Unchained (55 page)

He was halfway through a piece of red velvet cake the size of his head when Pete asked Finn’s quiet and reserved date what she did for a living. Even he was curious what the answer would be.

“Well, the title on my business card says director.” She shrugged off the position as if it was no big deal. “In a nutshell, what that means is I handle the Justice transportation assets. In all forms. If it moves, I’m responsible for it.”

Pete listened attentively whenever the subject rolled around to Justice. Another reminder for Finn that when it came to worshipping at the Justice altar, he was the odd man out.

“Alex Marquez. Good man. Saved my ass he did, once upon a time.”

Debbie smiled broadly and nodded her agreement. “They drove a hard bargain for the land and my diner,” she told them, “but in the end, they did me a favor. A big’un. My niece is taking over the food service operation for the new center so Busty’s lives on!”

“You’re pretty silent when it comes to Justice.” Pete was looking directly at him.

“Not much to say, I guess,” he replied with a shrug. “Know next to nothing about the big man except that he’s married to my sister. And the rest of them? Wouldn’t say we exactly bonded.”

Remy snicker-snorted and had to reach for a napkin to cover her mouth. Really? Talk about snarkenfreude. She took uncomfortable delight in anything that made him uneasy. Irritated that she was getting under his skin, he turned to her and dropped a conversational M-80 in her lap.

“Remy, on the other hand, has bonded with ‘em big time. It’s that veteran’s stuff, isn’t it? Semper fi or what-fucking-ever.”

Pete reacted as if he swallowed his tongue in shock. “You served?” he asked her.

He swatted the angry glare she shot him back with a smirk.

“Uh, yeah.”

Pete looked at Finn’s date with new interest. “I was at the fall of Saigon,” he informed them all gravely. “War is hell.”

Everyone turned and looked at Remy expectantly. She didn’t disappoint. “Flew helicopters in Iraq and Afghanistan. And yeah, war sucks.”

“When did you get out?”

No answer. Finn looked at the woman by his side and tried to gauge the reason for her silence. His father was a detective. He knew a dodgy answer when he saw one.

“While ago.”

“How’d you find your way to Justice?”

Pete’s questions were innocuous and in no way intrusive, but Remy tightened up so fast he just knew something big was up. Seeing her reaction made him regret putting her in a position where she had to answer.

“Cameron Justice recruited me. Made an offer I’d be an idiot to refuse. End of story.”

He admired how she tried to take control of the conversation and shut down further pokes into her private life. Pokes he invited.

She came back with the perfect counterpunch. “Mind if I ask why you’re selling the bar? I mean, I haven’t been here long, but people talk about you and Whiskey Pete’s in legendary terms.”

“It’s time. I’m ready to go out and be an old fart like the rest of my baby boomer tribe. Guess I was just waiting for some sort of divine inspiration. Then these two chuckle-fucks started lobbying hard. My gut told me they’re the ones, so…”

“Old man, put up or shut up! Sign the damn papers,” Debbie teased for the tenth time.

“I think she’s right,” Pete said as he wiped his mouth and threw down the napkin. Reaching into a big duffel briefcase, he hauled out a folder and slapped it on the table. “Who’s got a pen,” he barked with glee.

Shelly started digging in her purse. She lugged around one of those huge floppy bags full of shit that was big enough to shoplift a turkey. No way was she finding anything in a hurry.

He and Barry looked at each other.

Remy made an exasperated grunt, grabbed her purse, and pulled out a pen within two seconds. “Bic,” she announced. “Blue ink. Fine point.”

Debbie laughed. “Very efficient, my dear. Hope you teach that Justice crew a thing or two about covering all the bases.”

At every Post-it pointer, Pete signed with a flourish. When he got to the last page, he looked at Debbie and said, “If you’re gonna change your mind, woman, better do it now.”

She gave him a jubilant smile. “No change of heart. Got a hankerin’ to hook my carriage on to your wagon train. Let these young’uns find out how much shit it takes to survive in Bendover.”

