Chapter Two
Vince Haven lowered the bill of his ball cap and watched the Saab pull out of the parking lot. Normally he didn’t mind doing a favor for a beautiful woman. Especially one who’d saved him from humping it ten miles into town. Although compared to a thirty-mile jog or a hike in the Afghani mountains with at least sixty pounds on his back and enough ammo in his chest rig to blow up a small village, a ten-mile walk across the Texas panhandle was just a pleasant stroll through the country. Back in the day he’d have packed an M4A1 across his chest, his Sig on his hip, and a .45ACP 1911 custom sidearm strapped to his thigh.
He reached for his old Navy-issue pack and tucked it under one arm. He’d turned Sadie down and blamed it on not having a suit. Which was true but wasn’t why he’d told her no. Blond-haired Sadie wasn’t his type. She was certainly pretty enough. Beautiful really, but he liked his blondes easy. Easygoing, easy tempered, easy to be around, and easy to get in the sack. Brunettes and redheads, too. An easy woman didn’t ask anything from him, like wearing a suit and attending a wedding where he knew no one. Easy didn’t chew his ears off with talk of
He didn’t know what that said about him. Probably a lot. Probably things he wouldn’t particularly like to admit. Good thing for him, he didn’t particularly give a shit.
The rubber heels of his boots didn’t make a sound as he moved toward the front of the store, passing a white truck with a big dent in the rear fender. The woman who’d dropped him off was far from dumb. A dumb woman wouldn’t phone in his ID like he was a serial killer before she let him in her car. He’d actually been impressed by that, and the nonexistent stun gun had been a nice touch, too. He didn’t know if she was easy. Sometimes smart women were just as easy as dumb, but he’d guess not. Her clothes—jeans and a big gray hoodie—hadn’t given any clues, and he hadn’t been able to tell if the body matched the face. Not that it mattered. Women like Sadie always wanted a relationship. Even when they said they didn’t, and he wasn’t in any position to commit to more than a one- or two-night stand. Possibly more if all the woman wanted was great sex.
He pulled open the front door, and the smell of popcorn, hot dogs, and Pine-Sol hit him. A cowboy stood at the counter loaded down with jerky and a twelve-pack of Lone Star, chatting it up with a woman with a pile of fine gray hair and deep wrinkles. A white “Don’t Mess with Texas” T-shirt was tucked into the belted skirt beneath her breasts. She looked a bit like a skinny Shar Pei with long, dangly earrings.
“Hello, Aunt Luraleen.”
“Vince!” His mother’s sister glanced up from bagging the cowboy’s jerky. “Well, aren’t you just a handsome sight.” Her blue eyes were bright as she came around the counter. She hurled herself into his chest and he dropped the pack at his feet. She wrapped her arms around as much of him as she could and squeezed him with the kind of free affection he’d never understood. His mother’s Texas relatives were natural-born huggers, like it was part of them. Like it was in their DNA, but somehow neither he nor his sister had inherited the hugging gene. He raised a hand to pat her back. How many pats was enough? One? Two. He kept it at two.
She lifted her chin from his chest and looked up at him. It had been several years since he’d seen her, but she hadn’t changed. “You’re as big as hell and half of Texas,” she said in that deep, tobacco raspy twang that had scared the hell out of him as a kid. How she’d lived so long was a testament to stubbornness rather than clean living. He guessed he’d inherited that particular strand of DNA because he hadn’t exactly lived a clean life himself. “Good-lookin’ as original sin, too,” she added.
“Thanks.” He smiled. “I get my looks from my Southern relatives.” Which wasn’t true. His Texas relatives were fair-skinned and redheaded. Like his sister. The only thing he’d inherited from his mother was green eyes and a penchant to roam from place to place. He got his black hair and roving eye from his father.
Luraleen gave him one last squeeze with her skinny arms. “Bend down here so I can kiss you.”
