by Cara McKenna
She shook her head. “You know what those people are going to want to open. Chain steak houses, with fake Wild West memorabilia hanging off every blank inch of wall. I’m no businesswoman—not really. They’ll steamroll me. Turn this place into whatever they want. Downstairs might be rough, but he did it all with his own hands.”
Duncan nodded, having imagined the same fate for the bar himself. He’d only offered the lie to make her feel better.
Raina closed the notebook with a sigh. “Well. That sobered me up. How’s the bedroom coming?”
Duncan smiled as he stroked his cat, thinking they sounded like an old married couple. “Considerably less dusty.”
“Not sure what you’re paying me a hundred bucks a night for,” she said, rubbing her face, “when you have to clean your own room before it’s habitable.”
“Perhaps the first night could be gratis.” Perhaps they could all be gratis, if her little remark about not wanting his money anymore, should they start fucking, had been more than an idle come-on. Best to get his mind off the question, though. “Where do you do your tattooing?”
She nodded toward the kitchen. “Room through there. You want to see?”
Did he want to see the space in which she drew indelible images across strange men’s naked skin? “No, thank you.”
“I keep it locked—my equipment’s the most expensive thing I own. But anytime you want a tour . . . or an estimate.” She raised her eyebrows hopefully.
Duncan smirked and stood. “I’ll check on the laundry. And you’re probably due downstairs.” The sun was nearing the mountains, and it’d be dark soon. With the dusk came the more demanding patrons, and that peak was going to steal Duncan’s company, along with the daylight. He wouldn’t be going down himself, this evening. Not after nearly falling on his face in front of all those yahoos the night before. Not with his name so freshly linked to the bribery allegations. Those things wouldn’t keep him away for long, but not tonight.
“I’d better make a phone call,” he said, heading for the easy chair where he’d left his laptop and cell. He found Flores’s card in his dossier and entered the digits.
“Flores.”
“It’s Duncan Welch.”
“Ah. Welch. I was just thinking about you.”
“How flattering.”
“Not calling to apologize for your lady friend, I hope? I’ve been called way worse, you know.”
“I’m merely calling to let you know my premises have changed.”
“What?”
“Don’t panic. I’ve not gone far. I’m staying with my . . . acquaintance,” he revised, his eyes meeting Raina’s dark ones across the room for the hottest instant. To call her a friend would’ve been a familiarity too far. “In the apartment above Benji’s Saloon, on Station Street.”
“That dump, huh?”
Duncan felt heat flash up the back of his neck.
“Doesn’t seem your style.”
Duncan cooled himself. “Despite the surety your little folder might suggest that you possess, you don’t know me, Mr. Flores. Not remotely.”
“Why the move?”
“Concerned parties have suggested, perhaps with some prudence, that I might be wise to stay with a friend during this investigation. Seeing as how I’m not a favorite with the locals, and now I’ve been tarred by these ridiculous charges—”
“I get it. Let’s save our discussion of the case for a future meeting, shall we?”
“Just keeping you apprised.”
“Speaking of meetings, we need to have another one. Tomorrow. Eight thirty, at the sheriff’s department.”
“Oh dear, I hope I shan’t miss Mass.”
“You and me both,” Flores said, his eye roll audible. “I just want to go over a few things with you.”
“Fine.”
A pause, a tiny huff of a laugh. “Raina Harper, huh?”
“Excuse me?”
Papers shuffled behind Flores’s voice. “Raina Catherine Harper. Owner of Benji’s Saloon. Your greatest defender, also your roommate now?”
“She may be.”
“She may also be friends with some of the locals who’ve admitted to getting themselves involved in a certain little homegrown investigation against Charles Tremblay. I’m sure you know all that.”
“I’m sure I do.”
“I’m sure you can appreciate that it’ll look odd to some people, you fraternizing further with casino opponents—ones who’ve arguably impeded justice, and trespassed on—”
“Ones who’ve outed two potential murderers, who’d been poised to get away with their crimes, if not for those meddling kids.”
