Not up for more of his pathetic threats, I wrenched my arm free. “The same applies to you, cousin.”
His lips slid into a spiteful grin. “And here I thought that slap you gave me was a fluke. But maybe you do have a spine.” He feigned a shudder. “Ooooh. Should I be scared?”
“Will you please go sleep it off? Gerard can take you home.”
“I don’t need that insipid fag to drive me anywhere.”
I noted the bags under his eyes. Something more was going on, but I was too emotionally drained to figure it out. “Look,” I said with a heavy sigh, “if you think I’ll stand by while you and Uncle abuse power, you’re mistaken. Trace doesn’t have the money or the influence to fight you. Cholly does, but he refuses to stoop to your level. But as you can see, I have no problem with it. Now get out of my way before you piss me off.”
He didn’t budge, just knocked back another belt, his angry eyes drilling into mine. “Dawson’s dick must really be good.”
I made a fist to keep from clawing his face. Only Mead could drive me to such violence. “I’ll tell you what I told Uncle. Leave Trace and Cholly alone.”
“And if I don’t?”
I flashed an icy smile. “Erica Davies will get a tip. Namely, that the mayor and his cronies are a bunch of bigots.”
He blinked. “What?”
“Cholly’s mother is black and his father is Italian.”
Mead’s blue eyes hardened to ice chips. “I’m not a racist and you know it!”
“But will the voters?” His face boiled a bright shade of red as I added with restrained glee, “I’ll also tell them you’re a serial adulterer, a raging alcoholic, and that you’ve stirred up so much hate, your supporters are terrorizing innocent people—oh, and let’s not forget desecrating an old woman’s grave.”
“You lying, scheming, manipulative little—”
“Yes, growing up Bradford taught me much.” I narrowed my eyes on him. “Call off your dogs or kiss the governor’s mansion goodbye. Cross me on this and I’ll bury you.” I started up the stairs, leaving him with his mouth hanging open. “Now go wait for Gerard. You’re in no condition to drive.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
A Slip Of The Tongue
TRACE
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Damn, I’d missed this place.
I leaned back in my chair and scanned the dive from end to end. Twelve years had passed since I’d seen Rascal’s and nothing had changed. Temptation’s premiere hole-in-the-wall was still rowdy as hell and still reeked of cigarettes, grease, and sour beer. The decor looked the same too, from the slew of photos that chronicled the owner’s bush-league boxing career, to the scarred entryway floor that creaked in the winter.
Rascal’s would forever be a haven for outcasts, old rummies, and the socially challenged. The most important rule was to mind your own damn business. That meant you don’t ask questions and you don’t judge. Like Vegas, whatever happened here stayed here. It was the old honor among drunks sort of thing, the perfect hideaway for a man on parole.
I picked at the label on my beer as a toothless old coot with a pink face and matching eyes staggered to the jukebox. The bum mined a quarter from his jeans, dropped the coin into the slot.
Next came the loud, nasal twang of a cowboy whining about the girl that got away. But then, weren’t all these stupid songs about the same thing?
And this one was almost comical. Seemed the ‘girl’ had stabbed the cowboy, shot his dog, slashed his tires, and torched his doublewide. But the pussy-whipped fool still begged her to come back.
My house ain’t the only thang burnin’ for you, he crooned.
What a dumb ass.
“They didn’t have Herradura. Just Cuervo.”
The familiar voice tore into my thoughts. Dressed in a wrinkled tie and a cheap suit, Icky stood over me and set two shots of tequila and two long necks on the table.
“I’ll be right back,” Icky said. “My fries are up.”
I had, to use Shannon’s terminology, offered Icky an ‘olive branch.’ Given yesterday’s events at the graveyard, I figured it was time to clean house.
First up, my beef with my brother-in-law. So far, we’d shared a drink. Trash talked. Cracked jokes. You know, the usual shit guys do to disarm a frenemy, but I was determined to make our truce real.
“The cemetery called this morning,” Icky told me when he came back. He plopped onto his chair, set a hot basket of fries on the table, and dug in.
I tossed back a shot. “And?”
“They’re replacing the headstone for free, but Bev’s been crying nonstop.” Icky dabbed a fry in catsup. “Guess it finally hit her that Dottie’s gone.”
“I’m glad you were there for her.”
Icky paused mid-chew. He looked surprised.
White noise filled the void: sounds of liquor pouring, drunken laughter, and clinking ice cubes. Voices rose. A trio of rummies sang out of tune. One of the barmaids dumped a beer on a guy who’d squeezed her ass. Damn if she didn’t look like Shannon. Same height. Same hair color. Breasts were smaller though.
Shit.
I’d thought of nothing else since she’d run out on me last night; had to stop myself from calling her at least twice today. Hell, would she even show up tonight? One part of me worried I’d taken things too far, while the other—more vocal part—didn’t think I’d gone far enough.
“Can I be straight with you?” Icky asked, dragging me back to the present.
I hitched a shoulder. “You got the floor.”
Icky drummed his thumbs on the table while he chewed. “I just wanted to say that the stuff I pulled at the plaza—it was wrong.” He hunched closer. “We’re never going to be boys again. I think we both know that.”
“Icky—”
“No, hear me out.” Perspiration dotted his upper lip. “But I’m willing to pretend for Bev’s sake.”
I scooted forward. “My sister’s made her choice and I accept it. If getting along with you makes her life easier, then that’s what I’m gonna do.”
Icky stared back at me. “You’re serious?”
There were shadows in his pale green eyes. Sweaty half-circles stained his underarms. His shirt collar had a centimeter or two of dampness as well. The boy had always had a nervous energy about him…when he was strung out.
It’s none of your business. Let it go. “This thing with Mama got me thinking about a lot of stuff,” I told him. “You and me, we’re kin now. Let’s just lay all the bullshit aside.”
A temporary peace settled over us after that. We chatted some more, even laughed a few times. But an hour and several thousand hollow words later, Icky’s watch—a Rolex—beeped.
A Rolex.
Yep, gonna have to let that one go as well, Tracemore.
Icky flicked a glance at his watch. “Damn. It’s three o’clock already.” He stood, fished a twenty from his pocket, and tossed it on the table. “Man, I’m sorry.” He threw his suit jacket over an arm. “I’ve got to meet somebody.” He turned to leave, then rounded. “Wish you’d been there for Thanksgiving. Bev outdid herself. Maybe you could come for Sunday dinner?”
“Ah, yeah. Sure. I’ll look forward to it.”
I watched Icky leave, wanting to believe we could be one big happy family, but my gut said otherwise.
TRACE
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“I wake up. You’re gone. I call. You hang up. What’s going on, Amber?”