Forever (19 page)

“Something about you looking for any excuse.”

Dean wouldn’t be surprised to look down and see the handle of a blade protruding from his gut, the slice of agony so real it made him sag back into his chair. The truth fucking hurt. He
had
been looking, no matter how certain he was that he hadn’t been. And his woman blinded herself with her love for him, accepted him, trusted him, took the chance, believing he returned it. He
did
return it. He just hadn’t trusted it. Fuck. He had let his shit bite him on the ass once again and driven Amy away. And at a time when Burnett would be closing in for the anticipated, easy kill, having so cleverly set Dean up, finding Amy and fixing it with her would have to wait. Waiting could be the death knoll. He knew it, but it was bigger than both of them. He had to deal with Burnett and make it safe for Amy to return if he possibly could. Dean clenched his eyes shut for a couple of seconds and decided.

“Get Enrico to Sandra’s and tell him to drain her. I want to know everything she knows. Enrico can charm a snake, and he’s familiar with Sandra. They had something going on. Meantime we’ll surprise Saul with a preemptive strike, not just shore up the resistance. Call in our markers with local law enforcement and shout out to Minor—he’s the only cop
we’ve got in our pocket who’ll be able to act quickly on this. I’m finishing it and not doing it again with that asshole Burnett. And find the informant. Clear?”

Randy clearly ran the percentages, his dark blue eyes getting that far away look, then nodded. “That’ll work. Minor just got that promotion within the department and will be looking for anything to make it look like he deserved it.” Randy’s thin contempt for the crooked cops shone through.
“As for the informant … that’ll take time. And Amy’ll be a project.”

“Amy will be coming back, Randy. No worries.”

Chapter Ten

“You’re such a find, sweetie, I so mean it!” Francine’s expressive, pixie-like face beamed up at Amy. “I was a bit leery when Harold told me about you, but as usual he was right.” The little woman waved her hands about and hustled to the door, then turned and rushed back, silvery gray hair flying about her head.

“We’ll be back in a week. You’re sure it’s not too long?”

“I’ll be fine, Francine,” Amy replied patiently. Francine was like a butterfly, in perpetual motion, and she wondered what Francine had been like as a child. For sure, she’d get an attention deficit disorder label today. Amy involuntarily looked down at her belly. Getting her stress under control was important. Babies didn’t need stress.

“Well, you can always call, now Harold has that phone getting service anywhere. If he remembers to turn it on. And Joyce is a good ’un. Her husband’ll pitch in
, too.”

“Joyce and I will manage just fine. And Bob said he was just a call away.”

Francine’s face brightened again. “Then I’ll go before Harold comes to get me. You know how he fusses.”

Amy put her arm around Francine’s narrow shoulders, feeling their fragility beneath the pink polyester of her cardigan, and guided the older woman to the door. Harold’s big
, old, blue Mercury sat at the curb, idling, and Amy could see his head tipped forward, resting on the steering wheel. Probably counting to a hundred. Francine could indeed be trying.

Her boss, well, one of them, went up on tiptoes and Amy obligingly leaned in for a kiss and a hug. Another one. Francine exited in a swirl of fabric and floral perfume. Harold was out of the car like he had eyes in the back of his head, opening the passenger door for his beloved wife. She remonstrated loudly with him for letting the cold air out. Amy smiled, watching from the motel entrance. She’d known better than to walk Francine to the car, unwilling to risk another lengthy discussion and reminders. A solid
clunk
signalled the start of a new chapter in all of their lives, the car door closing behind Francine, and a moment later, the car pulled out into traffic, stately as an ocean liner. Amy sighed with relief and returned to the desk.

No reservations that day, but there was usually a certain amount of drive
-up traffic because of the motel’s location and well tended exterior. As soon as her employment had been secured, the next thing Amy did was design a web page with the ability to make online reservations. Harold caught on quickly, and even Francine figured it out. There weren’t a lot of people reserving rooms, but every bit would help. The larger chains made for really stiff competition, and The Restaway Inn hardly featured a lot of amenities.

But it was scrupulously clean, and the beds were excellent; Harold and Francine knew the hotel business even if they didn’t have the money for swimming pools and water slides. Nor the space. They were slowly updating the television packages, with only three rooms to go—Amy stayed in one of those and cared less—the bathrooms featured big tubs and rain showerheads. Francine had seen them in a magazine and apparently scoured the salvage yards, locating twenty claw foot tubs in good shape and easily refurbished with recoating and expensive fixtures. Amy loved her tub and suspected many of the other guests did
, too.

