Reprise Page 11

  He wished the apartment had the kind of doors you could slam, but they were weighted with that self-closing contraption that took that away. His boots pounded down the hall, and he was squeezing his keys so hard they might have drawn blood.

  All he could see was the tears in her eyes, the utter ruin of her family turning her out when they should have been embracing her.

  It took fifteen minutes to drive out to her folks’ place. It was mostly a blur, and he hoped he’d been obeying traffic laws the whole way. He all but yanked the storm door off its squealing hinges and slammed his fist on the inside door. He hoped, for their own sake, they didn’t keep him waiting long—

  The door was yanked open aggressively and Harlon was more than ready for the confrontation. Her dad stood before him, face red. Small. Ineffectual. Insignificant. And an asshole on top of it all.

  “Oh good,” the man snarled. “It’s you. What could you possibly want?”

  Harlon wasn’t there to chat. He’d been to the house once before when the Becks were out of town, so he knew damn well where Mallory’s room was. He pushed past the middle-aged peacock and said only “I’m here for Mallory’s things.”

  No one stopped him, but her father followed him. “She took everything she’s getting from me. The rest stays.”

  In the bedroom Harlon turned a light on, then immediately went for her dresser. “Bullshit,” he snarled. “She bought her own clothes, so she gets to keep all of them.”

  Then he yanked open the top of the little jewelry box on the dresser. “These pearls never came from you, they came from her grandmother. So did these diamond earrings. She gets those, too.”

  “You son of a bitch.”

  Harlon shook his head. “Nah man, the bitch is you. My mom would have never treated me like this. Get me a bag to put her stuff in.”

  “Go to hell and get the hell out of my house before I call the cops.”

  “Go on and call them,” he invited, searching the room. There was a large canvas duffle on the floor, next to the foot of the bed like she’d been s frazzled she didn’t know which bag to take. It had a few things inside, like she’d realized it would be too big to carry once she got it full.

  “Grace! Call the police!” The little weasel left the room. All the better to get shit packed.

  He tossed the duffle on the bed and shoved the jewelry box inside, then started emptying drawers. He did the same to the closet, and he was just going through the other items on top of the dresser when he became aware of sniffling from the doorway. It was Anabelle Beck, and at least she had the decency to look wretched.

  “Is she...is she going to be okay?”

  Harlon snapped his jaw shut. From all accounts Mal had given him, her mother was a soft spot on anything that her husband gave her permission to be. She might be worried, but she hadn’t done a damn thing to stop him, either.

  “She will be. Once I get her away from you people.”

  “Oh yes, that’s rich.”

  Great, Dad was back. Tiny went back to grabbing the hair spray and brushes and all the other shit from the dresser, throwing it all in one mess into the bag.

  “I’m calling the cops. You have three minutes to get out of my house.”

  Harlon zipped the bag closed, grabbed it up in one hand and approached the door. The father had the balls to stand in his way, though. He glared down his nose at the man.

  “Move or I will move you,” he warned, keeping his tone even.

  “This is the man she threw it all away for,” the asshole said, looking at his wife in disbelief. “Isn’t that charming?”

  “You’re still in my way.”

  “Her things stay here,” the man snapped, eyes up on his now.

  “She isn’t coming back here,” Harlon assured him. “I’m not going to let you hurt her like that again.”

  The mother covered her mouth, her sobs getting a bit louder now.

  “But she does get to keep her things. Because...” he had nothing to qualify it, then decided he didn’t have you. “Because, fuck you. That’s why.”

  “Listen, you little shit. You may be able to pull one over on my dimwitted daughter but I’m a hell of a lot smarter—”

  That thought wasn’t finished because two of his back molars were suddenly loosened courtesy of a cheap shot from Harlon’s left hook. He hit the carpet on his back, cradling his jaw and looking up in shock. Harlon leaned over, finger extended. “You don’t ever talk about her again. She’s not your concern.”

  No one followed as he made his way to the truck and tossed the duffle in the bed. On the way back to town the numb wore off and he started to freak out.

