Dream Lover

by Stacey Keith

  Past the splintered fence posts and the rusty barbed wire, Brandon spotted cows grazing in the distance. The setting sun spilled a wash of color on the horizon, crimson, purple and gold. A flock of birds was silhouetted against it, dark flapping shapes that lit gracefully on the arcing power lines that followed the road. Any other time, he would love this. It would satisfy something deep inside him, something he’d never been able to put into words. A feeling of belonging, perhaps.

  But now, it was everything he could do to keep from punching somebody.

  Banderas was a bust. There were two banks there and neither one of them stayed open late. As he idled at a stoplight, Brandon admitted to himself that the hard line he’d always taken on not having a cell phone had backfired.

  He cruised around until he found a payphone—something he didn’t see at all anymore in the big cities, only hick towns like this one. This payphone was in a truck stop parking lot and looked as though someone had slammed it repeatedly in a fit of rage.

  Matthew answered on the first ring. The kid must be as worried as he was.

  “Did Long Jon get back?” Brandon asked him.

  “No. And Miss April was here.”

  Brandon’s heartrate zoomed. “Didn’t you text her?”

  “She didn’t see the text until she got here.”

  Matthew didn’t elaborate, which made Brandon want to reach through the phone and choke him. He plunged a hand through his hair and tried to cool it, but this was going to be bad. Real bad.

  “What did you say to her?” Brandon asked, forcing himself not to yell.

  “I didn’t say anything,” Matthew told him acidly. “But she looked kind of upset. You know, the way girls get when they don’t believe one fucking word you say.”

  Now Brandon knew why the receiver looked as though it had been cracked repeatedly. Calm down, he told himself. But he couldn’t. He’d told her he wouldn’t lie to her, and here he was lying, right out of the gate.

  “I like Miss April,” Matthew told him. “She’s different from the skanks you usually hang out with.”

  “I’ll explain everything to her later,” Brandon said, more to himself than to Matthew. “Right now I need you to get on your phone and look up what banks are open late. Can you search by area or does it have to be towns?”

  “Towns are easier.” While Matthew looked, Brandon stared across the parking lot. Half a dozen big rigs idled next to a backlit sign that read Groovin’ Marvin’s Truck Stop Emporium. He should have been thinking about Long Jon, but all he could think about was April.

  What a fucking mess.

  “Here,” Matthew said finally. “Ten miles outside of Banderas, there’s a town called Mansard. They have a bank that stays open until eight-thirty.”

  While Matthew explained how to get there, Brandon tried to remember the directions, but his brain was swimming. He hung up, climbed back on the bike and headed north.

  This was exactly why he didn’t do relationships. It was crazy to think he could have one. His life was too chaotic. If you lived on the razor’s edge all the time, always one step ahead of the cops or jail or disaster, how could you expect to make a woman happy? Especially a woman like April. She had no idea what it was like to fight and claw for every single thing. She didn’t even know that people couldn’t be trusted.

  But he did.

  Brandon opened up the throttle and the Harley let out a demonic roar. A white mileage sign covered in weeds told him he was closer to Mansard than he realized. Beer cans, broken glass and pieces of red plastic brake light casings glittered in the drainage ditch beside the road. A part of him wanted so badly to just keep riding—out of Mansard, past the highway, and out of April’s life. He could recreate himself in some other town. He could come to his senses and remember before it was too late that lone wolves were just that: lone.

  But the idea of fucking things up with April felt like a giant hole had been ripped open in his chest. Being alone, being without her…he found no peace there either.

  A sign reading Welcome to Mansard flashed by. Like most small towns, traffic cleared out around dinner time, but there were still enough cars to slow his roll. Brandon found Washington Avenue just like Matthew had told him and then he spotted the local bank.

  What if Long Jon was laid out on the sidewalk, hands behind his head, waiting for the cold slide of the cuffs? Brandon drove past the bank as slowly as he could, the Harley’s engine going potato potato potato.

