“Big-time. I’m so happy for you, Zane. And now I’m going to find Nate and see if I can make him look at me just like that.”

He squeezed himself into a place at a table beside Micah and Cassie, let the music and party noise wash over him while he ate.

“You actually know all these people?” Micah asked him.

As Zane looked around, he shrugged, shoveled in more tortellini—Ashley hadn’t steered him wrong. “It’s more like Emily knows all these people. They keep coming, don’t they?”

“Music’s tight, food’s good. Who wouldn’t?” Cassie wagged her fork at him. “If you do this again, you’re going to have more. Word spreads, you know? People’ll suck up to you just to get the invite.”

Then she leaned over, dropped her voice. “I don’t want to bring things down, but do you know if Traci’s okay? Her mom and my mom are friends, longtime.”

“She’s with her mother, and in a safe place.”

“Good enough. I’m just going to let my mom know.” She wiggled out, then patted Zane’s shoulder before she walked off. “Good deed.”

“Guess I didn’t tell you I had a little … altercation with Clint Draper a couple weeks back.”

Zane paused, took a look at Micah. “Define ‘altercation.’”

“Just a little contretemps. See, I’m walking down the street, gonna meet Cass at Grandy’s for some eats. As I pass Clipper’s Bar, Draper comes out, gives me a full-on shoulder bump, right? So I just say, like, Hey, share the road, man, keep going, but he comes after me, gets all up my grill, dig? What he is? Shit-faced.”

Since he hadn’t tried it on his first round at the food, Micah paused to stab a fork into Zane’s tortellini. “Not even seven in the p.m., and he’s shit-faced, which is why he’s coming out of Clipper’s, and why he’s looking for a fight. They kicked his ass out.”

“And there you are, real handy.”

“Oh yeah. I just want to get some eats with my girl. Really don’t want to fight a mean drunk, so I’m all, Hey, man, chill, but he doesn’t want to chill. He gives me a couple shoves. I figure I can outrun him, but, shit, I just can’t grow the feathers for that. I reckon I’m going to have to fight this drunk asshole, probably get my own ass kicked. But Cyrus came along. You remember Cyrus, right? Nice guy, was married to Emily for about five minutes back in the day.”

“Yeah, I know him.”

In fact, Zane picked him out of the crowd now simply by the red hair—some white streaked through it.

“He comes up, and he gets in Draper’s grill, tells him to take off, and says if he gets in his truck to drive off, he’s gonna call the law, cause he’s skunk drunk. Draper walks off, shoots us the bird like that hurts our feelings. I wanna buy Cy a drink, but he rain checks it ’cause he’s heading home. I figure that’s that.”

“But it wasn’t?”

“The next morning when I leave for a job, my tires are slashed, all freaking four.”

“Son of a bitch,” Zane muttered. “Did you tell Lee?”

“Yeah, but what’s the point? Can’t prove it was Draper. And better the tires get slashed than me, bro. I’m saying he’ll for sure try something with you, because like Cass said, good deed.”

“Let him try.”

“When he does, I’ve got your back. Keep me on speed dial, man. Seriously. Now, it goes in the box, lid on, ’cause we’ve got partying to do. Like Cass said, the music’s tight. I’m going to find her and show these people how to dance.”

How not to was more like it, Zane thought. Micah had never picked up anything approaching rhythm, but he sure as hell had a good time stomping around on the dance floor.

Zane hoped he’d have a chance to do the same with Darby, but knowing his obligations, walked back to relieve Dave at the grill. And found Lee already had.

“Hey, get yourself a beer and a plate,” Zane told him. “I’ve got this.”

“No, I need a little wind-down time first, and a little grilling for the masses does the job. We’ll talk about the rest tomorrow.”

Understanding, Zane backed off. “When you’re ready, send up a flare.”

“Count on it. Go find your girl.”

“I believe I will.” He walked through the crowd, stopping to talk here and there until he could get to Darby.

She still manned the softball pitch. He spotted Roy, a bunch of teenagers, including Gabe.

He heard the tail end of a challenge as Darby eyed Gabe and lightly tossed one of the balls in the air.

“If I do three in a row, you take over here.”

