by Tess Sharpe
I go in for the kill.
“Duke could call back anytime,” I remind Buck. “You think he’ll be happy if you tell him you’ve gone after Springfield? You think you’re gonna win points with him that way?”
Looking at him, at the low flush that starts at his neck and crawls up to his sweaty face, I realize that’s exactly what he thought. If he wasn’t so dangerous, I’d almost pity him. He wants what I have. What he can never have.
He wants Duke to give him the business someday, like a proud father. But he knows it’ll never happen, because I’m in the way—Duke’s child, the inheritor of all his training, his plans, his business.
That makes me Buck’s enemy. If Duke hadn’t gotten sick, it would probably be a few more years before Buck got fed up and tried to take me out. But it would’ve happened sometime. Which is why I have to take him and Springfield out now, to clear my path.
“Killing Springfield is something Duke decides when and how to do,” I say. “You take that away from him, and you’ve got a big problem on your hands, Buck.”
“You don’t know that,” Buck says, but it comes out weak. He’s reacting without thinking, whipping it up in his head that Duke will be so grateful for Springfield’s head on a platter that he’ll give Buck anything he wants.
“Pull the product,” I repeat, an edge to my voice. “All of it. Call me when it’s done, and we can meet to transfer it.”
“Where are you going?” Buck asks.
“I’ve got to go talk to Jessa,” I say. “Springfield attacked her, so she might know something.”
“Harley, you should rest,” Cooper says. “Your face—”
“Is fine,” I finish for him.
“We need to talk about Bobby Springfield,” Cooper says, murder in his eyes, the tattoos beneath them twitching in anger—or maybe anticipation.
“We will,” I assure him, reaching out and squeezing his arm gently. “Soon. But now, please go to the truck yard, get everything out. Take one of the guys with you.”
Two men get to their feet at my words, and I feel a burst of triumph as Buck grits his teeth.
He’s got no power here, not with Duke’s original crew loyal to me. I am Duke’s heir. His proxy when he’s not here. And if I’m disobeyed during a time like this, it’s as bad as them disobeying him to his face. As much as they like to dismiss me because I’m a woman, they can’t deny my claim when Duke’s MIA and everything’s going to hell. There’s a protocol Duke set up years ago, and my plan relies on them following it.
Duke is a man who doesn’t leave things to chance. Cancer bit a lot of his careful plans in the ass, but no one needs to know that until I’ve got full control. And then I’ll be the one making the rules.
“I’ll see you soon,” Cooper says to me.
He and Dale leave, along with Wayne.
Then it’s just me, Buck, Troy, and the handful of underlings Duke keeps around for his dirty work.
“Go get a drink,” Buck tells them.
The men scuttle out, their faces drawn. But Troy hangs back. There’s a question in his eyes: Do you want me to stay?
He’s afraid for me. Troy’s one of the nice ones. Not a climber. Content to do his job, take his orders, not rock the boat. A follower, looking for a leader. And he found one in Duke.
He’s always liked me, and he was nice to Will when we were kids, never made any nasty jokes about him, like some of the other cooks did when they thought Duke couldn’t hear. And he’s a good dad to his boys; he always brings them and his wife to the barbecues we throw at the Ruby in the summers. They’re smiley kids, unburdened by the truth.
“Go on, Troy,” I tell him. I look back to Buck with a smile. “I’ll be fine. Buck isn’t gonna hurt me. Are you, Buck?”
Troy hesitates, but when I don’t look back, when I keep staring at Buck, he leaves, the door swinging shut behind him.
Buck isn’t a very tall man, but he’s scarecrow skinny, with long, knobby fingers and arms. His skin is stretched tight all over him, like he’s never had a decent meal in his life. His eyes are so dark they look black, and they shine like smashed beetles in the sunlight.
He’s been around for almost eight years now. Duke brought him in when I was fifteen, and since then he’s climbed his way up from lackey to second-in-command. I realized early that I had to watch out for him. He was smart enough to disguise his hatred of me around Duke, but the farther he climbs, the harder it is to hide.
