Games of the Heart

Chapter Four The Brush Off

Tuesday morning…

Beau Lebrec drove his pickup up the dirt lane to Dusty’s place.

A place that used to be his place.

He could see the ranch-style house, the small, two stall barn where she kept her two horses and the same size shed where she made her pottery and kept her kilns. And that was all he could see. This was because his woman owned twenty acres sandwiched between two huge-ass ranches so the rest of what he could see was nothing but land.

Why she needed that land, he had no clue. She didn’t take care of it. She paid some Mexican to do it. She told him her horses needed room to roam and he reckoned this was true since her ass was in a saddle on one every day. She said it was her workout.

Why she needed another work out, he also had no clue. She did yoga and pilates, going into town to take classes twice a week and having a fuckload of equipment at home in one of her three bedrooms. She also went to some crazy-ass class she called a “boot camp”. She came back from this red-faced and sweating but grinning like an idiot then bitching all the next day that her muscles hurt. Though, when she bitched, she did it smiling like that was a good thing.

She did this shit with Jerra, her partner in crime. She said she did it so she could eat and drink whatever she wanted. And, fuck knew, Dusty Holliday ate and drank whatever she wanted. This was why, even with as busy as she always was, at her classes, with her horses, on her horses, digging in all her pots (she might not take care of her land but she liked to be outside with her flowers) and working in the shed, she never could shift that extra ten pounds she carried. He kept telling her to cut back on the tequila and chocolate. At first, she just smiled at him. Later, her eyes would cut to him and she’d tell him to go fuck himself.

Not nice.

He parked and got out, hearing her music coming from the shed. This did not mean she was out there working. She’d wander into the house and leave the music blaring from the shed. Again, he had no clue how she could create the pieces she created with rock and country blasting around her. He wasn’t into that shit but even he could see Dusty’s pottery was the fucking bomb. Then again, it would be with the price tags she put on it. But beauty like that, he thought, didn’t get inspired by rock ‘n’ roll and country.

He started with the house and the minute he entered he knew Yolanda had been there recently. Dusty did not give one shit about the state she kept her house in or how she took care of her things. He’d never met a woman who made such a mess and didn’t give a fuck about it. The only thing that got up her nose was the state of the kitchen. When she cooked, she made a God awful mess and she might leave that mess overnight but she’d clean it up first thing the next day. And she was always riding his ass to put his dishes in the dishwasher and to wipe down the counters.

He didn’t get it. If she didn’t have Yolanda coming in once a week to clean and do laundry, their bedroom would be knee deep in clothes and shoes and she’d go buy underwear before she’d do laundry. But she’d pitch a fit if he made a sandwich and left crumbs on the counter.

This shit stuck in his craw when he was living with her even if, while living with her, he got to bang her. One could say Beau had more than his fair share of women and without a doubt Dusty was the best he ever had. No other even came close. Since she lost her mind and kicked his ass out, he’d thought about it and decided his woman was complicated and he could live with that.

What he couldn’t live with was calling her when she was home in Indiana and having some guy answer the phone at six in the fucking morning then getting a visit from Hunter telling him to get over it and move the fuck on.

No.

Fuck no.

He didn’t need Hunter Rivera in their business. He never liked that guy anyway mostly because Hunter thought Beau was a dickhead and didn’t hide it so he didn’t need Hunter up in his business. And he didn’t need his woman playing games of the heart using some faceless guy in her hometown.

And she needed to know that.

He was done with this separation.

She needed to know that too.

He walked through the big living room into the enormous kitchen that fed off it. He could still hear the music but now he could see through the abundance of huge picture windows that Dusty was out in the shed at her wheel.

He was about to walk out the backdoor when he heard her cell go.

He looked down at the counter then moved to it and picked it up. On the display was a graphic of a phone ringing and under, it said, “Mike calling”.

Beau stared at the phone.

Fuck him.

Fuck him.

Mike. Jesus, fuck. Mike.

She’d just been back to The ‘Burg. And Beau knew all about Mike from The ‘Burg. Not only had Dusty mentioned him more than once in a soft voice, her eyes warm and sweet with memories but her fucking brother mentioned him too. Frequently.

Jesus. Fuck. She’d hooked up with fucking Mike from The ‘Burg.

Beau’s hand tightened around the phone and he waited until it stopped ringing. He was jabbing his finger on the screen to go to her recent calls when he heard the phone beep in his hand saying Mike had left a voicemail. He saw the recents list show that this was call two from Mike.

Fuck him.

He went to her voicemail and hit go then put the phone to his ear.

Then he heard a man say in a gentle, deep voice, “Hey Angel. I got a minute to talk. You’re around, call back. You’re not and it’s later, call back anyway. Later honey.”

Angel.

Honey.

Fuck him.

He deleted the voicemail and shoved her phone in his back pocket.

Then he stomped through the kitchen, out the backdoor and to the shed.

Twenty minutes later, he was in his pickup with a cruiser trailing him, his eyes to his rearview mirror seeing Hunter Rivera with his hands on his hips standing outside the shed next to Dusty who had her arms crossed on her chest. Both were watching him drive away.

His mouth tight, his eyes went to the road then back to his rearview mirror to take in the cruiser.

His official escort off Dusty Holliday’s property.

Fuck him.

“Rivera,” Mike greeted.

“Mike, got an update you’re not gonna wanna hear, bro.”

Mike jerked his chin up to Merry then he twisted in his chair, aimed his eyes to the floor and ordered, “Talk to me.”