  No cops. No squad cars. The bank was closed.

  He pulled over to the curb and tried to get his thoughts together. His first feeling was one of relief. Long Jon clearly hadn’t jacked the bank.

  As he considered his next move, two girls in a Camaro drop-top stopped to check him out and give him alluring smiles, which he ignored.

  He still didn’t know where Long Jon was.

  Brandon drove back to Cuervo. The longer he drove, the more pissed off he became. He hated feeling powerless, hated having no idea what the fuck was going on. A month ago, he would have felt sorry for himself, riding around looking for his jackass of a friend. Now, he put himself in Long Jon’s place. What did Long Jon have to look forward to really? His bike was wrecked. He had no woman. He sure as shit didn’t have any money. When a man was against the wall like that, especially a biker, what else was there to do except what was necessary, legal or not?

  A man had his pride. Brandon had been so caught up trying to keep Long Jon out of trouble—mostly because of the inconvenience to himself—he’d lost sight of what it was to be at the end of your rope.

  Because of all the winding roads, it took him half an hour to get back to Cuervo. What now? The whole town had rolled up its carpets—except the Double Aces. But at least the Aces had a phone.

  Brandon pulled up in front of the bar and took a hard look at the other bikes. Not a Harley in the bunch. That ruled out anybody he might know. He was hoping to find someone who could tell him where Doc was.

  The phone was on the back patio where he’d first run into April. As he stood there punching in Matthew’s number, he thought about the way she’d looked, all pink and angelic in that checkered dress. Once he found Long Jon, Brandon told himself, he was going straight over to April’s house to straighten this thing out, even though he hated having to explain himself. He could call, but despite being a recovering asshole, he knew these kinds of talks were better in person.

  “He’s not here,” Matthew said in a worried voice. “Where do you think he is? Why can’t you find him?”

  “If I knew, do you think I’d be standing here asking you?” Brandon sighed and leaned against the wall next to the payphone. Snapping at Matthew wasn’t going to help. Besides, that was old Brandon. New Brandon tried to be patient. “Look, I’ll handle this. Go find something to eat. I’ll call you when I can.”

  Brandon hung up the phone, turned around and came face-to-face with Roxanne.

  For a split second he didn’t recognize her because his mind was a million miles away. But when he realized who it was, a feeling—half dread, half panic—seized hold of him.

  “Hey,” she said, all breathy. “What are you doing here?”

  He glanced around the patio. Not too crowded tonight. What the hell was she doing here? Did she actually live at the Double Aces? “I’m in a hurry,” he told her.

  “You don’t call, I don’t see you, and now you’re in a hurry?” She pouted. “I thought we were better friends than that.”

  The way Brandon remembered it, he’d stormed back to the house and yelled at Roxanne and her friend to get their shit and go. But he was trying his best to not act like a dick now, and that probably included being nice to a casual hookup. “Look, I’ve got some really important shit to do.”

  “I was hoping to see you again.” She grabbed the edges of his black leather jacket and pulled him against her. “I though
t I could come over soon…with another friend.”

  Brandon didn’t want threesomes or foursomes or whatever Roxanne was offering. He wanted April. Just April, in fact. If that made him a giant pussy, well…yeah, it shocked him, too.

  “I’m kind of seeing somebody.” Brandon could hardly believe he’d said those words out loud.

  Roxanne’s face clouded. Then her expression changed so quickly, he thought he might have been mistaken. “Anyone I know?” she asked innocently.

  New and improved Brandon started to answer the question. He almost said April’s name. Then he remembered that April had a lot more reason to be afraid of going public with their relationship than he did, and sweat popped out on the back of his neck. He would die rather than get her in trouble. “No one from around here,” he muttered. “Look, I’ve really gotta go.”

  He didn’t even stop for a beer, although Jimmy spotted him from behind the bar, and few things in life were more fun than riling up Jimmy.