  Jesus. A baby. Fucking hell, he was going to be a father.

  He didn’t go to his apartment. He went home instead.

  Inside he could smell something for supper in the stove. His mother was in the kitchen, the water in the sink was running. The old man wasn’t around, or if he was, he was back in the garage tinkering.

  He kicked his shoes off and followed his nose, coming into the small but cheery kitchen. His mom turned, her face immediately breaking into a grin. “You’re home! Are you staying for supper?” Then the smile faltered as he hung his head, covering his face. “Harlon—your hand is bleeding. What’s wrong?”

  “I fucked up, mom. Shit, I fucked up.”

  “Did you get in a fight?”

  He dropped his hands, checking his knuckles. Sure enough, there was a split that had a bit of blood. But nothing too bad. “I...I got a girl pregnant.” Shit, he couldn’t look at her. The thought that she might be disappointed—

  Her hands were warm as they clasped his right one. “That Beck girl?”

  “Yeah. She’s pregnant.”

  “Oh, dear. She’s awfully young.”

  “I know. I fucked up.”

  She squeezed his hand. “What are we going to do about it?”

  He looked up into those brown eyes, the ones he got his own from. She was warm, compassionate, and worried, but not upset in any way. “I’ll take care of it. I think she wants to keep it. I’ll help her. As much as she wants me.”

  His mother beamed and touched his cheek. “Of course you will. How is she?”

  “I don’t know. I think she’s worried about the baby, but right now she’s upset. Her parents threw her out.”

  His mother jerked back like he’d cursed. “What?”

  “She told them today, they told her to get out. She showed up at my door less than an hour ago crying.”

  “Bring her here.”

  He blinked, and it was his turn to react with shock. “What?”

  “She can stay here until she sorts it out. If she can sort it out. If not, oh well. At least she’ll have someone around who’s been through it once.”

  He had to blink. Shake his head. “What? Mom, no, I’ll take care of it.”

  Again with the pat on the cheek. “Your apartment is a dump with a lot of stairs and no furniture.”

  “I’ll get furniture.”

  “I’ll take care of her when you’re on the road. Make sure she goes to all the doctor’s appointments you can’t be here for. And honey, she’ll want another mother to talk to.”

  His frown deepened, but he was starting to agree. “What about Dad? I don’t think—”

  “Bring her here, son.”

  They both turned to the back door. Harlon Senior had come in without anyone noticing, listening in for who knows how long. “Dad, are you—”

  “Bring her here. You’re going to need to work and save up a lot of money for when that kid comes. She shouldn’t be alone.”

  -oOo-

  “...isn’t that right?”

  Tiny shook himself back to the present. “Hmm? Sorry. Zoned out.” Knuckles had apparently asked him something.

  “I was telling Mallory that when we have the Christmas party at the clubhouse you dress up in the Santa suit and let kids pull on your beard.”

  Mallory was smiling broadly at him, he
r eyes bright. Damn, she still looked absolutely beautiful.

  “Yeah. I’m the only one that fills the suit in,” he drawled sarcastically, and Knuckles laughed at that. Mallory joined in.

  “He’s the only one with white hair. The ladies help whiten the beard with shoe polish, then the kids get it all over their hands and the Santa suit is trashed by the end of the day.”

  Tiny shrugged and finished his beer. “As long as they have fun.”

  “Yep. Kids love Tiny.”

  Mallory leaned on the table with one elbow. “So...they call you Tiny?”

  He had to grin. “Original, isn’t it?”

  “What do you call him?” Knuckles asked. “I assumed he’d always been Tiny.”

  “I called him Harlon.”

  “So where did Tiny come from?” Knuckles mused, looked thoughtful.

  “Prison, asswipe.”

  “Oh.”

  Mallory was still staring at him, her smile gone. “You did go to prison? I mean, I heard the rumor but—”

  “Yeah, I did. I had logged twenty hours on the road, fell asleep at the wheel. Hit a car, killed two sisters. Found guilty of negligence causing death and sent away for four years.”

