The Boy I Grew Up With Read online

  Nor? Nor what?

  Then I heard Channing laughing next to me. “You losers.”

  Everyone looked at him.

  “Chan?”

  He motioned to me. “Put the cats away. We’re not the losers. They are.”

  Both guys groaned. “Come on, Channing.”

  Channing walked forward, his hands forming fists at his sides, and he shook his head. “You can try to take our candy.” He waited a beat. “But I’m going to take yours instead.”

  “Chan, we were just messing around.”

  “Time’s up!”

  “What?” The bigger one started running backward. “You didn’t tell us we had a time limit.”

  Channing started chasing. “I didn’t, because I’m not a LOSER!”

  All pretense was gone. The serial killer/reaper and criminal took off running. Channing was right after them.

  “Channing!” I yelled. “What do you want me to do?” We had two and a half garbage bags of loot. I couldn’t carry them and chase after him too.

  He yelled back, “Just hold on. I’ll be right back!”

  And ten minutes later, he was. With two more bags.

  We’d hit the motherload.

  “What?” I asked as he tossed one of the bags to me. I caught it. The sucker was heavy.

  He gave me a crooked grin, using the back of his arm to wipe over his forehead. He panted. “That was Norm and Matt. Idiots. They thought they could steal from me.”

  “They’re your friends.”

  He shrugged, dropping his bag to the ground and rifling through it. “They’re my best friends after tonight.” He kept looking through his stash, but I was watching him.

  I saw the darkening over his eye and stepped up to him. “You’re going to have a black eye?”

  He paused, looking up.

  I winced, seeing his face full force now. Half of it was going to be black and blue. It was already swelling up. I knew about bruises and stuff. My older brother was a hothead. Or so my dad said.

  “I’m fine.”

  I touched one of the bruises and hissed.

  Why I hissed, I had no idea. Channing didn’t even move.

  A stony look came over him. “I’m fine, Heather.” He took in my robe again. “You still think you're going to be a cat lady?”

  I grinned, shaking my head. “I think I’m going to be an accessory instead.”

  “A bracelet? You mean that?”

  “No.” I nodded to him and the two bags he’d brought. “An accessory to a criminal like you.”

  Channing laughed. I laughed. And as we walked the rest of the way to his house, the candy in bags thrown over our shoulders, Channing reached out and took my hand.

  We held hands the rest of the way.

  Don’t tell anyone.

  15

  Channing

  Present day

  Heather brought her up two nights ago.

  I almost shit my pants.

  I hadn’t been expecting her, but there she was—smack-dab in the middle of my soul.

  Grief I thought long gone was back, like it’d never been gone.

  We’d thought we were going to have a daughter. I’d been planning on proposing, but then Heather woke up one morning and…

  It was like the day my mom died.

  I’d been prepared for losing my mother, or as prepared as a kid could get, but we weren’t prepared to lose our little girl.

  We’d been full of hopes and future plans, and I’d even seen the white picket fence coming my way. There’d probably be a few Harleys parked behind it, but I’d been ready to go the ball-n-chain route—on Heather’s ankle, not mine.

  She was too good for me.

  I heard the bell ring at my old high school and looked up.

  Heather had slept over last night. Bren hadn’t, and when I heard her this morning, I hadn’t been able to keep the “cool older brother/dad” persona in check. We’d had words, Bren had slipped out, and here I was—stalking my own kid sister like the loser dad-wannabe I was, fucking up on a daily basis. I’d seen her go in earlier, and the world hadn’t seemed too messed up. She looked good. The other kids gave her a wide berth, but one that was respectful.

  Pride filled my chest as I watched her.

  She was going to be okay. Right? She looked okay. She looked kickass—a little more on the terrifying side of kickass than Heather used to be when we were in school, but still, a badass.

  My phone buzzed.

  And just like that, seeing that it was Moose calling, my crew life was back. Bren, Heather, her—they had to be pushed aside.

  The phone buzzed in my hand, but I had to take a second.