The old subway tiles lent a certain charm and had been grouted again to sparkle like new. Maintenance was key and her bosses had it down pat. Amy was supervising the installation of wireless internet, and she figured the next step would be carpet to replace the clean, but faded floor coverings. The diner right next door was a huge bonus, featuring excellent home
-cooked fare for a reasonable price. Price. The reasonable rates brought people in, the easy access from the highway notwithstanding.

With only twenty units, one maid was sufficient, also taking care of the laundry, the facility built onto the owners’ suite out back. Harold took care of the maintenance, hiring only when the job was too big for one man, Francine did the books and managed the front desk. Neither wanted to retire and so it was a sweet deal. Amy loved them both and kept counting her blessings to have stumbled upon such people.

Her mind went back to how she’d walked into the motel that horrible day, exhausted, to beg a phone, her cell dead, the charger left behind.

That day had unfolded the way she’d planned after Dean threw her out. First the bank to close out her account, then to say goodbye to her best friend. Sandra had hugged her, made her a cup of tea to go, along with a sandwich, let her cry. Great, gulping sobs of agony, rivers of tears accompanied by belly cramping angst. Her friend offered her the spare room, urged her to stay, but Amy
had needed to put distance between her and Dean. She’d start to show in a few weeks and someone would tell him, take great delight in putting the needle in. And Amy knew how Dean would respond. His pride would demand he provide for his bastard, and subsequently her. No way was she going to allow that and be doused with his vitriol again. No way would she expose a child to the animosity between them. Her baby deserved better. Better than what either of his or her parents got.

So she had hugged Sandra fiercely and promised to call within the month, adamantly refusing to be in touch earlier. Certainly not via email. “Randy knows something’s not right, Sandra. He’s like a dog with a bone, especially when it concerns his best friend. And you can’t tell a lie to save your soul so I won’t put you in the position. Dean would have to respond if the truth came out
, in order to be the
man
, and I’m not allowing it.”

“But
, honey. You love him and you’re knocked up.” Sandra’s earthy practicality wasn’t particularly welcome, and then she really messed up. “And it’s his baby, too.”

“Fuck that, Sandra.” She would have taken it back if she could, but her friend was changing horses in midstream. Amy knew her friend
, and Dean had mended some fences over the past while, so Sandra had come to like the man. But Amy needed loyalty now. Sandra flinched against the bitterness spewing from Amy’s mouth. She apologized, patting Amy’s hand as she did so.

“He messed up, Amy. Badly. I’m just worried about you and the child.”

“Sorry to snap at you. But Sandra, he didn’t trust me. Nearly a year. Nearly a whole year of lots of good times, lots of intense history with me to balance out the shit. And he didn’t even give me a chance.”

“A year against thirty odd years,” Sandra murmured sagely.

Amy paused. What the fuck? She’d thought Sandra was waiting for things to go south, worried and anxious despite coming to like Dean a little. Maybe… No, she couldn’t take the risk. How many times would he find an excuse and gut her? How many times before she was destroyed totally? Who’d raise the baby right then, if she was fried emotionally?

Shaking her head she said, “I know it, Sandra. But I’ve got my own history, and I’ve run out of resilience. And trust. A rare commodity and I find I can’t live without it. And Dean can’t seem to afford it.”

The memory of his face, twisted with rage—and pain. Amy pushed it away, hard. She hurt, too, and he hadn’t let her explain, wouldn’t let her close, hadn’t even given her a tiny benefit of the doubt. And then there was the fact, just beginning to penetrate, that a rival, a criminal rival, had used her to get to Dean. All her old fears and memories of Vegas surged back, and ice filled her veins. Amy rubbed her hands together against the cold. She no longer had just her to worry about.

Sandra sighed and blinked back the tears shining in her big brown eyes. “I’ll miss you, honey. It won’t be the same.”

“I’ll call you, and you can let me know when you get some time off. We’ll meet somewhere and catch up. Okay?”

“What about when you, uh, deliver?”

Amy dissolved into tears again and impatiently wiped them away with the backs of her hands, her cheeks already sore from the scalding salt. “We’ll see what we can work out.” She was terrified about that day in the future, but there was too much else to do first, and a long time to get there. She hefted her purse, her savings tucked inside with the laptop, and moved to the door.

Sandra wrapped her arms over her chest, hands cupping her elbows. Her thin, pleasant face was drawn with anxiety
, and not a little fear, the dark hair such contrast to her pallor. Her eyes were full of tears.

