Chapter Seventeen

Becky waited for him on the front porch, shielding her eyes from the early morning sun.

Ryan cut the engine on his truck, hopped out of the cab, and made eye contact with his dog, pointing to the house. “Go inside, Johnny Cash,” he said, and the dog followed the command, leaping out of the front seat and scurrying across the yard. He parked himself at Becky’s feet and wagged his tail at rocket speed.

“Aww, you’re such a sweet boy. Give me a kiss,” Becky said, cooing at the dog as Ryan walked across the yard and joined her on the steps.

“Watch it. He’s a crazy kisser. He can’t help himself around the ladies,” Ryan said, lowering his shades and wrapping his arms around Becky.

“’Course he can’t. He has good taste,” Sanders said.

Ryan looked up to see Sanders open the door and join his wife on the porch. “Hey. Didn’t expect to see you at the crack of dawn,” Ryan said.

His dad’s friend puffed up his chest in his faded blue short-sleeve button-down with his name stitched on the right-hand side. “I’m still a working man for a few more months. And it’s a Wednesday.”

“Right. Of course,” Ryan said then turned back to Becky. “Have fun with my boy today.”

“I will. You drive safely,” she said, patting him on the cheek, then headed inside with the dog.

Sanders walked Ryan to his truck. “You gonna be gone all day?”

Ryan nodded. While he could have left his dog home on a day like this—Johnny Cash was well trained—Becky liked having him around from time to time, so the dog-sitting worked for everyone. “Probably won’t be back until the evening. I need to take care of a few things in town before I take off.”

“You be careful. No speeding,” Sanders said with a wink.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Ryan said.

“Hey, Donald’s coming over later for poker. You can say hi to him when you pick up your dog,” Sanders said, mentioning another friend of his dad’s. The three men had been close buddies. For a brief moment, Ryan’s chest ached with the image of what tonight could have been. His dad should have been joining them this evening, playing poker, smoking cigars, having a beer.

He should have been doing so many things.

Hell, at this point, maybe his dad would even have met a new woman if he were still alive. Found someone else. Fallen in love again.

Ryan scoffed as he drove to the office, wondering how such a ridiculous notion had appeared in his head out of nowhere. Because love was a fucking lie.

* * *

He slapped the contract on his brother’s desk. “Boom. Done. Another deal for us,” he said, parking himself in the black leather chair in Michael’s office. Guitar-heavy rock music pulsed from the laptop. His brother used to play the electric guitar and had dabbled in rock bands in high school and college. A workaholic with little time to play now, he still assaulted his eardrums with his favorite tunes.

Michael arched an eyebrow. “You don’t say. Maybe I should keep you around.”

Ryan rolled his eyes. “Hey, fifty-fifty, I could say the same of you,” he said, meaning their joint ownership of Sloan Protection Resources.

“Yeah, I know. Just giving you a hard time.” Michael cast a cursory glance at the pages on his desk. He tapped his index finger against them. “Looks good. I see White Box is getting a full suite of security services. This is the company you met with in San Francisco a few weeks ago, right?”

Ryan nodded. He’d been slated to visit his mom in prison with Shannon at the time, but their mom had gotten the dates wrong, and Shannon wound up going solo. Ryan had been in San Francisco instead, meeting with the head of White Box, a guy named Charlie Stravinsky, and his right-hand man, Curtis. Charlie owned some restaurants, including a once-popular Chinese eatery, but had now converted them to private clubs, the kind that catered to gentleman with big wallets and hearty appetites for both women and bets. That kind of business needed security, and since White Box was expanding from San Francisco to Vegas, the firm had reached out to Ryan and Michael.

“And you said his VP of biz dev is coming in to sign the papers?”

“One p.m. today. Guy named Curtis,” Ryan said, tapping his watch. “He’s local here in Vegas. It’s on you for the final signatures. I worked on that deal all day Saturday and Sunday.”

“Aww, poor baby,” Michael said, breaking out an imaginary violin and running the bow across the strings.

“Whatever,” Ryan said, waving a hand dismissively. “Point being, I’m out of here the rest of the day.”

“You going to see 347-921?”

Michael didn’t even use their mom’s name, just her inmate number. At first it had rankled Ryan, and he’d told his brother as much. Use her name at least, he’d said. Michael never did, and Ryan had learned to let it go. Now, he was used to the way Dora Prince had been reduced to digits.

“I am.”

His brother made a scornful sound as he shook his head. “Why do you waste your time with that?”

“Why? You’re seriously asking why?”

Michael nodded as a guitar riff played through the speakers. Ryan rose, planted his palms on Michael’s desk, and stared at him, wondering if he was crazy. How did his brother not get it? “Because I want to know why the fuck the case is open. Don’t you?”

“She won’t tell you shit.”

Ryan stabbed his index finger against his sternum. “But I’m the only one she might tell something. That’s why I’m going. Because I’m the one who sees her, besides Shan. So if there is something to say, or someone else involved, I’m the one she’s going to talk to.”

Michael softened his tone but still held his ground. “Look, man. I get it. I understand she did some kind of number on you and convinced you she might not be guilty—but she’s so fucking guilty, Ryan. Day is day, and night is night, and our mother had our father killed. Maybe there was someone else involved, maybe Detective Winston is sniffing around for a middleman, or something between her and Stefano, but I guarantee that you’re not going to exonerate inmate number 347-921.”

Ryan gritted his teeth as frustration seared his nervous system, running a wild course through his body. “Here’s the bottom line. Someone knows something about our family that we don’t,” he said through tight lips. “I want to know what that something is, and I’m not going to stop until I find out.”

Michael stood up and clapped Ryan on the shoulder. “You’re a determined bastard. But you’re my determined bastard. So don’t speed like Sanders. We need you squeaky clean here at the company. No tickets, no record, nothing.”

“Don’t worry your pretty little head. I’m never dirty,” he said with a wink.

Michael tugged him in for a quick hug. “Love you, bro.”

“Love you, too,” Ryan grumbled.

This. His brothers and sister. His grandmother. His dog. That was real love to him—the only kind he trusted.