An urge tugged at Casey, an impulse to ask Miah if he thought that he and Abilene messing around had been just as bad an idea as he suspected it was.
Or do I secretly want to hear him tell me to go for it? He had to wonder. That was just his dick talking, surely.
In either case, Miah might not be the right man for the job. He still regarded Casey as his best friend’s obnoxious little brother in some ways. Easy for him to judge, when he’d been born into a respectable business, his path all laid out in front of him. Casey tried to imagine Jeremiah Church, future Three C patriarch and Prince of Fortuity, ever messing around with one of his employees, and decided, no, this was not the friend to confide in.
Duncan, however . . . Perfect as the guy might look, he’d fucked up his fair share of stuff. Plus he was discreet. Casey resolved to ask him when he went into town later. One thing was for sure: He could use some perspective.
? ? ?
James Ware shifted from foot to foot, waiting for the official at the discharge desk to return with his bin, all the shit he’d had on him when he’d been incarcerated back in July.
Eight months sounded like nothing compared to his first stint—five years—yet he felt way out of practice at this whole free-man thing. His jeans felt weird on his legs, heavy and stiff after all this time in orange scrubs and sweats. His belt felt strange, like the contraband it would have been only two hours ago.
He was tired and amped up, punchy from sitting through the release spiel and listening to his PO tell him about all the fees he’d accrued and when exactly they were due. He just wanted to get outside and to know that if he started walking, he could just keep on going.
Within reason, anyhow. Fucking parole.
Still, he was lucky he’d only been given a year, and served the minimum in the end. Amazing what a half-decent lawyer could get you.
The female officer appeared with the beige Rubbermaid and dropped it unceremoniously before him on the desk. He gathered his wallet, his phone, pager, sunglasses, keys. A half-eaten Snickers bar. He held it up. “Really?”
The officer smiled. “Your property, Mr. Free Man. Enjoy it.”
With that, James headed down the corridor and out the penitentiary’s front door. One of the guards on duty gave him a curt nod. He didn’t return it.
He followed a sign to the visitors’ lot, where an old black Ram pickup awaited him—his own wheels. There was dust all over the paint and scrub grass in the wheel wells, which told him Angie’s deadbeat boyfriend had probably taken the poor thing off road. No fucking shock.
The door swung out and his sister jumped down.
“Ange,” James offered.
“Big brother,” she countered, and tossed herself around his middle. The heartfelt act would last all of a minute before they both remembered they couldn’t stand each other. Wasn’t as though she’d visited, apart from Christmas. Neither had their mom, come to that.
She stepped away. “Welcome back.”
“Thanks. You look good.” She looked like hell—too skinny in baggy jeans that used to fit different, and her brassy blond hair had black roots all the way to her ears. She looked like she was using again, but that was a fight for another day. And besides, she hadn’t sold his truck out from under him. That was good enough for the benefit of the doubt on such a day as this.
“Where’m I dropping you?” he asked, climbing into the driver’s seat.
“Richie’s.”
Figures. Fucking waster lived forty miles away in the wrong direction, but hey, Angie had shown up, after all. On time, even. More than he’d expected of her.
“Same place? Down near Ely?”
“Yeah.”
“Right.” He adjusted the seat and mirror and started the engine. Goddamn but it felt good to have his hands around this wheel again.
“You staying to visit?” Angie asked.
“No. Got business to take care of.”
“Your first day out?”
“Overdue.”
“Whereabouts?”
“Up north.”