The two of them had always been out of control, but that afternoon it had all boiled over. Their relationship had only ever been a messy, staggered succession of fucking and fighting. Normally James prided himself on resisting other people’s bait, but that girl could tempt his anger like nobody he’d ever known. She could rouse his softer side, too, and they’d had some good times. But that last blowout had rasped all the shine right off what they’d briefly had together in a roof-rattler of a fight that must’ve left them sounding like a pair of feral rednecks to the neighbors.
She’d wanted that fight, too. She’d goaded him until he’d lost control enough to clasp her shoulders and shake her. She had poison inside her. Other people had put it there, but she knew just how to strike out and weaponize that shit. She’d also had their baby inside her, during that fight. Neither of them had known it then, but it had already been growing. Just a tiny little speck, invisible to the eye, yet since James had found out about it, it had grown big enough to eclipse the whole of his world.
He’d never known a woman like Abilene. A seeming kitten, except catch her on a bad day, pet her wrong—she’d scratch and bite you like a fucking wolverine. She’d been all claws when they’d met, all claws when they’d parted less than three months later. In between there’d been good times, but stress had never brought out the best in her, and if a baby was one thing, it was stressful. If there were claws drawn now, he needed to know. Needed to see for himself that his kid was in safe hands.
As his muscles worked and his blood thundered in his temples, anger flared with every pulse. He wasn’t a good man—there was no doubting that—but she was no saint herself. And if she decided he needed to be blocked out of his own daughter’s life, that he was the one that child needed protecting from . . .
You’ve got a fucking nerve, you little bitch.
And in two days’ time, he’d find her. In two days’ time he’d see his kid, come hell or high water, and he’d decide precisely what needed to be done about it all.
Chapter 2
“Motherfuck—”
Casey froze, eyeing the baby asleep in his lap.
“You didn’t hear that. Just keep sleeping. Sleeee-pinnng,” he pleaded, rising gingerly from the couch to reach for his ringing phone. He shifted Mercy’s weight to one arm and checked his screen.
Unlisted—no shock there. He hit TALK. “Hello?”
“Grossier?”
“Yeah.”
“It’s Emily. Why are you whispering?”
“It’s three a.m., man.”
“And this has been a problematic hour for talking business since when, exactly? Oh, wait.” He could hear a smile in her voice now. “You got a girl next to you?”
Casey glanced down. “Sort of.”
“I’ll keep it quick, but you’ll want to hear this—I’ve got the perfect job for you.”
“I’m not taking any more contracts, Em. I told you that in October.”
“There’s some policy bullshit on this one,” she went on, ignoring him. “Has to go down by March fifteenth.”
“Em—”
“Which is soon, I know, but it’s so fucking easy. Commercial, super remote, no neighbors for half a mile. You’re in and out and it’s all over before the good guys even get the call. You could do this in your sleep.”
“No, I can’t—”
“Your slice would be twenty, minimum.”
Twenty thousand bucks? Casey wasn’t broke, but a payday like that would certainly make his life a hell of a lot easier . . . He felt sweat break out under his arms and at the small of his back. He eyed the mounted antelope head on the wall above the fireplace, feeling as frozen as that poor bastard.
“Mi-ni-mum,” Emily repeated.
Casey took a deep breath, glanced at Mercy, and screwed his head on straight. “I can’t. I’m in Nevada, for one.”
“Vegas? That’s not far.”
“No, fu—frigging way up near Idaho.”
“Okay, so what? Get in your car and drive. You’re the best, but four weeks is tight, even for a cake job like this.”
“Shit’s changed.” He eyed the baby again. Not shit—crap. Crap’s changed. “I have responsibilities now.”
A pause. “You? Have responsibilities? What kind of responsibilities?”
“I own a bar, for one.”
“A bar? Do tell.”
“Don’t even think about it. I’m not laundering a penny for you.”
“Spoilsport.”
The baby began to fuss. “No, no, no . . .”