Buried Secrets (New Adult Dark Suspense Romance) (11 page)

“If you miss one of those stalls, I'm going to hang you up by your ears, Sam!”

A laugh.

Dusty whirled toward the direction of the voice.

“Well, hey there.” Lee Walker stepped out of the shadows and into the dim light of the bar. “What can I do for you?”

“I...” Dusty hesitated. Lee was a big man, formidable, with a round face and a fat caterpillar of a mustache. “I saw your sign out there.”

Lee raised his eyebrows, pulling his ponytail over his shoulder. Dusty found it ironic that forty or fifty years ago, he might have been kicked out of the same kind of establishment he now owned just for the length of his hair.

“You did huh?” Lee hitched his pants up, but his large belly, mostly accumulated from consuming too much of what he sold, still hung over his belt.

“Yes.” She sat on one of the red upholstered bar stools. “I'd like to apply for the cocktail waitress position.”

“Is that so?” His eyes flicked over her in the low light. She nodded again. “Well, I tell you, I ain't—” He paused and moved closer, squinting in the dimness. “You're Nick Chandler's sister, ain'tcha?”

Again, she nodded.

He let out a low whistle. “Yeah. Resemblance is amazing.” He leaned his elbows on the bar and looked at her. “Ever waitressed before?”

“No,” she admitted, wondering just how she was going to handle the work history questions and her lack of experience. “But I learn fast.”

He laughed. “That's good.” His eyes crinkled at the corners. “You any good at counting? Taking orders? Handling money?”

She nodded, brightening. “I worked as a cashier at Cougar's General Store a few summers. I can make change in my head, no problem.”

He rubbed his chin, brown eyes sharp and calculating as he looked at her. “For the life of me, I can't figure out why you're applying for this job. You know, the library over in Millsberg is looking for people to shelve books. I think that would suit you.”

“Why does everyone think I should work in a library?” Dusty tilted her eyes up at him. “Do I look bookish?”

“You’re kind of a goodie-goodie aren’t you?” He smiled. “That’s what your brother always said… princess.”

She stared at him, the nickname hitting her hard, like a baseball bat to the gut. God, she hated this town. Hated how everyone knew everything about everyone else. Maybe she should head down to Millsberg, get a job in her dad’s office filing papers or in the library, where everyone seemed to think she belonged. Then she thought of Nick and what he’d said about labels. She was beginning to realize she was just as defined by her
good girl
label in this town as everyone else was by theirs.

“My brother’s dead, Mr. Walker.” She said the words flatly, meeting his gaze, not blinking. “And he didn’t know me as well as he thought he did.”

He looked surprised, leaning on the counter and frowning at her. “You sure this job is all you’ve got on your mind?”

“I don’t want to sleep with you,” she replied, smirking. “If that’s what you’re implying.”

“No, dear, that’s not at all what I was getting at. I’m a little old for you.” He laughed. “Are you even eighteen?”

“I’ll be nineteen in January. Same age as my brother. We were twins, remember?”

She hated talking about Nick in the past tense. It made her all too aware he was gone.

“Well, legally I guess I could hire you.” He pursed his lips, first left, then right, his mustache moving from side to side like a fuzzy, indecisive caterpillar. “And I liked your brother. He was a good kid. So that’s a point for you.”

“How many points do I need before I can have the job?”

He snorted. “Listen, princess, I’m not sure you know what you’re signing up for.”

“I know exactly.” She leaned forward on the bar. “Taking orders, serving drinks, flirting with the clientele, looking the other way when they grab my ass and keeping my mouth shut. That about it?”

Dusty watched him light a Winston. The smoke made a momentary screen between them. Lee Walker clearly didn’t pay much attention to the laws of the land—including the one that said you couldn’t smoke in restaurants or bars in Michigan anymore.

“You do real good math? In your head?”

“Yes.”

“Job starts at six. Closing is two a.m. Eight hours. On your feet.”

“Okay.”

“I pay a waitresses wage, but it’s cash. And you’ll get good tips. Especially if you unbutton your blouse two more buttons there.”

Dusty raised her eyebrows but didn’t answer him. Obviously Lee Walker hadn’t heard anything about sexual harassment in the workplace either. Not that she’d expected anything different. This was Larkspur—they were fifty years behind everyone else in everything.

“You'll be responsible for all of the money you take in off the floor.” He blew smoke out the side of his mouth, as if not blowing it directly into her face was enough of a consideration. “If there's any missing, it comes out of your own pocket.”

“Okay.”

He gave her a long look, gaze dipping to the V of her blouse. It was only two-buttons undone—apparently two buttons too many—but he looked at her like she was naked, shaking his head.

“I like hiring good-lookin’ girls, I don’t mind telling you.” He took a long drag on his cigarette, waiting for her to respond, but she didn’t say anything. “You’re a fine piece of ass, girl. You might have some trouble out there. Can you handle that?”

She nodded. “I’ll be fine.”

“We ain't particular about language or manners here. I don't stand for no fighting. I take care of things when they get out of hand. But words are just words. You get my meaning?”

Again, she nodded. “Crystal clear.”