“Well, you gave me the greenlight on Sunday, I didn’t delay. Gave the good news to my woman, got my reward and, feelin’ happy, went out and had a word with Beau. Honest to Christ, thought he got me. Now it’s Tuesday morning and I’m drivin’ back into town from bein’ out at Dusty’s place. Beau showed.”

“Fuck,” Mike whispered.

“Yeah,” Rivera agreed. “So I hauled my ass out there and figured since he wasn’t listenin’ to her or me, it was time to make it official. So I brought a cruiser with me.”

“Good call,” Mike muttered.

“Yeah,” Rivera repeated. “Me and my boys in uniform made it crystal that he’s not welcome on Dusty’s property with Dusty standin’ there confirming this info. Beau looked displeased. I shared that there would be no further dickin’ around with this and, he tried that shit again, my advice to Dusty would be to get an RO. Seein’ as Dusty was standing right there, she was available to confirm immediately a restraining order would be her next step. So, I shared that this RO would include not only him not gettin’ near Dusty’s property but also Dusty or phoning her or using any electronic communication of any kind to hassle her. Again, Beau didn’t look pleased. But he had a seriously pissed off Dusty on his hands as well as three police officers. He saw the wisdom of gettin’ his ass in his pickup and gettin’ gone.”

“What’s your gut say?” Mike asked, knowing exactly what his was saying after hearing all that shit.

“My gut says that Dusty’s property is out of town. Not out of our jurisdiction but she’s not in the town proper and thus not an easy drive-by. So my gut says I’ll be calling some friends at the County Sheriff after we’re done and cluin’ them in. Between the Sheriff’s boys and my boys, we can keep a better eye on her. That said, no way this is twenty-four, seven. She’s out of town and sittin’ on twenty acres so no one close and she’s not prone to lockin’ her doors ‘cause, lucky for us, crime ‘round these parts, especially out in the boonies where Dusty lives, isn’t prevalent. So I told her to keep her doors locked, including on her truck when she’s in it and including when she’s awake and in the house. I also told her to keep her music down when she’s workin’ so she can be more aware. This mornin’, he snuck up on her. She was so into what she was doin’ and had her music on, she didn’t see him comin’. That shit stops today. And I’m also gonna have a word with Javier who comes a couple times a month to look after her land and Yolanda who comes every week to look after her house to keep their eyes open.”

That was a lot and because it was, this did not make Mike feel good.

“You think he’s that big of a problem?” Mike asked quietly.

“No. But I think I was a cop in Dallas for ten years and I saw shit that you, also bein’ a cop, are probably one of the few who would believe. Safe is a fuckuva lot better than sorry.”

“I’m with you, man,” Mike muttered then spoke louder when he asked, “How was she when you left her?”

“Pissed as all hell,” Rivera answered immediately. “Luckily it’s boot camp day so she can go with Jerra and work it out doin’ lunges and squats and whatever-the-fuck they do.”

Mike blinked. Then he asked, “Boot camp?”

“You don’t got those up there in the Hoosier state?”

“Yeah, we do. Just that Dusty does not have an ass that says she goes to boot camps.”

Thankfully.

“Uh…neither does Jerra. Lucky for you and me, bro, we got our hooks into the whole package. A handful and I mean that literally and thank God for it daily. But under all that soft she’s got power which means she can grip tight. You get what I’m sayin’?”

He got it. Saturday and Sunday, he got it a number of times.

“Oh yeah,” he muttered.

“Yeah, I know it, bro. Only one reason a man’s up in a woman’s business after a funeral hook up and that reason ain’t because he’s nostalgic about his ex-girlfriend’s kid sister who he fucked on the good Samaritan errand of takin’ her mind off her loss.”

Mike started chuckling. Dusty was a straight shooter and it appeared she surrounded herself with the same thing.

“Right,” Rivera went on. “I got calls to make to cover the ass you’re tappin’. Gotta go.”

“Thanks, Rivera.”

“I’d say you’re welcome but I think you get I’m not doin’ this for you.”

“I get that. Thanks all the same.”

“Still, donuts, bro.”

“Look forward to it.”

“Later.”

“Later.”

Mike hit the button on his phone, turned back to his desk, looked across the expanse and the expanse of the desk pushed up against it, front-to-front, and caught his partner, Garrett “Merry” Merrick’s eyes on him.

“You gonna talk?” Merry prompted.

He’d been listening. Mike wasn’t surprised. That’s what partners did.

He hadn’t shared. Not yet. Then again, it had only been a day.

But Merry was his partner. So he shared.

“Remember Dusty Holliday?”

Merry tipped his head to the side and said, “Yeah. Vaguely.”

“She was in town for her brother’s funeral this weekend.”

Merry’s face grew understanding even as his lips twitched and he repeated, this time in a question, “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” was all Mike said.

Merry’s mouth stopped twitching and started grinning.

“You hit that?” he asked.

Mike stared at him.

Merry pressed his lips together before he unpressed them to mumble, “You hit it.” Then he said straight out, “Good for you, man.”

“Better,” Mike said shortly and Merry’s eyebrows drew together.

“Better?”

“The One,” Mike declared and Merry’s brows shot up.

“The One?” Merry asked.

“The One,” Mike confirmed.

“In a weekend?” Merry asked.

“In a weekend,” Mike confirmed.

“No shit?” Merry whispered.

“Absolutely no fuckin’ shit,” Mike answered.

Merry whistled. Then he smiled.

Then he repeated, “Good for you, man.”

“Oh yeah,” Mike muttered.

Merry tipped his head to Mike’s phone. “She got issues?”

“An ex who isn’t comfortable with that title.”

“Fuck,” Merry murmured.

“Yeah,” Mike replied. “She’s got a friend who’s a cop. He’s takin’ her back and reporting in.”

