Return to Poughkeepsie (12 page)

With each shot, Mary Ellen’s mouth crawled up into a larger smile. When the last shot sounded on the patio, she was grinning like she’d just won a puppy.

9

Tits Okay

“M
OTHERFUCKER
.” B
ECKETT
T
HREW
H
IS
K
ENO
T
ICKET
on the floor. “I swear one day I’m figuring this shit out.” Then he stood and picked up the damn ticket. He slid his sunglasses on just as Chery opened the front door to the liquor store. The morning sun felt like knives in his head, even with his sunglasses on, and he cringed.

She was flustered, dropping her keys as she began apologizing. “Sorry, boss. I’m late—I know I’m late. My sister was late to the program, and I’m late, and I’m sorry.”

“Settle yourself, baby. It’s okay, baby! Monday morning is not a hot time for liquor. I’ve been playing the fucking Keno game, and I swear on my left, slightly hairless nut that this damn thing is rigged.”

He picked up a few receipts that had fallen like leaves from her messy purse. Chery was wearing a turtleneck on an unseasonably warm day. She did that a lot, actually. At first he’d thought her boyfriend was a sucker—got off on leaving his open-mouthed mark on his woman. But the last two times Chery was late, she’d worn thick makeup as well. The lights of the liquor store worked like an x-ray, and he could see the bruises she’d tried to cover. Didn’t take a genius to know Chery was getting knocked around by her “man.”

“Just get behind that thing and make sense of the sales I forced it to take,” Beckett said, sliding away from the register. “You’re good. No worries, baby.” He made sure Chery gave him a smile before he whistled through his teeth, and Gandhi snorted himself out of his deep snores. “I’m going to sort out that shipment in the back.”

Chery nodded and his ugly dog followed him, passing gas with every step. Beckett shook his head and slid his glasses off, hooking them on the back of his T-shirt. “I used to be cool. I had some swagger before you came farting along, G.”

The dog gave him an open-jawed smile, his tongue lolling out.

Beckett’s office was in the back. G had a nice fluffy bed, which he immediately curled up in. Beckett grabbed the inventory list and began sorting the booze. His mind drifted with the manual labor…to Chery. He was desperate every damn day, trying to be a better fucking guy. It was like an addiction, his need to bust people’s freaking skulls for being assholes. This girl he had on the payroll was a hot mess when she’d applied for a job about eight months ago—nervous and shifty during the interview. She had huge gaps in her résumé. Just the type of person he tried to hire.

He didn’t need the goddamn money. Mouse had set him up so sweet he didn’t need a damn thing. This liquor store had been an impulse buy. It was a sack of shit. But it was his church now. He collected people: patrons, employees, the local hookers. They found their way here, and he tried to give them a damn chance. Loan them money that didn’t have their blood on the note. He was shocked how damn grateful the misfits of this little town were. And how often they surprised the shit out him.

Chery was a test, though. In the past, Beckett would have just killed her boyfriend—or at the very least broken enough bones in the man’s body to make him see God. But this new Beckett, this guy he was trying his damnedest to be, was all about letting people make their choices, find their way. Trusting them a little.

And it was because he didn’t kill the boyfriend that Beckett learned about Vere. Chery was the only provider for her older sister, who had autism. In a few quiet moments when he listened, he heard about how Vere was Chery’s only family. They were fiercely devoted to each other. Their mother, who had seen to it that Vere had all she needed, passed from cancer years ago. Chery had come home from college and vowed to keep Vere’s schedule as close to the same as possible. Vere participated in a program four days a week, doing jobs in the community with the help of an amazing staff. There were also the horseback riding lessons Vere loved. An old horse had made a connection with her, a lady who lived inside her head so much. Chery teared up when she described Vere’s rare shows of emotion around the damn horse. The therapist wasn’t cheap either, and their mother’s medical plan had expired with her life.

Chery’s boyfriend was also her landlord. They never got very far into discussing her relationship with him, but Beckett had an inkling Chery put up with the man at least partly to keep things stable for Vere.

Slowly, quietly, Beckett had been able to go behind the scenes and donate things to help Vere. The horseback riding lessons were now free: the farm’s owner loved getting a brand new John Deere tractor in exchange. The program that took Vere for her job in town had received stunning donations. They were now able to take their participants on even grander adventures. And the final piece had been when Beckett was able to get Chery a medical plan. She contributed a pittance from her paycheck, and Beckett supplied her with insurance that would take care of her and her sister for their entire lifetimes.

And on the days when Chery came in all excited about a new development with Vere, it was all worth it. Helping her had been a rush. Maybe adopting Gandhi had been the starting point, but there had been a kindness avalanche since then.

It was work though. He wanted to kick the shit out of Chery’s landlord/boyfriend/asshole so damn much. And he wasn’t ruling that out. The man had stopped in to buy alcohol once. Chery had disappeared instantly into the back of the store, and Beckett had stood at the cash register with his arms folded. The guy’s name was Jared. Normal-looking fucker. He tried to offer money, but Beckett wouldn’t take it. He looked at the man without his nice-guy filter, and it took only his stare. He’d squinted into the bastard’s soul. Jared had immediately dropped the money and the whiskey and left.

Beckett twirled a box cutter in his hand, trying to put some thought into his decisions. Working with the type of people he now sought out, he knew he couldn’t fix everybody’s everything. And a lot of damn times ladies who took a beating would side with their men, no matter what. If that happened he’d lose his connection to Chery.

