Dylan: The Sons of Dusty Walker (2 page)

Ignoring the frazzled attorney, Dylan stared at the belt buckle situated at Jackson’s waist. It was an exact duplicate to the one he wore. The one Dusty had given him long ago, and that Georgianna wanted him to wear today out of respect. Again with the respect. He loved his ma to the depths of his soul, but the poor woman was as delusional as they came. It’d break her heart learning the truth about Dusty. For that reason, he dreaded the necessity of telling her. But if he didn’t, she’d possibly find out anyway. And that’d be a million times worse than coming from him.

Tugging his mind from that worrying avenue of thoughts, he glanced at Rogue and Killian, cataloging their matching belt buckles.

“Am I seeing things?” Jackson asked.

Killian dropped his gaze, his eyebrows forming a low V. “Son of a bitch. I can’t believe this. They’re all alike.”

Dylan chuffed under his breath. “That’s kinda fucked up, huh? The old man gave us the same belt buckle, like we’d use them to somehow magically find each other.” The Bewitched version of The Parent Trap.

And that couldn’t be more apropos. Because he’d never felt more fucking trapped in his life.

Almost as if they’d synchronized it, he and his brothers turned toward the door in the same motion. Jesus, they really were taking this similarity to a freak show level. They were one step away from choreographing a Von Trapp number. 

“Wait.” Benner hustled around his desk and blocked the exit, his expression pole-axed. “Your father’s wish was to have you spend this time together.”

“Well then…” Killian patted Benner’s shoulder as he strode past him. “I guess he should have had his lawyer write that in the will.”

Silently giving his brother a finger gun salute for that response, Dylan trailed the others out the door and stalked to the spit-shined limo parked outside. He watched as each of his brothers ducked inside their separate rides before he settled in his cushy seat. It still felt odder than shit thinking of those strangers as his brothers.

On the bright side, nothing could possibly knock him on his ass after this. No damn way. Shaking his head, he grabbed the Stetson he’d tossed aside earlier and tucked it low over his brow. “Let the fun commence.”

CHAPTER ONE

His head pounding from lack of sleep, Dylan yawned and rubbed the grogginess from his vision before eyeing his opened luggage near the huge oak dresser in the corner of the guest room.

He didn’t know what it said about him that almost his entire life’s belongings fit in two suitcases. Being on the road more days than not, it didn’t make sense getting attached to stuff that’d only take up too much space. That philosophy stood him well in everything. Clothes, furniture, women. Especially that last option.

His band members liked to give him shit for not availing himself of some of their more persistent female groupies. And damn, were those chicks persistent. The instant he’d step into the VIP area backstage, the women would be on him in full accost mode, tucking their panties and hotel keycards into his pockets. But while Luke and the other guys had no qualms hooking up with a different woman in every city, it left a bad taste in Dylan’s mouth. Not that he was an angel. He occasionally let his dick overrule his brain. Without warning, his wayward thoughts drifted to the one instance—or more to the point, the one
woman
—responsible for his biggest lapse in that department.

Zoe
. He didn’t even know her last name. How fucked up was that? They’d shared the hottest twenty-four hours of his life. Granted, they hadn’t spent the entire time in bed. There’d also been the backseat of her car, the shower in her hotel room, and even a quickie in the bathroom of the waffle joint they grabbed breakfast at before he caught a flight to Dallas for his next gig. It’d been the first and only occasion he hadn’t ridden in the tour bus, and his bandmates had been relentless with their info digging regarding his rare absence. He hadn’t caved. His amazing connection with Zoe wouldn’t be fodder for those nosy assholes to rib him about.

In the weeks—hell, years—that’d followed his time with her, he’d never shaken her from his mind. He wished to God he’d gotten her last name. A number. Anything.

Why? So you coulda offered her empty promises you were in no position to keep?
He’d seen firsthand the pain that kind of selfishness brought. No way in hell he’d repeat Dusty’s legacy.

Melancholy and regret an anvil on his shoulders, he finger-combed his sleep-rumpled hair and pushed up from the bed. Day Three in his father’s house, and he still hadn’t unpacked. Old habits were partly to blame. He was never anywhere long enough
to
unpack. Hell, if not for his mom fussing over him whenever he was home he’d likely live out of his bags there too. But the big reason he couldn’t bring himself to fill the dresser drawers in front of him was it’d feel too permanent. Even a week perpetuating this farce was a week too long. He wasn’t cut out for running D. Walker Mineral. He wasn’t the prodigal son who’d forgive and forget the tainted heritage he wanted no part of. And he especially didn’t want to spend one more minute trapped within these walls that bore memories he held zero connection to.