“She down with that?”

“It was her idea.”

Merry smiled again. “Least that’s good.”

“Yeah,” Mike repeated then grabbed his phone. “They had an incident. Gotta call her, see if she’s okay then we’ll hit the road.”

Merry tipped up his chin and turned to his computer. Mike tagged his phone and called Dusty. It was the third time that day. None of which he’d connected. This wasn’t surprising, she’d told him the day before she had to get down to it in order to get ready for her showing.

His call went to voicemail.

This time, he was surprised especially after she’d had an incident.

Maybe she was at boot camp.

He left a message. “Hey Angel, it’s me. Checkin’ in. Rivera called. Call me back. Let me know you’re good. Later.”

Then he hit the button to disconnect, caught Merry’s eyes, Merry hit a few keys on his keyboard and Mike pushed out his chair. He grabbed his jacket then they hit the road.

Tuesday afternoon…

Dusty’s phone rang a-fucking-gain. Beau swiped it off his coffee table and stared at the display.

Mike Calling.

Fourth time that day.

Well, fuck Mike.

He dropped the phone on his floor, lifted his foot and slammed the heel of his cowboy boot down on it.

The phone crushed instantly to pieces.

He kicked the pieces across the living room of his shitty-ass new apartment that was more of a mess than Dusty could create.

This was because he hadn’t cleaned it in four months and he no longer had Yolanda.

Pulling his eyes from the scattered phone debris, he stomped to his kitchen to get a beer.

Wednesday afternoon…

Clarisse was in the kitchen to grab some corn chips when her Dad’s phone rang.

She jumped and stared at it guiltily. This was because it was after school. No was at some girl’s house supposedly studying. Her Dad was at work. And she was supposed to be doing her homework but she was watching TV. This was reiterated ten minutes ago when her Dad came home unexpectedly to get something, caught her watching TV and reminded her she should be doing her homework.

His phone was sitting on the counter. That was weird. He’d gone to the kitchen to grab a bottle of water and he must have put it down and forgotten it.

She moved to it and saw the screen said, “Dusty Calling”.

Dusty.

Was that a boy’s name or a hot babe’s name?

Before her mind told her hand to do it, she did what she knew she shouldn’t do. She did what she knew her Dad would get totally ticked at her doing because he got work calls on his phone. She did what she’d catch it for if her Dad ever knew she did it.

Heart hammering and hands suddenly sweating, she hit the button to take the call and put her phone to her ear.

“Uh…hello, um…Dad’s phone.”

This was met with silence then a very pretty, adult female voice asking, “Clarisse?”

It was the hot babe.

And she knew Clarisse’s name.

Clarisse didn’t know what to think of this.

“Uh…yeah,” Clarisse confirmed.

“Hey, honey. This is Dusty. Is your Dad around?”

“Uh…no. He, uh…forgot his phone.”

“Oh,” the woman called Dusty mumbled then she said, “Right, okay, can you do me a favor and tell him I called? Tell him I lost my cell, can’t find it anywhere and if he needs to call, he should call the house or the shed. Can you do that?”

“Um…sure.”

“Thanks, Clarisse.”

“Uh…you’re welcome.”

“Okay, you take care. You hear?”

“Um…you too.”

“Bye, honey.”

“Bye.”

Clarisse listened as the woman called Dusty disconnected.

She called Clarisse honey just like her Dad called her honey. It came easy, natural but, even never meeting her, it sounded weirdly real.

She didn’t know what to think of that either.

Then, before her mind told her fingers to do it, before she even knew why she did it, her thumb started hitting buttons. Like any child born in the technical age, she didn’t know her father’s phone but without delay or effort she found what she needed to find. Then she deleted the woman called Dusty’s call from her father’s history.

Then she licked her lips and put the phone down on the counter hoping she placed it exactly where her Dad left it and she was careful with this. He noticed stuff. She didn’t know if this was because he was a cop or a Dad. She had no idea in reality it was both.

And as she stood there, she began to wonder why she’d deleted the woman called Dusty’s history from her Dad’s phone. Then she began to wish she hadn’t. Then she really wished she hadn’t.

She jumped nearly out of her skin when she heard the front door open. Layla, who’d been hanging out in the kitchen with Clarisse wondering if Clarisse was feeling generous, dashed to the door. Clarisse whirled toward it and saw her Dad walking in, Layla at his heels.

He smiled at her and said a soft, “Hey, honey.”

“Hey, Dad.”

“Left my cell,” he muttered and moved to the counter while Clarisse watched.

Now what did she do? First, she’d taken the call and her Dad would get ticked at that. Then she’d deleted the call from his history and she didn’t know why she did it so she couldn’t explain it to him. And since she had, she couldn’t give him the woman called Dusty’s message.

Her Dad tagged his phone and turned to her.

“You hittin’ the homework?” he asked.

“Just gettin’ brain food,” she lied.

He grinned at her before he tagged her with a hand behind her head and yanked her so she did a face plant into his chest. She felt his body bow as he bent and kissed the top of her head.

She loved it when he did that. Mom never did anything like that. No kept telling Clarisse that Mom loved them just as much as Dad, she just wasn’t as good at showing it. Clarisse didn’t believe that. If you loved someone, you found a way to show it so the person you loved knew it.

Her Dad let her go and started to move away, murmuring, “Be back around quarter after five, five thirty.”

“Dad,” she called, he stopped in the kitchen door and looked at her.

She didn’t know what to say. If she said what she should, he’d get angry. She liked her Dad loving on her, not angry at her.

“Reesee, honey, I gotta go. You got somethin’ to say?” he prompted.

“Uh…what do you want for dinner?”

