Chapter 24

Sometime just after sunup, Delon levered himself off the couch and did a Frankenstein shuffle into the bathroom, leaving the door open and the light off. He wasn’t ready to face his morning-after self in the mirror. But instead of sinking, his mood bobbed like a duck on a pond. For the first time in weeks he felt a tiny ray of hope that his knee might come around. And he’d sort of asked Tori out, and she’d sort of said yes.

He worked through a set of gentle stretches, bending his knee a little farther every time. He might not be kicking himself in the ass anytime soon—literally, at least—but he was a damn sight closer than he had been. When he finished, he stuffed his feet into running shoes, grabbed the gel pack from the freezer, and headed downstairs, intending to poke around on the Internet. Maybe even check out some rodeo results. The shop was quiet, the hard edges of tools and machinery softened by hazy morning sunlight angling through the narrow windows in the truck bay doors. The sight gave him the usual glow of pride, cut through with a twinge of frustration. Was Tori right? Could he just decide to claim his place at Sanchez Trucking?

He was surprised to hear music when he opened the office door. Charley Pride was not on Gil’s playlist. Delon’s dad stuck his head out of the open door of the dispatcher’s office. He smiled, but it was wrapped in a question mark. “Hey, Delon. How’re you doing this morning?”

Of course he’d heard. Probably from half a dozen different people. “A little sore, but no damage done.”

“Well, good. That’s real good.”

If his dad wondered why Delon had been drunk and punching redneck pricks on Beni’s birthday, he didn’t ask. Not that he didn’t care. Merle Sanchez was just more comfortable with the whats than the whys. He’d tended to their scrapes and bruises, cheered them on through flag football and junior rodeos and the National Finals, but he kept his feelings buried deep under that laid-back, cheerful surface and preferred everyone else to do the same. The Sanchez way.

“What are you doing in the office on a Sunday morning?” Delon asked.

“Jimmy’s back haul from Tuscaloosa got canceled. I’m trying to find him a load by tomorrow night, or he’ll be dead-heading home.”

Burning up hundreds of dollars’ worth of fuel for zero return. Delon tilted his head toward Gil’s bank of computer screens. “You know how to operate that thing?”

“Nope. I’m doing it the old-fashioned way.” His dad waved the cordless phone. Then he heaved an aggravated sigh. “And not having a damn bit of luck.”

The main door banged open behind Delon and Gil stomped in, snarling. “This is the fourth time those fuckers have left us with our ass hanging in the breeze. I don’t care if they offer double our usual rate, we don’t ever schedule another load out of that warehouse.”

“It’s your call.” Their dad shot out of the chair, slapping the phone into Gil’s hand. “I gotta run, I’ve got a…ah…thing this morning.”

And he was gone. Delon trailed Gil into the office. “Has he taken up religion?”

“A woman.” Gil plopped down in his chair and swiveled to face his computer screens. “Dottie, Dolly—whoever his latest sweet young thing is. They had a sleepover. Seems like there was a lot of that going on last night.”

“You took my keys and left me.” Delon’s mouth was speaking, but his brain was still processing latest sweet young thing. “Dad has a lot of…sleepovers?”

Computer keys clattered as Gil took his irritation out on the keyboard. “What are you, ten years old? You didn’t think the old man got laid once in a while?”

“But he and Mom are still married. I thought…”

“He was pining away?” Gil snorted. “He just uses Ma to keep the Dollys and Dotties from getting ideas.”

Delon braced one hand against the doorframe as his world tilted to accommodate Merle Sanchez, player. Of course he’d known his dad hadn’t strapped on a chastity belt when his mother left. Truthfully, he’d avoided thinking about his dad’s love life because, well, shit. Who wanted that in their head? But now…

“How young?”

Gil let loose a string of curses and pounded more keys. “He’s not cruising the high school for chicks, but you might recognize some of ’em from back in your college days.”

The earth shuddered beneath Delon’s feet. “I really should have stayed upstairs.”

“Fuck that. Why should I be the only one who suffers?” Clack, clack, clack, clack—Gil jabbed the same key repeatedly. “Hah! There you are, you sneaky little bastard.”

Delon leaned closer, curious. The screen on the left showed a map of the Tuscaloosa region. The screen on the right was covered in lines of text he couldn’t read from a distance.

Gil shot him a sour look. “Are you just gonna stand there, or sit your ass down and learn something?”

“I can’t…I mean, I didn’t…” Think Gil would ever let him touch the dispatch system. With good reason. “I’m not very good at computer stuff.”

“You’re about to get better.” Gil slapped the seat of the second chair. “Sit, Junior.”

Delon sat, staring at a spreadsheet of distributors and warehouses in Alabama. Each name appeared to be a clickable link. “Is that a database?”

“Yeah. I didn’t like any of the prepackaged stuff so I built my own.” Gil’s fingers danced over the keys, to a beat only he could hear. “You can filter based on the distance from a certain zip code, type of load, and my personal rating system. Are they on schedule, how they treat our drivers, how they pay, that kind of shit. Today we start by looking at five-star joints within a hundred miles of Tuscaloosa that ship refrigerated loads.”

Delon settled the gel pack onto his knee and watched Gil perform what looked like magic. Screens popped up, then disappeared, with Gil providing a running commentary as he clicked, scrolled, typed, and cursed. The longer Delon watched, the more patterns began to emerge from the chaos.

“It’s like a scavenger hunt,” he said.

Gil flashed a savage grin. “The whole thing is a big game, racing other dispatchers to get the best loads, pushing the schedule to keep our guys on time but not sitting on their asses waiting. You watch the maps, the weather, traffic and construction reports, try to route our drivers through and around as fast as possible. At the end of the week, the dispatcher with the most paid miles per truck is the champ.” Gil jabbed a key for emphasis, then pumped his fist. “And we have a winner. A load of fresh peaches headed for Oklahoma, scheduled pickup cancelled due to a breakdown. Now we’ve just gotta grab it before anyone else.”

Delon’s heartbeat had picked up, his system oozing adrenaline. Leave it to Gil to turn dispatching into a battlefield.

Gil reached for the phone, but paused before dialing. “Speaking of missing out, I wish you’d get over this shit with Violet. I’d give my left nut for one of Miz Iris’s cinnamon rolls right now, and Dad’s so deep in withdrawal he’s hitting on women his own age just because they can make a decent meatloaf.”

Delon gaped at him. What was he talking about? Gil always dropped by Iris’s kitchen for coffee and baked goods when Jacobs Livestock wasn’t on the road, and their dad wandered through around dinner time at least once a week. I miss my boys, Iris had said. Delon had assumed she’d meant him and Beni. He’d had no idea his dad and Gil hadn’t been making their usual rounds.

“I’m not stopping either of you.”

Gil shot him an impatient glare. “That’s not how it works, D.”

Because they were his family. And they’d had his back all these months, without saying a word. Delon had to swallow a few times before he could speak without sounding all choked up. “Is that why you tried to hook me up with Tori? To distract me so you could get back on the cookie wagon?”

Gil hitched a shoulder, his gaze glued to the computer screen. “Worth a try. I might be willing to give my left nut for a cinnamon roll, but I’d rather sacrifice yours.”

“Gee, thanks.”

“You’re welcome.” Gil shoved his chair back and motioned Delon forward. “We need a load out of Denver next Thursday. The details are on that sticky note. Try not to fuck anything up before I get off the phone.”