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“You had it coming when you tried to look up her skirt,” Blake points out with a lopsided grin.
With a scowl, Holt huffs, “We were on the jungle gym. It was logistics.”
“Uh-uh.” I eye him in amusement.
“Shaddup. I’m talking.” Holt points an imperious finger at me, then drops it. “So she wasn’t born here, right? But she moved here pretty young. Think her daddy was a cargo pilot. Her mama’s the one who opened The Nest. Fliss was always around helping out at the café.” He leans forward, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper that’s somehow louder than his drunk-talking voice. “Her old man flew planes for Galentron—or so I always heard—back when they were setting up shop secretly in that old mine.”
This tension falls like a knife—not just at our table, but at the tables around us in earshot—the second he says the G-word. This kind of dark pause.
Can’t say I blame them.
From what I’ve seen in the news and heard in hushed whispers, that company dragged all kinds of bad out here.
Left the good townsfolk traumatized. I imagine some of them are still wondering if one day more goons will pop up looking for more trouble, even if the company doesn’t exist anymore and its CEO landed behind bars.
Blake, though, glances rather conspicuously over his shoulder, eyeballing the door.
“Watch your mouth, man,” he mutters warily to Holt.
I follow his line of sight, but there’s no one there.
“Expecting someone?” I ask.
“No, not really. Sorry.” Blake shakes his head, shrugging and looking back at Holt.
I eye him, but he’s not looking like he’s in the mood to be forthcoming.
So I focus back on the talkative drunk between us, and ask Holt, “So when Galentron went bust with the hotel fire meltdown, so did Felicity’s dad?”
And is that a hint at the gold’s origin?
“Yup,” Holt confirms in a slurring drawl. “Kinda seems like things went to shit around then for a lot of folks. Lost a lot of jobs and business with them pulling out.”
“Yeah, I was working odd jobs around that time when I wasn’t training on the volunteer crew. Even picked up a couple fill-in shifts here at Brody’s.” Blake’s drawling voice goes quiet, thoughtful, and he stares with heavy eyes into a beer he’s barely touched. “I remember cleaning up his spilled beer some nights, you know.”
“Who?” I ask.
“Morgan Randall.” He lets out a rough snort. “Felicity’s daddy. He was always here. Every frigging night. Drinking like he had a second liver, making himself everyone’s best friend—but he was real tight with Flynn Bitters.” He seems to snap out of a trance then, shaking his head. “I think Mr. Randall’s death was what made Flynn sober up—at least for a while.”
“Still always smells like rum to me,” Holt observes with an exaggerated sigh.
“I think he bathes in it,” Blake says. “And he tumbled off the sober wagon pretty fast. Surprised he’s not here now, but he usually shows up after dinner.” He sighs. “Would’ve been nice for Fliss if her dad had gone straight. Before...you know. The shit.”
“What shit, Blake?” I ask, even though I already know.
Something tells me Felicity wouldn’t want them knowing the things she’s been sharing with me.
Holt sighs again, his chin slumping against his hand.
“Morgan. Langley found him, I heard. Out on one of those mountain roads leading north. Dead in his truck, slumped over his steering wheel.” His hazel eyes soften. “Fliss was never the same after that.”
I can bet.
There’s also a tidbit in there I didn’t know.
One of those mountain roads leading up north.
Up north, like...toward Glass Lake?
Fuck.
What if that gold’s the reason he’s gone?
What if it wasn’t a simple overdose, and someone killed him over it and staged the scene?
Sobering thought.
I don’t get the chance to linger on it, though, because suddenly Holt’s got eagle eyes, and they’re trained on me.
“Why you so interested in what’s up with Fliss, Alaska?”
I can’t get out more than a slow, choked sound before Blake cuts in with a sly grin, stroking his rusty-brown beard. “Probably because he’s been taking our pretty friend camping.”
“Hey.” I growl. “How the fuck did you—” Then I groan, raking a hand over my face. If he hadn’t been sure, I just gave it away, but I know how he figured it out. “Your kid.”
“Andrea doesn’t miss much,” Blake says with a touch of pride. “And she’s got good eyes. So? What’s the deal, Alaska? You two hookin’ up?”
“There is no deal.” I try to say it as sternly as possible. Only, with my face glowing hell-fire red, I wouldn’t believe me, either. “She just...you know. I think she needed some company without the baggage of her past. That’s all.”
I feel like Blake’s staring right through me as if I’m transparent as glass.
Yep, now I know how people feel when I give them the Dad Look.