As a kid, he’d always cringed. As a thirty-six-year-old man, and a former Navy SEAL, he’d endured worse than his aunt’s Marlboro breath. He lowered his cheek.
She gave him a big smack, then rocked back on the heels of her comfortable shoes as the cowboy exited the Gas and Go. “Luraleen,” he said as he passed.
“See ya tomorrow night, Alvin.”
The cowboy colored a deep pink as he walked out the door. “Does he have a thing for you?”
“Of course.” The soles of Luraleen’s shoes squeaked on the linoleum as she turned and headed back behind the counter. “I’m a single woman with needs and prospects.”
She was also in her late sixties with a bad smoker’s wheeze and had about twenty extra years on the cowboy. Twenty hard, unattractive years. He laughed. “Aunt Luraleen, you’re a cougar.” Jesus, who would have thought? It just went to show that some men had no standards. Some women—mainly his sister—might consider Vince a dog but he did have his standards. Old ladies with smoker’s hacks was one of them.
Luraleen’s raspy laugh joined his and ended in a coughing fit. “You hungry?” She pounded on her bony chest. “I got Wound Hounds in the warmer. My jalapeno dogs are real favorites with the customers.”
He was hungry. Hadn’t eaten since Tulsa.
“And I got some regular all-beef franks. Folks like to load ’em up with Cheez Whiz, salsa, and chili.”
Not that hungry. “Maybe I’ll just have a Wound Hound.”
“Suit yourself. Get a beer.” She smiled and motioned toward the big coolers. “Get two and I’ll join you in the back room.”
While Vince’s mother had been deeply religious, Aunt Luraleen had worshipped at her favorite bar with a bottle of cheap booze and a pack of smokes. He moved to the cooler and opened the glass door. Cool air brushed his face as he grabbed a couple of Shiner Blondes. He hadn’t had a Shiner since he’d been in San Antonio visiting Wilson’s mother. Pete Bridger Wilson had graduated BUD/S with Vince and was one of the smartest guys Vince had ever met. He’d had a big round head stuffed with everything from the trivial to the profound. He’d been a tall, proud Texan, a teammate, and a SEAL brother. He’d also been the best and bravest man Vince had ever known, and the accident that had changed Vince’s life had taken Wilson’s.
On the way to the back room, Vince stuck one bottle beneath his arm and snagged two Wound Hounds out of the warming drawer. Those jalapeno and all-beef dogs rolled up and back on one of the nastiest-looking wiener grills he’d ever seen.
“I expected you hours ago,” Luraleen said as he walked into the room. She sat at an old battered desk with a Marlboro clamped between her fingers. Obviously smoking in the workplace was acceptable at the Gas and Go. It probably didn’t hurt that she owned the place.
He handed her the beer, and she held the neck as he twisted off the top. “I had a little trouble with my truck about ten miles outside of town.” He twisted off his own top and took a chair across the desk. “It’s still parked out there on the side of the road.”
“And you didn’t call?”
He frowned. Still unable to believe what he had to confess. “My phone’s dead.” He was Mr. Prepared. Always made sure his gear was in tip-top working order. There had been a time in his life when preparation had been a matter of living or dying. “I think something is wrong with the charger.”
She took a long drag and blew it out. “How’d you get here? You didn’t have to walk, did ya?”
“Someone stopped and gave me a lift.” He pulled back the foil on his hot dog and took a bite. It wasn’t the best meal, but he’d certainly eaten worse. Silkworm pupas from a street vendor in Seoul came to mind.
“Someone from around here?”
It had either been the pupas or dog meat stew. The pupas had been smaller. He swallowed and took a drink from the bottle. It had helped that he’d been blind drunk.
“Who?”
“Her name was Sadie.”
“Sadie? The only Sadie from around here is Sadie Jo Hollowell, but she doesn’t live in Lovett these days.” Luraleen poured her beer into a Tweety Bird coffee mug. “She took off right out of high school. Abandoned her poor daddy.”
“She mentioned that she doesn’t live here anymore.”