“I want in Duke’s shed,” is the first thing he says.
“No fucking way,” I spit back. My stomach flips in a slow circle at the thought of the damage he could do if he got this hands on the arsenal in Duke’s armory. There would be a bloodbath. And then we’d have the DEA and the ATF on our asses.
Buck likes splashy. He likes to throw his power around, likes to make people feel it and see it. He has no talent for deception. He’s a blunt weapon. Crude. Violent. Thoughtless.
“We need protection, Harley,” he says, his beetle eyes squinting at me.
“We have plenty of guns already,” I say. “And no one’s gonna need them anyway, because we’re gonna lie low.”
Buck looks down at his phone, like he hopes Duke will call, give him leave to start a war, because violence is what clearly gets his dick hard. Fucker.
“This isn’t a discussion anymore,” I tell Buck, trying to sound as sure and steady as I can. “It’s happening.”
“I’m in charge while your father’s gone,” Buck says.
“You were in charge,” I say. “And then our biggest enemy got the drop on you. So now I’m in charge.”
Buck’s fingers clench his phone so hard I’m afraid he’ll break it. I can’t see where his other hand is—it’s hidden by the table, and that makes the hair on the back of my neck prickle.
I bet anything he has a gun pointed at me under there.
“Put it down, Buck,” I say, and his shoulders hunch just the barest amount, telling me I’m right.
I don’t raise my hands. I don’t freeze.
I stare him down, even as I hear the unmistakable click of a safety.
“You shoot me, you’re dead,” I remind him.
“So are you,” he counters.
My fingers twitch. My revolver’s tucked into the waistband of my cutoffs, my flannel shirt hanging down long enough to hide it.
If I reach, he’ll shoot for sure.
My eyes dart around the room, weighing the options, sifting through them like a dealer with a deck of stacked cards.
I could dive for the kegs in the corner. Use them as cover as we shoot it out.
I could stay where I am, reach for my revolver, and hope for the best. I know I’m a better shot than him because I’m a better shot than almost everyone. Duke made sure of that.
I’ve got six rounds. I can get off at least two before I bleed out from a gut shot. Unless he gets me in the head.
But that’s giving him too much credit.
“The men, they won’t kill you,” I say. “They’ll keep you for Duke.”
When I say that last word, Buck licks his lips, a tiny movement of weakness, of nervousness.
Find their weakness, Harley-girl. And exploit it.
“You ever been around when he marks someone?” I ask, keeping my voice as casual as I can.
Buck doesn’t say anything, but there it is again: his tell.
“You haven’t, have you?” I take a tiny step forward. “Do you really want it done to you, Buck? It’s not pretty. Burning flesh…it kind of smells like chicken. And the screaming…” I shake my head and prop my hand on my hip underneath my shirt. His eyes track the movement, but then snap to my other hand when I begin to swing it back and forth, just a little. The eye’s drawn to motion over stillness.
“And that’s just the beginning,” I continue casually, and it’s like I’m conjuring Duke’s ghost between us. I can almost see him, the murder in his face. And I know it’s all Buck can see too as I paint the picture with blood
and guts. “You know what he does to men who cross him over a business deal. What do you think he’s gonna do to a man who shoots his daughter? If you pull that trigger now, there’s no running. There’s no hiding. He’ll find you. He’ll tear you apart. And it won’t be quick. It’ll be slow, Buck. Slow and painful. Do you really think you could get away with it? Duke spent two years hunting Springfield. You weren’t here for that. You didn’t see the man he was.”
“I know what kind of man he is,” Buck says, but the red that crawls up his neck says otherwise.
“You have no idea,” I laugh. “You know fluffy-bunny Duke. You know him at the top of his game. Not when he was clawing his way up there. Sure, he’s killed men in front of you. He’s hurt them. Ruined them. Tortured them. But you haven’t seen Duke McKenna when someone threatens something he loves. And Buck?” I place both hands on the table, bending down so we’re eye to eye. It’s a calculated risk, but one I’m willing to take to drill in my point. “I am the only thing he loves.”
