Give It All (18 page)

His cat? No, Astrid could do as she pleased, and was quite capable of fending off unwanted affection. But had this man hugged Raina? Called her
sweetheart
or
honey
or
girl
? Called her
baby
, as she’d called Duncan yesterday? Hit on her? Fucked her, ever? Oh, those trespasses were another matter entirely.

Raina straightened, shutting the washer, and did a double take at Duncan. “Wow, you look . . .” She scanned him slowly, seeming to approve. “This for your riding lesson?”

He’d changed into jeans, a tee, and his toffee-colored leather
jacket. The latter was fitted and designer and outrageously expensive. “I suspect this pairs better with a button-up and a six-dollar coffee than a motorcycle ride. But it’s better than nothing.” He’d told her about the bike that morning, but not the real mission of the exercise—to look for those bones. He wouldn’t be telling anyone about that; the naïveté of the goal was too laughable. He’d said he missed driving, and with the Merc limiting him to the finite miles of pavement within Fortuity town lines, the bike seemed an interesting diversion. Whatever kept him away from the bleach, she’d said with a shrug.

Now she came close and touched the seams at his shoulders, the contact warming him like a hot gulp of tea. “How can clothes even look this good on somebody?” she asked. “Everything you wear looks like it just . . . snaps on. Like a phone case.”

“It’s called tailoring.”

“It’s freaky,” she said, stepping back. “But keep it up. It’s worth every penny.” She glanced at his feet and let out a theatrical little gasp. “Red Wings? Are you trying to get fucked, Duncan?”

He’d found the boots at the blue-collar outfitters at the edge of town. So not his style, but he hadn’t owned anything that covered his ankles. He smiled. “If only I had the time.”

“Too bad about your eye,” she said, ever adept at skirting an actual apology. “Let’s hope that fades before the feds call you back in for another round of scrutiny.”

“How did your strategizing with Kim go last night?” He’d neglected to ask, with everything that had gone on.

She shrugged. “Good. I’ve got to see how many of my clients I can convince to come by for a little photo shoot in the next couple weeks.”

“I’m sure it’ll make very interesting subject matter.”

“Kim’s certainly banking on it. She’s got the props and shots all figured out in her head.”

“Props?”

“Oh, bottles and glasses and shit. Pool cues. Bikes, out front. She wants the bar to be a character itself, or something like that.” Her expression dulled.

“And you don’t?”

Raina turned away, filling the kettle. “It’s fine.”

Liar.
He knew her well enough to sense that something was
not
fine.

“What?” he asked.

“What, what?”

“It’s not fine. Why?”

Another shrug. “I dunno. Everything to do with the bar just feels funny now.”

“Since the vandalism?”

“No, no. Since the notebooks.”

“Ah.” His heart sank, and his stomach squirmed, and he had to squeeze his hands into fists to keep from blurting,
I’ll give you the money! Let me give you the money!

“That’s all I feel like saying about it,” she said.

And Duncan didn’t have the luxury of pressing now. He pulled his fingerless driving gloves from his pockets and tugged them on.

Raina sucked a dramatic, overwrought breath at the sight and bit her lip. “Why is that so fucking sexy?”

“I couldn’t begin to guess.”

“Let me know when you’re back so I can watch you peel them off, real slow.”

He smirked at that. “Only if you slip some singles down my trousers.”

She sighed a little laugh. “Trousers. You’re the best.”

He rolled his eyes. “I picked up groceries, and someone will be by to fix the window tomorrow between ten and noon. I hope that serves.”

“Wow, busy boy. Knowing me, the cardboard would’ve stayed up through New Year’s.”

“You’re welcome. What time do you go downstairs tonight?”

“It’s a Monday, so Abilene’ll probably be fine alone until eight, eight thirty. Why?”

His heart beat quicker. Like a bloody teenage boy, angling to spend time with a certain girl. “I’m cooking us dinner.”

She smiled. “Are you? You good for more than just a frittata, then?”

“I suffice. And I’ve not had access to a kitchen in two months, so the urge is strong.”

“Some of your urges mystify me,” she said. “But other ones have an awful lot to recommend them. Count me in. What are you making?”

“You’ll see.”

“Guess I will.”

“Seven thirty.”

Her brow rose a fraction.

“What?” he asked.

“That leaves no time for sex.”

Duncan felt his face flush hot and was pleased he wasn’t prone to blushing. “I suppose it doesn’t.”