“I’ll be fine, Sandra. Know it. Amy Copeland survives. And I have another life to take care of—find a doctor, take vitamins, all that stuff.”

Sandra attempted a watery smile and Amy returned it.

“I’ll call you.”

The drive to the next city over had been made on autopilot. As silly as it was, Amy would miss her car. Buying foreign hadn’t won her any new friends, and Dean didn’t like the fact the Audi was a convertible, but she loved it. And she could drive it to capacity too, as well as any man. But it was too distinctive and she needed the money. The piece of shit the dealer graced her with was more suitable for a mother-to-be, nondescript, unmemorable, but he assured her it met all safety ratings. And it died half a block from the Restaway Inn, ominous warnings flashing on the dash, shimmers of heated air rising from the engine to curl over the windshield. Amy pulled to the curb and went to find a working phone.

Fate? Karma?
She didn’t know. Didn’t care, although she wouldn’t ignore the possibility. She had walked into the lobby and hadn’t looked back. Harold reposed behind the counter, an older man wearing a neatly pressed, white shirt tucked into dark trousers. His greying hair cut close to his head, a little goatee adding spice to his look. Calm blue-gray eyes surveyed her, but in a “are you a customer or somebody else” manner. Assessing but with no intent. A little name tag, gold letters etched on a white background announced his name.

“How can I help you?” A kind voice, baritone, still full of strength despite his age. She could recall those kindly words even now, if she didn’t realize their import at the time.

Amy explained her phone dilemma and Harold stepped up, unbidden. He called somebody named Chaske, and a tall, skinny black man arrived before Amy had time to drink the water Harold pressed on her. She’d struggled up from the depths of a comfortable chair to reach a hand across the coffee table to Chaske. He declined her accompanying him, citing the heat as a deterrent, so she and Harold watched in air-conditioned comfort as Chaske climbed into her new-to-her wheels, then out again to pop the hood. The man didn’t need to mime the bad news. Amy could tell by his stance. Nothing good was under that cloud of black. Shit.

Ridiculous tears threatened. It was nearly dark and she was exhausted. Only a hundred miles from home and no way to increase that distance unless she took a bus.

“Don’t you fret, Amy.” Harold knew her full name. She hadn’t dissembled. How could she in the face of his kindness? “Chaske will take the beast away and let you know what’s wrong, give you a quote. You can stay here.”

Chaske backed his wrecker up to the van and efficiently hooked it up. The vehicle looked sad, discouraged. Much like Amy felt. Being taken in by a used
-car salesman was the icing on the cake.

“Do you have much luggage?”

Startled, Amy focused on Harold. “None. I was just … passing through.”

“Where you going?” The first intrusive question
, but it was okay. Flight wasn’t a lot of fun, and unless Harold and Chaske had some kind of racket going whereby they bilked people out of shitty old vehicles and rented them a room to murder them later, or worse … she could use some support.

“I don’t know.” Kind of sounded pathetic, put out there like that. Amy’s breath hitched in her throat. Surely she’d cried enough tears at Sandra’s. Apparently not.

“Well, how if we have some dinner and talk awhile? I have a phone call to make but that’s pretty much it for the night unless we have people stopping. We still have a couple of open units.”

“I don’t want to impose.” Amy lifted her purse.

“You aren’t, Amy. And you’re not okay. My daughter, Louise, would have been about your age when we lost her. Have dinner with an old man.”

And so it went. Harold ordered dinner from the dinner after ascertaining her favorites—the diner’s limited menu didn’t detract from the fact the food was excellent. While they waited for delivery—Harold had an arrangement with the proprietor, small businesses supporting one another—he placed his call. Amy couldn’t help but overhear and realized he was talking to his wife, Francine, recovering from a surgical procedure. The affection overshadowed the worry in Harold’s voice and his obvious relief that Francine was feeling better even in the short time since he’d visited over lunch was inspiring. It spoke to hope for relationships everywhere, except for Amy’s. Harold regaled Francine with her story and assured his wife Amy was a nice young woman. Like Louise.

“Francine is worried you’re a scam artist, Amy. But my explanation was sufficient. She can’t wait to meet you.”

“Uh, I don’t know how long I’ll be here.” In truth, she had been planning to revisit the dealership and have a chat with the little weasel who had not only taken her on the van, but stiffed her insofar as the cash on the Cabriolet went
, too. Hindsight. She worried about the hours passing, though, running through her fingers like the sands of proverbial time. And she was so tired.

“Well, you can’t go anywhere without a vehicle. If you can’t afford a room we’ll work something out.”