There’s a long, long pause.
“I’m his second,” Buck says.
It’s now or never. If I say the next thing, it’s gonna make him stop or shoot.
“But I’m his family.”
I can’t see it, but I know the hand on his gun is trembling.
He has too much to lose.
Family trumps everything else for Duke. And he knows it.
“You won’t win this way,” I tell him. He won’t win ever—his time’s almost up. But I need one more day. One more day to get all the product. To lure Springfield out. To set them on each other. “So put it down.”
One more impossibly long moment. His eyes on mine. And then I hear it: the click of the safety going back on.
He sets the .45 on the table.
For a second, I think about it—shooting him dead right then and there. I could tell the boys at the bar what he’d done. It’d be self-defense.
They’d stand by me.
But I need him. If my gut’s right, he’ll lead me right to Springfield.
It’s a big county with miles and miles of forest—easy to get lost in. Easy to hide in.
I need to lure Springfield out. And Buck’s my bait.
“Collect all the product we’ve got hanging around in the rental houses and motels,” I say. “Cooper will text you with the meeting place.”
He’s grinding his teeth, his jaw working furiously. “Okay,” he finally says.
“Good,” I reply. “I’ll see you later.”
I turn around, half expecting a bullet in my back. But when that doesn’t happen and I get to the door, I turn and look at him. “You ever point a gun at me again, I’ll get the drop on you before you can pull the trigger. I let you off this time, but I’ve got a lot of reasons to shoot you—and no reason not to. You keep that in mind.”
I close the door behind me, and I feel like I’m going to melt into the floor, but I have to stay upright. I have to be strong, because I’ve got work to do.
“You okay, Harley?” Sal asks as I walk up to the bar, grab a bottle of Jack, and pour out a shot.
I slam it, coughing as it burns my throat.
Jesus. That was close.
“I’m fine,” I say.
And then I walk out of there like the queen he raised me to be.
Thirty-Three
I’m twenty-one when I get the call in the middle of the night.
The sound jerks me out of sleep. It takes me a few seconds to read the screen, squinting at the letters.
“Mo?” I mumble into it. I rub a hand over my face with my free hand. “What’s up?”
“I’ve got someone here,” Mo says. “She says you told her to call if she ever needed help. She’s got two kids with her.”
I blink, trying to remember. “What’s her name?” I ask.
“Jessa. Jessa Parker.”
I’m suddenly awake, like I’ve had a bucket of ice water thrown in my face. “She’s there?” I ask, my heart beating fast. She’s there. That means…
My heart sinks.
“Yeah,” Mo says.
“Is it bad?” I ask.
“Yeah,” Mo says again.
“Is she tweeked out?” I ask.
“That’s right,” Mo says, because apparently she’s playing morbid twenty questions. Or she’s just trying not to let Jessa know she’s talking about her.
Junkies and tweekers, they get spooked sometimes. They come to the Ruby when they want to get clean, but sometimes they bolt.
Sometimes I want to drag them back. But I know better.
Getting clean works only when you’re willing to fight for it. Sometimes that kind of nerve is hard to summon up and even harder to keep up.
“How do the kids look?” I ask. She has a girl and a boy. No father. Not anymore, at least. My stomach twists. I need to concentrate.
“Okay.”
“Good,” I say. “I’ll be right over. Don’t let her leave, Mo. Promise me.”
I can practically see Mo raising her eyebrow. “Something I should know?” she asks.
“Don’t let her leave,” I repeat.
Some secrets should stay buried. Just like some people.
The house is dark. I leave Busy in my room and head out into the night, my chest feeling tighter with each breath.
By the time I get to the Ruby, it’s almost three in the morning. It’s cold this time of year—on the edge of snowfall up here in the mountains. I pull my jacket tighter and head to the cottage that used to be the lobby when the Ruby was still a motel.
