It was never him, anyway. And while she hadn’t called any of the others about Gunner’s disappearance, she’d finally worked up the courage to visit someone who might be able to give her insight.
Being able and being willing were two very different things and she’d been bracing for a rejection on the entire walk over, which was why she hesitated outside the restaurant. It was quiet—the dinner rush hadn’t started yet, and she knew she had to take advantage of that.
The first time Gunner brought her here, she’d been a fugitive, sent by Dare to secure Gunner’s help. She hadn’t been back since, because there hadn’t been time for restaurants when she’d been fighting for her life.
Now she saw the waitress she was looking for. Billie Jean was one of Gunner’s three ex-wives, although Avery didn’t know where in the lineup she fell. Billie Jean spotted her and ambled over, cracking her gum.
She was pretty. Loud, from what Avery remembered. And she’d looked at Gunner that night as though she still loved him.
Avery could finally relate to her.
“We’re not serving for another half hour,” Billie Jean told her. The tight black shirt across her chest spelled the name of the restaurant in bold white letters. Her hair was piled onto her head, some of the loose curls falling down. She was maybe a couple of years older than Avery.
“I’ll wait,” Avery said.
“Suit yourself.” Billie Jean turned to walk away and Avery couldn’t make her voice work to stop her. But then Billie Jean couldn’t resist asking, “Where’s Gunner? You chase him away?”
Billie Jean tried to look tough and unconcerned as she spoke, and failed miserably on both counts.
“I don’t know,” Avery said, slumped into the booth and waited for the woman she’d once threatened to laugh, to say she’d gotten what was coming to her.
Instead, she slid in across from Avery. “He got to you.”
“I guess you know the feeling.”
“Chère, you have no idea.” She called over her shoulder, “Lenny, bring us two beers.”
“Whatta I look like, a waitress?” Lenny asked.
“You will when I rip your balls off,” she said in a falsely sweet tone before turning her attention back to Avery. “He was into you.”
“Nice of you to say, Billie Jean.”
“Call me Billie. And he drew you,” she said, as if Avery was supposed to know what that meant. “That night you were here, he drew your picture on the menu.”
Avery recalled that. She’d been wearing a cap pulled low, because she hadn’t wanted to be recognized. Hours later, Gunner had helped cut and dye her hair.
And hours after that, you were kissing Key. “He drew my picture a lot.”
But he’d never let her keep any. She’d see them drawn among various tattoos he was sketching, or mixed into other scratches of pictures on the paper he always had with him. She figured drawing was his nervous habit, although he never seemed nervous to her at all.
Billie shook her head. “You really don’t know a lot about him, do you?”
“No.”
The woman had been expecting a challenge, not the deflated answer she’d received. It softened her features for the moment. When Lenny put the beers down, still grumbling, Billie clinked the neck of her bottle against Avery’s, like a fragile peace offering before both women took healthy swigs.
Finally, Billie said, “Look, Gunner never drew me. Not his other two ex-wives either. Never gave an explanation, but hey, he’s not with any of us.”
“And he’s not with me either.”
“You sure?”
“He never even kissed me.” She left out the part about her humiliating attempt.
The look on Billie’s face told the story. “He loves you, chère. Make no mistake of that.”
“Where would he go?”
Billie’s face twisted. “When Gunner goes, he just goes. I think he had a secret life I didn’t know about—one that was always more important than me.”
“Are all his exes here?”
“Three of us are. Well, the first is too, but she’s passed on.”
“The first?”
The ghost of a smile twisted Billie’s lips. “You didn’t know. We’re not supposed to. He never talked about her. It’s one of those stories that starts as a rumor and gets passed around, although the details are really sketchy and change depending on who’s doing the telling. But the common thread was that she was the one true love of his life. We all thought we’d be the next, but . . .” She spread her fingers on the table in front of her and stared down at the wedding band. “I still wear it. I think it brings me good luck, as crazy as that sounds.”
“It doesn’t sound crazy at all,” Avery whispered. “Will you tell me about the first one? Everything and anything you know?”
Billie sighed, pointed to the beers. “You’re going to need more of these.”
Four hours, several beers and a full dinner later, Avery said good-bye to Billie and decided to walk back to the apartment she’d rented in this quarter to clear her head. She only had a couple of days left before the new owner took possession of Gunner’s place, and she still had some packing up to do there. But she hadn’t been able to bring herself to sleep there since the day he’d left. Too many ghosts.
Her conversation with Billie spun through her mind as she clipped along the darkened streets, the revelers just starting to come out for the night.
She’d forgotten it was a Saturday. Date night, she thought bitterly, as men and women—and men and men—walked by her, hand in hand. She stuffed her own hands into the pockets of her jeans and tried to picture a younger Gunner, running around New Orleans.
The rumors were plentiful, the gist too similar to be denied despite a few disparities. Gunner had been married young—most mentioned nineteen—and he’d come home one night and found his young wife had been murdered while he’d been gone.
“Some people say it happened here, in Louisiana,” Billie had said. “But I don’t think that’s true at all. How could he come back here and no one recognize him?”
Because people change, Avery thought, but she hadn’t said it out loud. Thought about the tattoos covering him. That protective armor would’ve taken years, was still a work in progress. But a nineteen-year-old could turn into a warrior with the right training. Gunner had certainly had more than his share.
And more than his share of tragedy. She’d thought having Richard Powell as a father was the worst thing that could’ve happened to him. Now she realized that might’ve only been the beginning, because Billie had also shared the information that the police had liked Gunner for the killing. Billie refused to believe that—Avery couldn’t either, but she was still furious that he would leave instead of confiding in her.
“Dammit, Gunner,” she bit out. A random couple turned to look at her and she couldn’t help smiling back at them, especially liking when they scurried off.
She was more than halfway home when she had a suspicion she was being followed. With a block to go, she was sure of it. She wound around the streets several more times, popping in and out of shops, going out back doors and finally sliding into her building past a man headed out with luggage who held the door for her.
Perfect. She hit the stairs instead of the elevator, went inside and breathed a sigh of relief when the buzz of the alarm greeted her. She turned it off as she locked up behind her. She leaned against the wall for a brief moment, listening to see if she heard footsteps.
Nothing.
“You are extra paranoid tonight,” she chided herself. She ran her hands through her hair, stopping to massage her temples. She’d pay for those few drinks tonight. Time for ibuprofen and sleep.