  That worry/love/grief wasn’t going. It sat on my chest like a fucking elephant.

  I growled. Sitting in my truck, looking like a creep, I gritted my teeth and shoved those feelings down. I stomped on them, and yeah, a part of me went with them.

  Nostrils flaring, I answered the phone. “Yeah?” I barked.

  “Hey.” Moose wasn’t fazed. “There's a guy at the warehouse. Creepy lawyer dude. I'm looking at him through the vids. He's even got the slimy, slicked-back hair.” Moose laughed. “He looks like a fucking pompous Peter.”

  A Peter.

  A part of me was happy. It was time I had someone to fuck with.

  “Okay.” I checked the time, rasping out, “You working later?”

  “I open at eleven.” He paused.

  I knew he’d heard how I sounded.

  He only asked, “You want backup?”

  “Yeah.” You never know who might bring a gun to a cold call drop-in. “Leaving the school now.”

  “School? What? You want to fail anot—”

  I didn't want to hear the ribbing, so I hung up. My phone buzzed a moment later, once I was on the road.

  Moose: High school dropout fuck.

  I chuckled. It helped. Not a lot, but a little.

  When I got to the warehouse, I saw Moose was right. The guy standing outside the gate was a Peter.

  Fucking hell.

  I smirked at him as he turned toward my truck, and I rolled down my window. “Whoever you are, it is not your day.”

  The guy turned away from the gate as I parked.

  I got out, but I was in no hurry to escalate this interaction. The need to get some shit out of me, to make this target bleed was too great.

  I kept back, leaning against my truck.

  I didn’t trust myself, not yet.

  Adjusting his tie, he started for me, his hand out for a shake. “I'm Eric McDougall. Brett Marsch is my client. He's—”

  “I’d stop right there,” I snarled.

  The guy had a bird-like head, and it popped up high. He ran a hand down his tie.

  “I—excuse me?”

  I was already past his question, studying him. “I wasn't expecting the guy to lawyer up. I thought he had a crew here, thought I’d have to deal with the blowback that way.” I frowned. “This mean he doesn't have a local crew?”

  “What?” He frowned. “No. What are you talking about? I'm here on behalf of Brett Marsch, Senior.”

  “You say that like I should give a shit.”

  Another tie adjustment and this time, he pulled the sides of his jacket closer together. He fixed the top button. He really looked the Peter now.

  “I'm here to offer you and your business associates a job proposal.”

  “A proposal? I'm intrigued.” I said it flatly. I wasn't.

  I swear his chest puffed up.

  “Like I said, I represent Brett Marsch, Senior, from Marsch Industries. He's learned you may have come across his son recently. He'd like to know the basis of that interaction.”

  “The basis?” I drawled.

  My hand twitched.

  “Yes. What was the reason behind your interaction with his son?”

  Moose needed to hurry the fuck up.

  I tilted my head to the side. “How much does he want to know?”

  M
y meaning was clear.

  The guy narrowed his eyes.

  He stepped back. “Well, he'd like to know if it was a business interaction or a social outing interaction. Any information you could give my client, he’d be grateful for.”

  I laughed, crossing one ankle over the other. “I’d like to know how grateful he’d be.”

  The lawyer stared at me.

  I stared back.

  He frowned. “Are you attempting to extort my client of money?”

  I smirked. “Those are big words for this high school fuck-up.” I dropped the smirk, letting him know I was serious. I cooled my tone. “Daddy wants to know where his errant son is. Right? I got that right?”

  He swallowed, his Adam’s apple jumping up and down. “Yes. You did.”

  “You don’t know where the fuck you are. We ain’t the friendly small-town folk here. You want something, you pay for it. You want information on your client’s adult son, you pay for it. We clear?”

  He coughed. “Pay for it?”

  I heard a truck approaching. Moose had the best timing.

  His truck whipped down the road and slowed before pulling up to where I stood.

  He rolled down his window. “Hey, high school dropout fucker.”

  I grunted. “Shows you're the idiot. I graduated.”