His head tipped to the side and his brows drew together.

“You cookin’?”

She hated to cook. No loved it but made a mess that she had to clean up if he cooked so she hated No to cook too.

Still, if you loved someone, you found ways to show it and her Dad worked hard. She knew he took overtime a lot because they needed the money seeing as he was raising two kids on his own. But he’d always done that. Before they broke up, she heard her Mom and Dad fighting about it more than once. Mom up in his face about never being home, Dad reminding Mom that he took the overtime the other detectives didn’t want because he had to pay Mom’s bills. She wasn’t supposed to hear this but she did because she left her room and sat in the hall outside theirs and listened. It wasn’t hard to hear her Mom, even all the way back in Clarisse’s room. Mom was loud anyway but she also shouted a lot. But if Clarisse wanted to hear Dad, she had to sit outside their room since he talked quiet.

He still took overtime. Not as much but he took it. He shouldn’t have to come home and cook most nights.

“Uh…sure,” she told Dad.

He grinned.

She’d done good.

“Me and No’ll eat whatever you make, sweetheart.”

“Mac and cheese and hot dogs?” she asked.

“Sounds perfect,” he said softly.

She smiled at him.

“Homework, Reesee,” he reminded her then, “See you soon.”

“Bye, Dad.”

“Bye, beautiful.”

He left. She grabbed brain food and a pop and went directly to her Dad’s office to switch on the computer. Then she went to her room to get her books and drag them to the office. Layla followed her throughout her movements and then settled on her side by the desk chair in the office while Clarisse got down to work.

She was done with her homework and had the pasta in the water by the time he got home.

Thursday late evening…

Mike listened to the phone ring but didn’t have a lot of hope.

This was his ninth call since Tuesday morning. He hadn’t called any of her other numbers because he knew she was busy and if she was in her shed or at the gallery, he’d disturb her. He’d only called her cell.

Now it was ten his time, nine hers and he’d just got no answer on her cell so was trying her house.

And he was trying not to have a knee-jerk reaction and think she was playing games. Since divorcing Audrey, he’d found that bullshit missed calls and ignoring voicemails were games women liked to play. Games of the heart. Games he’d learned the hard way not to play.

“Hello?”

She answered.

He made an effort to control his temper.

“Dusty,” he replied.

“Finally!”

He blinked at his cocked knees. He was sitting in nothing but pajama bottoms, back to the headboard in his bed.

“Is everything okay?” she asked.

“That’s what I’ve been wanting to know from you for three days.”

“What?”

“Dusty, I’ve called nine times and left four voicemails.”

“Oh, honey, God. I’m sorry. I lost my cell phone. Didn’t Clarisse tell you?”

His neck got tight.

“Clarisse?” he asked quietly.

“Yeah. I lost my cell and didn’t have any of your numbers memorized. Hunter only has your cell. So I called it yesterday. Clarisse answered and I gave her a message. Told her to ask you to call me on the home phone or at the shed.”

“Reesee answered my cell?”

Dusty was silent.

“Dusty,” he called. “My daughter answered my cell?”

“If I say yes, are you gonna get pissed at your girl?”

“Uh…yeah.”

“Then I decline to answer.”

Fuck.

His eyes went from his knees to the closed door of his bedroom. Why would Clarisse take a call? And if she did, why wouldn’t she give him a message?

Fuck.

“Mike?”

“I use my cell for work. She knows she’s not supposed to touch it,” he explained.

“Maybe it was a mistake.”

“Right, then, if it was, why did she not give me your message?”

“Well,” she said slowly, “I don’t have an answer to that.”

“Fuck,” he muttered.

“So, you’re a super gorgeous hot guy. My guess, you didn’t practice celibacy since you divorced your ex. How was she with the other women in your life?”

“She wasn’t any way since I never connected with any of them in a way where I felt the kids would need to go through that shit,” Mike told her.

Her voice was vibrating with humor when she asked, “Any of them?”

Mike lost some of his anger and answered, “Yeah.”

“How many of them were there?”

He grinned and replied, “You don’t wanna know.”

“Oh yes, yes I do. I need a detailed list with addresses and phone numbers so I can personally thank each one of them for topping up your experience so I get the ultimate one every time.”

Mike burst out laughing.

Through his laughter he heard, “Though, not Debbie’s. I know her contact info and I’m not gonna go there. If she knew I left her off that list, I think she’d thank me.”

He kept laughing but this time Dusty stayed silent and let him sober.

Then he explained, “Hunter told me LeBrec came calling.”

“He did. Get this, he did this to inform me he was done with our separation. Separation!” she hooted the last word. “Told you he was clueless.”

Clueless. Definitely. Psycho was also a possibility.

“You have any more problems with him?” Mike asked.

“Not so far but seeing as I’m entertaining half of the local PD and the Sheriff’s police, handing out cups of my expensive, exclusive, only available on the internet and in some countries it’s so revered it’s used as currency coffee even Beau’s not stupid enough to go there.”

“Good,” Mike muttered thinking Rivera’s donut payback went from a dozen to about ten of them.

“Been crazy busy but since I’ve looked everywhere and can’t find it, I’m giving up the ghost and going to the mall tomorrow and getting a new cell. I’ll text you with the number.”

“Right.”

“This sucks,” she went on. “I need this like a hole in the head. Totally behind already and the closest mall is half an hour away in the city. Not to mention, my life was in that phone. I lost everything.”

“You got it backed up on computer?”

“Yeah, seeing as I’m so organized, I think the last time I did that was 1997. So it’s all good.”

Mike chuckled through his, “Sorry Angel.”

“Me too,” she muttered.