  Knuckles got quiet and looked down at his hands. He knew the convo should end there, but Mal wasn’t as experienced with discussing prison life with a con.

  “I’m so sorry. That must have been hard. I mean, how horrible for the family but...for you, too.”

  Tiny nodded, eyes on the beer bottle between his hands. “It was fucking stupid, is what it was. I should have pulled off and bedded down but there was a snow storm coming. I wanted to get home before it hit.”

  The table got very quiet, and it only ended when the waitress arrived with their burgers. They were huge, as advertised, the kind that came cut in half so they were easier to eat. Knuckles oohed and ahhed over his meal to fill the silence.

  Tiny dug into his own plate, aware of the woman next to him. Knuckles shifted conversation onto something simpler, and it seemed neither of them needed him to participate. Which was good.

  He’d stupidly decided being sick wasn’t going to alter him in any way. He’d do his own thing until he couldn’t anymore; go out swinging, so to speak. But seeing Mal, revisiting that accident which, in all honesty, he hadn’t thought about for years, suddenly he had a need to atone for...everything.

  Which was stupid. How could he make all this up to Mallory? It had been years ago, they’d both established their lives without each other. Going back over all that now? Just ripping open a wound with scars that had already healed.

  And the accident? Both women had died. Never had a chance in that rusted out old Nissan Micra, no match for anything else on the road, much less a fully loaded semi-trailer. They were dead, and if their families were still around...yeah. How did a guy make that all better? He’d said sorry, many times over. Sorry didn’t do shit.

  Fuck cancer. Guilt was going to do him in, slowly, and just as painfully.

  The meal ended pleasantly. Knuckles hung back while Tiny walked Mallory back to her vehicle, but what Tiny thought he was accomplishing with that was a mystery.

  She paused after unlocking the door, turning his way and leaning against the truck, hands at her sides. Relaxed. Realizing how gorgeous she still was, he had to wonder what she saw when she looked at him. He knew he looked different. He felt a century older at least. Did it show on his face, anywhere at all?

  “I’m really sorry about your dad,” she said quietly, face soft. Eyes gentle. “He was...well. You know how good your parents were to me. I loved them to bits, I really did. But after you...left, it was too painful to stay close.”

  That was it. As close as he’d let her get to bringing up all that shit he’d pulled. “I get it. And so did they. Trust me. I bore the blame for all of it from them, too. And rightfully. I did wrong. I was a scared shitless little prick. You were so much stronger than me, always had been. I should have been a better man for you. And...I’m sorry.”

  Her eyes were wide now, lips slightly parted in shock. it was shit he should have said to her years ago, but he didn’t. Too late, but at least it’d been said.

  He put a hand to her hip, beating back the thrill of her warmth, and leaned in to kiss her cheek. She was still in shock so she let him do it.

  She smelled good. Not the same, no. She wasn’t wearing perfume like she used to, so maybe this was shampoo or something. Her hair was still so gloriously thick. He wondered what it felt like now, but it wasn’t his place.

  To prevent himself from doing something incredibly stupid he backed away and then walked off, not waiting for an answer.

  “Man. I can stay at a hotel if you want—” Knuckles said when Tiny was close enough to hear his muttered confidence.

  “Shut it. Get in the truck.”

  Chapter Ten

  “Poles are still good, so are the runners. It’s just the boards. They weren’t pressure-treated like everything else.” Knuckles kicked at the bottom of a fence board. It broke off at the bottom runner where the nearest nail was, diagnosis confirmed.

  Tiny glared at the pile of green pressure-treated boards stacked next to the fence. His dad had apparently ordered this load weeks ago, to be delivered today. The invoice was pinned to a board in the kitchen over the old-fashioned wall mounted phone. Like the old man would have had the juice to fix the fence.

  The funeral would be in two days. Cremation would take place in Montrose tomorrow, ashes delivered the next morning for the early afternoon service. He had two days to kill in Cleary.

