Chapter One
“PERSONAL MATTER, Captain Pierce. The colonel said to call him right away.”
“Personal matter?” Dean Pierce paused in the middle of lifting a giant weight over his head. He had no personal matters, and he never got phone calls. Ever. Scowling, he racked his brain to come up with a plausible explanation and found none.
“Yes, sir,” the sergeant said, backing away a few steps.
The sergeant had found Dean in the PE tent doing some cross-training exercises that mostly consisted of jumping up and down. It sucked that he couldn’t exercise outside, but despite the Night Stalkers’ secured location, they never knew where a sniper might be hiding. The exercise room was small, with little equipment, and, like most of the men, Dean usually did sets of pushups or jumping jacks there, but today he’d picked up the only available set of twenty-pound dumbbells and had been cranking out a few sets of overhead extensions. He wiped some sweat on the side of his T-shirt as perspiration dripped down his chest to his lower abdomen. Unlike most of the other guys, Dean preferred to skip the usual card games to pass the time, and he liked to push his body to its limits.
Needing to find out what this was all about, Dean ignored the sergeant, put the PE area back into perfect order, and then stomped over to command to take his phone call. He was in a rotten mood already. It had been a long time since he’d seen any action.
Dean really needed to fly, but they’d been holed up all week on a remote mountainside in Afghanistan, awaiting orders for an assault mission. It was where the Night Stalkers spent most of their time between jobs—in one kind of shithole or another—and Dean itched to get on a real assignment already. Major Thompson was busy with two other soldiers when Dean entered the command tent, but he waved Dean over to the SATCOM phone. It looked like a big cell phone, but it was hooked up to a satellite, and it was only used in emergencies. Dean hesitated for only a split second and then took the call.
Five minutes later, managing only a curt “Yes, sir,” Dean hung up and sat there, his mouth drawn tight.
Major Thompson glanced at him. “Bad news?”
“Yes, sir. My sister’s dead,” Dean said in a clipped, hard voice, his face impassive.
He stood up and waited for the grief to come with saying the words out loud, but all he’d felt was pissed off. He couldn’t begin to tap into his feelings about Jenna. All Dean could focus on was that he had to leave his unit, head to America, and desert his men. But there was no question that he’d need to go on at least a two-week emergency leave and figure out what to do. After hearing from the Red Cross about his sister, Colonel Matthews immediately called him. He had pretty much ordered him to go, and when Dean had an order he followed it, plain and simple. He was needed in the States. His sister was gone, and she’d left behind a kid.
“Jesus! I’m sorry to hear that, Pierce.”
Dean didn’t answer. His stomach had twisted into knots.
OVER THE next few hours, in some kind of trance, Dean packed his things and made flight arrangements. Or, more accurately, Lieutenant Aaron Weiss, his bunkmate and only friend, had packed for him. Dean had mostly sat there. Weiss was good at taking care of things like that. He was often in charge of getting the choppers ready, and a pretty good pilot besides.
“Do you want to talk?” Weiss asked.
A muscle ticked in Dean’s jaw.
“Right. Of course you don’t,” Weiss answered for him. “Stupid question. Do me a favor, Pierce? When you’re around civilians, try to use actual words. Grunting doesn’t work so well out there. Try to communicate.”
“I’m the flight lead. I tell the men what to do all the time. I communicate.”
“I meant on the actual ground.” Weiss’s eyes lit with humor. He was small and wiry, and Dean towered over him, but Weiss gave as good as he got.
Dean spoke haltingly, “This is a mistake. I’m not some fucking babysitter. I don’t even know why I’m going.”
“But you’re going anyway. Aren’t you?”
Dean said nothing.
Weiss came over and sat beside him. “Try to have a little faith.”
“Not me. I leave all that to the religious types like you.” Although, truth be told, Dean would have liked God on his side, especially in some hot landing zone where he flew in a Little Bird on a direct action mission and the enemy was pounding them.
Or right now.
