Page 78 of Thug

“But your dad wasn’t—”

He coughed out a laugh. “Oh, he was an outlaw. An outlaw and a biker. Make no mistake about it. But he didn’t rob that bank and he wasn’t armed when they shot him.”

I wagged my finger at the couch. “Is there room on that thing for two?”

“Never tried it.”

I stood. “Is that an invitation?”

“Close as you’re going to get to one.”

I nestled beside him and rested my head on his chest. While In a Silent Way played for the third and maybe even a fourth time, we both nodded off to sleep. When the album finished playing, I woke up.

I glanced at Price. He was wide awake. “How long have you been awake?”

He kissed me. “Four songs.”

I snuggled against him. “My mom liked to cook, but her resources were often limited. She loved to make casseroles. When I was old enough to cook myself, I swore I’d never cook one. I ate casserole leftovers until they were gone, and she’d cook another.”

“I don’t think I’ve eaten a casserole,” he said. “My mom would make scalloped potatoes. That’s about as close as she got to a casserole dish.”

“You’re lucky.”

“Where’s your mother now?” he asked.

“She moved to Boston right after I graduated college. I think she wanted to escape my father for a long time but stuck around for my sake. I wished she would have moved when I was in middle school or something and taken me with her. It would have saved a lot of grief for both of us.”

“Ever see her?”

“Not as much as I should, but I do go up there when I can.”

“What about your dad? You think you’ll ever see him again?”

I raised my head and faced him. “My dad is a lair. I can stand a lot of things, but that isn’t one of them. If a man’s a liar, he can’t expect to have a healthy relationship with his wife, significant other, or kids. Personally, I don’t care what anyone says. If a person’s prone to lie, they’ll always lie.”

“No argument here,” he said.

“Good, because lying is one thing I won’t negotiate on,” I said. “One and done for me with that one.”

“Want to change the album?” he asked.

I did, but I didn’t want to get up. “No,” I said. “Let’s leave it.”

“We can listen to it until we’re sick of laying here, I guess.”

I smiled to myself and closed my eyes, wondering if the old console could last another fifty years.

22

Price

Having been placed in a rather awkward position, I needed to make a decision. I was reluctant to act solely on my personal beliefs. I owed it to myself, to Gray, and to the men to get at least one other opinion before deciding what to do. Praying I made it to my destination without being shot, I idled along the cactus-lined drive. I had no idea if I was doing the right thing, but my options were limited.

The V-shaped secluded stucco ranch was painted the color of clay and had a Spanish tile roof. At each end of the home, facing the drive, was a two-car garage. The front was fitted with eight large windows, all tinted to prevent the infiltration of the sun’s UV rays into the home’s living space. A circular drive of hand-crafted brick surrounded a rock garden that used a large saguaro as the focal point. It was more modern than anything else in the immediate area, and not at all what I expected.

I shut the engine off and coasted to a stop. Before I lifted my leg over the gas tank, the front door opened.

“Afternoon, Sir,” I said.