Deadly Gamble

He killed Chester. The reminder boiled up out of my subconscious mind. What other reason could he have had, except pure meanness?

My dinner scalded its way up into the back of my throat. I swallowed hard. I might have been scared shitless, but I wasn’t about to vomit in the Volvo. You can’t get the smell out.

I got back to Cave Creek without incident, and for once, I was glad to see Tucker’s distinctive bike parked in the lot. I sat there in my car, with the engine running and the doors locked, and felt frantically around in the depths of my purse for my cell phone.

It eluded me, so I upended the whole bag on the passenger seat, scrabbled through the usual purse detritus until I closed my hand over high-tech salvation, and speed-dialed Tucker’s number.

“Mojo?” he said, after three rings. I heard the sound of pool balls clicking, and the twang of some mournful tune playing on the jukebox.

Thank God, I thought.

I tilted my head back and closed my eyes, hyperventilating.

Tucker tried again, this time with a note of urgency in his voice. “Mojo? Is that you? Where—? Damn it, say something.”

“I saw him,” I ground out. Then I had to slap a hand over my mouth for a moment, because I was either going to puke or start screaming.

“You saw who?”

According to the Damn Fool’s Guide to English Grammar, he should have said “whom,” but this was no time to split hairs. The man was an ASU graduate, for God’s sake. If he hadn’t mastered the language by now, there was no point in correcting him.

I spoke through parted fingers. “My b-brother.”

“I didn’t know you had a brother,” Tucker mused. “Where are you?”

I uncovered my mouth, but screaming and puking were still viable options. “In the parking lot,” I squeaked.

“You’re calling from the parking lot?”

Screaming squeezed out puking and took a solid lead. “No, damn it! I’m calling from the freakin’ roof!”

“Chill,” Tucker said. “I’ll be right out.”

I watched, still clutching the phone to my ear, as the side door swung open and Tucker ambled out of Bad-Ass Bert’s. He scanned the lot, got a fix on the Volvo, and sprinted in my direction.

I rolled down the driver’s-side window about an inch.

“He might have followed me,” I whispered.

Tucker braced his hands on the side of the Volvo and peered in at me. “Open the door, Mojo,” he said.

“He killed my cat,” I said. Not to mention my parents.

“Christ,” Tucker snapped, and pulled at the door handle.

I popped the locks, and he almost fell on his very attractive ass in the gravel.

“I need help,” I told him.

“That’s for damn sure,” Tucker agreed. He sounded testy, but I could tell he was concerned by the way he kept sweeping the lot with his gaze. He reached into the car, unfastened the seat belt and tugged me out, onto my feet.

I landed hard against his chest, and I’ll admit it, I clung for a couple of seconds.

“I saw him,” I repeated.

Tucker held me up with one arm, reached inside for my purse and car keys with the other. “Come on,” he said. “Let’s get you upstairs. Can you make it on your own, or should I carry you?”

The offer was tempting, but I had a thing about standing on my own two feet whenever possible, literally and figuratively. Besides, Tucker and I were officially Not Dating, and I was just scared enough to go from being carried to being laid without passing Go and certainly without collecting $200.

I gave a moment’s forlorn thought to the credits I’d left in the Ten Times Pay machine when I fled the casino. I could have made my car payment with that money.

“I can walk,” I said, though it was still pretty much a theory.

Tuck squired me up the stairs, unlocked the door and swung it open.

Chester sat waiting in the hallway. There was a faint, greenish glow around him.

I burst into tears.

Tucker muttered something, steered me to the couch and bent over me to look deep into my weepy eyes.

“Booze,” I said.

“You’ve been drinking booze?”

“No. I want to drink booze. Now.”

Tucker nodded, probably relieved that he wouldn’t have to bust me for drinking and driving, went into the kitchen, rifled the cupboards and came back with a double shot of Christian Brothers in a jelly glass. I hadn’t touched that bottle since the last bad bout of cramps, but if things kept going the way they’d been going, I’d be hitting the sauce on an hourly basis.

I took a few sips, holding the jelly glass with both hands. Chester jumped onto the back of the couch and nestled behind my neck, purring. Tucker dragged over an ottoman and sat down, his knees touching mine.

“Start at the beginning and take it slow,” he said.

I knocked back the rest of the brandy and set the glass aside. My nerves, all trying to break through my skin only seconds before, collapsed with dizzying suddenness.

“When I was five years old,” I said shakily, “my half brother shot my mom and dad to death.”

Tucker’s face tightened. “Jesus Christ,” he muttered.

I drew another deep breath. Let it out.

“Go on,” Tucker urged.

“I was there, but if I saw what happened, I don’t remember. A neighbor found me hiding in the clothes dryer. I was d-drenched in blood. Their blood—”

I gagged a couple of times.

“Easy,” Tucker said, and took both my hands in his.