“Better a rabbi than a redneck.” Weiss gave a sly grin. He was aware of the nickname—the Rabbi—that the other Stalkers had given him, partly because Weiss was the only Jewish guy in the group and partly because he wore his convictions like a compass and never let the teasing bother him. Dean didn’t have a nickname, and he was painfully aware that the other Stalkers didn’t feel comfortable enough to give him one. “And before you tell me how Arizona is cowboys and not rednecks, let me add that there really is only one place to be in America for true civilization, and it has bagels and Broadway and—you’d better stop me before I burst into a Billy Joel song. God, I miss New York. Don’t you miss your home too? Even a little?”
“Got nothing to miss.”
“Oh. Shit, Pierce, that’s depressing. If it makes you feel any better, you’re too good a pilot for the army not to drag you back here. You might even be back in time for the next assignment.”
“I’ll be back before that.” Dean gave Weiss a sharp look. “Count on it.” He grabbed his bag, slapped Weiss’s back in farewell, and left the tent.
Once he got outside, though, Dean slowed down his pace. He closed his eyes a moment, listening to the sound of choppers as they lifted up into the sky, the helo maneuvering right above him. What the hell would he do without that sound every day?
ONE JEEP ride and two long flights later, Dean was finally headed Stateside. The plane took off, roaring to life, a thousand-pounds-plus of bird flying into the air with a bit of lift. Dean always loved takeoff, but not this time. He couldn’t believe he was going to be in Phoenix soon, an area he’d vowed never to return to. Despite his efforts to move forward, always forward, the place had lingered inside of him. Dean stared out his window. Phoenix like the mythical creature, rising out of the ash. That was his life all right. Returning him to something he’d long ago buried.
The plane hit a patch of rough air, and the woman near him gripped her armrest. It was only turbulence, but Dean could see that a logical explanation might not make any difference to her. He would have smiled at her reassuringly, but her eyes were squeezed closed. A more experienced pilot would have avoided the difficult air. These airline types depended on their computers too much anyhow. Chopper pilots know how to really fly. On a clear day, maybe at dawn, there was nothing better than a sturdy Chinook flaring up, ready to go, its massive spinning rotors zooming through the clouds.
Dean managed a few hours of sleep on the plane but still didn’t feel rested when they landed with a jolt. The line moved slowly, and he was nearly the last one off the plane. At the airport shop, he grabbed a bite to eat, including a pack of licorice and some M&M’s. There were no ATMs where the Stalkers had been in Afghanistan, and it felt odd to use one and to actually buy junk food. Dean bought a book too, a thriller, another luxury, since most of the guys just passed around the few books they had. Then Dean checked the address where his niece was staying. He’d left so quickly that he knew none of the details beyond it. He felt stupid about that now, and it didn’t help his mood any to walk a freaking mile to the tiny shuttle that took him to the car rental agency.
The man in the Hertz office was middle-aged and had stringy brown hair. He pushed a bunch of forms at Dean, explaining that while he understood Dean’s need for legroom—and with that he’d glanced up at Dean’s large frame—he still couldn’t help him. All he had left were smaller cars. He took a sip of his dark coffee and shrugged. “Take it or leave it.”
Dean would’ve liked to have left it, instead of shelling out his hard-earned money to drive some damn compact, foreign piece of junk, but since a dozen other people were waiting for cars, he took it. As he passed the others, he was torn between feeling lucky to escape and imagining he was going to a worse place. Although he could have tried another car rental agency in the airport, Dean was too tired from the long flight to want to wait in another huge line with no guarantee of a better car. Besides, he needed to get all this over with as soon as possible.
Weiss was wrong. Dean already regretted being there. What could he do to help some kid? Nobody had ever helped him, and he’d done all right. Dean ducked his head, still nearly banging it on the roof of the car, and left the airport. Even with his foot sitting heavily on the pedal, the car barely reached seventy on the highway. Junk. He should have held out for something with some guts. Giving up on the useless car going any faster, Dean chewed some candy, put on some soft rock, and tried to relax. The GPS told him in firm, female tones where to go, and he followed the directions out of Phoenix and onto the highway. Even though he’d grown up in the city, Dean had never really made it to too many places outside of it. He hadn’t seen anything, really, until he’d left for the army, and he’d never even heard of Glamour, the town where his niece was staying, but according to the GPS, it was only a forty-five-minute drive.