Mike moved the conversation into territory he needed to take her pulse on just to get it over with. He got confirmations on what he guessed was that Dusty had not yet called Debbie to broker their deal, Rhonda was still in a state and her parents had decided that the initial one week would be three.

“Good news is,” she finished, “my schedule I did keep on my computer and after the show, I’m pretty clear. So I hope to head back up.”

That was good news.

“Look forward to that, darlin’,” he said softly.

“Want a preview of things to come?” she asked softly back.

“And those would be?”

She told him. She did it in detail. He listened to her come while she did it and then she kept doing it until she gave him the same.

Her imagination was a fuckuva lot better than his was.

And her voice was sweet and breathy when she whispered, “That sounded nice.”

His voice was low and growly when he whispered back, “It was.”

“God, I’m getting excited again just thinking about doing those things to you.”

Jesus. Dusty. She let it all hang out.

He liked that.

“Next chance we get of bein’ together and naked, I call first go,” he declared.

“I’m not gonna argue with that,” she murmured.

He grinned.

“Mike?” she called.

“Yeah, Angel?”

“I missed you. I know you’re busy too and I don’t want to ask you to call around the houses to find me but, you know, you’re welcome to call any phone. That’s why I gave you all my numbers. So when you were thinking of me, you could let me know.”

Fuck, he liked that too.

“Got it,” he replied quietly.

“I know you understand, having been married and all. You can catch hints. But when I’m telling you I’m busy and things are nuts, that doesn’t mean I’m too busy to hear from you. I’m never too busy to hear from you. Okay?”

And fuck, he liked that too.

“Okay, sweetheart.”

“Don’t worry about Beau,” she told him.

Impossible.

“Right,” was all he said.

“And Clarisse is your girl. You’re a good guy and I’m sure a good Dad. She’ll sort her shit out.”

That he wasn’t certain of.

“Right. You done making me feel better?” Mike asked.

“Unless you faked it, I think so,” Dusty answered.

Mike chuckled again.

Then he said softly, “Right, Angel. I need to clean the proof I didn’t fake it off me and hit the sack.”

“Okay, honey.”

She was back to breathy.

She liked the idea of him jacking off while she whispered dirty shit in his ear and she liked it a lot.

Jesus, he liked that too.

“Later, darlin’,” he whispered.

“Later, gorgeous,” she whispered back.

Mike hit the button to disconnect. Then he got up, went to the bathroom and cleaned up. Then he went to his bedroom, pulled on a tee over his pajama bottoms, left his room and moved down the hall.

Clarisse’s door was closed. He opened it, shoved his head in and looked through the dark at the lumps her body caused under the covers.

He loved his girl. Definitely. He had it perfect, one of both, a boy and a girl. He’d had suspicions early he had far from perfect from their mother but she gave him perfect with their two kids.

But she’d also taught them to lie early on. This she did by taking them shopping with her and making it a game, keeping what she bought from their Dad.

Since the divorce, he’d had a variety of conversations with his kids about the fact that family didn’t lie to family. They’d need to decide in their lives how they dealt with other people and situations but a lie was a last resort and with family, it was not an option.

He knew No took this to heart. He knew this because No was a boy in high school and he’d already made a variety of fucked up decisions that got his ass in hot water. Mostly with girls and partying. But he always called his Dad, manned up and took his punishments. And Mike made certain those punishments weren’t over the top because No had come clean.

Clarisse had always been his little informant. She’d never lied even when her mother told her to do it. She didn’t tell him about her mother’s activities because she was a tattletale or because Mike interrogated her, she just was close to her Dad. They talked and she shared not thinking she was doing anything wrong which she was right, she wasn’t. That was another frustration he had living with Audrey. He never let on that he’d learned shit from their daughter and sometimes had to go to lengths to protect Clarisse from whatever Audrey’s reaction might have been. In other words, he, too, had to lie.

But recently, shit was going down with Reesee. She seemed lost. Uncertain. Her habits had changed. She was lazier. Her grades were dipping. She was making questionable decisions. And he’d caught her in a variety of lies.

These latest, taking a call on his cell and not giving him a message were just the two recent.

His eyes went from her bed to her dark walls.

He’d noticed the night they came down that she’d lost the vampires.

She’d be fifteen next month. Fifteen was when Dusty went off the rails. They’d skirted that when they were together because the look on her face made it pretty clear she didn’t want to go there.

Even so, she was open and sharing about everything else. So she might not want to go there but he figured she would if she felt whatever she went through would help him deal with whatever his daughter was going through.

He pushed through the door, walked across the room and, using the shadows as his guide, slid the thick mass of dark blonde hair away from her face and neck and kissed his daughter’s temple.

She stirred and muttered, “Dad?”

“Yeah, honey.”

“You okay?”

“Just want my girl to know I love her.”

“Love you too,” she whispered.

“Go back to sleep.”

“’Kay.”

“’Night.”

“’Night, Daddy.”

Daddy.

She’d be okay.

Eventually.

He slid his fingers along her cheek.

Then he moved through her room, closed the door behind him, moved across the hall, opened the door to his son’s room and Layla jerked up and shot out.

Then Mike and his dog walked down the hall back to his room.

Saturday late afternoon…

The kids were gone, No out in his beat up car with some girl at a movie. Clarisse out with some girlfriends at the mall which would mean she’d come back flat broke with a bunch of shit she didn’t need and ask for an advance on her allowance.

This was a weekly occurrence. At first, he gave it to her. Now that she was eight weeks advanced on her allowance, he’d stopped. So she was borrowing from her brother who, to feed his music habit, had taken a paper route and did shit around the house beyond his chores to earn extra money so he usually always had it. She also hit up her mother who rarely gave it to her because she also rarely had any but even if she did, Audrey preferred to spend it on herself and not her kids.

