“Like us?” Duke asked frankly.
Lucky met his friend’s stare and answered just as honestly. “Maybe, but for all our faults, we were both smarter than him—and, God knows, not as needy. The dude was like a puppy dog yapping around Wild Bill’s feet.”
Duke agreed with a short nod. “Guy never knew when to shut up. Think he drove Bill nuts.”
“So the question is,” Lucky said, “what’s he doing in Ohio?”
“Looks like we’re about to find out,” Duke said under his breath, and Lucky shifted his gaze in time to see Red Thornton ambling up to the bar, right next to Lucky’s stool.
Lucky watched Red closely as he made eye contact with Duke—who never blinked. Duke had a way of looking right through you when he wanted to, and Lucky had seen more than one person caught in the invisible web of his stern gaze. At first, Red just appeared a little guarded, maybe a little worried—but then his eyes began to change, to widen, until he said, “Duke? Duke Dawson? ’S that you?”
As usual, Duke refrained from smiling—just kept Red pinned in place with his unwavering glare. “What the hell you doin’ in my place, Red?”
At the threat in Duke’s voice, Red physically leaned back from the bar. “This is
your
place, Duke? Shit, man . . . I was just passin’ through. Had no idea I’d see my old buddy from the Dev—”
“Don’t say those words in this bar, Red, or I’ll cut your tongue out
.”
The warning stopped Red cold. The older man froze in place for a second, until he recovered the ability to speak again. “Sorry, Duke—I didn’t mean nothin’ by it.”
Duke relaxed his stance a little—so little, though, that probably only Lucky could tell. “Those days are long behind me. And I don’t like to be reminded of my past. Understand?”
Red nodded vigorously. “Sorry about that, Duke, really. And listen, man”—he was shaking his head now—“I’m not into that life anymore, either. Haven’t been for a long time. Turns out it wasn’t for me—no sir.”
“That so?” Duke said, crossing his arms. Lucky knew Duke was aware it made him look taller, and his shoulders even broader than they already were.
Again Red nodded, assuring him in a lower, conspiratorial tone, “That Wild Bill—he was psycho, man.”
Duke replied dryly. “Yeah, I picked up on that back in the day.” Then he flicked a brief glance in Lucky’s direction—which made Red look over at him, as well.
Lucky met the man’s eyes. Thankfully, they really
were
a little more normal now.
“Why, I’ll be damned—is that you, Lucky?”
Lucky just gave a short nod, and Red let out a too-big laugh. “Well, what do you know? It’s like old home week or somethin’.”
And Lucky just stared. This was surely the first time anyone had described a chance meeting between old members of the Devil’s Assassins Motorcycle Club that way. Red was smiling now—blind to the less than warm welcome, and it reminded Lucky that Red never
had
caught on that Wild Bill didn’t really like him. The only reason Red had ever advanced from hang-around to prospect was because he was gullible enough to do anything Bill told him without blinking, and it was always to a club’s advantage to have a few guys like that around, whether it was because they were fearless or because they were stupid.
“Man, it’s good to see you guys,” Red said, climbing up on a stool now. “Sure didn’t expect to find any of my old buddies this far east. Whadda y’all been up to since you left the—” He caught himself in response to the warning looks they both cast. “Since you left Cali,” he corrected himself.
“Why don’t you tell us what
you
been up to first, Red?” Lucky suggested, still in tough-guy mode, same as Duke. Red was starting to seem innocent enough, even if annoying, but neither Lucky nor Duke trusted easily, especially when it came to something like this.
At the request, Red seemed a little downcast, like maybe he didn’t have much going for him. Big surprise. “I got outta there ’bout five years ago.” Then he shook his head and offered a conspiring look. “Man, I hate those guys—they’re bad dudes.”
“Since then
,” Duke said firmly, cutting in on Red. “What have you been up to
since then
?” He hated talking about the Devil’s Assassins as much as Lucky did—nothing got him in a bad mood faster.
It took a second for Red to catch his breath—it was clear Duke had made him nervous, but that he was trying to bounce back. “Aw, you know, just ridin’ here and there, pickin’ up a little work where I can.” Then his spirits lifted as he pointed in a generally northern direction. “Headin’ up to Chillicothe right now,” he said cheerfully. “Heard my sister’s shacked up with some guy there—thought I’d look her up. How ’bout that? Us both from Texas but crossin’ paths
here
.”