As he drove, his shoulder felt a bit stiff, and he rubbed it. For a moment, he contemplated stopping to pick up some ibuprofen, but Dean hated taking any drugs. He’d exercise it later. That usually did the trick. He worried about what his regiment was doing. They weren’t supposed to mobilize for at least ten days, but in Afghanistan, anything could change at any time. Night Stalkers flew. Determined or hungry or terrified, they flew. Dean didn’t want to know if they’d suddenly left on a job without him. Even if they hadn’t gone out yet, they were doing important training. The Night Stalkers were in the middle of testing low-flying capabilities with extra men—each equipped with over seventy pounds of gear—and delivering them safely into the enemy’s backyard. For the Rangers and SEALs depending on the Night Stalkers to transport or rescue them, this training was crucial, and Dean was missing it.
He glanced out his window at the scenery as he turned off the highway. Welcome to Glamour, Arizona! Dean looked around. The sign lied. There didn’t seem to be anything glamorous about Glamour. It was a tiny, dusty-looking town with only a few sparse cacti dotting the streets. It looked more like a place for gunslingers than beauty.
Dean eyed Main Street. There weren’t any fast-food restaurants or discount stores in sight, he’d give it that much, although there had been plenty of them on the road outside the town. Maybe it had a certain charm, Dean thought grudgingly as he went past the post office and Wells Fargo Bank. Most of the other buildings were cutesy little shops of some kind or another, none of them looking as if they were part of any larger chains.
He sped down the main street in less than five minutes. The GPS guided him right past the town and into a more rural area. The houses here were well kept at least, and there was even some life. Dean saw a few kids playing and two women outside watching them. He drove past a slightly curved road and onto the street where his niece was staying. He could see mountains in the distance now, and even with the air conditioner on full blast, he could feel the hot whip of the desert sun.
Turning his car into a small, circular driveway, Dean parked and then sat for a long moment. He was used to pressure. Just last month, he’d been on a recon mission, trying to make it out of the enemy terrain with all his guys intact. Flying the birds with the barest amount of infrared light, bullets zinging off his blades—that was rough. That was pressure. So why was he shaking in his combat boots at the thought of facing his thirteen-year-old niece? Why was he was quaking like a damn baby?
With a shaky breath, he forced himself to get out of the car.
The house was painted a cheery yellow. There were a number of desert plants in the front and a nice-sized porch. Dean stretched, pulling his left arm over his head, and then his right one. He walked toward the front door.
“Crap! Oh damn.” There was a sudden thump. Curious, Dean turned toward the noise and headed to the back of the house. It was a fairly big yard with some well-loved lawn furniture circling a fire pit filled with lava rocks. There was also a lush garden blooming with desert marigolds, sunflowers, and aloe plants. A tiny grotto stood in the center of the garden with a pretty statue of the Blessed Mother there. Dean wasn’t religious at all, but there was something inviting about all the bursts of colorful flowers surrounding the statue. What really drew his attention, however, was the man standing on his tiptoes while facing a shed near the left of the garden, trying to put a cardboard box on an extremely high shelf. The shelf was already jam-packed, and Dean watched him shoving at the box to try to make it fit.
“Crap,” the man cried again as the box started to tumble down at him. Dean moved quickly and grabbed the guy with one hand, catching the wayward box with his other. There was no way that box would fit on that shelf. Why he didn’t simply empty the entire shed out and do it correctly, lining everything inside it up in neat sections, was beyond Dean.
“You should stack these better and they wouldn’t fall,” Dean said, his voice a bit raspy from the long flight and hours of not speaking.
“Um, yeah. Thanks. I’ll do that next time. Haven’t opened up this shed in forever, and I forgot what a family of pack rats we are.”
