already—one good man, one bad one, and one as yet unknown.
She glanced over to find Duncan studying her, a curious look on his handsome face. “What?”
“Do people really call me Mr. Peanut?”
She smiled, though the fear still nagged. “It’s not so bad. He’s a sharp dresser.”
“And an anthropomorphic nut.”
“I’m sure they just couldn’t remember the Monopoly man’s name.”
“Uncle Pennybags,” Duncan murmured, sinking back wearily in his chair.
They’ll be calling you worse things,
she thought with ashiver,
if it gets out that you were the one accused of taking bribes.
Duncan stretched his neck and said, “You can return to work. I won’t be long—I just need to get ahold of myself, and then I’ll go. I promise not to steal anything.”
“Oh yeah, because I was totally worried about you making off with my ancient beige computer and my two-hundred-pound tube TV. You just chill out awhile. I’ll join you. Casey and Abilene have the bar covered. You want to watch something?”
He looked stymied, and Raina stood. She smacked his back. “Up you get.” She ushered him to the den with a hand between his shoulder blades.
She switched on the television and handed him the remote. “You pick—there’s only five channels. If you want to avoid news bulletins about Levins, stick with channel four—that’s all telenovelas and weird Mexican Jesus shit, twenty-four-seven. I’ll make more tea. Take your shoes off, get comfortable. Hug a pillow. Cry your guts out.”
He sat and Raina headed back to the kitchen.
Duncan Welch, framed . . . if she believed him, which she did. Framed and fired. And pretty fucked-up. Duncan Welch, on her couch. Why was it so unmistakably charming to see this man in tatters? To see everything that made him
Duncan Welch
ripped away. He’d never seemed like more of a stranger. And she’d never felt quite so . . . tender toward him.
But she had to worry, beyond this moment of weakness, beyond the nasty legal mess Duncan might have ahead of him . . . It was likely that others had been complicit in Alex’s death, in Tremblay’s, in the unknown fate of those bones. And it spelled danger for Duncan, alone in that motel room. She pulled out her phone as the kettle heated and sent a text to Vince, Casey, and Miah.
Calling a meeting tomorrow at noon.
They owed Duncan, for the risks he’d taken—and that he was paying for now, if Levins’s accusations were payback for his role in August’s drama. They owed him protection. And it might take all four of them to convince Duncan to accept it.
All three of us,
she corrected herself. Vince would be onboard, and Casey would, too, with enough arm twisting; his emotions had no attention span, and his anger would burn off by morning. Miah, however . . . he’d be a tough sell. He’d have to call on every last ounce of fairness in his being to muster sympathy for Duncan.
She gave it some thought, then texted Vince. And bring Kim.
Kind of a ploy, but Kim had been in Duncan’s position. She’d seen and heard things she shouldn’t have, things that could’ve gotten her locked in Tremblay’s and Levins’s sights. Miah had found room for her at the farmhouse. It’d be hypocritical of him to deny that Duncan deserved the same rallying efforts, with Kim standing there. Both were outsiders who’d gotten wrapped up in the Desert Dogs’ problems, through no fault of their own. If they really were a club now, they’d look out for Duncan.
She carried the steaming kettle and a pot holder out to the living room and set them on the coffee table, then went back for the tea bags, sugar box, and milk carton. Duncan refreshed his cup, and Raina propped her feet on the table. Unsurprisingly, he didn’t follow suit. But his legs were crossed, and he’d taken off his shoes. His socks were charcoal gray, his feet long and elegant beneath that soft-looking weave, arches strong. It seemed so bizarre, to realize this man had
She glanced over to find Duncan studying her, a curious look on his handsome face. “What?”
“Do people really call me Mr. Peanut?”
She smiled, though the fear still nagged. “It’s not so bad. He’s a sharp dresser.”
“And an anthropomorphic nut.”
“I’m sure they just couldn’t remember the Monopoly man’s name.”
“Uncle Pennybags,” Duncan murmured, sinking back wearily in his chair.
They’ll be calling you worse things,
she thought with ashiver,
if it gets out that you were the one accused of taking bribes.
Duncan stretched his neck and said, “You can return to work. I won’t be long—I just need to get ahold of myself, and then I’ll go. I promise not to steal anything.”
“Oh yeah, because I was totally worried about you making off with my ancient beige computer and my two-hundred-pound tube TV. You just chill out awhile. I’ll join you. Casey and Abilene have the bar covered. You want to watch something?”
He looked stymied, and Raina stood. She smacked his back. “Up you get.” She ushered him to the den with a hand between his shoulder blades.
She switched on the television and handed him the remote. “You pick—there’s only five channels. If you want to avoid news bulletins about Levins, stick with channel four—that’s all telenovelas and weird Mexican Jesus shit, twenty-four-seven. I’ll make more tea. Take your shoes off, get comfortable. Hug a pillow. Cry your guts out.”
He sat and Raina headed back to the kitchen.
Duncan Welch, framed . . . if she believed him, which she did. Framed and fired. And pretty fucked-up. Duncan Welch, on her couch. Why was it so unmistakably charming to see this man in tatters? To see everything that made him
Duncan Welch
ripped away. He’d never seemed like more of a stranger. And she’d never felt quite so . . . tender toward him.
But she had to worry, beyond this moment of weakness, beyond the nasty legal mess Duncan might have ahead of him . . . It was likely that others had been complicit in Alex’s death, in Tremblay’s, in the unknown fate of those bones. And it spelled danger for Duncan, alone in that motel room. She pulled out her phone as the kettle heated and sent a text to Vince, Casey, and Miah.
Calling a meeting tomorrow at noon.
They owed Duncan, for the risks he’d taken—and that he was paying for now, if Levins’s accusations were payback for his role in August’s drama. They owed him protection. And it might take all four of them to convince Duncan to accept it.
All three of us,
she corrected herself. Vince would be onboard, and Casey would, too, with enough arm twisting; his emotions had no attention span, and his anger would burn off by morning. Miah, however . . . he’d be a tough sell. He’d have to call on every last ounce of fairness in his being to muster sympathy for Duncan.
She gave it some thought, then texted Vince. And bring Kim.
Kind of a ploy, but Kim had been in Duncan’s position. She’d seen and heard things she shouldn’t have, things that could’ve gotten her locked in Tremblay’s and Levins’s sights. Miah had found room for her at the farmhouse. It’d be hypocritical of him to deny that Duncan deserved the same rallying efforts, with Kim standing there. Both were outsiders who’d gotten wrapped up in the Desert Dogs’ problems, through no fault of their own. If they really were a club now, they’d look out for Duncan.
She carried the steaming kettle and a pot holder out to the living room and set them on the coffee table, then went back for the tea bags, sugar box, and milk carton. Duncan refreshed his cup, and Raina propped her feet on the table. Unsurprisingly, he didn’t follow suit. But his legs were crossed, and he’d taken off his shoes. His socks were charcoal gray, his feet long and elegant beneath that soft-looking weave, arches strong. It seemed so bizarre, to realize this man had
Similar Books
