“Yep. The heartland. Where mom, apple pie, football, and ribs rule.”
“Ribs are Southern food.”
“Pfft.”
“So no girlfriend, huh?”
“I’m gay, Delilah.”
Oh.
“You surprised?”
“With all that mom and apple pie shit, I figured you hooked up with the girl next door. But to be honest, I never gave your love life any thought until now.”
“Once someone knows I’m a SEAL, their mind never goes there. You ever met a gay SEAL?”
“Maybe.” I shrug. “I don’t know.”
“You should check out some gay SEAL porn. It’s an eye-opener.” His laugh booms through the Jeep.
“I’ll pass. But thanks for the tip.”
“Your loss.” He reclines the seat a bit, and settles in. “What the fuck are we doing?”
“Going to Mississippi.”
“I get that part. But why?”
“That’s where I’m from. I need some answers.”
“You got family there?”
“No.”
“Friends?”
“No. What got you so chatty all of a sudden?” I’m churlish, which he doesn’t deserve.
“I’m a chatty guy. Not at work. I have a role to play there—serious driver and bodyguard to a mouthy blonde who handles herself pretty well without anyone’s help.” He opens a bag of kettle corn and offers me some. I shake my head. “But we’re on a road trip,” he continues. “To find some answers in bumfuck Mississippi.”
I grab the bag of popcorn out of his hand. “I changed my mind.”
“If you don’t have family or friends there, where are those answers going to come from? Are we going to stake a flag and wait for a sign from God? Maybe a burning bush or a flood?” He snatches the popcorn from my lap.
“I don’t know,” I admit after stewing a bit. “Something’s been pulling me to Digger’s Hollow. Can’t explain it. I think the answers are there—although as we get closer, I’m not as sure anymore.”
Trippi gazes out the window. “I’m no expert. But I suspect the answers you’re lookin’ for are in Charleston, with Gray.”
“What are you, Dear Abby? I talked to Gray. There were no answers. Only more questions.”
“Oh, I get it. You were looking for something easy. I never pegged you for a lazy-ass woman.”
“I’m not,” I snarl.
“Finding answers takes a lot of work and a lifetime of discovery. They unfold one day at a time, one problem at a time. The good times, they don’t provide answers. Only the turbulent times.”
This conversation has me agitated. Of course, there are no answers in Digger’s Hollow. Well, we’ve come this far, and I’m not turning back now.
“Hey,” Trippi shouts. “Lift your foot up off the gas. I want to live to see the Chiefs accept the Lombardi trophy. It’s their year.”
I ease up on the pedal, but I’m still twitchy.
We’re alone on the road, cloaked in darkness, with the streetlights few and far between. It’s a lonely part of the drive. Fits my sullen mood perfectly.
“Home must have been a real sucky place,” Trippi says, needling me.
I liked him better when he didn’t talk.
“That’s the only reason anyone would go there looking for answers. People who have happy childhoods never go looking for anything.”
“My mother wasn’t as batshit crazy as the crown prince, but she had her own special charm. If that’s what you’re askin’.”
“She pass?”
“No. But I haven’t seen her in years. She hasn’t had any influence over my life since I was a teenager. Maybe before.”
“Sure she has. She’s got a stranglehold on you. Pulling your strings from afar. Why else would we be going to Digger’s Hollow?”
Fuck you.
We ride in silence for another hour, but it’s not quiet inside my head. There’s nothing in Digger’s Hollow. I’ll ride by the old trailer, if it’s still there. Park across the street and let the memories of my mother chasin’ rich men convince me that after all is said and done, I’m just like her.
Only I didn’t chase Gray, looking for a payday. I didn’t chase him at all.
Without warning, I pull into a path on the highway, where police officers set up speed traps, and change direction.
“What the hell?” Trippi hollers. “What are you doing?”
“I need answers. Apparently, they’re in Charleston. Plug it into the navigation.”
46
Gray
There’s a faint scratching sound outside my office door. Almost like a small animal. I continue to listen, but I don’t hear it anymore.
Jesus, I need some sleep. But I’m not ready to go up and lie in my bed alone, with nothing to do but jerk off while I think about Delilah and wait for her to make a decision. Fuck that. It doesn’t matter what she decides. I’m not going to walk away that easily. I’ll fight to my death to convince her to give us a chance.
I get up and pour a bourbon. The club closed two hours ago, and other than me, the only person still here is the security guard.
There’s that noise again. I take my gun from the desk drawer and go to the door, opening it cautiously, but there’s nothing.
When I step out into Foxy’s area, nothing seems out of place there either. I slide my gun into my back waistband, and rifle through a stack of folders on Foxy’s desk, until I find the one I need.
As I turn to go back into my office, I notice a shadow on the floor that shouldn’t be there. It’s too big for an animal.
I reach for my weapon, but a gun’s wedged into the back of my head before I can grab it.
“Hands out in front of you,” the man emerging from the shadows barks. He’s of medium build, dark hair, dark clothing, and English is not his primary language.
I’ve never seen him before.
He trains a gun on my chest as he approaches.
When the assailant behind me moves for my weapon, I twist free and dive to the ground, pulling him with me as a shield. Just as I grab my gun, a bullet from behind shatters my shoulder, but before I’m restrained, I get a shot off that kills the bastard from the shadow. Three intruders. One down. Two to go.
“We will kill you if you do not cooperate.” The smaller of the two glowers at me with nothing but hate in his eyes.
Another man skulks from somewhere in the shadows. He’s wearing a Yankees baseball cap, and carrying a large duffel. Four intruders, not three. One down. Three to go. I repeat this to myself, so I don’t lose track of the moving pieces. Unlike the others, the Yankee’s fan is hesitant. He seems to be here of his own volition, but he’s not brandishing a weapon.
No one bothers to check to see if their friend is still breathing. They don’t even glance in his direction. They’re trained killers.
“What do you want?” I demand, as they cuff me. My voice is louder and sterner than my position warrants. The response is a swift smack in the head with the butt of a gun. Not hard enough to take me down, but hard enough to make me see stars.