Dean didn’t comment. He let go of the guy, who immediately rubbed his arm. Dean could see where his fingers had left a red mark.
“Didn’t mean to be rough. Wanted to grab you before that box hit your head.”
“No, that’s fine. I was just caught off guard.” The other man was staring at him, and Dean pulled a little at his collar. He forgot how oddly civilians sometimes viewed the military. He hoped he wasn’t going to get lectured about politics or anything. He had enough on his mind with the kid. Dean put the box down on the grass.
“You must be Nicki’s uncle?”
At Dean’s nod, his gaze swept over Dean’s uniform. Nope, it wasn’t judgment in his face; it was admiration. Dean breathed a little easier. He could handle a lot of questions about the Night Stalkers. This guy would probably go on about all the reasons he’d wanted to join the military but never did. Dean got that a lot.
“I’m Anthony Carrino.”
“Captain Dean Pierce.”
“I’m really glad you decided to be here for Nicki. She’s at the movies with my dad right now, and nobody else is home, but you’re welcome to come in. I’d like to talk with you, actually, before you meet her. She’s a bit fragile. Even before Jenna’s accident, Nicki had trouble in school and—”
“Can you tell me about it?”
“What? Nicki’s trouble?”
“No. The accident.”
“You don’t know the details?”
“No.”
Anthony hesitated. He ran his hand through his thick brown hair that curled just at the nape of his neck. Dean braced himself for what he’d say.
“It was a car accident. The truck driver had been driving here from Texas and fell asleep at the wheel. He T-boned Jenna’s car as she was coming home from work—Oh God, I’m sorry. This is coming out horribly.”
“It’s all right. I asked you.”
“Still, I’m sorry. I can’t even imagine if one of my sisters—” He bit down on his lip.
“It’s fine.”
But Dean could picture it now: the glass shattering, metal twisting, the acrid smell of gasoline, Jenna’s second of pure terror. He was used to death. He’d seen plenty of good men and women blown up or shot at in combat, but this was his sister, and even if they’d lost touch, it still ripped at his guts.
“You know,” Anthony said, giving him a speculative glance, “we didn’t even know about you for some time. Jenna never mentioned having a brother.”
“We fell out of contact. You said the kid was having trouble in school, even before Jenna was…?” He couldn’t get himself to say the words Jenna and killed together. Instead, Dean began to take some of the boxes out of the shed and reorganize them.
He could feel Anthony’s gaze on him again, and he tried to ignore the sizzle of awareness that shot through him. He needed to focus on why he was there and not on this guy’s handsome, almost pretty face and his hard, lean body. Jesus, nothing about this situation seemed real. He wasn’t used to chaos and mess, emotionally, physically, or otherwise. Dean gripped one box tightly until his knuckles turned white, then forced himself to let it go. He lifted it a second time and slid it into place. He sorted through a few more boxes, organizing them too.
“We can take this one step at a time, okay? I’ll tell you what. Let me show you the house and her room, and then I’ll be happy to share with you all about Nicki. Mr. Haines, her social worker, and my father, who is Nicki’s temporary foster parent, must be involved in all this too. We can all sit down together and talk.”
“I thought you were her foster parent.”
“Me? No. I’m her guidance counselor at school, and I’ve come to care about Nicki, so when this happened, I asked my dad for a favor.”
“Why?”
“He and my mom have taken in a few kids over the years, and they’ve known Mr. Haines for a long time. Only my mom’s out of town right now and couldn’t help. She’s with my sister, Stacey, who is having a difficult pregnancy. Mom insisted on flying off to New Jersey to look after Stacey’s girls. Stacey told her that she could manage, but nothing stops Mom when she insists on something. Luckily, Dad agreed to take in Nicki for me. Mom will help out too, of course, when she comes back. And God, I’m rambling on about my family. Sorry. I do that sometimes.”
Anthony paused. He looked at Dean expectantly.
“Anyway,” Anthony continued when Dean didn’t speak, “it’s temporary. Mom and Dad stopped taking in kids on a long-term basis a while ago, so we’ll still need to work out a more permanent foster home for Nicki.”