Tension pressed against his sternum like an angry alien intent on punching its way through his chest. Unable to stand the sound of his own silence for a second longer, he tugged his jeans on and topped the faded denim with a white tee and a short-sleeved blue-and-gray checked shirt. After jamming his feet into his weathered cowboy boots, he jogged downstairs. He bypassed the gargantuan great room. Inviting as that space was, it held too many images of Dusty, and the life he’d built without Dylan and his half-brothers.

His brothers. Still couldn’t get used to it. Since the departure from the lawyer’s office, Dylan’s thoughts had dwelled more than a time or two on Jackson, Rogue, and Killian. As some of the shock had worn loose, a new grievance had settled in place. All these years they’d known zilch about each other. Dusty had deprived them of any brotherly bond. Sure, maybe they wouldn’t have been best friends who did everything together. Plenty of siblings weren’t that close. But damn it, Dusty had no right to keep that secret from them just so he could continue to perpetuate his lies.

Edginess stiffening his stride, he passed through the entry leading into the kitchen. Marliss, the housekeeper, whistled in greeting somewhere behind the massive center island. He was beginning to think the woman possessed bionic hearing that’d pick up on a footstep the next county over.

Biting the bullet, he stepped around the counter. She flashed him a genuine smile. “Exactly the strapping young fella I was hoping to see. Be a sweetheart, and help an old lady up?”

Concern automatically overriding his need to escape, he hurried to Marliss’s side. “What happened? You fall?”

Gripping the arm he offered, she shook her head as he carefully assisted her to her feet. “Gosh darn knees decided to take an early lunch break while I was cleaning out this cupboard. Hate being reminded I’m no spring chicken anymore.”

Happy to know she wasn’t injured, he tucked his thumbs in his back pockets. “I was thinkin’ I’d take a look around town after work today. Anything you need me to pick up?”

She patted him on the cheek. The gesture reminded him so much of his mom, he couldn’t help but grin. No sooner did she pop into his head, and his previous gloominess returned. Georgianna was still in the dark about Dylan’s half-brothers and the other women. He’d debated breaking the news to her during his brief trip home to collect his things for this week, but one look at the grief lurking in her eyes killed that idea dead in the water. She had enough to deal with right now. He wouldn’t add to her pain.

“Now you mention it, Lou forgot to pick up my prescription yesterday. I’d accuse him of getting old and senile, but it’d be like the pot calling the kettle black.”

He chuckled. “How can you be senile when you’re only thirty?”

“Oh, aren’t you just a smooth talkin’ fibber.” Batting her eyelashes, she smacked his chest with her rubber glove. “Obviously the apple didn’t fall far from the tree.”

He immediately stiffened. The sparkle dimmed in Marliss’s gaze and she squeezed his arm. “I meant no offense. Your father wasn’t perfect, but he was a good man. Just as I know you are.”

He stared at the toe of his boot before stepping away from the island. “I’ll pick up your prescription. No problem.”

Marliss wouldn’t be put off topic that effortlessly. Another thing he was quickly learning about the woman. “This can’t be easy on you. On any of you boys. Any time you want to talk, I’m always here. Same with Lou. Even if we’re off the clock, you come on over to the apartment. Our door is always open.”

He appreciated the offer, but it didn’t feel right to take her up on it. Didn’t matter that she and her husband, the cook, resided on the property, they deserved their privacy. Besides, nothing she’d say would make one damn bit of a difference. Dusty had proved himself to be a bigger bastard than Dylan originally estimated. If nothing else, Marliss hit the nail on the head with the apple comparison. Only in Dylan’s case, his bastard lineage was in the literal sense. He cleared his throat. “I should hit the road. Don’t need the office sending a search posse after me.”

Marliss nodded, her expression sad. Not waiting around for another of her good-intentioned pep talks, he grabbed the keys for the SUV. The only other two options were the Cadillac and the company truck. Normally the truck was more his style, but stubbornness kept him from driving around in a vehicle that blatantly bore the Walker name. He figured every tongue in town was already wagging overtime about him and his brothers. Scandalous gossip like four illegitimate sons sired by the richest dude in the county would be prime grist for the rumor mill. He wasn’t about to give them more to chew on, so going low profile was the name of the game.

The ten minute drive to Red Creek proved to be about as uneventful as they came. Tempting as it was to blow off some of his steam by seeing precisely how far he could bury the needle, the last thing he needed was to get popped by one of the local boys in blue. He chose an open parking spot across the street from D. Walker Mineral and grabbed his longhorn trucker cap. Although the odds of town being overrun with die-hard fans were slim to none, the Stetson was his signature wardrobe piece up on the stage, and he was easily recognizable with it on. Tugging the bill of his cap low over his forehead, he moseyed inside the three-story building housing Dusty’s offices.

Abby, the receptionist, tossed him a wink while she tapped away at her keyboard. “Sounding good there, handsome.”