  “What?” His smirk vanished. “Really?”

  “You’re the one who didn’t graduate.” I gestured ahead. “This fine Peter is offering money to find out what business we had with Mr. Brett Marsch.”

  The lawyer bristled. “My name is Eric McDougall. And I wasn’t offering. We were discussing the option of—”

  “What? Really?” Moose was deadly serious.

  The lawyer swallowed. “Yes.” He frowned. “That’s my name.”

  “Not your name. You’re offering money?”

  “Oh. Uh…” He coughed, then his shoulders slumped. “I guess I am.” Peter adjusted his hold on his briefcase, moving it in front of him as if it were a shield. “Mr. Marsch is willing to pay, but before any payment can be discussed, I need to know what type of interaction you had with his son.” He paused, waiting.

  I had no doubt this had worked on others.

  They would be awed by his slick suit, his combed-back hair, the briefcase that was probably some fucktastically expensive brand, and after waving the promise of money in front of them, their drool would be up to their ankles.

  He stared at us.

  Moose and I stared right back.

  We said nothing. We didn’t blink.

  We were content to wait this Peter out. Hell. This was entertainment for us, just seeing him fidget.

  One minute. Two. He coughed again, smoothing a hand down his tie, and then again—a third smoothing. He couldn’t make it any flatter. The tie was dead. He’d smothered it.

  “Well…” He straightened his cufflinks.

  No. Really. He did.

  Still no reaction from Moose and me.

  “Okay then.” His chest rose and fell. “Can you tell me the reason you interacted with Mr. Marsch, Jr.?”

  Moose and I cracked grins.

  “What?” The lawyer seemed bewildered now.

  Moose gestured to him. “Here’s how we roll. You pay us. Then we tell you.”

  The lawyer looked at me.

  I leaned against my truck and nodded toward Moose. “He’s the muscle. I’d listen to him.”

  Moose flicked his eyes upward, but that was the closest he’d get to an eye roll. His dead-serious face was still on. “Your first mistake was coming here. Your second was mentioning you knew Brett Marsch. Your third was coming dressed like that, and your fourth was letting us know you really want to know what we talked to Marsch about.”

  The lawyer’s eyebrows pulled together.

  Moose amended, “Marsch, Jr.”

  The lawyer swung toward me. I shook my head. “You pay. We talk.”

  He scowled and cursed, reaching for his wallet. He pulled out a few bills and flung them to the ground.

  Twenty bucks.

  Moose and I started laughing.

  Two of them blew away.

  No one made a move to catch them, and I warned, “You might not want to piss us off.”

  Moose didn’t react, but I felt his surprise.

  I was close to snapping. I needed to pull back, but she was there. Right under the surface. She was with Heather. Bren too. Three females in my life, and one was already gone.

  Shit. I had to let this guy know.

  “You insult me one more time, throw money at my feet like I’m a fucking beggar, and your blood will be coating it.” I raised an eyebrow. “We clear?”

  He didn’t move. Not for a full ten seconds. His eyes locked on mine, and without a word, he pulled out a hundred from his wallet.

  When I still didn’t move for it, he walked it over to Moose.

  As soon as Moose took it, I said, “He was here.”

  I stopped.

  He waited.

  I just smiled at him, knowing the threat of violence was in the air and knowing he could feel it.

  He muttered under his breath, “Are you kidding me?” But he thrust over another hundred-dollar bill.

  The next round of this game started, followed by a few more after that. He learned that we’d talked to him and that he had been inside our warehouse.

  I held out until we’d gotten a cool five hundred from him. Then I’d had enough.

  “Look, give us another five hundred and we’ll tell you everything. Anything short of that, piss off.”

  He drew himself to his fullest height, as if offended. But after glancing between Moose and me again, he gave up.

  “Fine,” he muttered, taking his wallet out and emptying it.

  Moose took the money, counted it, and nodded to me.

  “Marsch was running a scam on the nursing home here,” I told the Peter. “We ran him out of town.”

  He looked deflated. “That’s it?”

