Roxy’s heart stalled. Her head went light enough to float away. “Completely unnecessary,” she managed, but her voice sounded like it came from a vast distance. No good. She breathed deep and willed herself steady. Then she stared straight at Randy, so the rest of the alley became a blur. “Your beef is with me. With me,” she repeated, tapping her chest. “And I’ll pay.” She couldn’t get the words out fast enough. “I’ll pay the five grand, and I’ll pay the fifteen percent every month, so long as West is left alone. If anything happens to him, I swear to God I’ll—”
“Nothing’s going to happen to him, as long as you meet your obligations.” Randy dropped the cigarette and crushed it under the heel of his boot. “I got some other business to attend to this afternoon, but I’ll be back in three hours—right here—to pick up my money. Don’t be late.”
She grabbed his arm when he started to turn. “I can’t get five thousand in three hours. Half today.” That would pretty much wipe her out. “Half on Mon—”
“Hey, Roxy, everything cool?”
Over Randy’s shoulder, she saw Dobie and Kenny standing at the corner of the building, peering into the alley.
“Cool,” she called, forcing herself to smile and let go of Randy. She ran her sweaty palm down the front of her black skirt.
“Five grand, three hours,” he growled just loud enough for her to hear, then he turned and strode toward the mouth of the alley, shoulder-checking Kenny on the way.
“Ow, man.” Kenny craned his neck and rubbed his chest. “Asshole.” Turning back to her, he asked, “Who was that?”
She shook her head, buying a second to stabilize her voice. “Nobody. Random idiot who took a wrong turn and got pissed when I told him he’s a good three hundred miles from Nashville.”
Dobie made some crack, but it was lost on her. She smiled and shrugged to try to cover the fact that her mind was on fast-forward, desperately figuring. She’d go to Roger and beg for a loan against the advance from PlayHard Music. Whatever their terms, she’d accept them in exchange for the cash they’d offered. She’d already fucked herself and her potential career when she’d stupidly signed a contract with Randy.
It hardly mattered now whether the PlayHard deal was unscrupulously one-sided or turned out to be the most fair and straightforward offer she could have hoped for. All she cared about was keeping West out of Uncle Billy’s line of fire. Step one? Give Randy the five grand. Step two? Leave. Get gone. Put as much space as possible between her and the man she loved.
In hindsight, she could see that she’d been unforgivably reckless—with her career, with her determination to keep Gibson, and, most of all, with the man she loved. All that recklessness had finally caught up with her, and she couldn’t allow West to pay the price.
Chapter Twenty-Two
West pushed through the double doors of the old Bluelick courthouse-turned-police department, stepped outside, and stopped short. Kenny and Dobie stood on the top of the wide marble steps, about to walk into one of the last buildings in town he expected them to enter on their own accord.
“You guys looking for something?”
“Not anymore,” Kenny said. “We were hoping to find you.”
He checked his watch. “You found me.”
“We, uh”—Dobie glanced around like he anticipated snipers on his six then back at him—“need a word with you.”
Great. They’d done something stupid and were trying to get in front of it by beating a path to him with their side of the story before the person on the other side called the PD. He wasn’t sure he had the patience for it. Bottom-heavy gray clouds rolled sluggishly across the sky, promising a storm later, but for now they turned the afternoon stifling and muggy. Already his uniform shirt stuck to his lower back. “Can you walk and talk at the same time?” Without waiting for an answer, he went down the stairs. “I’m responding to a call.”
“Dude, what we have might be more important.” Dobie fell into step beside him.
“More important than someone knocking over Mr. Cranston’s garbage bins? Inconceivable.”
“Cranston knocks them over his own damn self. You know that, right?” Dobie said. “He’s too old and feeble to haul ‘em to the curb on garbage day but too cheap to hire someone to do it for him. He gets about halfway and loses his grip. They fall, they spill, and then he calls you guys and complains that somebody vandalized his bins. He’s using you for free labor.”
West felt the warning throb of a headache behind his eyes and accepted that the barometric pressure was falling. “Turns out we didn’t need a CSI team to crack the case of Cranston’s garbage cans. We know he’s responsible. We also know he’s a war vet and a retired Navy pilot. I get that it’s hard to look at a person so much older than you and see someone who once helped others and rarely needed anybody’s help in return. But he was that guy. So yeah, maybe he’s too proud, or cheap, or just too deep in denial to ask a friend or hire someone to handle chores for him. This is his way of calling for help. Shaun? He’s not the kind of man to let that call go unanswered, and neither am I.”
No, he was not, but he wouldn’t mind handing future Cranston’s calls over to Cadet Brixton once she completed training, wrapped up the undercover assignment that would likely get Kenny and Dobie out of his hair for a while, and took her place with the Bluelick PD.
“That is totally decent of you.” Kenny looked around before
