Give It All (23 page)

“He’s been getting dismantled from the second he met you.”

“And he’s adapting well.”

He smiled and she felt another welling in her chest.

“It’ll be weird when your name’s cleared,” she said. “And Sunnyside takes you back, and we’re on opposite sides of the casino again . . .
If
you’d even take your old job back, of course. You can’t be impressed with how they’ve treated you.”

He turned to stare up at the ceiling once more. “For the amount they pay me—and the raise I’d likely negotiate in light of everything I’ve gone through—I could be convinced to muster forgiveness. Maybe.”

And that means you’ll stick around. At least until the Eclipse is built.
Why should she even care? Why care if a man would still be warming her bed in a week, let alone in two years?

Raina’s lovers kept about as long as Duncan’s precious organic vegetables; history promised their affair would spoil in a matter of days. Hell, she and Miah had grown up together, known each other inside and out, shared affection and trust and respect before they’d ever hooked up, burned like wildfire after dark . . . yet they’d still only managed a couple of months. So Raina and Duncan? No fucking chance, sadly. Even if she searched her soul and caught some voice whispering that maybe, just maybe she’d like this to be something real . . . well, she had no guarantee Duncan felt the same. It was more likely than not that this fling could only last as long as his professional exile. And while that was a touch sad, it was also infinitely understandable. He’d shelve her along with those Red Wings the second his normal life resumed, tuck them neatly into a dusty box labeled
Fortuity
, and the most she could hope was that he’d think of her fondly. If he thought of her at all.

Still, she couldn’t help wondering, had he grown attached as well?

“I feel like I ought to warn you,” she said, grazing his collarbone with her fingertip, “this town’s very hard to escape from.”

“Oh?”

“It’s the Fortuity bungee effect. My dad used to say it was the dust—you get the red dust in your lungs, and it always calls you back.”

“It’s certainly difficult to get out of one’s floor mats.”

“Casey almost escaped,” she said. “Maybe his bungee was just really long. But even he’s finally snapped back.”

“Do nonnatives stand any better chance?”

She made a curious face, stroking his stubbly jaw. “Time will
tell. We’ll have to make a case study of you.”
Unless of course you decided to stay.
She could laugh at herself for even thinking such a ridiculous thing. Duncan Welch, settling in Fortuity?

“Have
you
ever tried moving away?” he asked.

She held her breath, and nodded. She rarely told this story, but she was kind of enjoying the naked feelings tonight. With this man as her witness, anyhow, and facilitated by the judgment-clouding sex.

“When?” he asked. “And to where?”

“To Vegas, when I was twenty-six. It lasted less than a year.”

“What made you go?”

She shrugged one shoulder, cringing inside. “To run away from that horrible night, partly. And partly just to get away from Fortuity.” Away from too many familiar faces, too many ugly thoughts about what the people you thought you knew might be capable of.

“Why Vegas?”

“I thought I wanted glamour and excitement.” She laughed. “Can you tell I’m from the sticks, that I thought Vegas was the epicenter of urbane sophistication?”

He smiled. “Second only to Paris.”

“Anyhow, I ran down there thinking I’d get some dream apprenticeship at a cool tattoo studio, build a reputation for myself. Escape the town where nobody thought of me as anything other than Benji Harper’s daughter. But I barely had any experience, and nobody’d hire me, and I wound up bartending at a couple casinos. I made good tips, but at least back here, there’s no dress code dictating how much cleavage I have to show.”

“Is that why you came back? Professional frustration?”

“I wish. But no, I fell in love.”

“Oh.”

She rolled her eyes. “Like, head-over-heels, brain-out-the-window in love. He was a real slick number—not like you, though,” she said, tracing his ear. “Real flashy. Web entrepreneur. This guy was waving so many red flags, but I totally thought he was, like, the one. My ticket to some luxurious, awesome new life.”

“And?”

“And after about three months, he tells me to meet him in his hotel room that night after I get off work. He said we’d order room service, a bottle of champagne, and that he had
something to ask me. Idiot that I was, I was hoping he’d guessed my ring size right.”

