of double-wides. Small gardens formed a patchwork in front of the trailers. Awnings covered well-maintained porches. All in all, one of the nicer parks in Crook County.

  When his lights illuminated the one rundown trailer in the group, he knew he’d found Walsh’s home. He couldn’t remember Brian Walsh in a shirt that wasn’t either half-tucked or buttoned incorrectly, much less clean or ironed. There was no way he would be slapping regular coats of paint on his home or pulling weeds.

  Gabe cut the engine and climbed out. An older man stepped from the trailer onto the attached porch.

  “Who’s that?” Walsh scratched his stomach through the gap of a missed button.

  “Gabe Moretti.” Closing the car door, he circled to stand in the dim circle of light from the trailer’s window. “Remember me?”

  The man leaned an elbow against the vertical support beam of the porch roof. His shirt rode up, exposing dark hair against ghostly flesh.

  Gabe repressed a shudder.

  “Not likely to forget the punk that threatened me.”

  Gabe crossed his arms. “It wasn’t a threat. Just a warning.” He’d attached a note to the photos he’d mailed to everyone who had worked with his father. Telling them that if the dog fights continued, the police would receive the pics Gabe had been surreptitiously taking for months before his dad died. He’d been building up his arsenal, locking down the evidence, but hadn’t had the guts to pull the trigger until after the funeral.

  He hadn’t been brave enough to challenge his father. He swallowed, the back of his throat burning with shame.

  “I didn’t take kindly to your warning.” The hand above his head curled into a fist. “Me and my boys lost a lot of income when the dogs stopped fighting. It was only outta respect for your father and uncle that we didn’t do something about it.”

  “Did you think enough time had gone by that I wouldn’t care anymore? Wouldn’t notice?” Gabe assessed the man’s expression, looking for a reaction. He thought he saw a flicker of confusion cross the man’s face, but he was so
stupid looking to start with it was hard to tell.

  “What the hell you talking about?”

  Gabe stepped forward. “I know someone is running fights. There aren’t that many men hereabouts with the knowledge and complete lack of morals to organize them.” He gripped the lower rung of the porch and looked up at the man behind the railing. Walsh had probably never worked an honest day in his miserable life. Some people were born trash and died trash.

  Gabe stared at his hand. Was it ever possible to climb out of the swamp?

  “Whatever you’re trying to pin on me, you can forget it.” Walsh pushed off the wall. “The last fight I was at was in Detroit, five years ago. I’ve got nothing to do with anything around here.”

  “Are you saying you haven’t heard anything about the fights? Who’s running them?”

  A flicker of slyness slicked its way across his red face. “That’s what I’m saying.”

  He’d heard about them. Gabe had no doubt. But maybe he was sincere that he had nothing to do with them. Didn’t mean Gabe couldn’t still squeeze him.

  “I don’t believe you. The statute of limitations might have run out on the fights we used to hold, but I’d bet the cops would still be interested to see those pictures. Might follow you around for a bit to make sure you’re keeping your nose clean.”

  “I got nothing to hide. And I got nothing more to say to the likes of you.” Walsh looked up, and a mean smile creased his face. “Lookee here. Perfect timing.”

  Gabe turned. A gray El Dorado bumped over the dirt road, riding low. It pulled to a stop behind his Chevelle. The driver’s and passenger’s doors swung wide, and the car rose a good four inches as the occupants climbed out.

  “You remember my boys, Horace and Virgil?” Walsh asked. “Boys,” he called. “We’ve got a guest that needs showing out.”

  Gabe’s muscles tensed, and he rolled onto the balls of his feet as the two behemoths approached. One was tall and wide, the other short and wider. Neither had a neck, but plenty of muscles hid under the rolls of fat. The taller one, Horace if Gabe remembered correctly, cracked his knuckles one by one as he tramped toward him.