Hooking her carriage to his wagon train?
Hmm.
Was that a clever western euphemism for senior sex?

After one last signature, he pushed the packet to Barry. His new partner grabbed Shelly’s hand and held it tight while she kept her other hand on the stack of papers so they wouldn’t move as her boyfriend signed.

Then it was his turn. He looked at Remy. She leaned close and whispered, “Sure you know what you’re doing?”

He grinned at her, gave her a wink, and signed on all the necessary lines. When he was finished, Finn clicked the pen closed, handed it back to Remy, and pushed the papers to the center of the table. Then each of them stood up. He, Barry, and Pete shook hands as gentlemen did.

To his utter astonishment, Remy started applauding and called out happily, “I think this calls for champagne.”

They plowed through a bottle of Korbel without much difficulty. It was a fun hour of ribald jokes and champagne buzzed toasts. Even his date appeared to have a good time, but eventually, the evening drew to a close.

“So there ya have it,” Pete bellowed in his bigger-than-life voice as they walked together to the parking lot. “Good luck, boys. She’s all yours as soon as the lawyers get the paperwork.”

They shook hands and hugged. Shelly got all weepy when Pete drew her into a big bear hug. It was an end and a beginning, and Finn had never felt so right about anything else he’d ever done.

Coming to Arizona had changed his life in ways no one could possibly have predicted.

He was co-owner of a bar and what would soon be a restaurant!

Finn glanced at the woman by his side. They had chemistry—no doubt about it—but she was even more fucked up than he was, and that was saying a lot.

If nothing else, buying Whiskey Pete’s and laying down roots here gave him an excuse to see where things went with her.

If they went anywhere at all.

She was humming along to the song playing on the radio. It was a gorgeous night. Laying her head back, Remy watched through the open moonroof as a thousand twinkling stars helped light their way.

“Bought this model because of that.”

She swiveled her head and look at him.

“The sunroof,” he said with a tilt of his head to the open window. “Thinking it’s overkill when the sun is beating down, but I always did like the nighttime sky.”

“Me too,” she agreed. “Sometimes, flying at night in the desert with no city lights to pollute the sky felt like being in a cocoon hurtling through the stars.”

Oh. Did she say that out loud? Must be the champagne. Normally, she wasn’t so poetic.

“What made you stop? Flying? Was the reason a war thing? I understand how shit gets old.”

Having walked right into the question, she squirmed not knowing how to change the direction of the conversation.

“Did I overstep again?” he quickly asked.

“No.” Honesty was always the best strategy. “But I don’t want to talk about it.”

Would he push? The lines with Finn were blurring, and she didn’t know what to expect anymore. He was still a cocky bastard, but he directed less and less of his bad attitude at her. She hoped he’d let it go.

“Hey, did you hear that the newlyweds came home? You haven’t had the pleasure of meeting the big guy yet, huh?”

Relieved he wasn’t going to pursue the questions about her military service, she relaxed and slid effortlessly into the conversation.

“Keep missing him. There’s a crap ton of stuff going on. The first big session for the agency kicks off right after Labor Day, and we’re all scrambling. It’s a busy place there right now. Workers still coming and going. Dogs out the wazoo. We’ll connect when the time is right. Besides,” she added with a sigh, “I heard from Betty that something big was going down within the family. And you know how that goes, right? Family first.”

His terse grunt told Remy exactly what he thought about family first.

She didn’t want to talk about the military, and he didn’t want to discuss family. Somehow, their individual dysfunctions complemented the other.

“Thanks for being so cool about everything.”

“And thank you for checking the butt pirate routine at the door.”

“Excuse me,” he said with a deep chuckle. “Do you even know what that means?”

Did she? Actually, it wasn’t something she’d thought about. Being around guys when all they did was hurl insults at each other became nothing but background noise for her.

“No. I just like the word combination. Sounds like something that’d apply to you.”