Duncan winced, his anticipatory horror well founded.

“So I got my boss to let me off early, and I spent the afternoon making myself beautiful—and sick with nerves. And I head up there. He makes a toast to the future or some vague crap like that. Then he pops the big question—did I know what camming was?”

“Camming? Like web-camming?”

She nodded, stomach flipping even now, more than four years later. “He wanted to be my digital pimp, basically. I’ve never felt so slapped in my life.”

“Understandably.”

She spoke to Duncan’s throat. “I didn’t say anything, at first. He opened his laptop and showed me the site he ran, the different feeds. I remember him saying the words ‘Real classy stuff’ while I watched some clip of a girl sucking on the end of her pigtail, dressed like a cheerleader.”

“And?”

She had to smile, both proud and embarrassed of what came next. “And I threw his computer through the window.”

“Oh my.”

“Slapped it shut and flung it like a Frisbee. It
just
missed the pool, probably fifteen flights down.”

“Did you get in trouble?”

She laughed. “Oh, hell no. I told security he got pissed because I wouldn’t fuck him, and threw it himself.”

“And that was the end of your Vegas period.”

“Pretty much. I stayed for another month or so, but the shine had totally worn off. The next time my dad told me he missed me on the phone, I burst into tears and caught a bus headed north in the morning. He got diagnosed the next month, but even if he hadn’t, I doubt I would’ve left again. Not anytime soon. And I’ll be happy if I never set foot in Vegas again.”

“Is that why there are no gaming machines in the bar? Bad associations with your casino days?”

She shook her head. “Nah, there never have been.”

“Did your father not approve of gambling?”

“Oh no, he had nothing against the gambling. He never missed a poker night, not even during chemo. Those machines bring in good money, and just about anyplace can get a license,
but my dad found that stuff depressing—video poker and slots. He said if you’re going to throw your hard-earned money away, at least have the dignity to lose it to your friends. Or a blackjack dealer, or because of a slow horse—something with a pulse.”

“Interesting.”

The once-refreshing breeze was cold now, rousing goose bumps down Raina’s arms and legs.

She froze where she lay, her gaze locked on Duncan’s chin.
Shit. I just told him all that, didn’t I? Totally sober. And it felt good.

With the sex haze burned away, fear crept in. She’d told him about the assault—before tonight, Vince and Miah had been the sole audience to that secret. Now he knew about Vegas, and she’d only ever given Miah the vaguest summary. Miah knew her better—there was no doubt about that—but she couldn’t help realizing that Duncan knew more of the things that mattered. The things she
chose
to share. The things she almost always chose
not
to share, not even with her dad.

Duncan would never understand her the way a childhood friend could, but she’d handed him her secrets—the only two events she was truly shamed by. The one that had left her feeling helpless, and the one that had left her feeling used. The two times she’d ever doubted herself in her thirty-two years, ugly bookends bracketing a phase of her life she’d give most anything to erase.

It had taken two decades’ shared history to let her open up to Miah this way. She’d known Duncan seven weeks . . .

What the fuck have I done?

And why on earth did it feel so nice?

She got to her knees, relishing the ache in her hips and the faint sting between her thighs as she shut the window on the night and dropped the blinds. Dropped them into darkness.

She held her breath as she wrestled her way under the covers, sure Duncan would excuse himself to his own room, but curious to see if he’d kiss her good night.

He left the bed without a word, and she bit her lip, hating how disappointed she felt.

But to her surprise, he returned a moment later after opening the door, his bare legs finding hers under the sheets.

“You sleeping over, then?” she asked.

“I see no reason to rumple two beds. This is far more
efficient, don’t you think?” he asked, and pulled her close, kissed her neck.

A happy shiver crept through her, though this didn’t explain why he’d bothered to open the door—

With a soft
prrrup
, the cat was on the end of the bed, settling in the well the blankets made between their two pairs of ankles.

Duncan laid the reassuring weight of his arm along Raina’s waist, and said to them, “Good night, ladies.”