There’s a little girl sitting on the floor, a puzzle in front of her, with her little brother by her side, who looks like he’s more interested in chewing the puzzle pieces than anything else. They both look up when I walk in, and there’s a wariness in the little girl’s eyes that I recognize.
I smile brightly. “Hi, guys,” I say. “Your momma in the back?”
The little girl nods.
“You two stay here, okay?”
I walk behind the front desk and push the office door open.
When I see her, everything in me goes cold. She’s skinny—the scary, don’t-eat-for-days-then-binge-and-crash kind of skinny. There are sores at the corners of her mouth, and when she meets my eyes across the room, her eyes fill with tears.
“Hi,” I say, because I don’t know how to start this. She doesn’t know me well, but I know her.
“Do you remember me?” she asks.
I nod.
“You said…you said if I needed anything…”
“You want to get clean?” I ask, and I can’t disguise the edge to my voice. I’ve had a few tweekers come to the Ruby pretending to need help but really looking to score.
I won’t put that kind of temptation near any of the women who live here. Not in their home, where I’ve told them they’re safe.
“Yes,” Jessa says, and her voice is steady. “My kids…” Her face—so tired, still so pretty—twists, and more tears track down her cheeks. “Things were okay. But then they got bad. And now…” Her fingers clench together. “I don’t have anyone,” she says softly. “My kids don’t have anyone.”
I reach out, cover her hands with mine.
“You have us,” I say.
Detox is the shits. Literally.
The Rubies set up a schedule so Jessa’s kids are taken care of, away from the worst of it.
We look out for our own, always. Which is why I sit by Jessa’s bed for a week and go home only at night because Duke makes me.
It’s like watching someone die and be born at the same time. Messy. Foul. Painful. Even though I’m cleaning up after her, the room reeks of vomit and sweat. Jessa can’t stand the light, so Mo and I draw the curtains and wait in the dark for her shivering fits to pass. The only sound is her moaning, and I try to close my ears to it, but it’s hard, so hard.
By the third day, she’s begging for a fix. Just one hit. Please, please, please. I need to get my head right. Just one.
&
nbsp; I check the locks on the door and turn my head away from her pleading.
By the fifth day, she’s swearing and hissing at me. She throws a full glass of water at my head.
I duck and Mo brings only paper cups from then on.
By the seventh day, Jessa just lies in bed and cries.
I smooth the sweaty bangs off her forehead and tell her it’ll be better soon.
When I get home that night, Duke’s in the living room, watching TV.
The house is so empty now, with Miss Lissa at Fir Hill and Will gone at college. It’s just Duke and me, drifting in circles around each other, the space between us filled with the things we won’t say and the ghosts of our mistakes.
Missing people—Momma, Miss Lissa, Uncle Jake, Will—it’s a natural part of me now. I don’t know where it starts and I begin. It’s enveloped my life, and there’s no running from it. No hiding.
I miss Duke, too. Even though he’s right here. Even though he’s the only one who hasn’t died or taken off, he’s disappearing in pieces right in front of me.
“Your Ruby okay?” he asks as I come into the living room and sit next to him on the couch.
“Better,” I say. For now, at least.
He sighs. “You’re always taking away my customers, Harley-girl.”
It’s a joke, a bad one. When I stiffen next to him, he knows it.
“It’s our living,” he says, because he can feel the judgment in me…the righteousness that rears its head from time to time, so fast and so hard I can’t stamp it down.
There are so many things I can say. It may be our living, but it’s others’ dying. And it’s not about survival, really. It’s not even about getting Springfield anymore.
It’s about power.
He’s addicted to it, just as much as Jessa’s addicted. Hooked on the fear and the authority, hooked on the way some men cower and others admire.
He’ll never stop because he doesn’t want to. The blood on his hands doesn’t bother him, and the part of me that’s his wishes I could feel the same. It would make things so much easier if I was all his.
But the shreds of Momma left in me, they hang on. They were nurtured by Mo, by Jake, and they grow stronger every time I’m at the Ruby. They wrap around my heart, whispering to do better.