“Over-sixteen distance,” Gabe added. “Straight pitch, no underhand crap.”

“Of course.”

“Deal. You miss, you buy my lunch next Sub Saturday.”

“Done. Give me room here,” she said, and in her pretty sundress, stepped back to the flag planted to indicate the over-sixteen line.

She rolled her shoulders, tipped her head, took her stance.

She wound up, sent the ball straight through the hole in the plywood and into the net behind.

Zane’s brows lifted as she said, “That’s one.” He already knew she had an arm, now could add she had damn good form.

She sent the next through with a nice little whiz, then picked up a third. She batted her eyes at Gabe as he rolled his.

And hit the sweet spot with the third.

As she polished her nails on her arm, she smiled at Gabe. “You’re my relief. Oh, look, we’ve got another contender.”

Even as Zane shook his head, she grabbed his hand, pulled him up to the line.

“I’m rusty,” he claimed.

“What, you can’t pitch three through the hole?”

“I’m looking for a dance, not a prize.”

“A dance with me? That’s your prize, slugger. Step right up.”

She tossed him a softball. He preferred the size, the toughness of a baseball, but still it hit a chord with him, took him back.

What the hell, he thought, just a kids’ game at a cookout.

He zipped the first one through, felt that quick snap in the blood. He took another, let it fly so it thwacked against the net.

Felt damn good.

He put some speed on the third, winced as the force of it had the net toppling over. “Sorry.”

“You ain’t lost a hair, Zane,” Roy said as Gabe trotted over to fix the net. “Not a single hair. Takes me back.”

“Yeah, me, too.”

Darby ran a hand up his arm. “If you don’t play for the Lakeview team next season, it’s a crime against humanity.”

“Crime against humanity’s a little extreme.”

“Baseball is humanity.” Then she took his hand. “Let’s dance, Walker.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

While Zane watched fireworks bang and bloom in the sky, Clint Draper decided to borrow his good pal Stu’s pickup. Of course, with Stu passed out cold on the couch of his deaf bitch of a grandmother’s basement, Clint couldn’t exactly ask permission for the loan.

He owed Stu, not only for giving him a place to stay, but for digging into his supply of oxy and home brew to help take the edge off.

And still, he was royally pissed.

He’d teach Traci a lesson, a good, hard lesson when she came crawling back, but meanwhile he had others needing good, solid payback.

His pappy had taught him—and those lessons had often come hard—that when somebody fucked with you, you fuck them back. And worse.

He had the whole story now, knew who he needed to fuck back. And no point in waiting to start.

In a couple days, he’d come out of hiding, and good old Stu would swear on his grandmother’s Bible that Clint had been with him up in the hills, fishing and camping all the time.

Nobody’d prove any different.

He raided Stu’s paint supply. When Stu worked, he put time in painting houses, and always took what was left, claiming he’d used every drop.

He had a closet piled with paint cans, old brushes and rollers, dented pans. Plenty for Clint’s purpose.

After carting a few cans to the pickup, tossing in a couple of brushes, Clint drove into town.

He liked being drunk, believed when he’d downed a few he thought clearer, saw clearer, got stronger, even smarter. He didn’t care if he swerved onto the shoulder a few times.

It just woke him up.

When he veered toward Zane’s office, the front left tire hit the curb, then bumped over it. At that time of night, Lakeview slept sound, so no one heard him whistling softly through his teeth as he got to work on the job at hand.

Maybe some paint splashed on him when he opened a can at random, and some dribbled on the sidewalk as he walked across. He sloshed a brush around in what was billed as Moulin Rouge and slapped on his message. Because he wanted nice big letters, he had to open a second can. Blooming Orchid merged with Moulin Rouge.

He’d quit school at sixteen, had a spotty attendance beforehand. Spelling hadn’t been one of his strengths, but the meaning and the hate came across in the sloppy lettering and drips of clashing paint.

SUK MY DIK MUTHR FUKER

Stepping back, he studied his work with some pride and watched drips of paint slide down the pristine white of the building.

Pleased, he used more of the orchid to scrawl FAGGIT across the main door before heaving more paint on the window, dumping the rest on the porch.