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  The book flew from her hands and across the room before she could rein in her emotions. It hit the wall with its corner, making the binder-style spine spring open. Pages flew everywhere.

  She stalked past the photos. They weren’t all of Harlon, for the most part they were boring, standard shots that all new parents took when they had a baby. Boring to others, fascinating to the parents of said baby.

  She grabbed the guitar case and pulled Bobby from inside, sitting cross legged on the floor between the small square of linoleum that denoted where the kitchen started and the living room ended, and began to play.

  Chapter Three

  When he put the Dodge in park and killed the engine, Tiny sighed, staring up at the house. He hadn’t been home in years, and while it looked exactly the same as always, there were great differences that eventually became obvious. He had memories of his mother planting the shrubs out front. Now they were reaching the eaves on both side of the front stoop, trimmed away only where they might obscure the view from the living room’s picture window.

  Things in town had changed, but in the same way as this house had. Trees were bigger or gone all together. Buildings he was familiar with were painted a new color, but he still remembered how it all looked the day he drove out of town, never to come back. Or so he thought at the time.

  The Dodge’s door swung open and he stepped down to the paving stone driveway. The door shutting was exponentially loud on that quiet street and he could only imagine the snoopy neighbors shuffling to their windows to see what was going on. For November it wasn’t a bad day, but after his years in California he was glad he’d brought a zippered hoodie along. He shrugged it on now, casting eyes up and down the street to see what else had changed.

  He was stalling.

  The neighbor’s place had been repainted, and recently. The place across the street had a moving van in the driveway, and the house sported a new faux-stone siding. But no need to dwell on that place too long.

  On his parent’s other side the house looked the same but there was a boat on a trailer up close to the house, nearest his parents’ place. Definitely new owners there, too.

  The stoop sounded hollow inside as he approached the front. The screen door was rusted, the screen itself still aluminum. Man, that was straight-up vintage. Feeling weird about it, he knocked. Tiny had no idea if just walking in was okay.

  “Coming!” he heard his father bellow somewhere behind the screen door.

  Then the door opened and his mother stood before him, blinking up at him from her thin face, skin around her eyes looking paper-thin. “Andrew?” she asked, voice sounding shaky. She was close to tears. “Is that you?”

  They’d been here before. Apparently he looked like an uncle he’d never met, his mom’s brother. He’d gone to war at age eighteen and hadn’t made it to nineteen, buried somewhere at sea in the South Pacific. But everyone else thought he looked like his dad.

  “It’s Harlon, Mom,” he said, stooping down to kiss her cheek when she offered it. “How you doing?”

  She looked startled. “Harlon? Oh, he’s in the bedroom. Come in. Are you the one that took down the tree in the backyard? I thought he paid you.”

  Tiny followed her into the entryway; a cramped hall with a closet door to the left, the back of an entertainment center to the right. He looked down, saw that she was in stocking feet, and toed his boots off before following her around the walnut cabinetry and into the living room.

  “Yeah, he paid me. Don’t worry,” Tiny mumbled, watching her perch back on the arm chair in the corner, hands clasped in her lap. She motioned to the TV across the room. Family Feud was on.

  “This black fellow is so funny.”

  Tiny raised his eyebrows, smiling. “Yeah?”

  “Angelina, what’d I tell you about answering the door?”

  Tiny turned at the sound of his father’s voice, and Harlon Gray Senior stopped short in the hallway at the sight of him. This was how Tiny felt he looked; like the man standing there in work pants—always with those heavy canvas things, even though he hadn’t touched a tool in years—and a Dallas Cowboys sweatshirt. He was brave wearing that in Bronco country.

  “Dad,” he said, feeling awkward with how he was being stared at.

  “Son,” his father said, warmly, coming forward and hugging him. Jesus, the old man was getting thin. He’d always had huge shoulders, arms and thighs like tree trunks. Fucking Paul Bunyan. Now Tiny could pick him up in one arm if he wanted.

  “You’re looking well,” his dad said, clapping him on the shoulder.

