“I don’t remember my start date.”
“That long, huh? But no important cases. What did you do before you became a PI?”
Anger eats at my self-control. He knows I’m lying about my previous occupation. Does he want to correct me again, this time in front of everyone? Now I wish I was back in the Vice family compound. A firefight would handle this perfectly.
But, alas, we’re in a goddamn backyard barbecue.
“I did some odd jobs,” I reply after a strained moment. “That’s when I met Miles. Life has been looking up since.”
Rhett offers a quick smile. “That’s good to hear.”
Lars and Julian must finally pick up on our animosity, because they say nothing. When the silence persists, Rhett takes a bite of his hot dog and then regards Lars with a nod. “This is excellent,” he says. “Best I’ve had outside of a baseball game.”
“Of course you like it,” I interject. “It’s rather phallic.”
From the look on his face—I wish I had been recording—he doesn’t like me commenting on that at all. I can’t help but chuckle. Lars and Julian slink away after exchanging knowing glances, leaving the barbecue unattended. I flip off the gas and grab a burger.
“What’s wrong, Princess?” I ask Rhett. “You don’t look so hot.”
“Keep my personal life out of this,” he commands, terse.
“What’s that about your personal life? You want me to ask you a bunch of questions in front of other people like some sort of verbal dick-checking contest? I’ll get right on that.”
Miles walks up before Rhett utters another word. He has two plates of beans and chips. He hands me one, and I hand over the burger. The tension in the atmosphere doesn’t wane. Miles flips his attention from me to Rhett, and back to me.
“Logan is a great cook,” he says, picking the diplomatic route and ignoring the situation. “How do you like the food, Pierce?”
I take a bite of the beans. I wanted to snap back an answer, but the savory flavor of the food stops me dead in my tracks. You know what the Vice family parties lacked? Food like this. Sure, they got catering, but it lacked the magic. I don’t even like baked beans—I got a scar once from opening a can of baked beans all wonky—but these are so good I might not eat anything else.
After a second mouthful, I nod. “I like it.”
“Yeah, right? Logan has talent.”
“Hm.”
“So, how are you getting along with everyone? I saw you talking to Lars and Julian.”
I finish up my fifth bite and snort. “Julian thought I was your father.”
Miles half chokes on some of his beans. After he recovers, the hacking quickly turns to outright laughter. “Are you serious? Man, could you imagine if my father was actually here?”
“This party would devolve into an episode of Cops,” I quip.
Miles and I share a round of chuckles. I guess good food really does help my spirits. Plus everything is a little better with Miles around. He’s not the type of guy to get offended, even when the punch line is his own father.
Rhett glances between me and Miles, his expression neutral. “I take it your father isn’t much in your life, Miles?”
“No,” he replies. “But I’ve reconnected with my mother, and I have my brother and sister.”
“What about your father?” Rhett asks me.
“Dead,” I state. “Has been for some time.”
“Sorry to hear that.”
I shrug. It’s hard to feel something when I never think of the man.
“Do you see your parents often?” Miles asks Rhett, no doubt being polite, but who really wants to talk about their old man and woman?
Rhett shakes his head. “No. They died a while back.”
“DUI?” I ask.
Miles hits me in the ribs. “Pierce. We shouldn’t talk about this.”
“That’s how my pops went. Killed himself in a car accident.”
“Drive-by shooting, actually,” Rhett intones. “We lived in a bad neighborhood and shared a duplex with a bunch of drug dealers, apparently.”
Heh. That explains a lot. Guy really doesn’t like crime, and I can see why.
“Sorry for your loss,” Miles mutters.
I eat some more of my fancy beans and then lament the fact they’re gone once I’m finished. I don’t have much more to add to this conversation that wouldn’t be callous or unnecessary. I’m not as hung up about death as most people seem to be. Who cares if my father wasted himself? I’m still drinking beer, aren’t I? Or maybe I’m just a dumb fuck who hasn’t learned his lesson.
My phone buzzes, and I pull it out to check the screen.
Shelby.
“I have to take this,” I say to Miles. “I’ll be right back.”
He nods and then gives his attention to Rhett. I almost want to ignore the call and stop that from happening, but I really need to talk to Shelby. I walk a few paces away and then answer.
“Pierce?” I hear him say through the speaker.
“Yeah,” I reply. “Where are you?”
“I’m in danger.”
I hold my breath and wait. He says nothing. Finally, I mutter, “Okay. What’re you doing about it?”
“Is anyone following you? Has anyone asked you to look for me?”
“Yeah. The cops.”
“Are you helping them?”
“No.”
“Then why did you call me?”
I let out a long exhale. “I need to talk to you about this case. I’ve discovered some weird stuff about it.”
“Then meet me at Red Roof Inn,” he says in a whispered voice. “Don’t tell anyone, especially the cops.”
“Right now?”
“Right now.”
Fuck. I roll my eyes. “Fine,” I say. “But this can’t take long.”
“Don’t worry—it won’t.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
I PARK in front of the Red Roof Inn and stare at the generic cookie-cutter establishment. Better than Noimore, with its seedy businesses and shady practices, but it’s still a lackluster hotel that reeks of mediocrity. I step out of my car and keep my new jacket zipped tight. I’m not a fan of this jacket—too stiff—but it’s thick enough to hide a handgun.
My phone buzzes, and I glance at the screen. Miles sent me a message that reads: if something happens, call me. He didn’t want
