by Cara McKenna
He checked his face in the visor mirror and approved. No, wait—what was his hair doing? He smoothed it down in the back, checked his teeth. Didn’t see anything amiss, but now that he’d questioned it, better safe than sorry. He flipped open the compartment behind the shifter and grabbed the floss from its assigned spot, right between the lens-cleaning cloths and the Klonopin.
Top row, left to right. Bottom row, right to left. And again, just to be sure. And one more time. He ran his tongue over his teeth, tasting a touch of blood, but no matter. Satisfied, he wound the floss into a tidy coil around his little finger, then deposited it in the trash receptacle, snapped the lid shut. Swung the door open, locked the car with the push of a button.
Better that he’d had to park so far away, he thought as he reached the bar’s lot. The Merc would’ve roused too much curiosity, tucked among these pickups and motorcycles and shitty old sedans. He’d probably have come back out to find it covered with grimy handprints and Marlboro ash, molested in his absence, or dinged by some drunk.
A small army of smokers loitered out front. Duncan held his breath as he breached their orbit, knowing he’d smell this place come morning, its scents trapped in the weave of his clothes. Cigarette smoke and gasoline fumes and that goddamn dust. It was easy enough to set the annoyance aside, however. Sunnyside was paying him obscenely.
The neon sign above the front door read BENJI’S SALOON. Fucking hell, a saloon. Like he should even be surprised. The S on SALOON was fritzing out, so the sign seemed to suggest that Benji’s a loon.
Which he’d have to be, Duncan imagined as he pulled open the screen door, to have gathered all this anarchy around himself.
The bar was everything Duncan loathed in the world.
Loud. Disorderly. Likely dingy, if he dared inspect anything too closely.
Couples were dancing, young men were playing pool. Old men were playing dominoes. Everyone was drinking. Even the ceiling fan looked wasted, teetering in a lazy pirouette.
He’d confirmed a thousand times over in the week since he’d arrived that he rather hated Fortuity. He hated casinos as well, but at least once the Eclipse was built, there’d be a purpose to this dirt patch; a point in coming here, even if it was only to be parted with one’s money. If Duncan valued anything, it was purpose. Purpose and intention.
Duncan fancied himself a classic fixer. Sunnyside’s well-heeled mercenary, the very picture of discretion. His function was to head off issues and clean up legal messes, greasing palms or threatening ruinous litigation, whichever method suited a given circumstance. It was his job to keep the project on track, no matter what it took. And he deserved every penny they paid him.
Another man charged with the task might’ve dressed the more obvious part—jeans and plaid and cowboy boots for this venue, this meeting with one local troublemaker, Vincent Grossier. His bosses had arranged it, having been tipped off by the sheriff that Grossier was worked up about something and seemed likely to make the foremen’s lives difficult, if he wasn’t placated. But Duncan couldn’t pass for a good ol’ boy any easier than his S-Class might be mistaken for a pickup. He knew he came off as an overdressed, entitled foreigner, and felt no need to remedy that.
There was a brunette sitting on the bar, the space before her cleared of stools. Younger than Duncan but probably also in her thirties, she wore jeans and a tank top, and had an oversized coffee can between her spread thighs, calves and booted feet dangling. With no one standing behind the counter, he had to wonder if she was the bartender. She laughed at something going on across the room, a raucous sound that cut through the greater rabble and made him flinch.
As Duncan approached, she scanned him in a breath, smile tightening. “Good evening, stranger.”
“Good evening. Do you work here?”
“I do very little else.”
He surveyed the liquor bottles beyond her, not spoiled for choice. “Vodka and tonic, please. Absolut will do.”
“You British?” she asked, looking intrigued.
Technically he wasn’t, but he’d been born there, so the simplest answer was, “Yes.”
“That’s a ways. So you know, for tonight only, donate ten bucks to the party planners’ fund and domestic bottles are all-you-can-drink.” She drummed the coffee can’s lid, a fat slot cut into its center. Duncan eyed the four open coolers set up along the counter, brown necks poking out like spikes. I’d sooner lap from the nearest dog’s bowl.
