“I want to choose the sides, then,” Duncan had insisted, cowing to the greater logic. “You can cook more than just meat on a grill. Even bikers and ranch hands eat vegetables, surely.”
“Course. Corn on the cob and, um . . . Are baked beans a vegetable?”
“I’m not rebranding this place ‘Benji’s Coronary Artery Disease Depot.’”
“We can argue about this later, darling.” And no doubt they would. They were mismatched, as partners—and indeed friends—went, but it worked, somehow. Casey and commitments were mismatched as well, but this place meant a lot to him. It was his own first watering hole, and a business that embodied the soul of Fortuity in every floorboard, every beam. If nobody stepped in, invested their money and time and energy in keeping it viable, it’d go the way of the local mining industry in no time, a quaint footnote in a struggling town’s bleak history.
Kitchen construction had kicked off a little more than a week ago, with a three-man crew working daily before the bar opened, six a.m. to two. The project was due to wrap in early March, just a few weeks away.
To judge by the racket, the contractors were busy sanding something this morning. As if to confirm, Duncan strode out from behind the temporary partition covered in dust. He spotted Casey and raised a hand.
Casey waited until Duncan took his ear protectors off, then called out, “No doubt you’ll be changing before you open this afternoon.”
“No doubt at all.” Duncan moved his safety goggles to the top of his head and glanced down at his beige-dusted clothes—jeans and a T-shirt, not his typical style. He looked naked in anything less than a suit. He was a British expat, a disillusioned former lawyer for the casino’s development company, and pretty much nothing about him made any sense whatsoever in Fortuity. Casey supposed love did that to people. Changed their priorities, changed their assumptions about who they were and what they wanted.
“You look like a normal person, man. What’re you doing back there anyhow, aside from getting in the way?”
“Micromanaging. It’s been my experience that people work quicker and do a better job with some annoying prick hovering over their every move. When’s your brother due?”
“Any minute. We should probably talk upstairs, away from the noise. Raina home?”
“Yes, but she’s with a client.” Duncan was dating the bar’s former owner, and Casey’s good friend, Raina. Her dad had been Benji Harper, the bar’s namesake. She made no more sense paired with Duncan than Fortuity itself did, but the sex had to be off the fucking wall, because the two of them seemed to be as tangled up as ever, five months in. They lived together in the apartment above the bar, where Raina also did tattooing.
Out front, the rumble of Vince’s arrival cut through the contractors’ din, then died as he killed his bike’s engine. Casey met him at the door.
Vince gave him a half hug around the neck with his beefy arm. “What’s up, motherfucker?”
“Nothing good,” Casey said, and locked up behind him.
Vince had inherited their dad’s enviable height and build along with his black hair, while Casey was five-eleven, much leaner, with their mom’s fair skin and hair. The latter was overdue for a trim. Any stranger seeing Casey standing beside Vince, with his clean shave and military-style haircut, would be surprised to learn that Casey and he were brothers. Hell, even Casey had his doubts about whether or not they shared a father. Unlike Vince, he didn’t look a thing like the shit who’d run out on them when they were little, and if that doubt ever got corroborated, he’d throw himself a fucking party. He didn’t want that deadbeat’s blood in his veins, didn’t want a thing to do with him. The feeling had been mutual, after all.
“Upstairs,” he said, nodding to the rear of the bar, where Duncan was waiting.
Vince nodded at Duncan. “Welch.”
“Grossier.”
The two were perfectly civil, maybe even secretly fond of each other, but aside from being tall and owning old BMW motorcycles, they had nothing in common. Duncan was fair, fussy, and high-strung and appreciated opera, while Vince was more into tattoos and fistfights. The three of them headed through the back and up the stairwell, into Raina and Duncan’s kitchen. A buzzing was coming from the adjoining room, telling them Raina was hard at work.
“So when’d you talk to him?” Casey asked his brother.
“Just this morning.”
“And?”
Vince pulled out a chair and sat, planting his forearms on the dining table. “And he’s a man of few words. And none of them were very encouraging.”
Casey swore and sat.
Duncan filled a teakettle, looking grave. “What precisely did he say?”
“He said that nothing I could say was going to stop him from seeing his kid. I mean, I doubt he’d hurt the baby. But his ex . . . ? I dunno. I’ve only ever known the guy in the company of men, and he was no teddy bear.”
“Violent?” Duncan asked.
“Fights, yeah. Which is just what you do on the inside, but he enjoyed ’em, same as me.”
“You’d never hurt Kim, though,” Casey said, meaning Vince’s girlfriend. “Or any woman. Or a kid.”
“Course not. And maybe Ware wouldn’t, either—prison’s not exactly the best place to get a handle on a guy. But we’re not taking any chances. Can’t discount female intuition, and the girl’s fucking terrified.”
“Did you tell him where Abilene’s staying?”
Vince shook his head. “But I had to say how I knew her—that she came to me after he’d given her my name, and that I’d helped her get a job here at the bar.”
“You tell him she doesn’t work here anymore? Last thing I need is him showing up and getting pushy.”
“I did, but I have no doubt he’ll come by, demanding to know where she’s at.”
“And what’s our answer to that question?” Duncan asked.
“None of his fucking business,” Casey said.
Vince shook his head. “We tell him she’s someplace safe, that the baby’s fine, and they’ve got support. But we don’t say where. Not until he proves he’s willing to approach the situation calmly. And Case, you’ve got to convince her to talk to him.”
“Personally I don’t want him anywhere near her. But I see what you mean.”
“Keeping her in hiding’s not exactly sustainable,” Duncan agreed. “Plus the longer we put off brokering some sort of meeting, the more upset he could get. We don’t need a frustrated ex-convict roughing up the customers.”
“Unless it’s me,” Vince said, smirking. He got excited about fights like a kid gunning for a trip to the waterpark.
Casey knew they were both right—Abilene had to face the guy sometime. “I’ll talk to her, but don’t hold your breath.” She’d been putting up a brave front as her ex’s release loomed closer, but he could sense the fear behind it.
“Has to happen. Even assholes deserve to meet their children,” Vince said, “until they prove otherwise.”
Casey felt his insides sour, thinking of their own dad. It burned him something nasty to know Mercy might have that kind of disappointment in store for her—a deadbeat, or maybe even worse, if Ware was the hothead Vince and Abilene had both made him out to be.
Duncan’s striped cat came strolling through, bashing itself bodily into Casey’s shins. He nudged it away. “Back off. I’m allergic to you.”
“Talk to her,” Duncan said, pouring steaming water into a cup and bobbing a tea bag. “It would be helpful for us to be able to tell this man that she’s willing to talk, in time, if that’s true.”