“Come down to the bar tonight.” She stepped close to trace his lapels with her thumbs, gaze on his chest. “We can eye-fuck each other until last call, then head up here together for the real thing.”

He swallowed. With Vince on top of security, Duncan might even be able to relax enough to enjoy such a thing. “Sounds like a plan.”

“And you seem like a man who likes plans.” She stepped back, just when he’d hoped they might come together at the mouth.

He tried to look blasé. “I’d better head out for my riding lesson.”

She smiled, grabbing a mug off the table. “Which of you is less excited about this little playdate—you or Vince?”

“Casey’s taking me, actually.”

Raina snorted, dropping a filter in the cup. “Man, what I would pay to see the outtakes from that. I’ll look forward to hearing how it goes, over dinner.”

“I’m sure you will.” And late tonight, they’d head upstairs after last call and teach each other a few different sorts of lessons. His body was crackling at the promise of it. “I’ll see you at seven thirty.”

Only a week ago, Duncan’s car had been a gleaming, enviable manifestation of his ego, but now shit-spattered and vandalized, it hit way too close to home as a representation of how banged up he was feeling himself. He cast it an apologetic glance before skirting the side of the bar, preferring not to be seen in it.

He walked three blocks up Station Street and found the garage wide open, Casey pacing around Duncan’s appointed bike, eyeballing this and that, buffing the tank and mirrors with a cloth.

Duncan entered, the shade offering a respite from the baking sun. “Good afternoon.”

“What’s up, motherfucker?” Casey put his hand out, inviting some sort of clutchy high-five thing. Duncan submitted to it, pleased when he was let go.

“Heard you’re getting death threats.”

“Yes . . . Sorry about any sleep you might lose this week, thanks to the watch Vince organized.”

Casey shrugged. “Doesn’t bother me. Just try to maybe not fuck Raina too loud that night so I don’t have to spend my shift listening to Miah’s teeth grinding.”

Duncan felt his face warm. “Yes. Well. I doubt—”

“What’s up with your eye?”

“No comment.”

“Suit yourself. So, you ready to become a man?”

“I’m ready to learn how not to kill myself on this thing,” Duncan said, studying the bike. It had changed a lot since yesterday. The dirt was gone, its enamel scuffed and a touch faded, chrome similarly savaged, but the overall effect was one of sturdiness. Capability. It did resemble Vince’s quite a bit—not many frills. Responsive-looking suspension, straight bars, knobby tires fit for the rough terrain. Duncan gave it a quarter mile before the desert dusted it rusty red.

“Looks good,” he said. “I hope I prove worthy.”

“You’ll live. Probably. Got the money?”

“I’ve got a personal check. Will that do?”

Casey grimaced. “Fuck no.”

“Oh. I haven’t got five grand in cash.”

“No, but you’ll get it. You’re good for it.”

“But I’m not trustworthy enough to accept a check from?”

Casey smiled. “Not about trust, Welch. It’s about keeping things simple.”

Duncan inventoried his wallet. “I’ve got about three hundred on me. I’ll give you that as a deposit and get you the rest as ATM withdrawals allow. Deal?”

“Works for me.” Casey disappeared into a back office with the bills. When he returned he said, “There’s no deed, since Vince rescued her from the scrap yard.”

“I’ve no aversion to strays.” Duncan had become one himself, of late; Raina had taken him in as surely as he’d adopted Astrid. “Did I dress properly?”

Casey studied Duncan’s ensemble. “Close enough. Jacket’s a bit metrosexual, but it’ll keep the skin on your arms. Boots look good. You got a license?”

“Not for operating a motorcycle, no.”

Casey stared a moment. “You’re willfully breaking the law?”

“I am, yes.”

“Fucking awesome. You’ll match the bike—her plates are expired. Let’s find you a helmet.”

There were a few strewn about the shop, and Duncan picked one that seemed to fit and didn’t smell too strongly of its bygone owner’s sweat and cigarettes.

“You’ve been edging your way into our little clique via my brother’s trouble, and Raina’s pants, and now the garage,” Casey said, squinting at Duncan. “I think you need a nickname.”

“I strongly disagree.”

“Welchy. DW. Dunky. The Dunkster.”

“I’d prefer if you stuck with ‘Motherfucker,’ thank you.”

“Gimme a couple hours. I’ll come up with something good. What’s Raina call you?”

She called me baby,
Duncan thought, the memory chased by an undeniable shiver. “Nothing special.” Surely not special to her, anyway.