  “Thanks. You, too.”

  His father waved that off. “I look like shit.”

  Tiny looked over his shoulder at his mother, but his father had an answer to that, too.

  “She’s not paying attention. TV is about as much as she can follow. Come on in, grab a beer with me.”

  He followed the much frailer man into the small but bright kitchen, sitting at the small table that was shoved up against the wall, two chairs at opposite ends. The window ledge was extended to accommodate a snarl of house plants. They were healthy but definitely out of control.

  “So. What’s going on, Dad?”

  He was handed an opened beer and he watched his father take a pull before sitting down. “It’s terminal. They can’t cut it out this time. And I can’t take being sick again. So I just want to take care of shit and then...wait.”

  Tiny nodded. He was so in tune with that frame of mind.

  “But first I gotta get this place ready to sell, and get your mom into the home. Those are my priorities. Selling the place should keep her in that place for a while.”

  “I can help too, Dad. Don’t worry about Mom.”

  His dad eyed him up, and now Tiny felt it when the old man’s eyes tracked the ink sliding up his neck, the ink on the backs of his hands. No doubt the rings drew attention. Heavy silver things that weren’t for decoration. Tiny took the scrutiny in silence, sucking back his own mouthful of beer.

  “What are you doing these days?”

  “Driving truck, Dad. Like always.” It wasn’t a lie. His biggest contribution to the Red Rebels was his commercial truck driver’s license and the rig that he owned outright. And he still took routes, just so the taxman was appeased every year.

  “In Markham.”

  “Yeah, I’m still in Markham. I’m an independent, though. No boss telling me what to do.”

  His dad would get that. Tiny grew up watching the old man come home from three days only to take a two hour nap then head back out because his boss’s fuck up son went off on a bender and couldn’t take a load somewhere.

  “You still in that club?”

  Tiny wiped at his chin with his hand. “Yeah, I am.”

  His father nodded, taking a drink and letting the bottle dangle in his hand. “That Beck girl is working at the hotel bar on Main Street.”

  That Beck girl. He wouldn’t say Mallory’s name either, but Beck girl was close enough that Tiny’s throat tightened a bit. “She’s still in town?” He tried to sound uninterested, casual. And probably failed.

  “For about eight years now, yeah. Gained some weight.”

  Tiny shrugged. “She was never a rail, Dad.”

  “No. She’s the type that gains weight in the right places.”

  Tiny had to chuckle. His mom had always been round, but at her thinnest she still has plenty of hips and ass and a generous chest. That was the type the Gray men liked. “I bet she wears it just fine.”

  “Yes, she does.” His father grinned back at him, and for the first time Tiny could see his own resemblance in the old man’s face. “Her father’s in the home your mom’s going to.”

  Tiny’s chuckle died. “Her mom?”

  “Passed away the year before. That’s what got me thinking.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Her old man caught the house on fire. Left something in the oven too long, forgot about it.”

  “Shit.”

&n
bsp; “Yeah. Can’t risk your mom living like that. And I uh ... I got about two months, son.”

  He set the beer down, eyes on the way the condensation ran down the bottle and pooled under the brown glass. “Really.”

  “That’s why I gotta put Mom in the home.”

  It hurt when he cleared his throat. “What do you need me to do?”

  “What you’re doing. Help me get this shit out the house, move Mom. I’ll keep what I need, wait until I have to go into the hospital and don’t come out. Then you sell this place. The cash goes to Mom.”

  Fuck, life was just such a series of shitty events.

  -oOo-

  A life spent in one house accumulated a lot of shit. His old man had been slowly getting rid of long-forgotten refuse from the basement and garage, thank God. But they’d left a lot of stuff that Tiny “might want,” and he felt bad for it but there was nothing in that section of the basement he had any interest in keeping.

  Other than the 1972 541-S Remington Sportster rifle.

  He remembered his dad buying that thing secondhand and bringing it home. He’d learned how to shoot, got a youth firearm safety certification from the local wildlife federation, then from thirteen through eighteen most autumn weekends were spent hunting.