This didn’t make Mike happy. It made Clarisse less so.

He was in track pants, a tee and a sweatshirt. He had his gym bag over his shoulder and he was trying not to trip over an always excited Layla as he walked down the stairs to get to the garage. He was three steps from the bottom when the doorbell rang.

He went to the door, looked through the peephole and saw Rhonda Holliday.

“Fuck me,” he whispered, dumping his bag by the door, unlocking it and opening it.

Her eyes came direct to him. Her face was pale. Her expression was downright haunted.

“Jesus, Rhonda, you okay?” he asked.

“I…uh…” She stopped, stared at him, tears wet her eyes and she whispered through trembling lips, “No.”

Fuck. Maybe Rhonda wasn’t one of those people who needed avoidance. Maybe Rhonda was one of the different kinds of people.

He didn’t know if that was better or worse.

Fuck.

He stepped aside and muttered, “Come in.”

She dropped her head and came in.

Layla pounced.

Mike closed the door, moved forward, grabbed his dog by her collar and guided her down the hall, inviting, “Follow me. Just gonna put her out.”

“Oh…okay,” Rhonda whispered and he felt her following him as he went down the hall to the big living room/dining room that sprawled the entire back of the house.

He took Layla directly to the backdoor, she got excited for a different reason that didn’t involve company but jumping around in snow and shot out the door the moment he opened it.

He closed it and turned to Rhonda to see her looking around.

“You want a cup of coffee or something?” he asked thinking she didn’t look like she needed coffee. She looked like she needed a shot of tequila.

“I…” She looked uncertain for a moment and finished, “No, Mike. But thanks.”

He moved to her and stopped five feet away, giving her space as she fiddled with both hands at the strap of her purse.

“What’s up, Rhonda?” he prompted when her eyes darted everywhere but to him and she didn’t speak.

Her eyes went to him then to his shoulder then she bit her lip. Through this she still didn’t speak and this went on awhile.

“Rhonda –” he started and her eyes shot to his and then she spoke. Fast.

“I shouldn’t have done it. I know I shouldn’t have. And I don’t know if I should be here. But I don’t know what else to do. Where else to go. Who else to tell. If there’s even anything that can be done.”

This was not a good start.

“How about you tell me what you did you shouldn’t have done first,” he suggested cautiously.

“I found her diaries and read them,” she blurted quickly.

Mike blinked.

Then he asked, “Pardon?”

“Dusty. Dusty’s diaries. I found them and read them.”

Mike’s entire body got tight but before he could stop her, the floodgates opened and pure acid began to pour out.

“I was…was looking through Darrin’s things. I was…was…I don’t even know how he had them but he hid them and I found them and I didn’t know what they were so I started readin’ them and then what I read, I couldn’t stop and it hurt so bad, Mike. To know. To finally know what happened to Dusty. And it hurt so bad to know Darrin knew that all these years seein’ as he had her diaries. And he bore that weight all by himself. And now I don’t know what to do ‘cause someone’s gotta know. If this is…if it’s…if she’s coping. ‘Cause if she isn’t, someone has to help her and you’re a cop. You’ll know what help people need when things like this happen.”

He didn’t want to know mostly because he simply didn’t want to know. Partly he didn’t want to know because Rhonda clearly had no clue Mike had started a relationship with her sister-in-law and it wasn’t his right to know until Dusty told him.

He opened his mouth to find some way to inform her of this without exposing anything when she kept talking and the acid of her word felt like it flayed away his skin.

“Denny Lowe molested her when she was fifteen.”

Mike stood completely still.

Dennis Lowe had been born in that town. Dennis Lowe had grown up in that town. Dennis Lowe had found a woman in college, married her and brought her back to that town. Years later, Dennis Lowe took an axe to his wife and they had to identify her from the wedding band on a finger which was one of the only parts of her body he hadn’t hacked to goo. Dennis Lowe had then gone on a killing spree in the name of Alec Colton’s now wife February. Then Dennis Lowe had committed suicide by cop. So Dennis Lowe was known nation-wide as just what he was. A thankfully dead whacked in the head serial killer.

And although not a dead ringer, Dusty looked like February Colton. Blonde hair, curvy figure, dark brown eyes.

They knew of one girl he’d raped prior to his losing total control on the very tenuous hold he had on his mind and then going on to murder five people, a dog and attacking another man.

And now he, Rhonda and, apparently, before his death, Darrin knew that Denny Lowe had molested Dusty.

Mike swallowed the bile creeping up his throat and Rhonda went on.

“It was…it was bad, Mike,” she whispered then jerked her head to the side, yanked open her purse and came out with two books. She looked back to Mike. “She wrote all about it.”

She jerked the books his way.

Mike stared at them like they were hissing snakes.

“I…she…I don’t know!” Rhonda suddenly cried and Mike’s eyes cut to her face to see it was twisted with despair and indecision. Then she fucking kept talking. “I read them all. Cover to cover. She…Mike…she was in love with you,” she leaned forward, “totally.” She leaned back and kept right on going. “And it wasn’t…I know she was young but it wasn’t little girl love. It was very rich, Mike, and beautiful. She wrote all about it. Then it happened. Then he…Denny…” she trailed off then fucking started again. “And it all went bad.”

“Rhonda –” Mike forced out but she talked over him.

