Grade hesitated a second longer and then gave up with a shrug. He rubbed his thumb along the sharp line of his jaw as he thought about it. Finally he grimaced and shook his head.
“It’s not that simple. In LA—”
Clay rolled his eyes. It was out of habit. Grade gave him an annoyed look and pressed on.
“In LA, I knew the players involved and how they were likely to jump. It’s not as easy here. We need everyone with a say in the case to take our staged version of events at face value,” he said, then counted off the involved parties on his fingers. “The deputies, the coroner’s office, and the family. I’ve given them an obvious cause of death and a crime that isn’t that interesting, so hopefully, they’ll buy it. Until they do, though, we’re in limbo. All it takes is one person to start digging their heels in to throw up enough noise that the case gets more attention.”
Clay went “huh” and headed back into the main room. His glass was dry, but the one he’d poured for Grade was still set out. He picked it up and took a swig, the bourbon sticky-sweet as it lingered on his tongue.
“Fisher didn’t ask us to help Parker,” Clay said. He didn’t bother to look around. Instead, he swirled the glass in his hand and watched the bourbon spin. “Not any of his men either. Far as I know, they’re in the dark about this. Ezra took a punt on offering a helping hand on his own. Figured it couldn’t hurt to have a judge in his pocket.”
It was possible that Grade wasn’t as smart as he liked to believe he was, but he was smart enough to map out the various ways that could fuck up in their faces.
“He’s going to get you killed one day,” Grade said after a grim second.
Clay shrugged.
“Yeah, I know. I’m OK with that, though. It’s the job, and not like I ever figured I’d die in bed surrounded by loved ones. Prison guards, maybe.” Besides, if it weren’t for Ezra, then Clay would have died, either in the desert with his skin melted into the sand or when he’d got back and discovered how few opportunities there were for a man with his unique combination of skills and PTSD. Clay tilted his head back to pour the last drops of bourbon into his mouth, then turned to look at Grade. “That’s not what you signed up for, though. So consider this a heads-up in case things go south.”
That was definitely too close to something real. The awkward hung in the air, thick enough to taste, until Grade cleared his throat uncomfortably.
“I… Clay, I appreciate you—”
“Yeah,” Clay interrupted him. “If there is an afterlife, I don’t want to listen to you whine for the rest of eternity about being buried in Kentucky. So try and avoid it. I’m going to bed. You can let yourself out.”
He slung his shirt over his shoulder and headed upstairs. The pressure in the back of his brain—the compulsion to fuck up somehow—had vented enough that he could probably sleep. If he couldn’t, there was another bottle of bourbon he could crack open.
Clay stripped his trousers off as he stepped into his bedroom and left them in a ball on the floor. He could have probably done with a shower, but he didn’t feel like washing the smell of sex off his skin just yet. So he just sprawled out on the bed, pillows stuffed behind his head, and idly picked at the matted hair on his stomach as he waited.
It took a minute before Grade came into the room and crawled onto the bed with him. The tension in Clay’s shoulders relaxed enough that he had to admit how tight they’d been. It would have meant something if Grade had left. It was hard to say what exactly—not like either of them had ever talked about this—but it was hardly going to be anything good.
Clay folded one arm behind his head and raised his eyebrows at Grade.
“I thought you didn’t have all night?” he said.
Grade propped himself up on his elbow. “You want me to go?”
Clay reached up to scruff the back of Grade’s neck and pull him down, sprawled over Clay’s chest.
“Shut up,” he told him.
Chapter Seven
“Laundry or school run?”
Grade stopped at the back door. The kitchen smelled like his childhood: cleaning supplies, oatmeal scorched to the bottom of the metal pot, and a certain amount of panic. He rubbed the back of his neck and watched Dory and his mom dodge around each other and the table in the small space.
“We have microwave oatmeal,” he said.
Dory bumped the freezer door shut with her hip and waved her hand at their mom. “I told her that,” she said. “But would she listen? Well, maybe now herfavoritechild has spoken, she’ll finally listen to me.”
Oh.
Oh no.
Grade grimaced to himself and leaned back against the doorframe, sort of out of the line of fire. He should have kept his mouth shut. That would have been the smart move. Harry had finally texted him that the Lexus was sorted, which was one thing less to worry about. Instead of getting to enjoy that, now he was in the middle of the Annual Mother/Daughter Pulaski Throwdown.
Their mom grabbed the scorched pot off the stove and dropped it into the sink. The metal sizzled as it hit the water. She added dish soap and flicked the tap on to fill the pot as she turned to glare at Dory, her hand on her hip. Susie Pulaski was fifty-two years old. She’d been married to a petty criminal and raised two children on her own. She’d not gotten anywhere in life by admitting to the reality of her situation—whether that was to do with her cooking, her still definitely naturally red hair, or that neither of her children was going to make her a doctor’s mother-in-law.
