Burn It Up(27)

“We’ve all wanted to punch you now and then,” Vince replied. “Take comfort in the fact that none of us actually has, so far.”

“Yes, how reassuring.”

“I’ve never wanted to punch you,” Kim offered.

“I have,” Casey said. “Real bad.”

“I’m the only one who’s actually managed it,” Raina added. “Though technically that was an elbow.”

“You also slapped me once.”

“And this from the woman you love,” Casey said.

Duncan rolled his eyes and pulled a stray newspaper over.

Vince ate fast and downed a cup of coffee. “Gotta head to the quarry.” He swung his legs over the long bench, kissed Kim good-bye, then said, “Case, walk me to my bike.”

Ah shit, what now? He set down his fork. Please not some serious-ass talk about Casey’s glaring absence around the old homestead. Not that he didn’t deserve it, after nine years away. He’d done better since he’d been back, but lately, between the bar and Abilene, he might as well still be in Lubbock for all the use he’d been to his brother. He felt a burning sensation along the back of his neck. Guilt.

Once they were outside, he asked, “This isn’t about Mom, is it? I can go back to watching her mornings when this is all over. Then Nita could take a couple nights, and you and Kim could—”

Vince waved his words aside. “Chill the f*ck out. I know you’re busy.”

“What, then?”

They reached Vince’s old R80 and he pulled on his gloves. “Just wanted to say, good job.”

Casey blinked. “What with?”

“You know, everything. Watching Mom when you can. Kicking in for the bills. Taking the lead around here, for Abilene. You’ve been acting like a grown man for a change.” He smiled, the gesture’s snide quality taking some of the edge off all this brotherly earnestness. “You’re doin’ good, kid. Keep it up.” He gave Casey a hard slap on the arm, then mounted his bike.

“I’m thirty-three, you know,” Casey said. “Don’t act so shocked.”

As he stomped his engine to life, Vince shot Casey a look, one that said, Bet you’re just as surprised as me. Or something to that effect. Something snarky and annoyingly accurate. Yeah, he was thirty-three now, but that only meant he’d given his brother three-plus decades’ worth of reasons not to expect him to ever step up or stick around. Casey rolled his eyes and watched Vince ride away.

He wasn’t really annoyed . . . or shouldn’t be, at any rate. That little moment had actually been really kind and genuine, two qualities Vince didn’t display without some personal discomfort. By Grossier standards, you could’ve slapped some touching music behind that conversation, cued an “I love you, Dad,” and rolled the credits.

But Casey was rankled nonetheless. Irked. If it felt patronizing, it ought to—before returning to Fortuity, he hadn’t ever given anybody reason to expect him to be reliable or responsible or do anything that didn’t directly benefit him. Vince knew that better than anyone. And if he was a little pissed, it was only because he had witnesses to this transformation, a load of people who’d known Casey the self-interested opportunist before now, and had every right to be surprised.

So maybe it wasn’t annoyance at all. Maybe it was a little bit of shame, a little bit of hard-earned humility.

He watched until Vince disappeared around the bend, and replayed that parting look his brother had shot at him.

Keep this up and maybe you won’t turn into Dad after all.

Maybe that’s what that expression had been saying.

Even if it hadn’t been, the thought sent a shiver through him. He headed for the house, rubbing his arms against the morning chill.

? ? ?

James Ware found what he was looking for right around high noon.

Fucking Fortuity, he thought, slamming his door, eyeing the scrubby, desolate badlands, squinting against that relentless sun. The old camper van was right where he’d expected to find it, parked where the creek banged an angle from south to west. And if the van was here, its owner couldn’t be far.

“Dancer,” he called. No reply. He walked straight up to the van, rapped on the passenger door. “Dancer.”

A shriek came from inside— Goddamn, that terrible f*cking bird. Sure enough, a white parrot came clambering over the seat’s headrest to stare at James, its black eye judging, head bobbing, feathered mohawk flaring.

He turned at the sound of the rear doors squeaking open, and circled around to the back.

The man of the house hopped out of the van in jeans and little else—no shoes, no shirt, a bent, hand-rolled cigarette smushed behind his ear, half-lost in his messy black hair. His eyebrows rose and he smiled blearily—just awoken or thoroughly stoned? James didn’t care to guess.

“Well, well, well, look who’s been released. You get good behavior or something?”

“No, I got a good lawyer.”

“This calls for a toast.” Dancer leaned into the van and straightened with a bottle of rum, his long, fatless body moving with a weird, tweaky grace.

James put his hand up. “Here strictly on business.”

“Suit yourself.” Dancer uncapped the fifth and took a swig, then tossed it back inside. “Our last transaction got lost in the shuffle. You want your shit?”