Duncan was gone by the time Raina rose the next morning. Eight fifty-five, a bleary squint at the alarm clock told her. Crazy. The sex seemed to be curing her insomnia. It was better than a prescription, getting well and truly laid. Now all she needed to do was fuck Duncan so good he’d never have to buy another jug of bleach.

Her phone buzzed on the side table, telling her she had a text waiting—sent by Vince around five thirty, to her, Duncan, and Kim.
Didn’t see a thing all night. Heard a few disturbing noises, but that’s a different matter entirely.

Raina rolled her eyes and texted him back privately.
Guess we’re even for the time you banged that chick in the back room while I was trying to close.

Brrrzzzz.
Don’t know what you’re talking about.

She wrote
You broke my office chair.

Brrrzzzz.
I have to get back to work.

Dick.
She pocketed her phone.

She didn’t hear Duncan when she emerged from the shower, didn’t spot him. But on the kitchen table she found a note propped against the pepper mill, bearing his tidy handwriting.

Out riding. See you later if I don’t break my neck or get shot by a drifter. If I fail to return, I hereby charge you with the care of my cat.

Astrid brushed against Raina’s shin, and she cast the tabby a dry look. “You much harder to keep alive than a jade plant? Because that’s the extent of my nurturing skills.”

The cat didn’t reply, sauntering to its new favorite corner by the pantry to commence mouse patrol.

Probably best that Duncan was out, Raina decided, starting a pot of coffee. Yesterday’s client was coming by in a bit so she could finish the shading that had been cut short by his work schedule. Like Vince, he worked at Petroch Gravel, and he’d agreed eagerly when she mentioned she was going to organize a big portfolio shoot at the bar. He’d even asked for Raina’s card, to give to his cousin. She underestimated shit like that—word of mouth and self-promotion. She’d never taken her side job seriously enough, always putting the bar first. That was her
real
job, she’d told herself. Her duty. Her real role here in Fortuity. But this town was going to change if the casino went through. Not for the better, not in most ways. Sure, there’d be fewer potholes, more public services. But far more strangers passing through, and many of the locals would likely only be sticking around long enough to see what the boom did for their property values before they sold up and shipped out.

Fortuity wasn’t much, but it had always been home, for better or worse. Now Raina felt her loyalty waning, knowing this town might not be recognizable two years from now.

Kim was right, and so was Vince: Raina owed it to herself to treat tattooing as a serious pursuit. They meant it as a validation of her talent, probably, but for Raina, it was just as much about survival, and adaptability. An escape route.

The window guy turned up shortly, and though she tried to pay, Duncan had beaten her to it. In no time the kitchen looked as though nothing had happened . . . Well, no, it looked better than before the brick, actually, as her guest appeared to have taken his anxiety out on her cupboards.

Her client arrived at noon, and he tipped outrageously once the piece was complete, beaming like a man who’d just been handed his newborn baby. He said he could come by Benji’s anytime for the photo stuff, and that he’d bring friends.

In no time it was pushing two, and she headed down to open the bar, humbled to register how satisfying her tattooing work was. Handing a drink to a patron was a nice enough transaction, but being extended the honor—and the trust—inherent in etching permanent art onto their skin . . . ? Nothing touched that.

Abilene was off until the evening, and Raina was looking forward to spending the afternoon slump diving headfirst into
the small-business book she’d rush-ordered, making notes that might help her turn her hobby into something substantial enough to support her. Selling the bar would give her a beautiful hunk of savings, but she wasn’t stupid—that sale would supply her with a retirement fund, but with no plans to ever marry, her working days were far from over. If she did decide to sell up, she wouldn’t touch a dime of the money it brought her, not until she was sixty-five. The windfall would offer some security, but no leisure. She had to go into this next phase of her life the smart way.

She opened the bar and welcomed the old-timers, and had gotten two hours into the workday and fifty pages into the book when her mood suddenly took a nosedive.

An early drinker arrived—that fed, the one she’d ripped a new one in at the diner.

“Well, well,” she said, leaning on the bar. “To what do I owe this pleasure, Agent Flores?”

