Tin Queen

by Devney Perry

  “Stuff.” The corner of her mouth turned up.

  I narrowed my eyes. “What stuff?”

  “Boring stuff.” She shrugged and plucked a piece of tomato off my cutting board, popping it into her mouth.

  “You’re not going to tell me.”

  “Why does it matter?” she asked.

  I moved to her. She opened her knees, making space for me. “Because I want to know.”

  She reached over and picked up another piece of tomato, her eyebrows arching in a silent challenge as she chewed.

  If it was a game she wanted, then we’d play. I trailed my fingers up her thigh, the roughness of my skin scratching against the denim of her jeans. A flash of lust crossed those beautiful brown eyes and her hands came to my shoulders.

  I leaned in close as my hand caressed her hip. My lips brushed over hers, earning a small hitch in her breath, as I splayed my hand over her ribs.

  Then tickled her mercilessly.

  “Ace!” she squealed, squirming and swatting at me, but I kept at the torture until she was laughing so hard that she begged me to stop.

  “Are you going to tell me?”

  “Yes,” she howled. “Yes!”

  I let her go and grinned, dropping a kiss to her cheek as she swiped the tears from her eyes.

  “You don’t play fair.”

  “Fair is for losers.” I went to the stove and checked on the meat.

  “True. Very true.” She hopped off the counter and went to my cutting board, taking over with the veggies. “I’m a lawyer.”

  “Now was that so hard?”

  “Yes.” She smirked with a laugh. “I spent my day drafting a will for a young couple. I hate doing them because it always makes me sad when I have to ask parents who will get their children if they die. After crying over it twice, I sent it to them to review. Then I drafted up LLC paperwork for a client who’s starting a new business in Missoula.”

  A knot in my chest unraveled. A sigh of relief came out so loud I knew she’d heard it.

  I put the lid back on the meat so it could simmer until we were ready, then went to Nova, propping a hip on the counter beside her as she chopped. “Missoula?”

  She nodded. “That’s where I live. I’m working remotely at the moment. I needed a break and change of scenery.”

  “Oh.” That truth hit me like a sledgehammer to the chest and the pieces all clicked into place. She didn’t live here. That was why I hadn’t seen her in town before last month. Why she’d insisted this was casual.

  She didn’t fucking live here.

  I swallowed hard. The end had always been inevitable. Now I knew why.

  “Why Clifton Forge?” I asked, pretending curiosity to hide the fact that my head was spinning.

  “It’s close enough to Missoula that I can pop back if needed. One of the guys I work with at my firm comes hunting here every year. He’s always saying how nice of a town it is and that it’s not overrun with tourists like other areas. So I found a vacation rental and here I am.”

  A vacation rental. Son of a bitch. “How long are you staying?”

  She kept her eyes on the cutting board. “I planned a couple of months. I need to be back in Missoula before the roads get bad.”

  If she was only staying for a couple of months, we’d burned through more than half already.

  I regretted asking. Damn it. I should have kept my mouth shut.

  Yeah, I would have figured it out eventually when she moved back to Missoula. But now all I’d be doing was watching the calendar as the days ticked by.

  Nova looked over, her smile too bright as she set the knife down, the tomato perfectly diced. Then she went back to the counter, hopping up to her seat. “Any other questions?”

  A few, actually. Would she ever have told me that she was leaving? Would she have disappeared without a word? But I didn’t ask because I didn’t want the answers.

  “What’s your favorite color?” I asked, moving in between her legs again.

  She lifted her hands, threading her fingertips through the hair at my temples. I’d tied it up earlier, knowing that she liked to take it down. “Your eyes.”

  “What’s your favorite food?”

  “Tacos.”

  I brushed a kiss to her lips, then went to the stove and turned it off. I was grateful for the task of setting out everything on the island for dinner. It gave the sting of her truth time to ease.

  She was leaving.

  I’d known this was a short-term thing and now I had the timeline. Another month at most. That was how much time we had.

