Burn It Up

“A gunrunner, fresh out of prison, comes to you and asks where to find a girl? And it doesn’t occur to you to lie and say you got no fucking clue? You got any sense of human decency at all?”


Dancer shrugged and pushed the sunglasses up to his forehead. He exhaled more smoke in Casey’s direction. “I don’t know the girl. I got no loyalty to the girl. I got no loyalty to anyone who doesn’t owe me something I’m hoping they’ll live long enough to deliver, so what the fuck do I care about her?”

Casey’s blood was pounding in his temples and throat and fists, but he held himself steady. Kept his hands at his sides, well away from the gun. What had he expected, anyhow? An apology? A show of fear? This motherfucker had about two emotions, and neither of them looked a thing like regret.

“I’m feeling real hurt, here, Grossier,” Dancer said, brows drawn up in a false show. “I mean, I give you medical attention, out of the kindness of my heart—”

“So my brother would owe you,” Casey corrected.

“And I help your little business partner find those pesky old bones and clear his good name.” He meant Duncan. And true, Duncan had said he wouldn’t have gotten to the bottom of last year’s drama without John Dancer’s advice. “Now this is my thanks? I share a bit of innocent information—about a girl I got no obligations to, to a man who’d pistol-whip me as soon as ask twice—and I get your ass up in my face, demanding what, exactly? An apology?”

“You got some fucking nerve on you.”

“Your girl—your employee, or your fuck, or whatever she is to you—she okay? Did he hurt her?”

Casey didn’t reply, fuming inside. Guy had a point. Had something bad happened to Abilene as a result of all this, he’d have more than adequate cause to break Dancer’s teeth. But as things seemed to be turning out okay, he’d only look like a psycho if he got violent. He stepped back a pace.

“I’m fucking watching you,” he said, jabbing a finger in Dancer’s direction.

A smile. “I’ll be sure to wear my good panties, then.”

“Fuck yourself, Dancer.”

“Somebody has to.” He turned his attention to his cigarette, killing it with a long suck, then grinding the butt under his heel. That done, he turned his back on Casey and headed to the rear of his van.

Casey returned to the diner fuming. The bells jangled violently, pulling him up short. He cooled himself, hand seeking his lighter in his pocket, fingering the smooth corners, seeking calm. No doubt everyone in here had heard his shout and watched that interaction, and he felt their eyes on him now.

Casey rarely showed his anger. He didn’t feel angry all that often, in fact, and didn’t like the sensation. If an emotion was going to leave him feeling out of control, let it be euphoria or excitement or lust. Shame enveloped him in a breath. His dad had hit Casey and Vince when they’d been little. Not a lot, and never too hard, though there’d been a couple times when their old man’s hand had risen, open palm, knuckles out, only to get lowered again with a slow, purposeful effort. Casey shoved his own anger down, resenting this sensation. Resenting anything he found inside himself that painted him as his father’s son.

As he walked between the booths and counter, he heard somebody tell their friend, “I really thought he was gonna deck that pervert.”

By the time Casey reached Abilene, he was calmer, though he knew his cheeks and nose were red and condemning. He slid in behind the table, shifting his gun around as discreetly as he could.

Abilene’s lips were a flat, white line, and she watched him as he sat.

“It’s fine,” he said. “Just had some things to say.” He doubted she’d heard anything they’d said apart from the first shout.

“What’d he do to you?”

Cara McKenna's books