He roared with laughter. “Is that so? Well, fuck my life, Remy. Here I thought we’d end our little date with some tonsil hockey at the front door. But since you’ve got me pegged as pillaging fudge packer, I should rethink a good night kiss, huh?”

Good grief. So much was in his statement that she didn’t know where to start.

Tonsil hockey?

Pillaging fudge packer?

Good night kiss?

A totally unexpected reaction bubbled up from somewhere deep inside. Unable to hold it back, she exploded with howls of laughter and ended up cracking her window so the air would hit her face and help Remy find some control.

“What part of that was so funny? The fudge packing or the kissing?”

“Both.” She snicker-snorted. “Guess the t-shirt I got you for Christmas that says Butt Pirate next to a swish looking pirate king needs to be returned.”

“You return the butt pirate, and I’ll return the coffee mug that says bitch.”

The way they were laughing, you’d think they just wrote the best joke of all time.

Fiddling with the satellite radio, she questioned his music tastes and started tapping boxes on the digital display until she had a bunch of stations pre-set.

“There ya go, Beantown. Classic Rock, Hair Nation, 80’s, Country, Howard Stern, of course, Tom Petty, Ozzy Nation, and whatever the fuck Lithium is.”

“90’s alternative. Station house favorite.”

“What? No reggae? No opera? No R&B? No snappy Broadway show tunes?”

“Questioning my tastes in music? Sacrilege! What’s the matter with you? Aren’t girls automatically supposed to let the Wookie win?”

She lost it. Really and truly lost it. God. She hoped he knew how funny that was. All except the girls part but still. All in all, funny as hell.

“Well,” she drawled, “if the Wookie gets to win, would a few compliments hurt your head? Us girls like some fuss, you know.”

“What?” he yowled. “I opened the fucking car door. What more do you want?”

They were driving slowly along the main drive to the house and would soon pull up to the building where she lived.

“Are you staying with your sister?”

Boy, talk about throwing ice water on a pleasant evening.

“Fuck, no. I’m in some miniature hacienda thing. They call it the casita. I’m looking for a place closer to town, away from the stench of the Justice mystique.”

“What the hell do you have against these people? Seriously, Beantown. What the fuck?”

“Bunch of pretentious assholes. All of ‘em.”

“Yeah, well, I beg to differ.”

“Semper fi.”

“Oh, fuck you. It’s not just because almost everyone around here is a veteran. Shit! Calder isn’t a vet, and neither is Parker. Or Mike. He isn’t military. So what’s the real deal? Having Mommy and Daddy put you in a three-thousand-mile timeout rip a hole in your boxers?”

They were at her place. He jammed the truck into park and turned on her.

“Oh, so what? You get to take shots at my personal life—something which, by the way, you know nothing about—but your past gets immunity?”

He was angry and all but hollering. It didn’t help that she asked for it, but there was no way she was admitting that to him.

She made a lame attempt to divert and deflect, but it was too late. “There’s nothing to say about my past. And I wasn’t taking any shots.”

“Do you hear yourself when you talk? Timeout wasn’t a shot? Plus, my parents are none of your fucking business. And for the record. Briefs. Boxers are for pretty boys like your personal lackey, Jon Clod.”

“Personal lackey? Why, you obnoxious douchebag. First of all, his name is Jean Claude. If you’d pull your head out of your ass and pay a little attention to what goes on around here, you’d know that he goes by Jace. And … FOR THE RECORD,” she screamed, “he’s my cousin, you dipshit. Got it? We’re related, dumbass.”

Angrily shoving open the passenger door, she scrambled down from the cab and whirled around to throw as much stink eye Finn O’Brien’s way as she could manage. “And I’ll pass on the tonsil hockey, Beantown. Ramming your disgusting tongue down my throat with the finesse of a lizard is hardly a turn-on.”

Slamming the truck door with all the strength she could muster, Remy glared at her nemesis, gave him a very deliberate finger with the added insult of a hasty tongue wag, turned on her heel, and fled to the quiet and safety of her apartment.