Probably he was looking up his sister in hopes of a handout, Lucky decided.
“Real nice place ya got here, Duke,” Red said then, smiling. “Looks like ya done well for yourself.”
“I do all right,” Duke replied.
“Need any help? I could . . . sweep up, wash dishes—’bout anything you want.”
There was actually a part of Lucky starting to feel sorry for Red. Lucky and Duke had both been young when they’d gotten themselves into so much trouble out west—and then they’d cleaned up their acts and gone on to do more productive things. Red, on the other hand, was clearly just floating through life, aimlessly, and at the moment he looked sort of pitiful—like a lost, hungry dog.
“ ’Fraid I’m full up on help, Red.”
Red began nodding. “All right then, Duke. Well, thanks anyway.”
“Chillicothe’s less than another hour,” Lucky supplied.
Red acted like he didn’t know, his eyebrows shooting up as if happily surprised. “ ’S that right? Well, uh, I best get headed that way then, huh?”
“Yeah,” Duke said, relaxing more now even as his voice stayed firm. He actually went so far as to take his eyes off Red, reaching for a rag to wipe down the bar. “You’d best do that.”
Red climbed down from the bar stool. “Sure was good seein’ you two.”
“You take care of yourself now, Red,” Lucky said, still sounding none too kind.
And as he walked away, Duke added under his breath, “On your way outta town.”
Once Gravediggers’ door closed behind Red, Lucky looked back at his friend. “What do you think?”
Duke made a sizing-up face, then said, “Harmless. But . . .” He tilted his head, peered at Lucky. “You want that gun back?”
Lucky had owned a pistol when he’d come to town—he’d owned one for most of his adult life; it was part of who he was, and it was protection. But when he’d been staying with Duke before buying his house, he’d handed his Glock 19 nine millimeter over to his friend. “Dude, I’m about to bring a kid into my life, into my house. No.”
“Still back there in the safe,” Duke said, motioning vaguely over his shoulder toward his office. “Whenever you want it. You know the combination.” And it was easy to remember: 36–24–36, the mythical perfect measurements on a woman.
Lucky understood that Duke didn’t like the idea of either one of them being defenseless—it was a habit that went back a long way. And he’d felt the same himself up to now—but given why he’d come back to Destiny, this had seemed like a smart time to change that mode of thinking and get comfortable being without it. And so far, he’d felt fine. Even now, with Red Thornton suddenly showing up.
So Lucky just gave his head a short shake, then looked over his shoulder, back toward the door. “Weird, though—about him. Just when I almost thought it was safe . . .”
“To go getting yourself a girl?” Duke asked. Then he shrugged. “Hell, man, who knows—maybe it
is
safe. If numbnuts there is the worst thing to cross our paths in ten years, maybe it’s okay to consider the past the past. Maybe it’s time. Maybe you can do whatever you want with your little neighbor chick—ride off into the sunset with her if you want.”
The fact was, though, even if Red was kind of pathetic, his appearance had still sent a chill down Lucky’s spine. It was a reminder that pretty much anybody could walk through that door on any given night. Anybody could ride their hog into Crestview or Destiny. It made Wild Bill and the Devil’s Assassins feel . . . not nearly as far away as they had an hour ago. “I don’t know, man,” Lucky said, taking the first pull on his beer since Red had darkened their door. “Red just reminded me that, when all’s said and done, we’re still pretty damn easy to find if anybody’s looking. And when I think of Vicki . . .” He stopped then, sighed, and tried to banish old images from his head.
“Don’t think
of Vicki, brother,” Duke advised him. “Just don’t.”
But when the two men’s eyes met again, Lucky knew they were
both
thinking about her, about what had happened to her. And Lucky knew with clarity what he had to do. Keep his hands off Tessa. Just like he’d told himself in the beginning with her:
You can look
,
but you can’t touch.
And once Tessa finished working in his house, things would get easier. He wouldn’t see her so much. And maybe he’d get her off his mind. And maybe hooking up with the chick in purple would actually sound like fun to him. Under normal circumstances, she’d be just his type. For now, though, Duke had it wrong—for now, looked like he
was
celibate.
And it wasn’t like he owed Tessa anything. Hell, he barely knew her. He could be with every girl in this bar if he wanted to without having done anything wrong.
He just . . .
liked
her, damn it.