  Brandon walked his bike across the street from the Double Aces and waited in the shadows of an alleyway, still hoping to run into someone he knew. There was a Harley there now, but not one he recognized. He could see Roxanne drifting aimlessly around the patio. She seemed so lost and lonely. He’d never thought about it before, why a woman might sit around in a bar looking for a hookup. Probably because he didn’t want to.

  Then Rooster came outside—Rooster who sold dope to kids. And all of Brandon’s new-and-improved Mr. Nice Guy resolutions exploded in the space of a single heartbeat.

  Rooster straddled the Harley with a cell phone pressed between his cheek and his shoulder. He ended the call, shoved the phone in a pocket, and started the hog, gunning it like a douche so everyone back at the bar would know he was leaving.

  Hands strangling the handlebars, Brandon watched him take off. Robbing banks was one thing. Selling shit to kids was completely different. Every red-hot impulse he felt stuck a sizzling brand in him. He could practically smell his own flesh cooking.

  He knew he should leave it alone. Smarter, nicer Brandon aside, there was only one way this thing was going to end, and that was bloody. Of course, not doing it was like trying not to breathe. There was only so much self-control a man had before he blew a gasket.

  It would only take a minute, he told himself, turning the ignition switch. Old scores to settle. Good deeds to do, even if they weren’t exactly the same kind of justice found in dusty old law books.

  Brandon rolled into the empty street and then listened for the sound of Rooster’s motorcycle before starting the engine. East, maybe. He detected a trace of the motorcycle’s exhaust fumes.

  Despite the rage—maybe even because of it—he felt more like himself than he had in a long time. Anger always made everything clear. Assholes like Rooster had no business hanging around a town like this. In the big cities, maybe, but not here. Cuervo was sweet and innocent, like April. Brandon had every intention of keeping it that way.

  The whole night sucked, but finally there was something he could do that would make it better.

  So much fucking better.

  Rooster’s motorcycle stopped at a place called Pete’s Gas Station. Pete shut off all the pumps and most of the lights at night, making it the perfect place to do the kind of business a guy like Rooster didn’t want other folks knowing about. When Brandon drew close and saw Rooster standing under the carport talking to three kids who were around Matthew’s age, the rage almost smothered him.

  He reminded himself this was a bad idea even as he pulled into the station and swung his leg off the bike. Rooster had a whole club full of biker buddies—buddies who would no doubt want payback for what Brandon was about to do to one of their members.

  There were only two things he’d ever been good at, Brandon reminded himself: fucking and fighting.

  Rooster sneered when Brandon walked up. “Oh, look who it is. Hey, pretty boy, where’s that big Sasquatch motherfucker you—”

  Brandon punched him in the face, and the kids took off running. Rooster staggered back. Brandon advanced on him again, landing another right hook that sounded like a side of beef hitting the floor. It was every prison fight he got into when the guards weren’t looking. Every schoolyard brawl. He was fourteen again and about to drop his stepdad to his knees.

  “Are you crazy?” Rooster sputtered, shielding his face with his bloody hands. “What’s your fucking problem?”

  “I don’t want to see you around here anymore,” Brandon said through clenched teeth. “Get on your bike and go.”

  Rivulets of blood streamed down Rooster’s beard and dripped onto his sleeveless biker vest. Brandon wanted to keep punching and punching until all his helplessness and frustration went away. He wanted to lay Rooster out on the ground and kick his face in.

  Rooster wiped his mouth on his arm and glared up at him. “You got a problem with me doin’ a little business here?”

  “What about don’t come back do you need me to explain to you again?” Brandon said.

  “I ain’t slingin’ the hard stuff,” Rooster told him.

  Brandon shook his head. “Not in this town.”

  “Don’t think this is over, McBride.” When Rooster saw Brandon’s look of faint surprise, he said, “That’s right. I know your name. You run with that big fucker, Long Jon. I know where you live and I know about your kid brother. You’ll be seeing me again, and this time I won’t be riding solo.”

