He’d spent almost no time awake in this place, he realized as he scooped his dirty clothes out of his bag. He tossed them in the laundry basket in his bedroom and grabbed some clean ones from his open suitcase. A stranger might think he’d been burgled, or skipped town in a hurry. He owned so little, and half of what he did call his was still in boxes.
When he’d lived in Lubbock, he’d made some effort with his place. Made it nice enough so if he got in a position to get laid, it wouldn’t scare any willing women away. But here, well, he was just too busy. For the first time in his life, he had shit to keep on top of, every single day of the week. Between the bar and Abilene and his mom, he really didn’t get much chance to do more for himself than sleep and shower and eat.
And if Casey was completely honest, he was proud of that fact.
He zipped his clean clothes and the LifeMap box into his bag and locked up. He’d swing by Benji’s, make sure there’d been no Ware sightings, then see if Duncan or Raina—whoever was behind the taps—needed anything. Then he’d go by his mom’s house and maybe get her and Vince to swab their cheeks and sign their disclosure forms, do the same himself, and get the thing packed up and ready to ship out in the morning.
He bungeed his duffel to his seat. It’d be fine for a few minutes—Benji’s was barely two blocks west.
The bar’s lot was half-full, not bad for this hour on a Wednesday evening, Casey thought, his shoes crunching across the gravel. And soon enough, this place might just get busier at suppertime, once the kitchen was functional. Christ, he hoped so. He hoped they did a killing, and fuck all the corporate chains that came to town to bleed the casino tourists dry—
“Hey!”
Casey turned to the front corner of the lot, where the shout had come from. His guts were immediately bunched up around his throat like a scarf.
Fucking James Ware himself. Looked just like his mug shot. Same scowl, same scar through the eyebrow. The recognition trickled down his spine, cold as ice.
Ware had been leaning against an older black pickup, but now he was moving, marching toward Casey. There were no smokers out front, nobody coming or going. Just the two of them.
“You Grossier?”
“Who the fuck wants to know?” No sense being polite, when that was the greeting he’d been offered.
“I’m James Ware.” He stopped maybe four paces from Casey. His hands were balled at his sides, face set in a stern glare. His shaved hair had grown in just a little, enough to reveal he had a receding hairline. But he wasn’t a bad-looking guy—just scary. The same height as Casey, but built more like Vince behind the gray T-shirt he wore.
“I heard you’re the one who can tell me where to find Abilene Price,” the guy said.
Casey crossed his arms, faking toughness as he had his whole life. He wasn’t afraid to fight—he’d certainly been in his fair share of scraps and probably come out on top in half of them, but that was Vince’s scene, really. And this guy had just spent eight months in fistfight heaven, honing his skills, no doubt. Casey mimicked his brother’s tough-guy posture and cocked his head. “Who told you that, exactly?”
“John Dancer told me that.”
Anger flashed, hijacked his mouth. “Goddamn.” All the more reason to pay that motherfucker a visit real soon.
“So you know?”
“I’m her boss, but I don’t just go giving out my employees’ addresses to whoever asks for ’em. What the fuck do you want with her?”
Ware’s eyes narrowed. “I need to talk to her. About some business we have.”
That how you think of your daughter? Some business? Casey rankled, something dangerous crackling through him as he pictured the baby. He’d been feeding and changing and rocking and bathing that so-called business, and all at once he could understand Abilene’s fear and stubbornness. To imagine letting this guy near Mercy made his blood go cold and hot at once.
“I know who you are,” Casey said.