Gabe

“In and out, shouldn’t be a big deal. Just do your job.” The big man lifted his beer and drained the bottle, staring at Gabe as he set it on top of the barrel. “You get my money, we’ll be square.”

We ain’t ever gonna be square, Gabe thought. Dion Cooper wasn’t the kind of man who would allow leverage to be lost. He’d been that way in the military, where Gabe had first met him, and had stayed the same after being discharged. Unlike most folks who’d served, Dion was proud of his bad conduct discharge, holding it up as if it granted him automatic badass status. BCD meant he’d spent time in military prison, and while Gabe knew that was true, he wasn’t sure what the sentence had been for. Coulda stolen toilet paper for all I know.

Dion was a procurer. He found things you needed, or more usually, wanted. He’d gotten his hooks into Gabe while they were deployed in Africa, and the moment Gabe had gotten back stateside, the man had shown up, like a bad penny. Shoulda never believed his shit. But he had, buying a fortune of illegal drugs. He would have been fine, except the bag had gone missing out of his locker. That meant he was out both the money he’d borrowed to purchase the product, as well as the product.

“You hear me, Gabe?” Dion rapped the bottom of his bottle against the metal, switching it around in his hand. This being an unsubtle threat of potential violence.

“Yeah, I heard you. No big deal. I do this, and we’re done.” Gabe swallowed hard. I cain’t fuckin’ wait.

“No, not what I said. We ain’t done.” Dion tapped Gabe’s shoulder with the bottle. “Said you get my money and we’ll be square. Square ain’t done.”

“Same as.” Gabe shrugged as he took a slow step back, moving out of easy reach.

“No, not same as. You get me my twenty-five K and we’ll be square. Then we can see what’s next in line.” Gabe couldn’t help his reaction, and his laughter was loud as it bounced back against the trees behind Dion’s house. Scowl firmly in place, Dion clipped out, “The fuck do you think’s so funny?”

“Twenty-five thousand? Are you jacked in the head? I owe you fifteen K. Fifteen thousand. Not twenty-five. Where in the hell did you come up with that number?” Gabe shook his head. This was why he couldn’t ever get free from Dion. “You’re insane, man.”

“Want me to go through line-by-line? It was fifteen. Now, it’s not. Inflation. Interest. What the fuck ever, dude. Now, it’s twenty-five.” Dion shoved the barrel out of the way, taking two steps towards Gabe. “Give it another week, and it’ll be thirty.”

I could take him. It would be so easy to just take care of this a different way. He shook his head, forcing those ideas away. They belonged to his father and the clan in the holler, not the man he’d been fighting to become his whole life.

“Where do you think…? There’s no way this chick is gonna give me twenty-five thousand dollars. No fucking way.” Gabe had thought it was a stretch at fifteen. “She’s gonna know I am talking out my ass.” Shaking his head, he tried to find an argument that Dion would listen to. “She’s a businesswoman, in the music biz, and I’m a mountain boy. Fuck, Dion. Ain’t no way.”

“I got an angle.” Dion always had an angle. Part of why Gabe had wound up so deep in his pockets. “She’ll never see you coming. Pussy gonna be so quick to cash out for you, you won’t know what happened. And then—” Dion leaned closer, poking Gabe’s chest with a stiffened forefinger. “—we’ll be square.” Standing straight, the scowl wiped away, a smug smile in its place. “You ain’t ever gonna be quit of me, though. I know where too many bodies are buried.” Dion turned, walking towards the cooler on the ground near the backdoor, chin angled so he could see Gabe over his shoulder. He held up a hand and wagged it back and forth, fingers crossed. “You and me? Like this. We gonna stay tight, man.”

***

Gabe stared up at the sign on the building: Iron Indian Records. It didn’t mean anything to him, but he couldn’t get the idea out of his head that it should. That the name was something he’d heard somewhere before. He rolled his neck, stretching and reached up to scratch his hipster scruff, running a finger around the inside of the shirt collar cinched tight as a noose around his neck. Sweat prickled his scalp; it was only nine o’clock in the morning, but Nashville was already stifling hot and humid.

Running the script through his head again, he tugged his shades free from the pocket of his shirt, flipping the arms out and shoving the sunglasses onto his face. Not a long con, this was planned as a short-term confidence shill. Six days preferred, but only two or three weeks, max. He just had to convince the business manager he could do what she needed, which was provide studio time. Recording opportunities at a studio he’d show her in a carefully choreographed dance during the absence of the real studio owner. For all she was young, this chick was smart and well thought of in the business industry, all of which meant she had integrity, which made her a good mark. Intelligent people who did the right thing always expected the best out of everyone.

Time to aim and let fly. “Showtime.” Looking both directions, he crossed the street and confidently reached for the handle, pulling the door open. A welcome rush of cool air hit his face and he took a breath of relief as he stepped inside. That relief was short lived as he stopped abruptly, the door closing behind him and nudging him forwards as it tapped his ass, slipping into place. Jesus, it can’t be.

Dion said her DJ gig used the handle of B.T. The paperwork for this place was all signed by a B. Taylor. Gabe knew sex, age, reputation, and work experience, but that was it. He hadn’t asked for more, certainly hadn’t asked for a picture. If he had, he would have vetoed this plan. Put the brakes on any proposal involving this woman. Someone he knew. Very fucking well.

Bethany Mason stood from the desk at which she’d been seated and came toward him, arm extended, broad smile on her face. Beautiful and poised, she was so different from the girl he’d last known, but the Mason genes bred true. Dark hair, gray eyes, square jaw—she looked like her mother, and more than a little like her brother. Gabe held his breath, waiting for her to out him. He was shocked when he heard, “Mr. Sorenson, it’s good to finally meet you. You’re punctual. That’s always a good omen.”

Fuck, she don’t remember me. Derek Sorenson was his con name for this gig. Hearing it from her jolted him into action, and he wondered at the painful ache in his chest as he slipped his rough palm along her smooth one, clasping firmly but careful not to grip too tightly. Can I pull this off? I put on weight and heft in the army. Fuck, some days I don’t recognize myself in the mirror. He pushed the curl of disappointment down, not letting it factor in the expression on his face. Bethy Mason had been the best friend of his little cousin, Tabby, and had been in and out of the Ledbetter household all her years growing up. But she’d known a much younger Gabe, one who wore a perpetual scowl. I can do this.

“Miss Taylor,” he used the name she went by now, and he wondered for a bare moment if she was a shill, like him. Remaking herself once away from the hollers, taking on a false city persona that fit her better than the country girl she’d been. “I can assure you, the pleasure is all mine.” He squeezed her hand again, then loosened his grip, trailing calloused fingertips across her palm as he released her. Seeing the flush climbing her neck to her cheeks, he threw away the idea that she was a con, too. “Nashville is a beautiful city, but I believe I’m looking at the prettiest thing in it right now.” Too thick? The flush deepened. Nope, not too thick. Just right.

“Thank you, that’s very sweet.” Oh, honey, I’m far from sweet.

Instead of speaking his thoughts, he clamped his teeth closed, allowing the corners of his lips to curl up. “Are you ready for me?” So many meanings for that phrase, and as he hoped, she followed the words into the darker path. Dropping her chin, she looked to one side and pressed her lips together to hide a small smile. “For the meeting, I mean.” Damn, she’s prettier than I’d have expected. Way prettier than I deserve. That thought made him flinch.

“Yes, I am. I have everything set-up in the conference room. If you’ll follow me?” Through the gates of Hell, darlin’.

Down boy, he told his twitching cock when her swaying ass preceded him up the narrow hallway. Might be Heaven, not Hell.