  His eyes had gotten a little wet when his dad turned to him, the rifle extended like it could go to the pawn shop or with Tiny, either way it didn’t matter to him. That was after Tiny had declined lamps, a desk from his bedroom growing up, and collection of vinyl records. Maybe he’d been hurting the old man’s feeling with every “No thanks.”

  He closed his hands around the stock and barrel, grip tightening as he fought down that sudden rise of emotion. “You sure you don’t want to keep this around?”

  When he looked up the old man was studying him, and Tiny wondered what he’d done that was so out of the ordinary. Then the old man shook his head. “Nah. Can’t hunt, can’t do shit anymore. You want it, take it.”

  He wanted it, very much.

  Before long the bed of the truck was full of boxes destined for the secondhand store. It was one of those consignment places that donated their profits to Habitat for Humanity or something like that, so they helped the kid working unload all the stuff and promised they’d be back with more later. And when they got back his mom was right where they’d left her; in front of the TV. They actually startled her; she didn’t know they’d left.

  By the time supper rolled around he was wiped. They ordered a pizza, had another beer while watching an ancient replay of Hollywood Stars, then his parents started making noise about bedtime. He knew they had another day of work tomorrow, so he didn’t begrudge them their rest even if it was only eight o’clock at night.

  “I’ll head out and see the sights,” he said. “I’ll come in the back, won’t wake you up when I get home.”

  His father smiled at him. “Enjoy your night. I hear the hotel bar has pretty good beer on tap.”

  How the old man knew, Tiny had no idea. But that was exactly where he pointed his truck after saying good night to his folks.

  Inexplicably, he was nervous. If Mallory Beck wasn’t here, it was a waste of his time. And he was hoping like hell she wasn’t.

  Inside it was exactly what you’d expect from a small town hotel bar. The wood was dark and shined to a high gloss everywhere. There were brass rails at the bar for feet and elbows to rest on, the carpet dark and not really feeling like carpet anymore after years of tread and spills.

  Seating was a mix of booths and small round tables. He parked it at the three-sided square bar, ordering a pint of draft and eyeing up the locals. The suspicion was mutual.

  He wore no colors here, no need. But he knew he was a big, tough-looking bastard, and sometimes in these small towns there was an asshole looking to feel bigger and meaner than he really was. Going after a lone stranger was a pretty safe bet for cowards like that.

  The gazes directed at him were wary but no one seemed to need to prove themselves yet. He accepted his beer, tipped well and eyed up the wait staff.

  The three female waitresses were far too young to be Mallory. In his mind he had a very clear vision of her, but that was twenty-nine years ago. Heaven knew he looked different; he wasn’t sure how he expected to recognize her.

  Both bartenders were male. He supposed there was always the chance that she was washing dishes in the back but that didn’t seem like a very Mallory job.

  But who knew what the fuck a Mallory job was these days?

  There was an appreciative whistle and some scattered applause in the room, and Tiny tipped his head to the left, seeing forms moving about on the stage in the half-light. A lanky kid sat his ass on a stool behind a drum kit and another guy was long shaggy hair was plugging in his base guitar. When the lights came on full the place erupted with applause—not thundering, but pretty loud given the number of people in attendance. A stunner of a redhead stepped up to the mic, and Tiny turned back to the bar to take a pull of beer. Great, live music. He picked the perfect time to be here.

  “Good evening, everyone. How’s the beer taste tonight?”

  Tiny froze, halfway to setting his beer down. He didn’t look to the stage, because he knew that fucking voice and it shot right through him—heart, gut and head—like a bolt of lightning. He closed his eyes as she chuckled at something a person in the crowd shouted.

  “Yeah, fuck you too, Carl. Do you ever go home?”

  The room laughed at that, and she laughed again, too. Tiny swallowed and it was an effort, like passing rocks down his gullet.

  “As most of you sorry assholes know, I’m Mallory Beck, and together we are The Malcontents. Bottoms up, and don’t throw shit at us or I’ll kick your ass.”