  “Where’d you learn to cook?” She hopped down and went to the silverware drawer.

  “Mostly here, through trial and error. My mom tried to teach me a few things when I was in high school, but not much stuck until I was grown and fending for myself.”

  I hadn’t gone to college or trade school. No professor could teach me more about cars than my own father and Draven could, so I’d joined the club and started working at the garage. Back then, I’d lived in the clubhouse. There’d always been food in the industrial fridge and usually a woman or two who’d cook for the brothers hanging around. Sometimes it was a girlfriend or wife of a member. Other times it was a woman who thought cooking might land her the title of girlfriend—it rarely did.

  It wasn’t until I’d moved out of the clubhouse and into a townhouse of my own, wanting some privacy, that I’d learned how to cook.

  “It was awful at first.” I chuckled, taking plates out of the hickory cabinets. “Truly awful. But I’d always eat whatever I cooked. A punishment at first. Then it became a motivation to make something I’d actually enjoy.”

  I set the plates down on the island that sat in the center of my expansive, U-shaped kitchen. The cream granite was speckled with flecks of gray and burgundy stone. I ate at the island most nights, the dining room too big and lonely for one. Even with Nova here, we normally sat on the stools at the island, sitting side by side with my leg brushing against hers.

  I’d miss that when she left. Her touch. Her company over a meal.

  “I don’t get fancy,” I said, bringing everything to the island to assemble soft-shell tacos.

  “I don’t need fancy.”

  “You sure about that? I see your shoes.”

  She laughed. “In shoes, yes, I need fancy. In food, I prefer this. Normal food. As long as it doesn’t have shrimp, I’m not very picky.”

  I sat beside her, each of us assembling our tacos. “You don’t like shrimp.”

  “Nope. I also don’t like sushi.”

  “Not a lot of sushi in Clifton Forge.”

  “Part of its appeal.” She laughed, taking her first bite. Her eyes closed and she moaned as she chewed.

  “I forgot drinks.” I made a move to stand but she put a hand on my forearm, sliding off her stool first.

  She went to the cabinet with glasses, taking out two. Then she filled them with ice and water from the fridge.

  Just watching her move around my kitchen, comfortable in my space, made my chest ache. Nova was the closest I’d come to having a relationship in, well . . . ever. And she’d be gone soon. She’d go back to her life in Missoula.

  She returned to our places, sliding my water into place.

  “Tell me more,” I said. “Tell me anything.”

  “I’m scared of spiders and snakes. I never say no to cookie dough ice cream. I think ballet flats are overrated. And . . .”

  My food remained untouched. I couldn’t tear my eyes away from her profile as her eyes turned sad. “And what?”

  She looked over, pain etched on her beautiful face. “And I wish I had a better relationship with my father.”

  I reached for her, cupping her jaw with my hand.

  Nova leaned in, forcing a small smile. “Your turn. Tell me anything.”

  “I hate shrimp too. And I’m glad you think ballet flats are overrated.”

  She giggled, turning to press her lips to my wrist.


  Then we went back to our meals, talking and laughing through another night. The echo of her laugh rang through the house and I willed the walls to absorb it. So that maybe a part of her would remain long after she was gone.

  Chapter Eleven

  Nova

  “Did you make it back safely?” Mom asked.

  “Yes.” I smiled. No matter my age, Mom would always expect updates on my travel plans. Even though I’d texted her when I’d gotten back to Clifton Forge yesterday, she’d still called this morning.

  “It was good to see you. I miss you.”

  “Miss you too, Mom.”

  The night before last, I’d driven to Missoula. I’d lied and told Emmett that the reason I was sleeping at my own place was because of an early meeting. In reality, I’d been in a different county.

  Brendon had been great about me working remotely but he’d called for a bimonthly staff meeting and I’d wanted to attend in person. So I’d gone to Missoula for a night. Sleeping in my own bed had felt foreign and after the meeting at the firm and a quick visit to Mom’s, I’d driven back to Clifton Forge.