Raina laughed, then quit eavesdropping and disappeared into the kitchen.
“Yes,” Duncan continued, “I’m sure I can appreciate it. I trespassed with them, you’ll recall. That fraternization should be no bombshell.”
“Listen, Duncan.”
He sighed, the familiarity shtick so fucking maddening. “Yes, Ramon?”
An equally annoyed sigh answered him. “You want to convince everyone you’re one of the good kids, don’t go sitting yourself at the back of the bus with the troublemakers. With saloon owners and parolees.”
“Your concern has been noted,” Duncan said. “As, I trust, has been my new address.”
Another sigh. “Yeah. Fine.”
“Good night, then, Agent Flores.”
“Counselor Welch.”
They hung up.
Raina returned, leaning against the wall just inside the door with her arms crossed, a funny look on her face.
Duncan polished his phone’s screen on the hem of his tee. “Yes?”
“They tell you I’m a bad influence?”
“Not you specifically,” he fibbed.
She smirked. “You’re a terrible liar. He tell you not to stay here?”
“Not precisely.”
“You tell him what happened to your car?”
“No. I’ve lost enough freedom already—I’m not getting locked away in a safe house just because some yokel can afford a can of spray paint.”
“Why am I not surprised?”
He smiled. “Because you’d do precisely the same thing, in my position.”
Her eyes narrowed, the look telling him he was right. And that perhaps they weren’t that different, after all.
The room felt very still. Very stifling, all at once, that phone call having let the stress of everything intrude on what had been a strangely pleasant, strangely human afternoon.
He eyed his roommate, and allowed himself the luxury of imagining all the inappropriate things he’d like to do with her. Things he might just let himself give in to, with a little chemical lubrication.
“Does Casey Grossier work for you now?” he asked.
“Not officially. Why?”
Duncan turned a thought around for a moment before giving it voice. “I think you ought to call him, and tell him he’s bartending again tonight.”
She held his stare. “Oh? Why’s that?”
“Because you and I need to get drunk.”
The flicker of a smile. “Do we, then?”
He nodded once, definitively. “We do. No pills, I promise. Just you and me, and a bottle of something, and your father’s old records and photo albums.”
“You and me and a bottle,” she echoed. “That sounds like an invitation for trouble.”
He smiled. “Oh, I’m already in trouble. This would merely be a spot of fun.”
She checked the clock on the DVD player and seemed to consider it, finally nodding. “Okay, sure. If Casey’s free, you’re on. It’s a date.”
A rather reckless, messy, fucked-up sort of date, Duncan thought. One they were weeks overdue to embark on together.
He smiled. “So call
that motherfucker.”
Chapter 10
“Motherfucker.” Casey glared at his phone when Raina ended the call.
Vince looked over from the couch, where he and Kim were gathered around the coffee table, playing cards with Vince and Casey’s addled mother.
“I’ve just been informed I’m working again,” Casey said. “Like, right now.”
“At the bar?” Kim asked.
“Yeah. Funny how I don’t remember filling out any W-2s.”
Vince smiled. “Few days ago you might’ve jumped at the chance.”
“Yeah, well, a few days ago that girl wasn’t pregnant, far as I knew.” And with a felon’s baby. A felon, Vince had told Casey, who didn’t yet know he was a father-to-be. And who’d been put away for smuggling firearms, and earned himself the kind of respect inside that only violence afforded. A charismatic, manipulative type, Vince had said, with a cold demeanor that hid a hot temper. Nasty combo. And this guy was likely to be getting paroled in the next six months. Now, that was baggage. That was a whole fucking carousel of the shit.
“Can’t play hearts with only three,” their mother said absently.
Casey pocketed his phone. “Apparently this is club business.” He said it mainly to Vince—their mom wasn’t really listening.
“Club shit? How so?”
