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“Here.”
Cain turned and accepted a plate of sandwiches from Mac. There was tuna, salmon, and, no surprise, the always-crowd-pleasing ham. It didn’t last long. He hadn’t eaten since the plane.
“Oh shit, here she comes.”
Cain turned at Mac’s harsh whisper. “Who?”
“Rebecca Stringer.”
“Stringer?”
Mac guffawed drunkenly. “Seriously? You don’t remember? ‘Stringer-dinger, she’ll ring your bell’?”
It came back quickly. Blond. Plastic. Head cheerleader, homecoming diva, and queen of the backseat. They’d each dated her at one point or another—dated being a loose term.
He stifled a groan and glanced at Jake. He’d changed out of his military dress, but the plain white T-shirt and jeans did nothing to detract from the powerful energy that surrounded him. His short dark hair and even darker eyes only emphasized this. Afghanistan had changed the man in more ways than one.
The soldier was quiet, stuffing sandwiches into his mouth, his eyes still on his brother’s widow.
“Well, well, well…the Bad Boys of Crystal Lake all together again.” Rebecca’s candy-red lips were glossy, as if they’d been coated in syrup. They were porn-star perfect and somehow out of place in northern Michigan.
“In case you hadn’t noticed, we’re missing one.” Jake glared at Rebecca, his eyebrows knit into a frown, his mouth tight.
Rebecca’s face flushed deep red, and for a moment she was speechless. “I’m sorry. Of course…I didn’t mean…” Her voice trailed into silence as Jake shoved past them.
“Whatever,” he muttered. “I need another drink.”
Cain took a step, intending to go after Jake. The man was hurting.
Rebecca’s hand on his chest stopped him. Her fingers grazed the fabric of his shirt a little longer than was necessary.
“Cain.” The way she purred his name reminded him of his mother’s old cat—all soft and fuzzy, with claws waiting in the wings. “Shame on you for not coming home sooner.” Her shiny lips loosened into a pout.
She smiled so wide, Cain was afraid her makeup was going to crack. “Tell me,” she said, and sidled up as close as she could. Cain glanced at Mac, but his buddy raised a bottle of water in a mock toast and moved away.
He was caught in the corner with Rebecca Stringer. Shit.
“You ever write a song about me?”
He nearly choked on the tuna in his mouth. “Uh—”
“I mean, that one they played on the radio a few months back.” She paused and sang in a girlish voice, “‘She had my heart, she stole my soul, I’ll keep her close till I grow old.’” Her eyes glittered. “I think that could have been about me.”
What the hell could he
say to that?
She hummed it over again and grinned at him crazily. “We had some good times, right? Back in the day?”
Someone rescue me.
His pulse quickened when he spied the woman from the porch. She was tidying up the table in the kitchen, gathering empty plates and cutlery. From where he stood, Cain didn’t see her little boy.
“Who’s that?” he asked instead.
Rebecca glanced toward the table, her eyebrow arched. “The cleaning lady?” She lowered her voice, as if she were sharing a dirty secret. “Well, she moved to town about a year ago. Came from the South, Savannah or New Orleans.” She shrugged. “I think her name is Sally, maybe? Dunno, she cleans my house too.” Her eyes narrowed as she focused back on him. “Why?”
Cain’s eyes hardened. He didn’t like her tone or her attitude. Some things never changed. Money bought a lot of things, but class and humility sure as hell weren’t on that list. “The woman scrubs your floors, and you have no idea what her name is?”