He smiled politely. “I’d prefer the V and T, if it’s not too much trouble.”
She shrugged, swiveling on her butt to hop down behind the bar. “The customer is always right, I’m told.”
She could be quite something. The girl had rare qualities—long neck, graceful shoulders and clavicle. But she was giving all the obvious bits away for free in that trashy tank top, gift-wrapped in the lacy bra Duncan could see far too much of. Clearly no one had explained to this girl what put the under in underwear. And her golden skin was vandalized by a tattoo—a big one, a swathe of dense filigree, like a scrap of black lacework draped along one side of her collarbone and down her shoulder. Like a veil.
The intricate pattern fluttered as she set a tumbler on the bar. “Ice?”
“It is tap?”
“Yeah.”
“No, thank you.”
She poured his drink, the vodka a long diamond ribbon rippling from the bottle into his tumbler, and Duncan played dress-up in his head. Put her in something knee-length and tailored, with a classic neckline; trim that wavy dark hair, and coil it into a more civilized arrangement. Pair of black pearl studs, and scrub off all that eye makeup. She had great skin. Just a slick of lip gloss and a touch of color in those cheeks, and let the rest be. And lose the tattoo, above all. More tragic than scars, that she’d chosen to deface herself that way. Like a rusty knife rending an otherwise-perfect canvas.
“Lemon or lime?” his bar wench asked.
“Whichever’s fresh.”
Her brows rose. “I don’t stock rotten fruit, if that’s got you worried.” Her dark eyes added, Fussy motherfucker, and shock of shocks, Duncan felt duly chastised. Odd.
“No, of course not—apologies. Surprise me.”
She went with a lime wedge, setting his drink on a napkin. “Five dollars.”
Duncan slid a crisp twenty from his wallet. “So this isn’t a typical night, then?”
She shook her head. “Not in scale, no—there’s a reunion under way. One of Fortuity’s most wayward sons has just returned. But if it gets rowdy, that’s your standard Saturday MO.”
“How very . . . spirited.”
“You work for Sunnyside, don’t you?”
He smiled. “Whatever gave me away?”
“Fair warning, this town may have voted in favor of your project, but the folks who drink here . . . We’re not all what you’d call progressive.”
“You don’t say.”
“You behave yourself and you’re welcome as anybody else in this bar. Just be careful.” She said it softly and with some gravity, as though Duncan were about to march off to war and certain death.
He cupped the napkin and glass. “I always am. By the way—do you know someone who frequents this bar who’s roughly six foot three, with a tattoo on his neck?”
“What on earth do you want with Vince?”
“Official business.”
“He threw this party, matter of fact. He’s in the front corner, last I saw. Leather jacket. Hard to miss.”
Duncan gave a little nod of thanks. He’d let this drink do its work, then make his approach.
“He won’t give you much of an enthusiastic reception,” the wench said.
“That’s quite all right. I’m not here to make friends.”
“Why are you here?”
He smiled. “Public relations.” As he headed for a free stool at the far end of the bar, she gave a piercing little whistle. He turned to find her waving bills.
“Your change, double-oh-seven.”<
br />
“A donation to the party fund,” he replied lightly. Lightly, not sweetly.
“Suit yourself,” she said, stuffing his change through the can’s slot.
On second thought.
He returned to her, sliding out his wallet. He counted five fifties and twelve twenties—everything large he had on him. The bartender’s eyes grew wide as he rolled it all into a tight tube and fed the coffee can.
“Go ahead and make it open bar,” he said with a smile.
Her look of surprise told him loads. First and foremost, that she had no clue how tiny a drop a few hundred dollars was in the oceanic bucket also known as Sunnyside’s charm budget.
“Cheers,” she said blankly.
“To your friend, and his happy homecoming.” He raised his glass in a little salute and turned away.
To all your friends, he added to himself. May the lot of you poor wretches get bought out and escape this godforsaken humanity ditch, and wake up to your own dead-end reality. To the favor you have no clue we’re trying to do for you, you stubborn, self-sabotaging bunch of inbred idiots.