“Raina’s looking after Welch or whatever.”
Vince smirked. “Sure she is.”
Casey zipped his hoodie and checked for his wallet. “If I’m stuck slinging drinks because she’s upstairs getting laid, don’t put it past me to skim from the till.”
“You didn’t put up much of a fight,” Kim said savvily.
Casey couldn’t hide the blush warming his face if he tried; faintest touch of embarrassment—or arousal, for that matter—and his ears and neck and cheeks went red as beets. “It’s not all bad. Chicks love bartenders. Plus, if Raina owes me, maybe I can get a free tattoo for my troubles.”
And fine, Kim had him pegged about right. He missed flirting with Abilene. That last night, when Casey had put his foot in it, it’d been pretty awkward, sure. But the girl had mellowed some by the end of the night, everybody distracted by the news about Levins. She’d even smiled at him when she’d climbed into her car after they locked up, and she never looked prettier than when she smiled. Besides, what Casey felt for her . . . He hadn’t felt this way about a girl since he’d been a teenager. Goofy, simple crush. He’d wanted to fuck her, no doubt, but with that off the table for self-preservation reasons, the other stuff still felt good. Kinda sweet, in the midst of all the complicated shit going on in Fortuity. So yeah, flirt with the girl, go home, beat off. No harm in that.
No harm, he thought, starting up his bike, provided he didn’t flirt too hard. Sweat broke out under his arms to imagine somebody telling her baby’s unwitting gunrunner father they’d been cozy while the guy was incarcerated, and that Casey had known about the kid before the dad had. Christ, maybe this wasn’t simple at all.
He headed downtown, deciding he’d better just take the concerned, brotherly route with Abilene. Seemed like an option less likely to get him shot in the knee.
The lot was half-full when he arrived, the night already shaping up to be a busy one. He glanced up at the lit windows of Raina’s apartment but spotted no incriminating silhouette of her and Duncan getting freaky. Still, what did she expect Casey to believe they were up to?
He parked out back and entered through the rear—she’d given keys to everybody in the club a few weeks ago. The bar was noisy when he strolled in, Abilene shouting out a party’s ready order before starting on the next.
“What needs pouring?” he asked from behind her.
She cast him a skeptical glance. “You again?”
“Raina didn’t say? She’s still playing nurse upstairs, apparently. So yeah, me again. You okay with that?”
“Makes no difference to me.” She handed a pitcher to a customer and started another, not meeting his eyes. “I need four shots of Jack.”
He poured them, made change, and turned to the next expectant face.
There’d been a bit of a logjam, but after ten minutes things calmed down. Already hot, Casey unzipped his jacket and stuffed it into a cubby under the register. Abilene tossed him a towel, then set her own on the bar. “I’ll be right back.”
“Where you going?”
“I’m six months pregnant. Where do you think I’m going, every ten minutes?”
“I have no clue.”
She rolled her eyes. “I’m going to snort coke off a hooker’s tits,” she said, heading for the back.
Casey just stared for a moment. She’d never talked like that before. She looked about sixteen, so the effect was sort of hilarious. “Hormones much?”
“Fuck off, Casey.”
“Definitely hormones. Oh—wait. Peeing!” he called after her retreating back. “You’re peeing, right? See, I know some stuff about pregnant women.”
“Tell the whole bar,” she shot over her shoulder before disappearing.
Casey filled a couple more orders and she returned, little wisps of her long dark hair plastered to her temples.
“You look hot,” he said. “Like, sweaty, I mean.”
“Wow. Thanks.”
“I mean, you look overheated. Yet still attractive. You need a break?”
“I’m fine,” she said, not sounding fine at all.
“You’re not going into labor, are you?”
She paused, sighing her exhaustion. “Not for a couple months. I’m just sweaty. And tired. And my body’s going insane, because there’s a tiny human moving my organs around.”
“Raina should keep you on afternoons.”