“Ramon’s fine.” He stopped on the other side of the counter, scanning the area and his gaze seeming to halt dead center along the bottle-lined shelf behind her. Dead center, on her dad’s urn. He quickly looked back to her. “Do you have a moment to chat?”

“What about? Duncan?”

“Yes.”

“What about him?”

“I understand you two are . . . involved.”

She smiled. “Wow, well done. Maybe we ought to make that
Detective
Flores.”

“So you two are a couple . . . ?”

“We’re fucking. And we’re friends.” What more did a person need?

“But you’ve never been professionally affiliated?”

She blinked. “A bar owner and a PR sniper? No, not remotely.”

“And Duncan has never asked you to do anything inappropriate on his behalf?”

“Oh, we’ve done all sorts of inappropriate things together, Ramon.”

Flores rolled his eyes. “I’ll be blunt. Have you laundered money for Duncan Welch?”

That one threw her. “Have I what, now?”

“Have you, say, accepted large sums of money from him
and held it for him? Filtered it through the bar’s cash transactions?”

“Where is this even—”
Oh, wait.
“He gave me some cash, for room and board. Three hundred dollars. It’s upstairs.” All wadded up from having been forgotten in the midst of the sex, and run through the laundry, in fact. She’d been meaning to give it back to him.

“I understand that’s not the first sum you’ve accepted from him.”

She had to think a long moment before she caught on. “You mean last month? He did give me cash then, too, you’re right. A donation to a party we threw here. Three hundred bucks, maybe four. I can’t remember.”

“Off the books?”

“Kind of. Some friends covered the cost of the beers that night, and Duncan’s little gift paid for the open-bar expenses and then some. Everything went into the deposit bag at the end of the night, and I didn’t ring up drink orders. It’d just look like a really profitable day, if you checked the records. I probably made a couple hundred bucks off him in the end.”

“Right.”

“I don’t bother getting picky about the accounting for things like that—it was a friend’s welcome-home party. People chip in, I provide the drinks.” She shrugged.

“Yet it was held in your place of business.”

She put her hands on her hips. “My place of business is pretty casual, as you may have noticed.” She cast a pointed gaze around the no-frills barroom.

“Let’s hope your accounting’s a touch more organized, then.”

She froze. “Wait. Are you
auditing
me?”

“In a sense. I’ll need your accounting and tax records from the past three years—”

Her arms dropped. “Three
years
? You’re investigating Duncan, aren’t you? He’s been in Fortuity for less than three months.”

“Yes, but we need multiple years of records, in order to establish that no unusual patterns have emerged since his arrival. Now, have you
ever
accepted any other large sums of money from Mr. Welch, since you two became acquainted?”

“Aside from ten-dollar tips? No. This is ridiculous.”

“This is all in aid of clearing your friend’s name, I promise. Provided everything’s been aboveboard, of course.”

“Of
course.
Jesus, you’re a pain in my asshole.” She sighed, knowing there was no way out of this. And also that yes, it could theoretically help Duncan’s case. “Fine. When do you need this stuff by?”

“Tomorrow morning.”

There went her date night, once again. She’d be stuck in the office until all hours, trying to get her shit together. Thank goodness three years covered only her tenure, though—she’d be fucked if she had to make sense of her dad’s so-called bookkeeping. “Fine. Tax shit, inventory, bank statements . . . What else?”

“Anything with dollar signs printed on it, basically.”

“I’m gonna kick myself for even offering this, but I’m also a licensed tattooist. You need to check those records for signs of money laundering, too?”

Flores smiled. “That was my next bit of business. Please.”

She shook her head, annoyed as fuck. But her records on that front were already in good order, computerized.

Christ, her entire life would be so much simpler if that was her sole gig. What was the bar these days, really, other than a ten-ton weight slung around her neck?

“Anything else?” she asked. “You need to pry my walls apart, check for stacks of bills? Rip my mattress open?”

“One step at a time.” Flores checked his watch. “And one more thing.”

“What?”

“An Amstel, please. Provided that little threat about spitting in my drink was an idle one.”

She grabbed a bottle from the fridge and opened it, set it on a napkin before him. “Four bucks.”