  Work was a good way to kill time, and maybe it’d help the house get sold faster. Get that asshole real estate agent off his back. Not that Tiny had talked to him yet, but there were four unreturned phone calls on his machine just from the day before.

  Less than twenty-four hours after his father had been found dead, that prick had started calling to see what was going on. Tiny put the estate lawyer onto him. He didn’t want to deal with fucking questions. But he could get a bit of improvement done on the place.

  “Your old man had tools?” Knuckles asked.

  Tiny nodded, fishing keys out of his pockets. “Yeah, in the garage.”

  The place had the same cold, motor oil smell he remembered from childhood. No vehicle, the garage was too full for the truck. But the table saw, lathe, and various other tools of his weekend warrior trade were likely worth more than the vehicles they’d owned.

  “Chop saw, good. That’ll help. I see a couple drills.” Knuckles was picking over the work bench while Tiny stood in the center of that space, overcome with his own brain. Of all the things to get to him, it was the memory of hours spent sitting out here watching his dad build or fix or put some project together.

  He swallowed hard, hearing how his inhale shuddered in his chest. Clearing his throat he moved past the work bench to an old metal section of storage lockers bolted to the opposite wall. It was where his old man kept nails and screws.

  “Yep, three-inch decking screws. We’re in luck.”

  “New set of bits here.”

  Knuckles kept rambling on, but Tiny’s eyes were now fixed downward, not believing what he was seeing. “Son of a bitch,” he muttered.

  “What’s up?”

  Tiny turned around. “About nine hundred feet of fucking wood laminate flooring. Enough to do the living room, bedrooms and hallway.”

  “Isn’t that what the real estate guy wanted?”

  “Un-fucking-believable.”

  And yet, it was so like his old man. “If you’re here you can work.”

  “Should we do that first? I think that’ll get the faster return. Then that shit can start showing people the house.”

  Tiny nodded. “Yeah. Probably.”

  “The chop saw will make it go faster. You ever put that stuff in?”

  Tiny studied the man standing next to him. In most instances, Knuckles was a wild card. Loyal, absolutely, but a lot nuts. He’d just done a
hit for the fucking mob a few days ago, and he was now debating which home improvement project to tackle to garner Tiny’s mother the best return on their home equity.

  “I’ve done it a couple times. Back when I was helping a contractor with finishing work. It’s not as involved as real hardwood.”

  “I’ve seen it on TV,” Knuckles offered, pulling on his beard with a fist.

  “You really up to all this?”

  Knuckles shrugged. “Jayce said he didn’t need us, right? What else we gonna do?”

  That was another excellent pair of points. When the funeral date had been set Tiny called his Prez with the news. Jayce told him and Knuckles to stay put. There was a simple protection run scheduled the next day, nothing they were needed for. Just escorting a group through Bakersfield—a group not friendly enough with G-Town for that particular gutter trash to mind their manners despite their great relationship with the Sachettis. Don Sachetti needed these guys in Bakersfield for a day, so the Red Rebels would make sure that nothing bad happened to them. Whoever they were.

  But in the meantime, Tiny and Knuckles were in the flooring installation business.

  The carpet wasn’t glued down, thank Christ. The nail strips gave up the beige deep-piled shit without a fight, and they had the living room, hallway and bedrooms cleared by lunchtime. The refuse was dumped on the front lawn, and Tiny wiped the sweat from his forehead. For November it was pretty warm, but that was the way it was in Colorado. It could be snowing the next day.

  Knuckles peeled off his T-shirt with a groan, tossing it to the grass and pulling out his pack of cigarettes. “Man. I can’t take this working for a living shit. I ain’t built for manual labor.”

  Tiny chuckled and grabbed an offered cigarette, letting Knuckles light it for him before replying. As he did he took in the string bean. Yeah, the kid was strong but his ribs showed, his elbows and shoulders were knobby. He was certainly not built for hard labor.

  “You’re too delicate,” Tiny agreed, parking his ass on the steps in front of the door. Just to rest up.

  “Then why the fuck are you breathing hard?”