“You have to read these. We have to help her. I don’t know how many times Darrin talked to me about Dusty. How he was worried about her. How she kept pickin’ the wrong guys. Total jerks. And they were. I met a couple of them and they weren’t good guys. We’d…we’d,” her face flushed, “well, we’d talk in bed about it at night. Not all the time but it happened. And I knew Darrin worryin’ about Dusty was the last thing on his mind before he went to sleep. She took off right after high school when everyone in the family knew she loved that land just like her Dad, just like Darrin. Then, it wasn’t like she settled in Danville or Avon or something. She settled in Texas,” she stated like Texas was on another continent then she kept talking. “Escaping, Darrin knew. I always thought she didn’t come back a lot ‘cause the occasions she came back for, Debbie was usually here and they don’t get along too good so she tried to avoid it and only came back when Debbie wasn’t going to be here or Debbie couldn’t stay long. But now I know.”

Now she knew.

And now Mike knew.

Mike’s eyes dropped to the books but his head filled with Dusty. Dusty as a little kid, her smile an easy flash, her laughter and singing filling the house, her wisecracks quick and clever. Then Dusty when he tried to talk to her, so much black makeup around her eyes, her hair a disaster, her clothes hanging on her, her face twisted with anger, her words sharp and bitchy.

Because a psycho had put his hands on her and she clearly dealt with that alone the best way she knew how. She didn’t tell anyone. Even her brother who she was closest to had to learn from her diaries.

And now she was with a guy who was clearly not right. Thirty-eight years old, never married and picking who she called “morons” but if this recent one was anything to go by, considering cops had to be involved to keep the asshole away from her, was far worse than that.

“Mike?” Rhonda called and Mike’s eyes cut back to her face.

“Rhonda that was a long time ago and Denny Lowe is dead. There’s nothing I can do,” he said quietly, his voice carefully even, his gut so tight it was a wonder he didn’t throw up.

She stared at him then whispered, “But –”

“Dusty’s gotta need to want help, Rhonda.”

“Sometimes they don’t…girls like her don’t –”

Mike cut her off. “She’s not a girl. She’s a woman and right now there’s nothing I can do.”

There was nothing he could do.

Nothing he could do.

Fuck.

Rhonda closed her mouth and stared at him again.

Then she whispered, “Right.”

“My advice, don’t share that with Mr. and Mrs. Holliday.” He jerked his head to the books. “Right now, you all don’t need that shit. And it’s Dusty’s to share. Yeah?”

She nodded slowly.

“Which means, Rhonda,” he went on, “don’t share you know with Dusty. You’ve all lost someone close to you. She’s dealing too, just like you. Now is not the time to bring that shit back up if she’s buried it.”

She nodded again.

Mike drew in breath then said softly, “I’m sorry I couldn’t be more help.”

Yeah, he was sorry. Seriously fucking sorry.

He had no fucking clue what to do with this shit.

Then Rhonda did something Rhonda should never have done. She moved to the back of his couch, put the books on it and without looking at him, whispered, “I’ll just leave those here in case you change your mind.”

“Rhonda –” he started but got no further.

Quickly, she muttered, “’Bye Mike,” and took off down his hall.

He didn’t move mostly because he couldn’t move. He just stood there staring at the books even after he heard his front door open and close. Even after he heard her car start up and pull away. And even after a long time passed.

Dusty. Open. Sharing. One hundred percent.

Except when they came close to talking about her teenage change. Then she made it clear without words she was not going there.

“Fuck,” he whispered.

We snap out of it. Promise, she’d whispered.

She hadn’t. She picked the wrong guys, avoided her hometown, didn’t open up about it and thus deal with the fact that she’d been molested by a serial killer before he became a serial killer and thought less of her sister who defended rapists.

He forced his body to turn and move to the backdoor. Then he let his dog in. She bounded around him as he moved through the living room.

But he didn’t move to his gym bag. He didn’t go to the gym. He didn’t go to the phone and call Dusty.

Because his ass was plain fucking stupid, he went to those fucking books.

Then he leaned his stupid ass against the back of the couch and cracked one open.

An hour and a half later, he’d long since rounded the couch, sat in it and was bent forward, elbows to his knees, the second book held open between his legs and he’d read them both.

The first was her first. He figured, from where it started, he’d broken up with Debbie and was on his way to college. This meant he was free for her imagination to soar.

And Rhonda was not wrong. She loved him. She was too young to know what to do with that love but she was not too young to know how to express it.

And it was beautiful.

But it wasn’t all about him. He skimmed through the young girl crap, studied the shit she drew so breathtakingly in corners, around words, sometimes taking both pages to draw what popped into her head. All of it, even drawn by a girl of fourteen, was better than most shit he saw on people’s walls.

Then he turned a page in the second diary and that all changed. Gone were the gel pens of many colors she wrote with and the soft multi-colored shades of the pencils she sketched with. Suddenly, all the writing and the sketches were in heavy black. There were no flowers, butterflies or portraits of loved ones. The images were dark. Monstrous. The words were heavy, morose, angry. Her relationship with her sister who consistently confronted her, sometimes cruelly, about her change deteriorated rapidly. She couldn’t wait to get the fuck out of The ‘Burg. She couldn’t wait to be “free”.

And the encounter with Denny was surprisingly detailed.

He’d got her separated from her girl pack with some lame excuse that she dropped something. He’d then engaged her in conversation. And finally, he’d manhandled her until he got her away from the crowd and to the back of the high school. All of this during a football game. She’d kept her peace because he’d threatened her viciously. And he’d got his hand up her shirt, her bra down and his hand between her legs over her jeans. She’d managed to bite him at the same time kicking his shin, got free, ran and succeeded in getting away. At that time, Lowe had to be years older than her seeing as he was older than Mike.

It had to have been terrifying.

Then again, the evidence was in his hands that it clearly was.

