Chapter 22

He watched her walk away. Damn cute woman.

And in that cream suit with the big black ‘target’ splotch on the butt?

Oh yeah. Even cuter ass.

Back in the kitchen, he took her glass, put it in the sink. Funny, the place seemed so…quiet, suddenly. Not that she was a huge talker, but—it had been nice. Nice to talk to someone, someone who was easy to get along with.

None of his pet peeves or strongly held opinions seemed to bother her, either. She’d accepted everything with a quiet non-judgment, as if she knew that whatever he felt, it was for a good reason.

And sadly, none of those things of his were for a good reason, per se. They were all for very bad reasons—but ones he absolutely couldn’t do anything about.

He mentally replayed the conversation, found himself gravitating toward the part of it that had seemed like a confession on her part. Shook his head, slowly.

He’d never have thought Amy St. James, with her solid family background and support, would find herself needing to fight the family collective on something.

He looked back at the empty spot where she’d sat. It felt good to have given her some encouragement, despite their different stations in life.

And then he stared at Ryker, coming toward him again.

A crate? He huffed out loud as he sat at the table. Not a chance. If that ingrate who’d made the threats earlier came back while he was combing the countryside looking for work, the dog had to have at least a fighting chance.

Ryker was nosing about his pants now, wanting attention. He reached down, gave him a pat. Was oddly touched when the pup nosed into his palm, gave a tentative lick instead of a bite this time. Sweet little thing. He deserved so much better than he could give him.

The puppy needed a family. Companionship. More than just him, for sure. Kids, other dogs. Long walks in the woods, a family to love him when he came home.

And most of that would never happen for the pup.

But he’d do his best. And top on that list was getting a job so they could move. To a better place, far away from here, from any connection with his family. And from those who had something against Nathan or his family, and where that disregard would naturally shift to his possessions, or his animal.

And for that, he needed a j-o-b. He went to the bedroom and laid on the bed, his back against a couple of pillows stacked against the wall. Grabbed the copy of Jack Bay’s twice-weekly rag, the Jack’s Bay Journal.

Whimpering from the side of the bed caught his attention. Ryker wanted up.

“There you go, boy.” He leaned over and down, hoisted the pup up beside him onto the cool sheets, the rumpled quilt. Ryker stared at him, turned around three times, and flopped on the bed.

His cell rang. He glanced at the display and winced. Answered. “Yeah.”

Uncle’s voice came through like a precision hit of twenty megatons of lightning. “You welched.”

He braced himself, took a deep breath. “I don’t like him.”

“You don’t have to like him, boy. You don’t have to wash his back or get in his tub, you just have to like his money. Which now, isn’t in your pocket.”

“I’ll be fine. I’m getting a job, then…”

An audible snort. “Don’t expect me to help you out. That was your one shot, and you fucked it up. You starve, it’s on you.”

Nice to know he cared so much. “It always has been.”

“Did you hide the envelope I gave you?”

The…oh hell. Nathan sprang from the bed, displacing the blinking Ryker who’d started to fall asleep against his thigh. He shoved aside the clothes on top of the dresser, hunting furiously.

And breathed a sigh of relief. There it was, under the mail. The envelope Uncle had shoved in his hand the other day, charging him to protect it.

When he spoke, his voice was unhurried. “Yeah.”

“Made sure no one can find it?”

“That’s generally what hiding something means.”

“Don’t sass me, boy.” His uncle spat the words. “And get rid of that animal. You have things to do, not losers to protect. Don’t you be a loser.”

“Got to go.” He hung up, relished the abrupt silence.

The tension was already through his jaw, his teeth clamped. He couldn’t deal with the Journal now, with scanning through fry cook and manual labor ads. Not right now. He had to move. The energy was just charging through him.

He strode to the kitchen, saw her empty glass in the sink. He’d just been starting to feel normal. That things could be…pleasant. If not all fired up passionate, they could be…nice.

Just nice. That was all.

But apparently, that was too much to ask for.

He strode into the kitchen, the envelope still in his hand. M. Hero was scrawled on it, in his Uncle’s extremely slanted, all sharp angles handwriting.

He winced. He’d look into it, see what nonsense was in it, but he wanted no part of this creepy old blood relative.

God. He was related to this man. He closed his eyes, was swallowed up in blackness.

The old worry intruded. Mental illness. Did it run in the family? Were Adam or Noah or Lettie, wherever they were, worrying about the same thing?

Was it the same thing that had swept through his father’s life, ruined his mother’s?

And was he saddled with the same thing? Would it suddenly appear in him, claw out and maim or obliterate anything he’d come to love?

He had to get out of here.

Him and Ryker.

He opened the cupboard beside the stove, slipped the envelope to the very back, into a crack between the wood and the wall. He knew that space was there because he’d helped his dad, before the bad days, shorten the cabinet so that they could get his mom’s new stove in. They’d worked at it, just the two of them, and had fun. Laughed. And of course, measured wrong and there was a gap.

When the mistake had presented itself, his dad had winked at him and said we men won’t tell her. What she doesn’t know won’t hurt her, right? They’d exchanged conspiratorial glances, but he still remembered the look of love in his dad’s face as he brought his mom in to see the finished job, remembered too her joy and pleasure, and the answering expression in her face. She’d have loved a scrap of wood he hammered onto the wall for her. Because he’d done it for her, for them.

A good moment.

There had been quite a few before the rest of his dad’s family had crawled out of whatever gutter they’d been living in and slithered into Jack’s Bay.

He worked the envelope in. He could still get it if he had to. But no one else would ever know it was there.

At least that was done.

Yeah. He definitely had to get out of these parts. Small town noir—it existed. He was living proof.

But deep in him, an uncertainty swirled.

The worry that if he finally shook the thick old rusty chains off himself and took off, it would once again cost the life—or worse—the spirit of someone he loved.

Just like it had the last time.