But the thought that he might need someone, might need her, kept chipping away at her resolve.
She was about to go inside out of the wind to call him and offer her condolences when a vehicle pulled into her drive. Living so far from town, she didn’t get many visitors.
The sound of the engine drew her to the edge of the deck to see who’d arrived.
When she recognized the Ford truck, she nearly groaned aloud. It was Sergeant John Hutchinson, a recently divorced C.O. who’d been showing a bit too much interest in her. She liked him. He was nice, and not unhandsome with his sandy-colored hair, hazel eyes and lantern jaw. But he’d been hinting that he wanted to take her to dinner, to a movie, to Mendocino for a play—always something. Other than accepting an offer to grab a sandwich two weeks ago and permitting him to bring her dinner once last month, she’d politely refused his invitations. She’d already explained that she wouldn’t date anyone who worked at the prison, but he didn’t seem to hear her. And that edict now struck her as absurd. Was it worse to date someone who worked at the prison? Or someone who was going to be incarcerated there?
“Hey!” he called when he saw her leaning over the railing.
She forced a smile. “Hi. What’s going on?”
“I brought you dinner.”
Peyton sighed. She’d allowed him to cook for her once and here he was again.
Pushing down the irritation she felt at his persistence, she descended the stairs to tell him he couldn’t stay. But by the time she reached his truck, he was taking out several foil-covered dishes.
“Wow, you really went to a lot of trouble,” she said when she saw that he’d brought three side dishes, along with a couple of grilled steaks.
“Not too much. I can’t wait for you to try my homemade marinade. It’ll knock your socks off.”
“John, I—”
He must’ve been able to tell by her tone that she was about to explain her position yet again, because he cut her off. “Hey, I know the rules. I’m not hitting on you. It’s just dinner. Friends can bring friends dinner now and then, can’t they?”
But this was the second time he’d done it in four weeks. And her mind was on Virgil, the woman who’d been killed, Laurel, Wallace and the Hells Fury. She wasn’t in the mood for a social call—and yet she had to admit the distraction might be good for her. At least having John over would keep her home. “Of course, as long as you understand—”
“Relax, it’s only dinner,” he broke in. “What happened to your leg?”
“My leg?”
“You were favoring it.”
“Oh, I twisted my ankle.”
“How?”
She went with what she’d told Michelle. “I tripped on the stairs.”
“See? It’s a good thing I came over. You need a little TLC.”
Telling herself he wouldn’t stay long, she helped him carry the food into the kitchen.
“Pretty Boy called,” Horse told Shady. “Ink iced a woman at Skin’s sister’s house this morning.”
Shady was out in his garage, which he’d finished. The rest of his house was a dump. A weight set filled his living room. But this room was nice. He’d put in a bar along one side, bought a pool table, hung some beer signs and created a place of honor for his antique Harley over in the corner. He’d even poured a large cement pad outside for extra parking. But it was the gun cabinets along the back, and the weapons inside them, that were his pride and joy.
“What’d you say?” Setting aside the Taurus Millennium series PT145 he’d been cleaning, he swiveled from his worktable to face Horse. A giant of a man with a pockmarked face, bulbous nose and shaved head, Horse always made Shady feel like a kid by comparison. Shady had gotten his nickname from his resemblance to the white rapper Eminem; they had the same slight build and forever-young face. His appearance made it difficult for him to be taken seriously, but no amount of weight lifting seemed to change that. Horse, on the other hand, didn’t need to lift. He had bulk in spades. According to Mona, the woman Shady was currently living with, Horse looked mean and stupid. She was right about the mean part. But he wasn’t stupid. He made almost as much off pimping out whores as Shady did selling drugs.
“Ink busted a cap in a woman,” Horse repeated.
Shady wiped his hands on a cloth before tossing it aside. “It’d better be Skin’s sister.”
“It’s not. Laurel was gone by the time they arrived. They think she’s in protective custody.”
“Then what the hell? Why’d they kill someone?”
“Frustration and an itchy trigger finger. Ink said he wanted to let Skin know he’s coming for him.”
“We still don’t have a clue where Skin is?”
“No.”
That answered everyone’s questions, then, didn’t it? Made what Virgil Skinner was doing pretty damn obvious.
Cursing, he shoved the ammunition, gun parts and tools off his worktable as he stood.
Horse didn’t flinch as they hit the floor, but the noise drew Mona, who poked her head into the garage. “Hey, what’s going on?”
Shady could’ve said Martians had landed and she would’ve believed him. She was so stoned she had to hang on to the door frame so she wouldn’t tumble headfirst into the pool table. “Did I ask you to come in here?”
He’d told her he wanted her to look like a Playboy bunny at all times—laughable considering the stretch marks on her stomach and the crooked teeth in her mouth. But he had to give her points for trying. She wore nothing but a black bra, a thong and a pair of high heels.
“What’d you say?” Her words slurred and her body swayed as if she might lose her grip and fall despite her efforts to remain upright.
What a worthless crack whore. She’d lost all five of her children to Childhood Protection Services, quite a feat even for a bad mother. He only kept her around because it was nice to have a piece of ass whenever he wanted. She didn’t complain when it got too rough, and she let him pass her to the boys, which he did whenever he wanted to prove that he’d share everything he owned with his Crew brothers.
But he was tired of Mona’s drug habit. “Go inside!” he snapped. “I don’t want to see your ugly face!”
Glassy eyes smudged with mascara, lips stretched into a vacant smile, she stepped back and let the door close as if he’d asked her nicely.