Casey grabbed a fork from a small pile of cutlery and stabbed himself a sausage link from a dwindling platter. “Well, I’m gonna open the bar this afternoon after Abilene heads to Elko, so I’ll tell whoever’s around about the early wake-up call.” No doubt Miah would prefer to avoid calling his ex and her lover.

“Sounds good.”

An urge tugged at Casey, an impulse to ask Miah if he thought that he and Abilene messing around had been just as bad an idea as he suspected it was.

Or do I secretly want to hear him tell me to go for it? He had to wonder. That was just his dick talking, surely.

In either case, Miah might not be the right man for the job. He still regarded Casey as his best friend’s obnoxious little brother in some ways. Easy for him to judge, when he’d been born into a respectable business, his path all laid out in front of him. Casey tried to imagine Jeremiah Church, future Three C patriarch and Prince of Fortuity, ever messing around with one of his employees, and decided, no, this was not the friend to confide in.

Duncan, however . . . Perfect as the guy might look, he’d fucked up his fair share of stuff. Plus he was discreet. Casey resolved to ask him when he went into town later. One thing was for sure: He could use some perspective.

•   •   •

James Ware shifted from foot to foot, waiting for the official at the discharge desk to return with his bin, all the shit he’d had on him when he’d been incarcerated back in July.

Eight months sounded like nothing compared to his first stint—five years—yet he felt way out of practice at this whole free-man thing. His jeans felt weird on his legs, heavy and stiff after all this time in orange scrubs and sweats. His belt felt strange, like the contraband it would have been only two hours ago.

He was tired and amped up, punchy from sitting through the release spiel and listening to his PO tell him about all the fees he’d accrued and when exactly they were due. He just wanted to get outside and to know that if he started walking, he could just keep on going.

Within reason, anyhow. Fucking parole.

Still, he was lucky he’d only been given a year, and served the minimum in the end. Amazing what a half-decent lawyer could get you.

The female officer appeared with the beige Rubbermaid and dropped it unceremoniously before him on the desk. He gathered his wallet, his phone, pager, sunglasses, keys. A half-eaten Snickers bar. He held it up. “Really?”

The officer smiled. “Your property, Mr. Free Man. Enjoy it.”

With that, James headed down the corridor and out the penitentiary’s front door. One of the guards on duty gave him a curt nod. He didn’t return it.

He followed a sign to the visitors’ lot, where an old black Ram pickup awaited him—his own wheels. There was dust all over the paint and scrub grass in the wheel wells, which told him Angie’s deadbeat boyfriend had probably taken the poor thing off road. No fucking shock.

The door swung out and his sister jumped down.

“Ange,” James offered.

“Big brother,” she countered, and tossed herself around his middle. The heartfelt act would last all of a minute before they both remembered they couldn’t stand each other. Wasn’t as though she’d visited, apart from Christmas. Neither had their mom, come to that.

She stepped away. “Welcome back.”

“Thanks. You look good.” She looked like hell—too skinny in baggy jeans that used to fit different, and her brassy blond hair had black roots all the way to her ears. She looked like she was using again, but that was a fight for another day. And besides, she hadn’t sold his truck out from under him. That was good enough for the benefit of the doubt on such a day as this.

“Where’m I dropping you?” he asked, climbing into the driver’s seat.

“Richie’s.”

Figures. Fucking waster lived forty miles away in the wrong direction, but hey, Angie had shown up, after all. On time, even. More than he’d expected of her.

“Same place? Down near Ely?”

“Yeah.”

“Right.” He adjusted the seat and mirror and started the engine. Goddamn but it felt good to have his hands around this wheel again.

“You staying to visit?” Angie asked.

“No. Got business to take care of.”

“Your first day out?”

“Overdue.”

“Whereabouts?”

“Up north.”

“You’d better stop and see Mom, or she’ll never fucking shut up about it.”

“Soon. But not today,” he said, turning them onto the bleached-out desert highway.

Not today. Because yeah, he had business to take care of. Serious fucking business.

A debt to collect.

And tomorrow, an old girlfriend to track down.

Chapter 7

Casey barely saw Abilene before it was time to head to the bar, to his mingled relief and disappointment. Relief, as he had no clue how to handle her, after last night. Disappointment, because he’d be lying if he said he didn’t want to see her. Look at her. Study her, and try to parse the girl he’d thought he knew and the woman who’d turned him inside out on that couch.

She stayed in her room until nearly eleven—sleeping, he hoped, or avoiding him after last night’s little collision, he suspected—and with Christine puttering around, they got no chance to acknowledge any of it. He watched the baby while she showered and got ready for her doctor’s appointment, and then the women were off. Abilene took the baby and thanked him with a smile, and he watched her head out with something odd and uncomfortable tensing his chest.

When he got to the bar, Duncan was already downstairs, hovering around the contractors.

“Hey,” Casey called, locking the dead bolt at his back.

“Ah, you’re early.”

“Yeah, I was just killing some time, actually.”

“Killing time, on such an auspicious day as this?”

“Abilene’s safely off to Elko for the afternoon, so I can put the worrying off for a while yet. Can we talk a minute?” Casey asked, planting his elbows on the counter.

“Sure.” Duncan strolled behind the bar, grabbed a stack of papers off the register and came to stand opposite Casey, frowning at the pages.

“Dunc, something happened last night.”

His gray eyes grew wide and he set the papers down. “Not Ware?”

Casey shook his head. “No, he’s only been out a couple hours now.”

“So what, then?”

He blew out a long breath. “Abilene came on to me.”

Duncan’s posture relaxed. “Christ, you had me worried. Were you drunk?”

“No, and that’s the fucked-up thing about it.”

“How does being sober make it worse, precisely?”

“Because now we can’t blame it on alcohol.”

Duncan crossed his arms and leaned into the post at the corner of the bar. “I take it you succumbed to this pass, then?”

“Pretty much. Dude, I messed up, right?”

Duncan made a noncommittal face. “Not necessarily. It’s inappropriate, and ill-timed, and fairly irresponsible on your part, but it’s also not at all surprising.”

“No?”

Duncan smiled, as dry as unbuttered toast. “Have you forgotten the way you two used to circle each other?”

“No, but I mean, I didn’t know she was pregnant back then. Plus I’m her boss now.”

“And I don’t relish the day this implodes and we need to find a new bartender. But as I said, I’m not surprised.”

Casey felt his face turning pink. “In my defense, it wasn’t sex or anything.” Though Christ, it had felt like more than what it had been, hadn’t it? More memorable than the last time he’d gotten laid, for sure.

“I wouldn’t overthink it if I were you,” Duncan said. “Your very under-rested, very overstressed employee came on to you. The girl’s awash with hormones I don’t care to attempt to fathom, and scared, and probably somewhat imprinted on you. Unlikely though it may seem, you’re the most reliable male role model in her life at the moment. Don’t rake yourself over the coals for whatever’s happened, but for goodness’ sake, don’t encourage it if you don’t see it going anywhere.”