It was tough. He prayed sometimes. To Mouse. Which probably made Bibles spontaneously combust, but whatever. He asked for patience and clarity, and damn it if once in a while he didn’t feel like he was getting a shot of just that.

He looked over the bottles and cans he’d unpacked. There was a chick on the side of a particular six-pack of beer who looked like Eve. Stupid. He ordered the damn stuff religiously even though the beer never sold and tasted like shit. He was thinking about her again out of fucking nowhere. That’s always how it was. He’d be doing something boring and normal, and then it would be her. The way her damn blue eyes would see through all his crap. How damn gorgeous she was, but used her looks only as another weapon.

Years. He’d been gone years. He’d been gone so long, it was crippling now. She’d expect so much more than what he’d accomplished. He should be saving people from fires every day. Or finding missing kids. But all he had to offer as evidence of being a better person was running the worst liquor store in a little out-of-the-way town by the water.

He sliced through the last box and put the last few six-packs in the cooler. He heard the bell on the front door and Chery’s welcome to Nolan. The guy’d been out of prison for ten years—he had grandchildren now, for crap’s sake—and no one else would give the poor bastard a freaking job. He was a great guy who’d made a bunch of stupid choices as a kid.

Beckett woke Gandhi and grabbed his keys. Chery would manage the front for most of the day, and Nolan would take over at night and lock up. With his employees in place, he was out. He slapped the older man on the back on his way through the store. Chery blew Gandhi a kiss, and Beck was out the door. He felt good, but he had no idea if the simple shit he did here would ever be worthy of Eve.

Kyle took another huge breath and forced a smile as Cole stuck the needle in her stomach. He was decent at making it not hurt too much, and she was trying to be a good sport, but these fertility treatments were a freaking joke. Between the bloating and the imported hormones she felt more like a water balloon than a woman.

“There. All done for today. You okay?” Cole stood and rubbed her stomach.

“I can’t even begin to think about this. How’s Ted? What’s it been, a week now since he was hurt? Did Eve come home? Tell me something else.” Kyle sat on the bed and watched Cole meticulously put away the syringes and vials of drugs that contained her hopes and dreams.

“It has been a week, and Blake said she came by pretty much just long enough to set up security for her dad. Her parting words were ‘protect your family.’”

Kyle pulled her knees to her chest. Her stomach burned, and there was an odd metal taste in her mouth.

“Livia said she had the alarm people out the other day. But I mean, is the concern Beckett’s enemies or what?”

Cole turned, and she indulged in staring at him. His skin was the most gorgeous color, and it made his clear eyes sparkle even more. He could still look mysterious even though they’d been married for years now.

“Or what. No one’s heard from Beck in years. I don’t think it’s related. It’s bad news, and we have to be careful, but it doesn’t necessarily have anything to do with him.” Cole crawled onto the bed and wrapped his arms around her.

She traced the
Sorry
tattoo on his forearm. “You don’t think he’s dead, do you?”

She could feel him shake his head. “No. I think I’d know. Blake and I think he’s trying to turn himself around, and that might take a while. I hope, anyway.”

“I think he’s still alive too.” She sighed and left the conversation at that. Speculating about Beckett was an exercise in futility. Her eyes landed on her “fertility kit” where Cole had placed it on the dresser. She hoped it wasn’t the same type of thing.

10

Vindictive

R
YAN
L
OOKED
A
T
H
IS
P
HONE
in the Wednesday-morning Starbucks line. Christian Grey was calling. He answered somewhat timidly, “Yo.”

“Morales, I need you at the station in thirty minutes.” John McHugh’s voice was unmistakable.

“Sure, boss. You want something from ’Bucks?” Ryan handed his frequent-caffeine-binger card to the barista and added the captain’s order to his before hanging up.

While he waited for his coffees, he scrolled to the contact page on his phone. Angry Trish had changed all his contacts to characters from
Fifty Shades of Grey
. He knew this because Al’s Auto Shop, usually listed first, was now “50 Shades of Grey gave me more orgasms than you.” After that he had Anastasia Steele and A Helicopter. Worst of all, his mom—whose number he could thankfully remember—was listed as The Red Room of Pain.

He didn’t bother fixing it. His order was ready for pickup. God love Starbucks. They made a breakup go down smoother.

When he entered the precinct, Kathy took a break from filing her nails to wave at him with the phone propped on her shoulder. He nodded and rushed past, kicking himself for not getting her her favorite latte. McHugh was waiting for him in the conference room, and Ryan closed the door with his foot. His boss looked serious.

“Here’s your drug of choice, Captain. What the hell’s going on?” Ryan tried to make sense of all the old files scattered on the table.

McHugh sipped the drink and kept scanning the files. After a beat he spoke. “I’ve got a real delicate situation I’m dealing with here, and I think you’re the man for the job. You fit the profile.”

Ryan waited him out. His captain was a methodical cop. Usually his files were arranged just so. This mess would normally lead Ryan to believe the man was drunk, but when McHugh’s red eyes met his he could tells his boss was fighting some demons, but not the bottle.

“We’re getting some escalating crime. Some beatings, some reports of people being harassed. There’s a bit of a method to it. Someone’s looking for something, and trying to be stealthy about it. I haven’t dealt with this for years.” McHugh tapped the crime photo of a man stabbed over and over, to death.