  “How much longer do you think you’ll be gone?” Mom asked.

  “I don’t know.” I sighed and sat down at the dining room table in my rental. There was a stack of mail beside my laptop, neither of which I wanted to open yet.

  My morning had gotten off to a slow start. After waking early and taking a shower at Emmett’s, I’d lingered at his place while he’d cooked us breakfast. Normally I’d head out as soon as I was dressed, but this morning I simply hadn’t wanted to leave.

  Something had changed last night over tacos. Something had shifted. And I wasn’t sure exactly what to make of it yet.

  “Give me a call later this week,” she said.

  “Okay. Love you.”

  “I love you too.”

  I ended the call and set my phone aside. It vibrated with an incoming email and though I knew there were plenty of tasks waiting for me, I had no motivation to jump into my day.

  I was stalled.

  When Emmett had asked me questions about work last night, I could tell by his tone that his patience for my silence and vague answers had worn thin. That should have been my cue to leave. Instead, I’d opened my damn mouth.

  My answers had all been true. I was a lawyer. I lived in Missoula. I was in Clifton Forge temporarily. I hated shrimp and was terrified of both spiders and snakes.

  He’d seemed satisfied and if I’d just left it at that, I probably wouldn’t have felt so vulnerable. But then my stupid mouth had opened again and I’d told him I wished for a better relationship with my father.

  Why? Why would I say that? I smacked my forehead with a palm. Would my epic stupidity ever end?

  The confession had slipped out and revealed far too much. There wasn’t a person alive who I’d admitted that to before. Mom and Shelby could probably guess but I’d never spoken it aloud.

  Until Emmett.

  What was wrong with me? Why couldn’t I have just stayed quiet? The man was slashing through my defenses one night at a time. The longer I stayed, the more it would hurt in the end. But I couldn’t bring myself to leave.

  Brendon seemed satisfied with the work I’d been doing remotely, and I had no doubt that if I asked, he’d let me continue for a while longer. Considering this revenge plan of mine had gone nowhere, I might need the extra time.

  If I even had the guts to continue.

  I’d only snooped around Emmett’s house the one time. I should break into his safe. I should hack into his computers. I should do something, anything, but instead I’d stalled. Instead, I told myself that the dinners and the evenings on his deck and the nights in his bed were to earn his trust.

  There was only so much more delaying I could manage. By telling Emmett I was in Clifton Forge temporarily, I’d put myself on the clock.

  It was time to make a decision.

  Either I acted. Or I walked away.

  “Damn it,” I groaned, slumping into my chair. What was I doing?

  Maybe I should call it off. Maybe I should go and visit Dad, tell him that I couldn’t find anything. If I swore that the Tin Gypsies weren’t hiding anything, would he believe me? Would it matter?

  Dad knew they were guilty of a plethora of crimes. My problem was evidence. I needed evidence for my plan. If there was none . . .

  “He’ll kill them,” I whispered, my stomach sinking.

  Dad would find a way to kill them, simply because he hated them that much. For a time, listening to Dad’s stories, especially those about TJ’s death, had made me hate them too. I’d hated them enough for revenge.

  Until my thirst for vengeance had been quenched by a tall, ruggedly handsome mechanic who made me laugh. Who made me see stars. Who made me . . . happy.

  Gah. Why couldn’t Emmett have been an asshole? Why?

  Only, he was not the man my father had made him out to be.

  Dad had told me everything he knew about the Tin Gypsies. He’d gone back decades, explaining how their feud had started. He’d told me about the drug protection routes they’d fought over. He’d told me about the underground fights the Gypsies had organized around the state.

  TJ had been murdered at one of those fights.

  After the Tin Gypsies had disbanded, Dad and the Warriors had taken over their routes. They’d brought in a serious stream of cash and with no competition, the war between clubs had ended. They’d called a truce.

  Until Draven Slater had been framed for murder by the former Clifton Forge chief of police, Marcus Wagner. Draven had reached out to Dad, wanting to know if the Warriors had been involved. Dad had told them the truth. They had all but forgotten about the Tin Gypsies.