And she’d been pretty cool to him, too. Considering what people in Destiny had thought of him by the time he’d left town, she’d given him . . . more than a fair shake, and besides being attracted to her, he almost actually considered her . . . a friend. And that was a rare commodity in his life.
And somehow the idea of getting down and dirty with some other chick right now just . . . bothered him.
Besides, he had enough to worry about already without bringing sex into the picture, didn’t he? Like focusing on getting his house ready for his son’s arrival. And showing Sharon he was dependable. And getting past the desire to get into his pretty interior decorator neighbor’s pants. Plus he still had to deal with his family at some point.
Once all that was accomplished,
then
he’d worry about having a sex life. For now, he’d just have to take care of it himself, just like he used to . . . hell, the
last
time he’d lived in Destiny. Shit—the more things changed, the more they stayed the same.
“S
o,” Tessa ventured cautiously as she joined Rachel and Amy in the bookstore chairs, “would you guys ever consider getting a tattoo?”
In response, Amy gasped. “Why?”
And Rachel said, “I considered it once in my twenties, but then decided it was impractical. Styles change, after all. I can change my jewelry or clothes on a whim, but you can’t change a tattoo.”
“And when you’re seventy, it’ll sag,” Amy said, as if she were a tattoo expert.
“Let’s be realistic,” Rachel added. “When you’re fifty, it’ll sag. Maybe when you’re forty.”
Okay, so clearly Tessa shouldn’t show them her tattoo just yet. “You guys are
not
making me feel any less like life is passing me by,” she informed them.
“You think a tattoo will slow down the passage of time?” Amy asked, shaking her head. “First skydiving and now this? What’s gotten into you?”
“Skydiving
?” Rachel snapped, her blue eyes bolting open wide. “Who’s going
skydiving
?”
“Tessa,” Amy said. “Maybe. If we don’t talk her out of it.”
As her friends yammered on, not even noticing how little she was adding to a conversation about
her
, Tessa caught a glimpse of little Brontë slowly, quietly padding up beside her chair. She thought the cat had begun to seem a little less frightened lately, but to walk out among them, especially when anyone was here besides her and Amy, was monumental. Tessa watched from the corner of her eye as Brontë stood frozen in place, clearly ready to dart away at the first sign of trouble, and felt the need to put the kitty at ease.
With one swift but gentle move, she scooped the cat up in her hand and lifted it onto her lap. Brontë struggled, ready to run, but Tessa held her firmly, using her free hand to stroke the cat’s head and back. “You’re okay,” she said soothingly. “Nothing bad’s happening. You’re just going to sit here and let me pet you.”
“Where did
she
come from?” Amy asked, looking over.
“She’s getting a little more trusting,” Tessa replied, still holding the cat in place against her will, “and I’m helping her along, whether she likes it or not.” She continued running her fingertips over Brontë’s smooth fur, murmuring down to her, “Calm down, kitty. Learn to relax.” After a moment, the cat finally went still, and another minute later, Tessa felt some of the tension leave her lanky little body. “There, that’s better,” she cooed, still petting. And soon, Brontë even began to purr a little.
“Hmm,” Rachel mused. “Cat whisperer.”
And Amy actually looked a little jealous—being the chief cat lover in the group. “How’d you do that?”
Tessa just shrugged, and Rachel said, “Maybe you could come over and talk to Shakespeare. Tell him to stop getting on the counter and eating Mike’s food while he’s still fixing it—before Mike kills him.”
But Tessa had a feeling that wouldn’t work—she just felt an odd little attachment to shy, skittish Brontë and was compelled to help the cat live a more enjoyable life.
O
n Sunday, Tessa took the day off. No work at the bookstore, no work at Lucky’s. She suspected he was probably home if she’d wanted to do some painting, maybe choose a wall color for his son’s room—but it felt like a good idea to put a little space between them, and the weekend was providing just that space.
The fact was, the more she thought about Lucky not making a move on her, not trying to kiss her, or
something
—the more it bothered her. It would be one thing if he just wasn’t into her, but that hadn’t been a banana in his pocket when she’d fallen back against him—and besides, sometimes you could just sense when you had chemistry with a guy. It was like . . . electricity in the air, a strange sizzle and pop even when you were both completely still. It crackled through your whole body, and part of that was because you could physically sense it crackling through his, too. And she’d sensed the crackling. And she’d wanted to use all that sizzling and crackling to . . . build a fire or something. So why hadn’t Lucky accepted that silent invitation?