  We’d beaten the shit out of him, but I wasn’t sharing that with a lawyer.

  “Why are you looking for him?” I asked. “Father dearest just missing his heir?”

  He held his briefcase higher, moving it to rest in front of his stomach. “That’s none of your business.”

  Moose and I shared a look. I stepped forward, folding my arms over my chest.

  Peter edged back a step, his eyes flicking from me to Moose and back again. His mouth thinned.

  “We’re good at finding people,” I told him. “It would be worth your time to pay us to deliver him to you.”

  “Deliver?” he echoed.

  “Yeah. We find him, bring him to you.”

  His head cocked to the side. “What’s the catch?”

  See? He was smart.

  “For a price, we’ll deliver him to you.”

  He sighed, his shoulders drooped, and he shook his head. “Of course. For a price.” He grumbled, pulling out a checkbook. “Why do I have a feeling you’re about to rip me off?”

  “Ten gran—”

  “Ten thousand?!” he sputtered.

  I ignored him. “Lawyers ain’t cheap. You’re driving around, chasing tail on this guy, so either he’s blackmailing you or you’re charging by the hour. Either way, he’s got enough to want to have his son brought back to him. So, yes. Ten fucking thousand, Peter.”

  He growled. “That is not my name.”

  “If he’s in the area, we’ll have him to you in forty-eight hours. If he’s not, it’ll take longer for travel time.” I shrugged. “Take it or leave it. Or we can wait, see if he comes back to finish his con, and we can give him the same option.”

  Moose leaned forward. “Except he’ll pay us to not fuck him up, but fuck you up.”

  “Your choice,” I finished.

  The guy was screwed, and he knew it.

  A vein popped out from the side of his neck. Moose and I did what we’d done before: nothing. We stared back, and we didn’t move an inch.

&
nbsp; “Fine.” He expelled a frustrated sigh, cursing under his breath. “I have a feeling you’ll have no problem figuring where I’ll be staying in the meantime.” He wrote out the check, signing so forcefully his pen ripped a small hole in it. Tearing it out, he flung it toward Moose, then started for his car.

  He was halfway there, past our trucks, when he rotated on his heels. He jabbed a finger at me. “He better be alive and unharmed.”

  We didn’t answer.

  He started for his car, but paused again. “Do I want to ask what a Peter is?” He was already grimacing.

  Moose glanced to me. I dipped my head forward, giving him the go-ahead, and with a wicked smile, he started.

  “You heard of a place called Tuesday Tits?”

  The lawyer’s eyebrows pinched together. “That the bar in town?”

  Moose nodded. “But it ain’t a strip club.”

  “What’s that have to do with a Peter?”

  Moose was getting there. He wasn’t going to be rushed. He spoke slowly. “A Peter is the type of guy who first showed up when Tuesday Tits was renamed. He came in thinking the place was a strip club. He goes in, he looks around. There’s a few girls, but no one showing their tits. So he’s confused, but he doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t leave. He doesn’t ask if the place is a strip club or not. He goes to a dark corner, where he’s ready to stroke it, and he starts drinking. He sits there all afternoon, hoping someone will start dancing, and hell, by the time night rolls around, he’s hoping just any girl starts dancing. He drinks all night long, getting so wasted that he’s a pile of nothing when he’s escorted out. He takes a cab home. Sleeps it off, and comes back the next day. A Peter is that guy who comes every day, drinks every day, just on the hope to see a pair of tits. But he’s so ashamed of himself, he never just asks if it’s a strip club or not. He’s the type of guy that gets Pathetic Every Day At Tuesday Tits, and when he’s called a PEDATT at the end of the night, he turns around and slurs back, ‘I ain’t no Peter.’”

  Moose was smiling wide now, but with a cruel glint. “That’s a Peter.”

  The Peter looked at us. He didn’t blink. He didn’t react. He was still until his hands jerked up and tightened over the steering wheel. “Unharmed,” he said again.

  He peeled out of there, spewing up dirt, some of it raining over us.