Dean jammed his hands into his pockets. The word “foster home” left a vile taste at the back of his throat.
Anthony motioned for Dean to follow him. “Come into the house. We might as well get to know each other a little more.”
Reluctantly, Dean followed.
He could do this. It would be a week, two at the most. He’d treat it like a job. Go in, do the mission, get out. Then he’d be back in Afghanistan where he belonged.
The minute Anthony opened the back door, a golden retriever puppy bounded right at him, nearly tripping him.
“Oh, hiya, Moose. You crazy dog.” He laughed. “This is the true baby of the house, Nicki’s puppy, Moose.”
“Her puppy?”
“Yeah.” Anthony cocked his head. “Do you like dogs?”
Dean looked at the puppy. Moose had his head cocked too, just like Anthony.
“They’re okay.”
“Oh. Let me put him into his crate. I’m really supposed to be keeping him there most of the day to train him, but he cries so much. The other night, I went down and slept beside him.”
Dean said nothing, and after an awkward moment, Anthony caged the puppy.
It was a pretty nice house, better than most Dean had been inside of, anyhow. The kitchen was big and roomy. It had a big pantry that was half-open and filled to the brim with cereals and chips and pastas. The appliances were stainless steel and very modern-looking. At the end of the hallway was a great room with a damn nice plasma-screen television front and center. But it wasn’t luxurious or cold. The sofa was well used, and the glass table had a small nick in the corner. Somebody had collected or made doilies too. There were intricate patterns crocheted and on display in several places, some tucked under lamps or vases and others hanging in the china cabinet. Dean wondered offhand who sewed them. He had an urge to run his finger down one. He rarely saw anything so delicate. The house was neat but not immaculate. There were magazines spread out on the coffee table and a pair of sneakers by the front door. Still taking it all in, Dean followed Anthony up the stairs. They climbed up to the second floor, which was dimly lit but smelled nice, like roses. Maybe Anthony’s family went in for that potpourri stuff, or maybe it was cleaner. Whatever it was, Dean took another appreciative sniff. Army barracks, even the good ones, didn’t smell like flowers.
“This is where Nicki is staying for right now. It isn’t perfect, but I think she’s comfortable.”
He led Dean down the hallway and opened a door for him to walk through. Funny thing, the way his stomach tightened up. The kid wasn’t even in there, yet Dean had to tell himself to breathe. He strode past Anthony and into the room.
Dean looked around. The walls were a bright blue, and there was a decent bed loaded with pillows. There was also a wall of books. Most of them were about cars or about the lives of various basketball players like Michael Jordan and Larry Bird.
“Is this your room?”
“Yeah. Well, when I was a kid. Up until a few months back, I was living in my own place in Mesa and commuting to work here in Glamour. But my mom never bothered to change it too much.” He looked around absently, gliding his hand over one of the books. “I never imagined I’d end up back here.”
Not knowing what to say to that, Dean turned and inspected the rest of the room. On the desk was a backpack, half-open, crammed with papers and notebooks. It was purple and had some pop singer on the front of it. Pink maybe? Dean wasn’t sure. A bunch of nail polish sat next to it, as though the kid had painted her nails instead of doing her homework, and next to that was a Wii game. At least Dean wasn’t so out of touch that he didn’t recognize Mario.
Dean started to say as much to Anthony when he noticed a tangle of blankets in the closet. He walked closer, seeing an old air mattress in there too. Was his niece sleeping in here and not on the bed? Why? Dean slowly shifted his weight from side to side. Anthony seemed like a good guy, but Dean had lived long enough, had survived enough shit, to know that people were often not what they seemed, and all kinds of things happened behind closed doors. He and Jenna had both learned that the hard way.
“Why is the kid sleeping in there?” His voice came out low and gravelly.
“What?”
“Don’t deny it.”