“Yes,” he muttered, taking a corner seat with a fine view of the rabble. “I’ll drink to that.”
• • •
Miah slugged Vince in the shoulder, making him slop the beer he’d raised to his lips.
“Jesus, man. What was that for?”
“Who’s that?” Miah demanded, pointing to the bar.
Vince didn’t spot anyone of note. “Who’s who?”
“Gray suit, on the end. He was talking to Raina.”
Ah. The guy stuck out so much, Vince’s eyes had skimmed right over him. Not quite blond, dressed to kill. “Sunnysider, by the look of him.”
Miah’s gaze narrowed.
“Chill. He’s the last man on earth she’d fuck. Not that that’s any of your business anymore.”
“I wasn’t—”
“Sure you weren’t. Anyhow, tonight’s about Case. Forget that suit. We’re gonna show my brother what a dipshit he was for ever leaving town.” Maybe even convince him to stay . . . though Vince wasn’t holding his breath, there.
He wondered if another Sunnysider might turn up tonight—Kim. Far more interesting than the slick number Miah had pointed out. Guy had a stick up his ass; anybody could tell that from fifty paces. Probably a designer stick, too. Solid mahogany.
Sadly, Vince hadn’t seen Kim around, and not for a lack of looking. He’d taken some real scenic routes that morning, to and from the Sheriff’s Department, hoping to spot her capturing some photo-worthy feature of Fortuity that Vince probably took for granted. But nothing. He was curious to see if she’d answer the door the next morning when he turned up for their daybreak date with the sunrise. If she thought he’d been chastened out of his determination by their little exchange at her door, she clearly didn’t know Vince Grossier.
A clanging hushed the dozens of raucous conversations, and he craned his neck to find Raina kneeling on the bar, banging the old last-call bell with a metal ladle.
“Shut up, everyone! Quick announcement, one I promise you’ll like. Thanks to a very generous donation by a mystery patron”—she pointed the ladle at the Sunnyside shill, whose eyebrows rose dryly—“this party is officially open bar.”
The room erupted at that, drowning out some reminder from Raina that tips were still appreciated. The suited stranger just lifted his tumbler in acknowledgment of the appreciative hoots bombarding him from all directions, an icy smile quirking his lips.
Vince felt a growl humming deep in his throat and clipped it off. First buyout of many.
He was tempted to take advantage of the asshole’s charm-offensive play with the open bar. Better not, though. He had to keep sharp so he could get Casey home, and he planned on making sure the man of the hour drank enough to stay tanked until the following afternoon, so they could put off the little matter of Vince coming clean about his lie. His gut rotated forty-five degrees at that, just as Casey wandered back from a long circuit around the room. To judge by the sway in his step, more than a couple welcome-home shots had already made it past his lips.
“You’re looking loose, little brother.”
“Getting there. Man—this town has not changed.” He shot a not-subtle look over his shoulder at the bar. “Except Raina. She’s way hotter.”
Miah stiffened, brows a tight line.
“Yeah, about Raina,” Vince said, slapping his best friend hard on the back. “She kinda broke old Churchy’s heart, couple summers ago. So maybe let’s not talk about that.”
Miah rolled his eyes. “She didn’t break my heart.”
“She gave it some nasty rug burn, though,” Vince said.
Casey squinted in the woman’s direction. “You and Raina . . . goddamn. How was she?”
“Fuck you, Case.”
Vince smiled to himself, sipped his beer. For all the drama with the casino, for all the sad shit that had gone down this past week, this . . . This was familiar. This felt right. He settled into the male bickering, feeling at ease for the first time in days. And tomorrow . . . Well, who knew just what that might bring? Some fun with that Kim woman, he trusted, and hopefully a fruitful snoop around the construction site—
“Excuse me.”
He turned at the voice, finding the suited stranger behind him. Vince stood, taken slightly aback to find them just about eye to eye. He wasn’t used to that. Least he had a good thirty pounds on the guy.
