At some point, I think, the beer washing down my throat. Before, I’d have responded with a hearty fuck you and when hell freezes over. But now…
I clear my throat. “Thanks for that sage advice,” I say. “Can we cut the Oprah bullshit? Are you going to tell me your sappy-ass love story? Why are you telling this to me and not Elias?"
“Because he already knows,” Silas says. “He’s met her. And so have you, actually.”
“I’ve met her?” I ask. "What are you talking about?"
“Don’t worry,” he says. “It’s not someone you’ve hooked up with. Which, is actually pretty unbelievable, since you’ve banged pretty much every chick in the county at one point or another.”
“I'm glad to see that love hasn’t affected your stupid sense of humor,” I tell him. “So you came all the way down here to tell me about some girl you’re seeing?”
“No,” he says. “The girl thing is related. To the other stuff.”
The family stuff.
“So are you going to tell me who this chick is, or what?” I ask.
“Tempest.”
“Tempest?” I stare at him blankly, trying to rack my brain to put a face to the name, but failing. You’d think with a name like Tempest, I’d remember her, but I’m coming up short.
“Tempest Wilde,” he says, his brow wrinkled. “Killian was gone when it all happened, I think, but I’m pretty sure you were around then, still in high school. Her parents were grifters. She was only here one summer.”
“Her parents stole all that money from people,” I say. I still can’t place the girl, but then, I didn’t know her. Everyone in town about the family afterward, though, about what a no-good thieving bunch they were. Of course, everyone knew our family was no good, too. “I don’t remember her.”
Silas nods. “You have no reason to,” he says. “But anyway, that’s who I’m seeing -- who I’m with. Fuck, that’s not what I mean. We’re not dating. We’re…together.”
“She’s your girlfriend?” I tease, unable to stifle a grin.
I expect a vehement fuck you in response, but Silas shrugs, and looks down at his feet. “Yeah, man,” he says. “No. Not just that. I’m going to marry her.”
Oh, hell. I can’t do anything to prevent the smile that comes across my face. “Shit. Congratulations,” I say. “I feel like we shouldn’t be drinking beers. I think I have some scotch.”
Silas laughs, the sound light, something I’m not used to hearing from him. “Nah,” he says. “I don’t even know when we’re going to do it. Or how or anything. It’s just, you know, in the future.”
“Well, I'm glad you finally found someone to put up with your bullshit,” I say, joking. Except a pang of jealousy hits me, and I realize that's crazy. Me, jealous of someone choosing the whole ball-and-chain thing?
“So am I,” Silas says quietly. But there’s not a hint of sarcasm in it. He says it wistfully, and I’m glad for him. “Anyway, that’s not what I have to talk to you about. That’s just the background for it.”
Then he explains the whole thing. Tempest isn’t a regular girl. She’s a damn con artist who’s been scamming rich assholes -- people who don’t deserve to live, much less have bathtubs full of cash -- out of their money and giving it to people who deserve it. A Robin Hood thing.
“They were working in Vegas,” Silas explains. “All over, really. But Vegas, recently.”
“And that’s where you hooked up with her again,” I say.
Leave it to Silas to settle down, but not with a regular girl. He has to go and find a damn con artist.
“She’s not trying to scam me,” Silas says, as if he can read my mind. “She’s retired. Well, she’s going to retire.”
“One last job?” I ask, quoting every heist movie I’ve ever seen.
“Yeah, so about that…” Silas’ voice trails off.
“If you say, ‘I have a plan…’,” I start.
Silas grins. “It’s not my plan,” he says. “It’s theirs. But it’s a good one.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Autumn
“You’re glowing,” June says. She pours the contents of a bowl, chunked up apples and cinnamon and sugar, into a pie crust.
“You made that crust yourself, didn’t you?” I ask, avoiding the question. I’m lying on my stomach on the floor in June’s kitchen, tinkering with a racetrack of little Stan’s, so he and Olivia can send their toy cars speeding around the track again and again.
“I did,” June says. “Which has zero to do with what I was just asking you, you know. I want the dirt.”
“I can’t give you the dirt,” I say, handing Olivia a car and watching her race it down the repaired track. I pull myself off the floor and onto a barstool at the island in the middle of June’s kitchen. “It’s not fit for little ears. I’ll dish later. Am I the only one around here who isn’t basically a chef?”