“I wasn’t going to.” Anthony gave him a puzzled look. “We offered her the twins’ old room, but she liked mine. Since I was already set up in our guest room, I was fine with that. She has the bed, of course. But we kept finding Nicki curled up in the closet in the morning. So I blew up that air mattress for her and gave her some blankets. Believe me, I’d rather she sleeps in a bed too, but I guess she needs a small space. I think it feels good to her, safe or something. She’s starting with a therapist soon, and I was going to bring it up. For now, I talked with the social workers, and we all agreed to let Nicki dictate her needs. As long as she’s not hurting herself. I can see this upsets you, but it’s what she seems to want.”
Dean stared hard into Anthony’s hazel eyes, flecked with gold and brown, and he saw nothing but warmth. Unsettled, Dean watched Anthony move a step closer to him.
“I promise you”—Anthony smiled, his lips curving upward—“the only one living in the closet in this house was me, and I came out swinging.” He made a motion as if he had a bat in his hand.
Dean didn’t answer. He’d never really mastered joking with people. His tongue felt thick and useless in his mouth. Dean pushed past Anthony and strode into the hallway. He scuffed his shoe at the edge of Anthony’s stairs, feeling pretty ridiculous, and worse, like an ungrateful ass. He shouldn’t have returned to Phoenix. He just didn’t belong there, not in this house, in this town, or with this girl. Dean didn’t belong with regular people. He’d seen too much blood and war. He didn’t know how to be normal; maybe he never had known.
He sensed Anthony coming up behind him and tensed. “She’s all right, Dean. Really.” His voice was soft. “I mean considering what she’s going through, Nicki craving a small space to hide away seemed logical.”
“Okay.”
“Okay? With her sleeping there? With everything? What?”
When Dean didn’t answer, Anthony made an impatient sound. “So why are you so quiet? Or are you upset about what I said before?”
“Before?” Dean turned around.
“About me and the closet? My impulsive, slightly corny joke? You don’t have a problem with my being gay, do you?” Anthony asked, folding his arms at his chest. “Because I’m out at school and here at home, and I plan to stay that way.”
“No. I….” Dean stared at him. He swallowed. “No.”
“Oh, okay.” Anthony’s stance lost some of its hardness. “Good. That reminds me. I forgot to ask you before if you’re involved with anybody. Girlfriend? Wife? I’m asking because of Nicki and how this might fit into things for her.”
“Nobody.”
“Nobody?”
“I’m a Night Stalker. Do you even know what that means?”
“I think that you—”
“We’re Special Forces,” Dean interrupted. “We’re the most elite helicopter force in the whole damn world. We fly into enemy territory and navigate our way through it to complete search-and-rescue missions or perform high-risk air assaults. I don’t have time for anything else.” He’d had enough of this bullshit. Dean started quickly down the stairs, taking them two at a time, Anthony at his heels.
As he reached the front door, Dean turned back, and Anthony nearly collided into him. They looked at each other a moment.
“Do you have a hotel yet? You could stay here or I could suggest one. Glamour only has one motel, but there’s a four-star hotel about fifteen minutes from here.”
“No. I don’t need some fancy hotel. A motel close by is fine.”
“Are you sure?”
Anthony held up one hand at Dean’s curt nod. “Wait here a second. Let me at least give you a few things.”
Anthony dashed away before Dean could protest. He heard Anthony moving in the house. He heard the puppy whimper. He was tempted to get into his car and leave, but Anthony came back. He thrust a plastic bag into Dean’s hands.
“What’s this?”
“Oh, you know, just some things to make your stay more comfortable.”
Dean glanced into the bag. There were soaps, shampoos, a sleep mask, pillowcases, detergent, and a bunch of quarters.
“The motel has a coin laundry,” Anthony said. “Or you could bring your laundry here. And my sisters can spare all the other stuff. Beauty is their business.” He smiled widely at Dean. “We aim to make our guests comfortable here in Glamour.”
Dean didn’t smile back. After a moment, he managed a fast “Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.” He opened the front door. “Well, I’ll show you where the motel is. You can follow me there.”
“I’ll MapQuest it.”
“Right. Okay.”