The description of the event was all there was. She didn’t write anything else about it. Not her feelings, not if she was coping, not if she told anyone about it. Nothing. Just the event then a lot of angst in black ink.

The last entry of the second book was a bleak, Fuck this shit. Doesn’t help. Nothing helps. Nothing ever will.

Done, Mike closed the book, bowed his head and closed his eyes.

Audrey was broken, he spent fifteen years trying to fix her and failed.

Vi, whose husband had been murdered, was also broken and he volunteered for the job but she picked another man to help her find happiness.

Denny Lowe had got Dusty against the back of high school with his hand between her legs.

His head came up, his eyes opening to stare unseeing at the blank TV.

He was not a moron. He was not a loser. He was not a psycho. He could be a dick but this occasion was rare. And he did not need a woman who was drawn to that finding out he was not that and getting quit of him when she felt the need to find that again so she could live out the bullshit Denny Lowe planted in her head that that was all she was good for.

He wanted his kids happy and well-educated. He wanted a woman in his bed who wanted to be there, who made him want to be there and who, more than occasionally, made him laugh.

He did not want more children.

He did not want to deal with a long distance relationship, missed calls, voicemails, emails and night after night of phone sex that was good but nowhere near as good as the real thing. Lives lived apart and days, weeks, months never really connecting. And at the end of all that shit, decisions could be made where he gave something time that was precious and he eventually ended up alone in his bed.

He did not want to be sitting at a Thanksgiving table next to the woman he was currently fucking and opposite a woman whose virginity he’d taken and deal with the discord that was already creating. He also didn’t want to expose his children to that shit.

He did not want a woman who had to be fixed.

Because he’d tried that twice and he’d failed once, miserably, and lost out the second time around.

Clearly this was one of those occasions where he could be a dick. But he was forty-three. He knew himself. He knew what he wanted. And he knew he did not need this shit in his life.

His decision made, his gut heavy, a sharp pain piercing through his chest, he stood.

Then suddenly and uncharacteristically his arm sliced back then cut forward and Dusty’s teenage girl journal tore through the air then thumped hard against the wall before falling to the floor.

Layla jumped up from where she was lying by his feet and barked.

Mike ignored his dog and stared at that fucking book lying on his carpet.

He was glad Denny Lowe was dead not just because he was a complete whackjob who murdered people. Because he took the Dusty everyone knew away from her family and he took Dusty away from Mike.

Twice.

“Fuck,” he whispered, lifting a hand and tearing it through his hair. “Fuck,” he repeated, continuing to stare at the book on the floor. “Fuck,” he clipped then bent, tagged the book on the couch, walked to the book across the room with Layla following and then sauntered to the stairs with Layla still following, jogged up them and hid them in one of his drawers.

Then he went back downstairs with Layla following and grabbed his gym bag.

Because one thing he did need was to go to the fucking gym.

Sunday evening…

“Hey,” Mike greeted in my ear after two rings went by when I called him.

“Hey,” I replied. “Everything cool? You didn’t call yesterday. I left a couple voicemails. Did you get them?”

“No, everything isn’t cool.”

His voice was weird in a way I didn’t like.

“What is it? Clarisse?” I asked.

“No, it’s not Reesee,” Mike answered.

I waited for him to share.

He didn’t speak.

“Mike, honey,” I started softly. “What is it?”

He didn’t answer for a few seconds then he asked, “You comin’ back soon?”

That made me feel better and I smiled.

“Yeah, that’s my good news for today. Got my tickets. I’m coming next weekend.”

“Right, we’ll talk then,” he said tersely and I blinked.

Then, cautiously and slowly, I asked, “Just…then?”

“Pardon?”

“I mean, between now and then we’re not talking? We’re just talking then?”

“That’s probably a good way to do it.”

I felt my chest get heavy. I knew where this was going. I’d lived this before too many times.

Even so, I whispered, “Mike, what’s wrong?”

“Face-to-face, Dusty. Text me. We’ll sort a time. The kids are gone next weekend. You can come to my house. We’ll have privacy.”

“Are you going to break up with me?” I asked and felt like an idiot. We hadn’t even been on a date. We’d had sex, conversation and some phone calls that, incidentally, included more sex but of the phone variety.

Still, there was something to break.

Or at least I thought so.

“Just…” he started then finished, “We’ll talk next weekend. Face-to-face.”

I was beginning to get angry. “I’m not sure I want to come over just so you can tell me to my face you don’t want to hear from me again, Mike.”

This was met with silence.

Then, soft, sweet, “Angel, straight up, the conversation is not gonna be good. But trust me when I say I’m lookin’ out for you and you’ll wanna hear what I have to say face-to-face. Yeah?”

My voice was soft and not sweet when I replied, “Suffice it to say this is scaring me.”

“Dusty, face-to-face, honey,” he repeated.

“And nothing in between?” I asked.

“I need time,” he told me.

For what? I thought but didn’t ask.

Instead, I whispered, “Right.”

“Text me,” he ordered.

“Right,” I repeated.

More silence then from Mike, “One way or another, honey, you’ll be okay.”

One way or another, I’d be okay?

It was good he sounded sure.

I, however, was not.

“Right,” I said again.

“Take care, Dusty.”

The brush off, God. The brush off from Mike Haines. God!

“You too, Mike.”

“See you next weekend.”

“Right.”

“Later.”

I just disconnected.

Then I stared at my living room wall.

Times like these, I called my brother because he was my best friend but also because he was a man and he knew how men thought and was happy to provide insight.

But my brother wasn’t there to call.

“Welp, one way or another, I’ll be okay,” I muttered.

Then I burst out crying.