Burn It Up(55)

He sighed, rubbed his thighs, and seemed to calm himself. When he looked up, he met her eyes squarely. “Can’t you understand how I’d worry—given the way we even met? And when you refused to see me, you have any idea what flashed through my mind? How am I not supposed to jump to the worst conclusions?”

“You never had any faith in me.”

His stare was steady. “You never gave me any reason to.”

She felt tears welling.

“Don’t,” he said. “That shit won’t work on me anymore.”

Now she was just livid. “I can cry without it being some kind of game, you know. You hurt my feelings. What the heck do you expect me to do?” She wiped at her cheeks, so pissed she could slap him. He was the only man she’d ever struck in her life—pointless little shoves and punches and scratches in the midst of withdrawal, when he’d basically held her captive. She’d been an animal then, though.

“Look,” he said, hunkering down, clasping his hands between his knees. “That baby is my daughter. I have obligations to her—to make sure she’s safe and being taken care of. So let’s get down to f*cking business, okay? You’ll need money.”

She sat up straighter, taken aback. “Money?”

“I know you, Abilene. Well enough to guess you probably never signed yourself up for health insurance. So how deep are you in the hole, exactly? Births ain’t cheap. How much do you need? I’ve got eight hundred on me, and more coming, once I chase down some customers.”

“Well, you can keep it. I got insurance. Eventually.”

“How much?”

“Nothing. Vince gave me a few hundred dollars to cover my first doctor’s appointment—give him your dirty money. I got on insurance. And I worked and paid my bills and my rent. And I got some of the medical expenses and some of the baby’s things for cheap, because of my income.”

“Well, you shouldn’t have f*cking had to. You should have come to me. Let me take care of it.”

“You were in prison,” she cut back.

“I’ve got ways.”

“I don’t want your shady money, James. I don’t want to pay for Mercy’s diapers with the proceeds from you selling stolen guns. Ever since I knew she was coming, I’ve done everything the right way. I’ve worked and I’ve lived cheap, and when I’ve needed help, people have helped me because they care.”

“Grossier,” he said, then clarified, “Casey.”

“Everyone in this house. And my other boss at the bar. The lady who used to rent a room to me—she let me out of my lease early and even let me have my deposit back. I’ve had help, but because people wanted to help, not because I scammed them into it. I’m not who I used to be.”

He nodded slowly, hesitantly. “I can see that. I can see enough to believe that—some of it, anyway. You look healthy,” he allowed. “And this is a real nice place. But it’s still my kid, Abilene. You two need somewhere permanent to live. Somewhere stable. It’s my job to provide that. Where the money comes from shouldn’t matter.”

“Of course it does. James,” she huffed, exasperated, “I’m not doing shit the wrong way anymore. Not ever again. I’d rather live in one crummy little room that I pay for with my tips than let you buy me a whole house with your filthy money.”

“My filthy money got your ass clean.”

“And I owe you for that. I might even owe you my life. But things are different now, and I don’t ever want to have to tell my daughter that her dad’s going back to prison for ten years—or worse. You’ve been busted twice. They catch you again, or if some weapon you sold winds up killing a cop or something, and they trace it back to you . . . All the money in the world doesn’t mean crap if you get locked up for good. And I’m not being evil here. And I’m not telling you that you can’t be a part of Mercy’s life. But if you are, you better believe you’re going straight.”

His eyebrows rose. “You got any idea how much I can make in a year, doing what I do? And you got any clue how much I’d make if I went and found some job fit for an ex-con with a ninth-grade education?”

“I don’t care how much you give us, only that it’s clean.”

He shook his head, heaved a deep breath. “You were so much easier to like when you were a mess—you know that?” Then his expression softened, telling her it was a joke.

She didn’t smile back. “Easier in a lot of ways, I’m sure. But I’m serious. I’d take fifty bucks a month that you made as a fry cook over five thousand that came from guns. And you can find something—you’re strong. And you must have learned some kind of skill in prison.”

“The math doesn’t work—”

“We’ll make it work. We have to. I can’t go back to how I used to be. Not anymore. My daughter’s not growing up with a criminal for a father or a train wreck for a mama. You go to Vince, see if he can get you a job at the quarry or something. Get a trucking license. Anything, so long as it’s honest.”

He rubbed his thighs again, looking pale. “I’ll think it over, okay?” From a man who didn’t back down, ever, it felt as solid as a promise.

“Good.”