It took him several beats to catch her meaning
and
the song floating through her Bluetooth speakers. He grunted. “Damn well should. Took us a whole day to lay that track. Luke was on one of his man periods.” He shot her a sheepish look. “Sorry, my mouth doesn’t come with a filter.”

She waved off his apology before plopping her chin in her hand. “So what’s he like?”

“Luke?” Plenty used to fielding the question, he shrugged. “Most days I want to shove my boot up his ass, if that gives you any indication.”

“In other words, this is a vacation for you then.” She chuckled at the side-eye he slid her way. “Come on, maps and charts are way more exciting than screaming, adoring fans rushing the stage.”

“You need to get out of the office more often. Clearly being around too many dirt samples has impaired your judgement.”

Her eyes twinkled. “Just you wait. Be around them long enough, they’ll lure you to the Dark Side too.”

Not damn likely. Leaving Abby to her delusions and her computer work, he strode down the hall. He bypassed the other four offices and paused in the doorway to the last one. A familiar hollowness settling in the pit of his belly, he stared at the banged-up wooden monstrosity that insisted on passing for his father’s desk. With all the money Dusty had been swimming in, you’d think he woulda upgraded to something that’d been built this century and wouldn’t sag if you looked at it cross-eyed. The piece of furniture was so out of keeping with the high-end decor at the lake house. Made him wonder if Theresa wasn’t the one who’d called the shots there.

Not too much of a surprise, if that were the case. Especially after what he’d discovered his first day in the office. Or he should say, what someone made damn sure he’d discover by conveniently leaving the black binder for him to find smack dab in the middle of his work space. According to one of the news articles inside the folder, Theresa’s father had originally owned the company, and she and Dusty inherited it, eventually turning it into D. Walker Mineral and eventually the flourishing multi-million dollar company it was today.

There was no doubting Dusty’s shrewd business acumen, right down to knowing he couldn’t rock the boat with Theresa—the woman who’d owned half of his livelihood. But that sure hadn’t stopped him from dipping his wick in wells not belonging to his wife. Futile anger rattling at his cage again, Dylan turned his back on his father’s office and stalked into the one across the hall. It was smaller and offered no idyllic view of the town’s namesake Red Creek, but he wasn’t yet ready to sit in Dusty’s seat. Maybe he’d never get to that point.

Dropping into the ratty chair, he tore his focus from the doorframe adjacent to him. The surrealism of the moment hit him like a sledgehammer. He felt like an outsider looking in at his own life. What woulda happened if Dusty and Theresa hadn’t died in the car accident? Dylan wouldn’t be sitting here. He’d remain ignorant of his brothers’ existences. All of these lies would have continued unfazed and snuggled in their cocoon of undisturbed deceit. Just knowing that twisted the knife in his gut.

The claustrophobic space closing in on him, he shoved up from his seat. If he didn’t shake loose of this suffocating atmosphere he’d do something stupid—like punch his fist through a wall. Praying his expression wasn’t as scary as the ragged emotions eating at him, he journeyed out front and nodded to Abby. “Forgot I have to run an errand for Marliss.” At least it wasn’t a lie. Unlike every other damn thing in his life.

“Sure. Take all the time you need.”

The rest of his God-given days wouldn’t be enough to get him through this bullshit. Keeping that thought to himself, he ducked outside. Fresh air and the muggy beginnings of an August morning briskly slapped him to his senses. Shoulders relaxing, he sucked in a deep breath and released it slowly. By the time he reached the end of his exhale he was reasonably assured he had his shit together.

Dragging a hand across his nape, he blinked against the blinding glare of the sun, the bill of his cap doing little to shield his eyes. He noticed Walt Forester, one of D. Walker’s oil and mineral rights specialists, exiting the front door of Cubby’s Creekside Cafe. According to Marliss, her husband’s cousin, Cubby, ran the place and offered the best biscuits and gravy in the county, much to Lou’s grumbling disagreement. Dylan was also willing to bet Cubby’s was the major hub for any gossip in town, hence his strict avoidance of the joint the last couple days. Not about to change that status quo, he loped across the street before Walt could spot him.

Home free from any unwanted run-ins, he ducked into the pharmacy and bee-lined to the counter. A sixty-something year old woman garbed in a powder blue smock that nearly matched her bouffant hairdo peered at him over her spectacles. “You’re one of those Walker boys. Spittin’ image of Dusty.”

Shit. Shoulda known he wouldn’t be safe anywhere. “Yes, ma’am, I’m Dylan. Pleased to make your acquaintance—” He took a quick scan of her nametag, “Hazel.” He removed his hat and offered his hand.

Hazel nodded approvingly and returned his shake across the counter. “Good to see a young man with manners. Obviously your mama raised you well.”