He left her a five and took his beer to a table by the front, dropping off the empty ten minutes later. He nodded politely. “Raina.”

“That’s Ms. Harper to you.”

He smiled. “As you like it, Ms. Harper.”

She glared at his back until he was gone, then pulled out her cell. She cued up Casey’s number and listened to the tone for four rings. She was poised to hang up and text him instead when—

“Yeah?” He sounded breathless.

“This a bad time?”

“No, this is fine—unless you care that I’m naked. Just ran in from the shower—”

“Yeah, fine. Visual established. Moving on. I need your help tonight at the bar.”

“Fucking shit. You realize I’m on stakeout tonight, don’t you? From what—two till dawn? Is a man not allowed to sleep?”

“I just found out I’m getting audited by the feds, Case. I can’t dig through my filing cabinets and mix drinks at the same time, and I don’t want Abilene getting stressed-out, manning the taps on her own.”

A noisy sigh crackled the line. “When?”

“Seven till close?”

“Goddamn . . . Okay, fine. It’s my night off Mom duty. Probably would’ve wound up there anyhow.”

“Thanks, Case. I owe you.”

“Fucking right you do.”

They hung up, and Raina wiped her phone’s screen with her thumb, heart suddenly beating quickly for no good reason. Duncan’s number was listed under
Welch
, which felt funny now. She hit
CALL
and he answered after a ring.

“Hello, Ms. Harper.” Damn, that voice. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“What are you up to?”

“Aside from dwelling on the memory of your sex against my mouth?”

Raina flushed hot from her heels to her hair, his phantom tongue and lips whispering between her legs. “Aside from that.”

“I just got back. I’m due to have a long call with my accountant in just a couple minutes.”

“Wow, I can sympathize there . . . I’m afraid I need to cancel our dinner party, darling. Just had a visit from your little fed buddy. I have to spend the evening digging up my financial records from the past three years, to prove I’m not laundering your bribe money.”

“Oh, for
fuck’s
sake.”

“I know. Anyhow, guess we’ll be even now—you stand me up, I stand you up.”

“Nonsense. We’ll eat in the office.”

She pictured it, the two of them camped at the desk in mismatched chairs, papers piled everywhere, bar din drifting through the door. A weird sort of date, but more charming than the ones she normally got taken on. “Okay, then. You’re on.”

*   *   *

Late that afternoon, Duncan hung up after a marathon of a phone call with his accountant. He sank back on the couch and registered the morning’s ride. He had blisters from the stiff new boots, sunburn warming his neck, aching wrists, a twinge in his lower back. He must’ve covered a hundred square miles with nothing to show for it, and the urgency of yesterday’s pursuit had bled out of him, leaving little more than weariness and frustration. He dragged himself to the bathroom to shower away the dust.

At least he and Raina would have their date, he thought as he soaped up. He was looking forward to helping her with her accounting tasks—he was good at paperwork. And he desperately needed to feel useful after the waste he’d made of his day.

And the other task set before him—cooking—he was good at that as well.

Not quite an hour later, he was kicking at the bar’s office door, hands busy with steaming plates.

Raina opened it and smiled. “Guess you didn’t decide to stand me up again, then.”

“Perish the thought.” He slipped past her to set the plates on the cluttered desk. Not caring to dwell on his shortcomings as a biker, he’d dressed like a gentleman. And he’d made his specialty, minus a few components not stocked by the small supermarket in the next town—no saffron for the chicken, and olive oil in place of grape-seed. Asparagus, red bell peppers, baby potatoes, plenty of rosemary. It seemed he was a failure as a detective, but at least he still did civility well. “Dinner is served.”

“Wow.” She accepted the utensils and napkin he procured from his pocket. “Not bad for a bachelor.”

“I have a strong domestic streak.”

“You do windows?” she teased, sitting.

“I do indeed, as well you know.” He locked the office door—this date wasn’t what he’d first envisioned, but he’d at least get her to himself, uninterrupted and undistracted, for twenty minutes. Taking a seat across from her, he watched as she took her first bite. Satisfaction moved through him like lust to see the way her lids fluttered.