“Yeah?”
“You’re Vincent Grossier, if I’m not mistaken.” Man wasn’t local; that much was clear.
“You’re not mistaken, but I only get called Vincent when I’m in trouble. Who’re you?”
“My name is Duncan Welch,” the man said, making some note on a small pad. He looked up, those steady, pale eyes telling Vince something he wasn’t used to sensing from a stranger—that he wasn’t intimidated. “I understand you may want to visit one of the construction zones, to satisfy personal curiosities.” The guy spoke with the sure precision of a sniper.
Goddamn. Clearly Tremblay didn’t trust Vince not to interfere any more than Vince trusted Tremblay to do a half-decent job of investigating.
Vince blinked at the guy. “And?”
“And I’m here to arrange it. I also understand you’re on parole, and I suspect you realize that such a visitation would constitute trespassing, if undertaken without permission from Virgin River Contracting.”
“You a fed or something?”
He shook his head. “I’m Sunnyside Industries’ corporate liaison.” He handed Vince a cream-colored, embossed business card that echoed the title.
“You got these in English?” Vince asked. “What the fuck’s your actual job?”
Welch’s lips curled in the barest of smirks. “I’m a lawyer. And a public relations representative for the company. And my bosses would prefer that large, emotional civilians not roam unsupervised around their investment—”
“Excuse me?”
“So they’ve asked me to accompany you.”
“To babysit me?”
“Perhaps chaperone would be more apt,” Welch said smoothly.
“You can tell your bosses to go fuck themselves.”
“I can relay that message if you truly wish me to, but hear me out. Sunnyside is paying me for this outing, Mr. Grossier. They’re going out of their way to allow you to make your visitation legally, and to be frank, it’s more courtesy than you should expect.”
“Tremblay set this up?”
“I did, after consulting with my employers. He merely apprised them of your interest in such an outing.”
Vince rolled his eyes, unsure if he wanted to punch the sheriff for this or thank him. Asshole probably thought Vince needed protecting, like he’d get himself locked up, making this little trip the do-it-yourself way. And maybe he would have. But the Daddy-knows-best treatment still grated on him. He fished a matchstick from his back pocket and tucked it between his lips. “Okay, I’ll pla
y along. When?”
“I’ll be in touch soon to arrange the details, though the waivers won’t likely come through until Monday.”
Damn, Vince had wanted to get on this tomorrow . . . Plus, waivers meant asking permission from the contractors, basically tipping them off, if they had anything to hide. Then again, parole was parole, and he was clearly on Tremblay’s radar. And playing by this asshat’s rules also meant he’d have the whole day free to pursue Kim, which wasn’t the worst consolation prize.
He relented. “I’ll give you my number.”
Welch entered the digits into his gleaming phone. “I’ll call when I have details.”
“Fine.”
Welch offered a hand and Vince shook it, weirded out by how smooth it was. Good shake, though—firm and curt.
“Enjoy your party, Mr. Grossier. Have a drink on me.” Duncan turned away, but Vince called him back.
“Hey. Word of advice.”
Welch’s perfect eyebrows rose. “Yes?”
“You watch yourself, throwing your money around in here.”
“So I’ve been told. Have I shown up the party planners?”
“Just watch it. Some of us large, emotional civilians are sensitive to the idea of buyouts, what with this casino we got coming down the pike.”
Welch’s smile was unconcerned. “I’ll bear that in mind, Mr. Grossier. It must have been the bartender’s charms that fogged my diplomacy.”
“You watch yourself with her, too.”
“Is there a particular gentleman in this room who’d take offense to my friendliness?” Welch asked, looking around with curiosity.
“Nope,” Vince lied with a smile, knowing Miah was behind him somewhere, hot under his collar. “But that girl will eat you alive, if you give her half a chance.”
“I don’t doubt it, considering how easily she emptied my wallet.” He nodded once. “Good night, Mr. Grossier.”
“Night.” Once Welch was out of earshot, he added, “Asshole.”