  Brandon ignored the threat. “Where’s the shit? Hand it over.”

  Rooster flushed. Veins throbbed in each temple. He reached inside his vest, threw a Ziploc bag full of pot on the ground and then got on his bike.

  “Like I said, I don’t want to see you around here again,” Brandon told him.

  Rooster drove off—on the road away from town, too, Brandon grimly noted.

  But now that the blind rage was leaving him, a kind of hard-eyed realism set in.

  He hadn’t just pissed off one dumbass biker. He’d pissed off a whole motorcycle club full of them. This was exactly the kind of trouble he’d been trying to avoid. From now on, he’d have to sleep with one eye open.

  Reaching down, he swiped the bag of pot, went over to the weed-strewn lot next to the gas station and then emptied it onto the dirt.

  Chapter 17

  “Just the person I was looking for,” Felicia Hewitt said, barreling into the kitchen at Raymond County Child Protective Services. “Do you have Matthew Barrett’s case file?”

  April nearly dropped the carafe of coffee she was holding. She must have looked as terrified as she felt because Felicia said, “Poor thing! I didn’t mean to startle you.”

  “Too much of this stuff,” April said quickly, pouring coffee into her mug. Because she was miserable, exhausted and hyper-caffeinated, her hand shook as she put the carafe back on the burner. After the night she’d had, it would take more than coffee to make her operational again.

  Wrapping both hands around the mug, she sipped, using the time to compose her expression so Felicia didn’t see the panic. “Of course,” she said. “The file’s in my office.”

  Felicia rode herd on her. “I’m just following up on Joanna’s cases. We don’t want to get too behind while she’s on maternity leave.”

  April pulled his file out from a stack of other files and handed it to Felicia. “Well, I’m happy to say that Matthew’s back at school again. You can see for yourself that his grades are improving.”

  Felicia had been serving as office manager since Joanna left—something that few people in the office were thrilled about. Joanna was quick to laugh, quick to help, quick to forgive, but Felicia had zero sense of humor and called out even minor mistakes. April waited for her to find one now.

  “I see that you paid Matthew a visit a few weeks ago,” Felicia murmured, flipping through the pages, “but I don’t see your report.”


  “I’m writing it now,” April said. Fudging your way through a report, she’d discovered, was one of the hardest things a person could do. Every drop of ink was a drop of blood. She waited, heart thumping, while Felicia scanned the rest of the file.

  “Do you think you can get it done in the next hour and leave it in my mailbox?” Felicia asked, handing it back to her. “Oh, and any other paperwork you’re missing, too, okay?” She smiled, which always looked a little sticky on her, before leaving the office.

  Stifling a frightened sob, April sank into her chair. If this wasn’t an honest-to-goodness nervous breakdown, what was? She wasn’t capable of leading a double life. Even as a little girl, she couldn’t lie. Her mother had come home from working at the salon one afternoon and found her favorite bottle of perfume missing. April had accidentally broken it and then fell into hysterics because she couldn’t keep pretending that the fault wasn’t hers.

  And now she’d thrown her life away on a man who’d broken her heart. All she wanted to do was wrap her arms around her aching stomach and rock until she couldn’t feel the nausea anymore.

  So this was what Cassidy felt like in high school when Mason dropped her, April thought miserably as she picked up a pen and stared at Matthew’s report. And what Maggie went through when she was divorcing Todd. All her adult life April had tried not to make the mistake of falling in love with the wrong person. But in the end, love found you anyway, found you and made a fool of you.

  If Brandon had been more like Ryan, would she have believed that story about needing to go to Banderas for parts? Matthew hadn’t been terribly convincing. April couldn’t stand that Brandon made his brother do all his dirty work.

  She took a shaky breath and filled out the top of the report: name, date, case number, time of day the home visit had been made. It was the day she’d gone out to Brandon’s house and found Roxanne standing in the doorway.