They wandered back to the BMW. “Had a real good time finishing this fucker up,” Casey said.

“I’ll treat it well, barring beginner’s mistakes.”

Casey snorted. “Fuck that. Ride the shit out of her. That’s what machines like this were built for. Not sure what this girl’s story is, but Vince’s bike used to belong to this old Kerouac type—guy took it all the way down to Bolivia or some shit, in the eighties. Had almost three hundred thousand miles by the time Vince bought it. These old warhorses are indestructible.”

Duncan fussed with his helmet straps and sunglasses. “Just getting around the badlands will do.”

“Got you covered, then.”

“I can’t leave Fortuity, incidentally.”

“Oh man, parole light. The feds are such bitches.”

Duncan couldn’t disagree.

Casey walked him through the basics—getting on, feeding it gas, stomping on the starter, then walking it out of the garage, where Casey climbed onto his own bike. It was a smelly, noisy, dirty, dangerous hobby, and they hadn’t even left the lot.

“Here comes the worst part,” Casey said. “Your first turn. Just give her a
little
taste of gas.”

“Do I lean into the turn?”

“If you’re going fast enough, yeah, but don’t think too hard about that shit for now—your body’ll figure it out.”

If Casey said so. Duncan and his subtler senses had never been especially familiar companions.

“Off we fucking go,” Casey said, and headed for the road with a roar of throttle.

Duncan followed, the bike feeling as though it must weigh ten tons as he let it shepherd him uncertainly down a shallow dip and onto the street. His heart seized up as he made the first turn, then resumed beating as he straightened out, unscathed. His acceleration was jerky and comical to start, but half a mile down the main drag, the fear drained out of him, perhaps rattled free by the relentless vibration.

They stuck to the pavement, crisscrossing all over Fortuity, Casey forcing more and more turns on the route, the longer Duncan went without toppling—almost as though willing the inevitable spill. Still none an hour in, Duncan was almost beginning to feel nearly competent. Casey pulled over along the shoulder of the road that led out into ranch land.

“Pretty good so far,” he said.

“No grievous injuries, at least.”

“Try a little off-road?”

Duncan nodded. “What the hell?” Had to happen sooner or later—those bones weren’t buried in the asphalt.

“Shouldn’t be too bad here,” Casey said. “Dirt’s real hard and packed. It’s the soft shit you need to look out for. I’ll take us into the brush as deep as I can, but my bike’s built for cruising, not safari.”

“Sure.”

Casey paused, leaning forward to rest his forearms on his handlebars. “What’s this all about, anyhow? You trying to be what you think Raina’s into or something?”

Duncan had to laugh. “I suspect it’d take more than a show of ill-fitting machismo to win that woman’s approval.”

“Yeah, she’s not really the kind you woo.”

“Indeed.” She was no coy creature in need of tempting. Of taming. She was a mountain lion. The best you could hope for was to avoid getting ripped to shreds.

“So why, then?”

He considered telling Casey the truth, but something about it felt too . . . personal. He was uncomfortable even recognizing himself precisely how out of character all of this was—such a fruitless, illogical pursuit. Obsession he was wired for, but not of the pointless variety.

Plus, admitting it would mean accepting that he wasn’t above the mess surrounding him. On the contrary, he was neck
deep in it. In this exhausting mystery, in this awful town. In his infatuation. In his own suffocating uncertainty.
Uncertain, but not helpless.
He was taking the situation in hand, surely as the bars in his gloved fists.

He told Casey, “I have my reasons.”

“And they are?”

Duncan shot him a cold stare. “While we’re prying, what exactly
have
you been up to the past nine years, Mr. Grossier?” He’d overheard enough conversations between Casey and his friends to know nothing shut the man up as quickly as that question.

Casey revved his bike and aimed it straight into the wilds of Fortuity. Duncan followed.

The rough red earth was peppered with rocks and ruts, and the bars juddered in Duncan’s grip, the bike feeling like a half-broken horse beneath him. It was brutally sunny, oven-hot. His wrists were already sore from the civilized riding, hands all but numb from the vibration, and off-road multiplied all of that by fifty. But he didn’t fall, not aside from when attempting the maneuvers Casey walked him through—how to tip over with purpose when he felt the machine going down. He seemed good at knowing how much gas to give it, too, how much speed to hazard. And he’d be lying if he said there wasn’t a certain satisfaction to hearing and smelling all that dust shooting out in his wake when he coaxed the bike up a hill.