Chapter 10
“What the fuck do you want?” I told this guy the last time I never wanted to see his face again. So why am I looking at his ugly mug across the counter at the hardware store?
“I need a favor.”
“You always need a favor, