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Primal and ridiculous.
I shake my head, forcing myself to look away from her as she waves them off, one hand on her hip, and then get ready to follow the van.
The kids driving it are cautious, maybe due to their cargo. They take it slow and hit damn near every single red light in the district.
No chance of losing them—the hard part is keeping far enough behind and out of sight.
Eventually, we reach the edge of town and Haute’s golf course. They take the service road toward the clubhouse, heading for the loading docks in the back.
Then my watch buzzes with a call from Archer.
Perfect timing.
I’m sure he wants to know where the hell I am after I stormed out.
Whatever.
“Hey, Arch,” I answer, swinging the car around. “I’m coming back right now.”
“Where were you? When you ran out, I thought you had a meeting with marketing, but you’re not in the building.” He sighs impatiently. “I need you to keep your shit together, Dex.”
“I am.”
“Was it important?”
I glance in my rearview mirror at the golf course as I speed along the highway back into town.
“Yeah,” I tell him. “It was personal.”
* * *
I spendthe next week checking up on Junie and her deliveries, with Archer hot on my case about wasting company time and Patton throwing looks like he knows I’m up to no good.
I probably am.
The delivery boys are efficient, arriving by noon to collect the day’s goods. Some cakes, cupcakes, turnovers and cookies and muffins.
Never quite the same order, according to Junie, but it’s everything the golf course needs for its expanded menu.
There’s still nothingwrongwith this, either, so why does it feel too clean?
It’s probably me, stubborn jackass that I am, looking for snakes in every pie.
My darkest imagination keeps me watching them like a hawk.
They follow the same routine every time, careful to a fault. Get the boxes, drop them off, and unload everything by one o’clock sharp.
Usually, that’s when I leave.
Today, though, the tingle at the back of my neck doesn’t let up.
I park in the golf club’s lot and text Archer, letting him know I’m stopping for lunch.
The clubhouse looms above me as I get out of the car, the stars and stripes and a Missouri flag fluttering from the very top. Three large steps lead to the front door.
It’s almost offensive in its old-world grandeur, the Tuscan style that was so popular twenty years ago. An ode to the rich and famous, the people who come here to lose themselves in overpriced entertainment and manicured green turf.
It’s the kind of place I visited growing up, back when my father was alive. The kind of place where I should feel at home.