  The drummer started with a beat on a cowbell then the rest of the band kicked in, and that’s when Tiny had to look.

  Mallory was at the microphone, guitar to her stomach, smiling brilliantly at the audience as a few people shouted encouragement. He knew the song—his parents had the album just like hers did. Linda Ronstadt, Poor Poor Pitiful Me.

  Shit. How the hell had he forgotten about her singing? She did it all the fucking time. She’d been both the church and school choirs. Never pursued it afterwards, not that he knew of. But back when he knew her, she’d liked to sing, and he loved listening to her join in with the radio in the truck.

  And to the baby. She sang to the baby all the time.

  Her voice cut into the instrumental intro of the song, and he found himself smiling. Her voice was deep, rich and raspy like she lived in a bar, the cigarette smoke making it rough. But it was there. She was a great singer—always had been.

  It was another shot to his heart that she looked good. His dad was right; her extra weight was superbly placed. The satin-looking black dress she wore was a wraparound number, locking and loading everything just right. Those tits were high and proud, and while the guitar was hiding some of her he knew her hips would be round and inviting.

  The hair threw him. He knew very damn well she was not a natural redhead.

  Transfixed, he stared, engrossed in the performance. The band was okay, he knew only enough about music to recognize some basic talent. But shit, Mallory shone. He couldn’t take his eyes off her.

  The girl he knew all those years ago was absolutely in there. When she smiled all sassy, the shine in her eyes. Her confident body language. Somehow there was more of all the good shit he remembered. So much more, finely tuned and enhanced.

  Then the song changed, and his warm and fuzzy buzz vanished. Popped. Fizzed out like the head on a beer.

  “Now some Janis Joplin. I named my guitar after this one,” she was saying, almost lost in her fingers as they strummed out the start of a song he knew very well, too.

  “Busted flat in Baton Rouge, waiting for a train...”

  He set his glass down, nearly choking on that last mouthful, and swiveled around on the stool. There was no way he was staying. He was back behind the wheel of the truck b
efore he realized he’d left the bar.

  That reaction was a hell of a surprise. Out in the truck he steadied his breathing and focused his spinning mind, but there was too much swirling, so much that he’d forgotten cascading back onto him. An avalanche of hurt and heartache.

  But there’d been some good, too.

  -oOo-

  “I’m nervous.”

  He’d looked down at the little brunette, about to pull his T-shirt off, suddenly wary. “You a virgin?”

  She’d laughed, and it made her chest shake, holding his attention. “No. I’m just…I don’t do this kind of thing.”

  He nodded, yanking the cotton off his back and tossing it to the foot of his bunk. Her hand came up to trace across his chest, then down the center of his stomach. He stilled, letting her touch him, hoping she’d get more comfortable.

  “You feel strong.”

  He shrugged with just one shoulder, meeting her blue-green eyes. She was biting her lower lip, eyes dropping to run over him. “I wanna take these jeans off you.”

  She looked a little startled.

  “I wanna fuck you, Mallory.”

  “Oh...okay.”

  “Just saying exactly what I want so you’re not wondering. No need to be nervous. That’s what I’m after. What do you want?”

  “I...” she looked down and to the side, the smile small but a lot of cute at the same time. “I want that, too.”

  “Good.” He loomed over her, planting his hands on each side of her shoulders. When he lowered his head to kiss her she brought her head off the flat pillow to meet him, her breasts rising to brush against his chest.

  With a growl he lowered his weight onto her, winding his arms under her to hook over her shoulders. She let him take her mouth, completely and roughly, her soft chest cushioning him in such a thrilling way his cock throbbed.

  One of her legs hooked around his, and she was open to his hips, rubbing against him. Fuck, a bit more of that and he’d be done.

  He parted their mouths, and she gasped, eyes wide, cheeks flushed. “What?”

  “Nothing,” he said, shaking his head with a smile. “You’re killing me, but other than that everything is just fine.” His hands were working at the fly of her jeans but she didn’t seem to notice until he was tugging the waistband over her hips.