Dean took out his phone and Anthony typed in the address.
“It’s not much to look at, but it’s clean. You won’t find a carpet that turns your socks black or anything here. And they give you free coffee and a newspaper in the lobby.”
“It’s fine. I don’t need much.”
Anthony looked as though he expected to say more. Dean had nothing to say. Outside of army talk, he rarely knew what to say to people. God, he was failing at all this already, failing to joke, failing to respond to small talk. He should have stayed with the Stalkers. He needed to get out of there, away from Anthony, and think.
“Do you need anything else?”
“No.”
“I could show you that hotel?”
“No.”
“And you will come back tomorrow?”
“Yes.”
“Are you deliberately trying to be difficult?”
“What do you mean?” Dean was painfully aware of his shortcomings.
“Nothing.” Anthony shook his head, smiling slightly, studying him. “You’re just not what I’m used to I guess.”
Dean stared back.
“Look,” he said. “Maybe this isn’t fully my place to ask, but I need to know. What exactly is your plan here?”
“Plan?”
“For Nicki?”
“I don’t have one.”
“Oh.” Anthony paused. He smiled ruefully. “Now I’m the one talking in monosyllables.”
“I’m not good at this,” Dean said. He could feel heat rising to his face. “I don’t belong here. I have no plan for the kid. I came to see her and maybe, I don’t know, get to know her because of my sister or whatever, but… I’ll just fuck her up more.” He heard a note of raw panic in his own voice and fought to control it.
“No, you won’t.”
“How do you know?”
“Because you’re worried about it. If you would thoughtlessly hurt Nicki, you wouldn’t be worried. Besides, I’m hoping that in the long run meeting you will help her. Everybody needs family, needs somebody, even if they can’t give you everything you want.”
Dean grunted at Anthony’s naïveté, but didn’t try to argue. Spoken like a guy who came from a decent family. Some family was scum, not worth knowing, not worth having.
“I’ll talk to Nicki. All right? If she agrees, then you can come around eleven?”
“Fine,” Dean grunted. Then, realizing he’d only given Anthony a one-word answer again, he added, “Lunch.”
AFTER HE arrived at the motel, Dean unpacked and went to the pool. The only good part about growing up in Arizona had been that almost every crappy place he’d stayed with Jenna came with a crappy pool, and Dean had been a great swimmer from an early age. Dean’s workout usually involved long, intense swimming with his fins on and then a long run, but he made do with what he had. His swim alternated between high bursts of speed and longer, endurance-building laps. He tried not to dwell too much on the long day, Anthony Carrino, or the girl, Nicki. Fuck. He tried to just swim, pushing his body until his muscles burned and his lungs screamed. Water splashed over the edges of the pool as he increased his turning speed, pounding out lap after brutal lap. It didn’t help, not the way it usually did. His body was fatigued, but his nerves were still all fired up.
He made his way to his room and cleaned up in the shower, letting the water hit his back and still-sore shoulder, and then he wrapped himself up in a thin towel at his waist and flopped down on the bed. He had to admit, Anthony’s soap had smelled nice. Kind of like fresh oranges.
He turned the television on and watched a few cheesy sitcoms, but he couldn’t concentrate on them. Dean shut off the TV and tried to sleep. His long legs hung off the bed, and the mattress was way too soft. He was used to hard bunks or even the bare ground. He’d rather be jumping out of a plane than looking into his niece’s face tomorrow. But he’d try. He would go to lunch, attempt to talk with her, find her a decent place to end up. Dean could see his sister’s sad, pretty face right in front of him. It was the least he could do for Jenna.
The very least, Jenna would’ve said.
“I’m sorry,” Dean whispered hoarsely into the darkness. He stretched his hand out to the flat pillow, his sister’s face only a blurred memory. He tried to see her features in his mind more clearly and failed. And now… Jenna was dead. They’d never get a chance to put things right. Dean knew he’d screwed up forever, so he dropped his hand to his side, turned away from the pillow, and struggled to sleep. He had a bad feeling about all of this.