  It should have ended there.

  It would have if the Tin Gypsies hadn’t taken their retribution.

  They’d gone to a secluded cabin in the mountains that they’d known was a Warrior hideaway. There’d been a Warrior inside, stationed there to protect the property. The Gypsies had barricaded the man inside and burned the place down with him inside. They’d murdered one of Dad’s brothers for no reason.

  All because they hadn’t trusted when Dad had told them the truth. They’d believed that the Warriors had framed Draven, so they’d killed a man.

  They’d started a new war.

  Draven had come after Dad again, forcing Dad’s hand. Thankfully, Dad had come out the victor but only because he’d taken Draven’s life.

  Dad had promised me . . . he’d had to kill Draven. If he hadn’t, Draven never would have stopped. Draven would have come after others and maybe even discovered Mom, Shelby or me.

  When would the bloodshed end? When would enough lives be lost for this to stop?

  Dad had staged Draven’s death as a suicide. The authorities had no idea it had been Dad’s rope that had hung Draven in his own home.

  The state prosecutor hadn’t included Draven’s murder in the long list of charges against Dad. I guess for men like Dad who were skilled at taking lives, they were also good at covering up their crimes.

  The same had happened with TJ.

  After he’d been shot, they’d brought him to the hospital in Ashton, even though TJ had been dead on arrival. The guys TJ had been with that night had told the doctors it had been a hunting accident.

  One of them had taken the blame. With two other Warriors to confirm the story, no one had thought to ask more questions. Or maybe people in Ashton knew better than to challenge a Warrior.

  We’d always known that TJ had died from a gunshot wound. Dad had told Mom, Shelby and me that the hunting accident had been a lie. But he hadn’t shared the gruesome details. When Dad had told me what had really happened to TJ, I’d gone into a rage. I’d wanted nothing more than to make the men who’d killed him pay.

  Then one month with Emmett and everything was different.

  I knew what I had to do. I knew my next steps. I was just struggling to take them.

  Maybe a trip to visit Dad
would inspire some action, except I didn’t want to see him. How many years had I longed for just one more minute with Dad? One more day and one more conversation?

  Now if he saw me, he’d see the truth on my face.

  I was faltering. I was weak. If he knew, he’d send others to Clifton Forge.

  The idea of Emmett’s death made my stomach twist. I’d never wanted any of the Tin Gypsies dead. To spend their lives in prison? Yes. But never death.

  My phone vibrated with another email but I ignored it, going for the stack of mail instead.

  I discarded the credit card offers and insurance flyers. I opened and scanned my bank statement. I rifled through the plethora of clothing catalogs, only saving two that I’d go through later.

  At the bottom of the stack there was a plain white envelope, my name and address written in a sloppy script. It didn’t have a return address so I tore it open, unsure what it could be.

  On a single piece of white paper was a phone number.

  “What the hell?”

  Curiosity won out and I picked up my phone, quickly dialing the number.

  “Hello?” a man’s sleepy voice answered after the third ring.

  “Um . . . hi. My name is N-June. June Johnson. I got this piece of paper in the mail and—”

  “Oh, yeah. He said you’d be calling.”

  “Who said?”

  “A guy who knows a guy who knows Tucker Talbot.”

  My body tensed. “Who are you?”

  “You can call me Hacker.”

  Hacker. “Okay,” I drawled.

  “Listen, I’ve got some stuff this morning but I’ll come by about two. Cool?”

  “Come by. How do you—”

  He interrupted me by rattling off the address to my rental.

  The blood in my veins turned to ice.

  “Will you be there at two?” he asked.

  “Sure,” I muttered.

  Then he ended the call and I sat, staring at the piece of paper, wondering what the fuck my father was up to.

  A guy who knows a guy who knows Tucker Talbot.

  Dad had covered his tracks. He’d clearly had someone else send this because the handwriting was not his.