“Why are you calling so late?”

Guilt knifed me in the chest as I climbed Briar’s porch steps on unsteady legs. “Ah….” I stumbled, gripped the rail. “I just needed to hear your voice.”

“Everything all right?”

Far from it. The sky was falling. I reached the top step and sifted through my keys with clumsy hands. “Everything’s fine,” I lied, my eyes welling again as chatter bled through the phone. Someone called his name. “Where are you?”

“In our war room at the hotel,” he said distractedly. “We’ll probably have to pull an all-nighter. Kidd showed up drunk in court and Henderson’s angling to toss a surprise witness at us, so we’re trying to get a jump on—give me a second, will you?” he shouted to someone, then to me he said, “Are you sure you’re okay?”

“I guess I just miss you.” I fought to keep my voice steady. “Can you come home this weekend?”

He sighed. “You know I can’t. I’m up to my elbows here.”

“What if I fly out there?” I knuckled a tear away and stared up at the glistening stars. My hands were still trembling. “I’ll clear my schedule and—”

“You’d be sitting alone in a hotel room the entire time. Now what kind of visit would that be? I promise things will slow down in a few weeks.”

He’d spouted the same drivel after I’d dropped him off at the airport the day Trace stormed back into my life. It was the last time I’d seen Darien, and the visit had lasted forty-eight hours.

Having suffered his first major defeat in the courtroom a year-and-a-half ago, I suspected he had much to prove, namely to himself. Darien Montgomery wasn’t used to losing—at anything. Small wonder, this latest case had consumed him, which left little time for much else, including me. So when he ended our call a minute later, I was beyond frustrated.

Things only got worse the second I walked into the house.

I slammed the front door. “Why are you still here?”

“Take a wild guess.” Mead stood glowering by the foot of the winding staircase clutching a Scotch. “So did you fuck him?”

Rolling my eyes, I stalked across the foyer. I was in no mood to deal with a drunk and belligerent Mead. The man was barely tolerable sober.

“Should I take your silence as a yes?” He gave me a once-over as I yanked my coat off. “My, my, just look at you. Your hair. Your clothes. What’s the saying? ‘Rode hard and put up wet.’ The apple really doesn’t fall far.”

I threw my keys on a table and went for the stairs, but he blocked me. The temptation to slap him again was overwhelming. “Move.”

“Not until you explain yourself.” When I stepped around him, he snatched me back. “You’ll never guess who I heard from tonight.”

“Let. Go,” I said, glaring at his hand.

“Betty Todd. She’s the county purchasing director. But you already know that. She said you called her today asking about Fontana’s permit delays. She said you mentioned her brother’s deal with some developers from New Orleans. She said you implied your clients could go with another location—if prompted.”

I quirked a brow. “That sounds about right.”

“I’m warning you, cousin. Don’t cross me.”

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.”

TRACE

____________________________

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.”