Burn It Up(21)

Weirder still, those dreams had a creepy way of coming true, though Duncan knew nothing about that f*cked-up factoid. Vince knew, and now Miah did as well—if only because Casey’s last little spell had shown him a vision of Miah dying in a fire, on a starless night. He hoped that dream was a dud, though, or that they’d somehow managed to prevent it—starless nights only happened to Fortuity during the region’s minuscule rainy season, and that had come and gone with the holidays, tragedy-free.

Vince believed that the dreams were something to be taken seriously. He’d seen their mom’s crazy ramblings come true too many times to ignore them. Miah, on the other hand . . . well, skeptical was an understatement. He didn’t have a superstitious bone in his body, plus, to be fair, the guy hadn’t suffered so much as pizza burn since Casey had envisioned that fire.

He himself was starting to doubt if any of the stuff he’d ever dreamed up had been anything more than hallucinations.

But if I’m not seeing the future, what does that make me? The answer was, plain old f*cking crazy. Just like his mom.

Either way, Casey wanted some answers—about his brain health, if not all this psychic nonsense. Needed answers. If he was going to keep telling himself he was finally manning up, there was no excuse to quit being such a goddamn * about it.

He told Duncan, “You can pay extra and get a thirty-minute consultation with a DNA expert over the phone, to go over the results.”

“And you’re going to do it?”

Much as hearing the truth terrified him . . . “Yeah, I think it’s f*cking time.”

“Why now?”

The million-dollar question, right there. Maybe because having his feelings for Abilene violently reignited had got his subconscious wondering if his chances at a real long-term thing with a woman were well and truly f*cked. Not that he wanted such a thing with Abilene, of course. She came with way too much built-in responsibility for his comfort. But somebody, maybe. Someday. If he had any somedays coming to him.

To Duncan, though, he fibbed. “All this shit here, with you and the business . . . I gotta know. You deserve to know if I’m gonna be f*cking incompetent in five or ten years. Plus it’s only a couple hundred bucks. I got no excuse to keep putting it off.”

“Good man,” Duncan said, and clapped Casey on the shoulder.

“I’ll ask Vince to do the old swab too. Something to compare my results against, since he’s never had any problems.”

“Sounds wise. Always best to go into things with your eyes wide-open.”

“That’s what I figured.” If he was going to do more than just resolve to become a grown-ass man, and actually become one finally, he had to quit running from the truth. Until now, he’d told himself that not knowing was best. And operating under the assumption that the verdict was going to be bad had given him permission to live selfishly, day by day, chasing money and pleasure.

Plus, in a very real sense, finding out he was doomed to whatever it was his mom had was a death sentence, because Casey had no intention of carrying on long enough to become a burden to anybody.

Nope. If he had five, ten more lucid years left, he’d live the holy hell out of every single day, then go up in spectacular flames, on his own motherf*cking terms.

“I ordered the kit,” he admitted. “Should be here within the week.”

Duncan turned back to the register, separated the bills and receipts into piles and began checking them against a tally sheet. “Will you even be able to get your mother’s sample analyzed? Is she competent enough to sign whatever consent form must come with the test?”

“Yeah, she has her moments. I’ll have to lie to her, though, tell her she’s signing my report card or something—she still thinks I’m in high school half the time.”

Duncan winced. “How awful.”

“You get used to it.”

“I suppose that’s one upside to having no parents at all—I’ll never have to watch them decline.”

“Amen.”

Duncan left for the bank shortly, and Casey got to work, sweeping and mopping, squaring up the tables, organizing the pool cues and chalks. The contractors tidied away the fresh dust they’d produced and headed out.

Man, there were moments when Casey missed his old life. Working ’til dawn, rolling out of bed at noon, living for weeks on a single payday. No responsibilities heavier than making the rent and fudging his taxes. No attachments.

And yet those moments were fleeting. Doing the right thing these past few months was exhausting, no doubt, and stressful, and anything but leisurely. But it was satisfying, too. He liked himself more, if he was honest. Probably in no small part because he was doing what his dad had failed at: stepping up.

After he unlocked the door and flicked on the lights, he wandered out into the empty front lot and looked up at the BENJI’S SALOON sign. Its neon glow was all but invisible in the bright afternoon sun.

I f*cking own this place. The goddamn heart of the town; one of few things worth preserving when the casino and all its attendant change descended. Just as Abilene had said last night. Even in Casey’s old life, amazing as he’d been at his job, as indispensible a member of the team as he’d become . . . it wasn’t as though he could go telling anybody about it. For all the greater world to see, he’d been nobody back then. Just some thirtysomething guy living in Lubbock, in a decent apartment, driving a Corolla, occasionally getting laid. But here . . .