She glared at him. “I’m fine. And I make a hundred bucks more on nights, so don’t go telling her to take them away from me.”
“You can have my tips,” he offered. “I’m not even supposed to be here. I don’t even work here, officially.” Officially, Casey didn’t work anywhere.
“Just . . . just leave me alone, Casey. Just fill orders, and I’ll quit being such a bitch, and we’ll get through tonight, and everything will be fine.”
He frowned. “You’re, like, legit pissed at me, aren’t you?”
She turned away to gather empties, and he tailed her.
“Why? I’m not saying you shouldn’t be—I fuck shit up all the time. I just don’t always realize it. But if you tell me what I fucked up, I’ll try to fix it.”
She laughed, a sad, small noise. “There’s nothing to fix. And you didn’t fuck anything up. You said it yourself—it’s just hormones.”
He tried to let it go. Tried to just handle orders and make change, get lost in the familiar, jerky rhythm of this place. Didn’t do much good, though.
Casey hated simmering conflicts. It was the reason he always moved on, whenever he messed shit up. He sucked at cleanup. Still, it bugged him how this acquaintance had gone from fun to painful so goddamn quickly. Maybe he’d been naive, thinking their flirtation had been the one simple thing left to enjoy in this complicated town. That she’d been simple—an open book. Come to think of it . . . he really didn’t know jack about her, did he?
“What’s your last name?” he asked during a lull.
She shot him a distrustful look. “Why?”
“Just seems weird I don’t know it, that’s all. Mine’s Grossier.”
“Everyone knows what your last name is.”
“Because my brother’s, like, the king of the local dicks, you mean.”
She smirked. “Kind of.”
“So, what’s yours?”
“Price.”
“Okay. And when’s your birthday?”
She chewed her lip.
“Mine’s April fifth,” he said. “I’m thirty-three. How old are you?”
&nb
sp; “Twenty-four.”
“And your birthday?”
She looked real wary at that, making Casey doubt the age she’d told him.
“Whatever, never mind. It’s cool.” A customer caught his eye, a clean-cut Hispanic guy with glasses. “What’ll it be?”
“I don’t suppose Raina Harper’s working tonight?” The man’s voice reeked of law enforcement.
Casey shook his head, crossed his arms. “She’s off. You want a drink?”
He scanned the bottles lined up on the highest shelf. “Amstel.”
“Watching your figure?”
“How much?”
“Four bucks.”
They swapped a beer for bills and the guy disappeared into the crush. Casey turned his attention back to Abilene, who was loading the washer. “Just figured I ought to know some shit about you. Since we’re basically coworkers and everything.”
“You know stuff about me,” she said, glancing at her middle.
“I mean, just boring stuff. Favorite color. Favorite band. Favorite food.”
Her lips twitched, and before heading out into the greater barroom to collect empties, she said, “Barbecued brisket.”
Casey smiled, watching her go. He restocked the coolers and the ice, and when she returned he thought he could chance teasing her, sensing she’d thawed some. But he was way wrong. The second he said, “I knew I’d defrost you, sooner or later,” the claws popped back out.
She turned quickly, ponytail whipping around, blue eyes bright and angry. “Defrost me?”
He crumpled the empty ice bag, staring into a pair of glaciers. “Um, yeah. I was just teasing. Did I just—”
Her hands shook as she went to rub her eyes. “God, why’s everything all . . . fucked-up?”
“Fucked-up? You mean because I fucked them up, or . . . ?”
She shook her head, smoothed her hair. “The baby’s fucking everything up.” She clutched her middle, looking chastised. “It’s not her fault. But she is.”
“She? It’s a girl?”
“Shut up, Casey, please. I’m trying to have a breakdown.”
“You and Welch. Maybe if you head upstairs, Raina will fuck you into better mental health.”
Finally, a smile. Casey broke out in one of his own. “Hey, now, look at that! You don’t hate me after all.”