“Good.” He set his cigarette in an ashtray, a replica of a Buffalo nickel. “As far as I’m concerned, a little grab-ass and flirting, like you said—well, that’s just good for business.”

“Makes for good tips, I’m sure.”

“Don’t worry.” Lee tapped an ash off his cigarette, dropping her a wink. “If the boys get too out of hand, I’ll put a stop to it. You can count on that.”

“Okay.” She managed to bite back all of the sarcastic replies on the tip of her tongue.

“You still interested?” His mouth set in a stern line.

“I don't scare off that easy,” she said firmly.

“Well you'd sure fill the outfit real nice.” A ghost of a smile flickered over his features and then he sighed, looking at her as she stood up. “Tell you what, let me think about it. Can I give you a call?”

“Sure.”

He pulled a matchbook out from under the bar and handed her a pen. She opened it and wrote her name and number on it.

“Well, Dusty.” He looked at the matchbook before putting it into his pocket. “I'll call and let you know.”

“You do that.”

Her life had not been so carefree since grade school.

Dusty's days vacillated between watching the soaps and game shows on T.V. and spending time out in the cemetery. She didn’t leave the house much otherwise and she and Julia avoided each other during the day. Sometimes Dusty escaped outside and took long walks when she got sick of watching television.

Now Dusty sat on the steps of the front porch, a tall glass of Kool-Aid beside her, feet braced against the railing, back against the opposite one. She was waiting for her father to come home. She hadn’t done that since she was in grade school either, but she had done it every night for a week. Dusty glanced at the sky, visible above the foliage across the road. It was growing darker, the sun snuggling behind the trees.

Must be around seven
, she thought, but didn’t have a watch and didn’t feel like getting up to go look. She heard it before she saw it, but she knew it was him. The sound of the Range Rover's big tires on dirt was distinct. She’d been listening for Red, Mr. Cooper's Irish Setter. Her father passed the Cooper farm on his way home and Red always barked when he went by. Then she remembered, as her father pulled into the driveway, that Red had run off.

Mr. Cooper had come by looking for him, asking if they’d seen Red around their place. “
Strange thing,”
Mr. Cooper said, looking sick with worry. Red was always chained but his chain hadn’t been broken, just unhooked.
Like someone had just come in and took him.

Her father pulled the Range Rover past the Jeep and into the garage. Dusty finished her Kool-Aid off in a big gulp and waited for him to come out of the side garage door.

She waited, but he didn’t come.

She debated going in. He was probably just tinkering with the Range Rover’s engine. He did that sometimes when he came home, a once-a-week routine to “check her juices,” he said. He usually went in and changed out of his suit before he started fooling around with oil and that kind of stuff though.

In fact, he always did.

Dusty got up, brushing her jeans off, and headed for the garage. If he was checking the oil, Julia was going to have a fit. She decided to remind him about his clothes before he got something on them and she had to listen to Julia half the night.

“Dad?” she called softly, putting her hand on the doorknob. Her wrist turned, but the knob didn’t. Her hand just slipped off. She tried it again.
Locked.
She moved past the flower bed planted with pansies alongside the garage and peeked around the corner. The Range Rover was parked. She could hear the ticking of the engine as it cooled, but the hood wasn't up and her father wasn't there.

She stepped into the garage, the fading sunlight throwing shadows on the cement floor. The garage was as neat as ever—saws, rakes and tools hung up on nails; screws, nuts and bolts all in baby food jars, tops nailed to the low beams and the jars screwed tightly into them. Two snowmobiles and the ATV Nick and their dad loved to play with during the summer were against the far wall.

Everything in its place.

Dusty moved toward the back wall and she noticed the work room door open when she got to the front of the Range Rover. She breathed a small sigh
. Almost had myself scared there
. She was about to call out to him when she heard it.

She pressed herself against the back wall and, from that angle, could see him sitting on the work bench. He was slumped over, face buried in his arms, sobs muffled. In front of him, lined up on the work table, were boxes of ammunition, his handgun and a few, small rectangles of metal that glinted dully in the florescent light.
Razor blades?
Also in front of him was Nick's hockey uniform, his football helmet, and the basketball they kept in the workroom.

“Oh my God,” she mouthed, unsure of what to do, frozen.

Her father, her
father
was crying.

Sobs threatened to tear his heart from his chest. As she watched, he lifted his head, looking at the various articles he had assembled in front of him. Dusty trembled. He touched the gun, tentative. He picked up one of the razor blades—she remembered they had a whole box they used for replacements in the various carpet knives in the toolbox— watching it glint, playing the light off of it.

Dusty opened her mouth to cry out but her father beat her to it.

His scream was full of rage and, in one motion, he knocked everything on the table to the floor. One box of ammunition broke open and shells rolled across the cement. Nick's helmet bounced once, rolled, and was still.

The gun still lay in front of him.

“Fuck.” He looked down at the handgun.

Terrified, Dusty looked at his face. He looked old, not like her father at all. He also looked scared—as scared as she felt.

“Fuck!” He said it again, sobs starting all over as he leaned to pick up the helmet. He put it on his head and put his head back on the table.

Dusty left.

She just made it to the flower beds before she was sick.