Burn It Up(29)

If he found out he didn’t share whatever breed of crazy she had, he might just have to grow the f*ck up, once and for all.

But I have, already. A little. Even Vince had noticed. He unlocked the door to his apartment, found the light switch, and dropped his bag on the floor. But if it turned out he wasn’t going nuts, well, that landed him at a major crossroads. Keep going as he always had, or step up completely. Become the sort of man who somebody might be proud to call their lover or partner or husband, or maybe even father, someday.

Hold your horses there, bucko.

Even if he dodged his mom’s misfortune, he feared inheriting his dad’s legacy nearly as much as the mental illness. At least if he went nuts, it wasn’t his fault. If it turned out he was just a flighty, selfish deadbeat who took off the second things got ugly on the home front . . . ? Yeah, that was all on him.

But maybe, he thought, setting the box on the arm of the previous tenants’ fugly plaid couch, just maybe, the test’ll tell me what I’ve suspected since I was ten. That that deadbeat was never my real father to begin with. Man, that’d be the ultimate load off, knowing he wasn’t Tom Grossier’s kid after all. Didn’t seem so far-fetched. Vince looked just like their father, so the guy had strong genes. But Casey, on the other hand . . .

His head was racing with too many questions, and the answers were still days away, even if he overnighted the test back, even if he shelled out for the expedited lab processing. He had plenty to worry about outside of a cheek swab in that time, and he’d be smart to keep his head screwed on.

He looked around the apartment.

Nothing special, but it was spacious. To judge by the state of the place when he’d moved in, the previous tenants who’d lived above the drugstore had been enthusiasts of a different breed of pharmaceuticals, but for three hundred a month he wasn’t about to bitch. Taking it in now, the space was barely recognizable. Not because anything had changed— just because he’d spent so little time in here since he’d signed the lease. That had been a week after Abilene had given birth, and he doubted there’d been a day when he hadn’t seen her since then. Either they’d been working together or he was swinging by with something she needed—first at her old place and more recently at Three C. And when he hadn’t been doing that, he was loitering at Duncan and Raina’s or his mom’s house. He’d abandoned his few bits of furniture in his apartment in Lubbock and had some more important items in a storage unit down there—a unit he paid the rent on religiously, under a fake name. At some point he needed to make a road trip and dispose of that shit.

He’d spent almost no time awake in this place, he realized as he scooped his dirty clothes out of his bag. He tossed them in the laundry basket in his bedroom and grabbed some clean ones from his open suitcase. A stranger might think he’d been burgled, or skipped town in a hurry. He owned so little, and half of what he did call his was still in boxes.

When he’d lived in Lubbock, he’d made some effort with his place. Made it nice enough so if he got in a position to get laid, it wouldn’t scare any willing women away. But here, well, he was just too busy. For the first time in his life, he had shit to keep on top of, every single day of the week. Between the bar and Abilene and his mom, he really didn’t get much chance to do more for himself than sleep and shower and eat.

And if Casey was completely honest, he was proud of that fact.

He zipped his clean clothes and the LifeMap box into his bag and locked up. He’d swing by Benji’s, make sure there’d been no Ware sightings, then see if Duncan or Raina—whoever was behind the taps—needed anything. Then he’d go by his mom’s house and maybe get her and Vince to swab their cheeks and sign their disclosure forms, do the same himself, and get the thing packed up and ready to ship out in the morning.

He bungeed his duffel to his seat. It’d be fine for a few minutes—Benji’s was barely two blocks west.

The bar’s lot was half-full, not bad for this hour on a Wednesday evening, Casey thought, his shoes crunching across the gravel. And soon enough, this place might just get busier at suppertime, once the kitchen was functional. Christ, he hoped so. He hoped they did a killing, and f*ck all the corporate chains that came to town to bleed the casino tourists dry—

“Hey!”

Casey turned to the front corner of the lot, where the shout had come from. His guts were immediately bunched up around his throat like a scarf.

Fucking James Ware himself. Looked just like his mug shot. Same scowl, same scar through the eyebrow. The recognition trickled down his spine, cold as ice.

Ware had been leaning against an older black pickup, but now he was moving, marching toward Casey. There were no smokers out front, nobody coming or going. Just the two of them.

“You Grossier?”

“Who the f*ck wants to know?” No sense being polite, when that was the greeting he’d been offered.

“I’m James Ware.” He stopped maybe four paces from Casey. His hands were balled at his sides, face set in a stern glare. His shaved hair had grown in just a little, enough to reveal he had a receding hairline. But he wasn’t a bad-looking guy—just scary. The same height as Casey, but built more like Vince behind the gray T-shirt he wore.

“I heard you’re the one who can tell me where to find Abilene Price,” the guy said.

Casey crossed his arms, faking toughness as he had his whole life. He wasn’t afraid to fight—he’d certainly been in his fair share of scraps and probably come out on top in half of them, but that was Vince’s scene, really. And this guy had just spent eight months in fistfight heaven, honing his skills, no doubt. Casey mimicked his brother’s tough-guy posture and cocked his head. “Who told you that, exactly?”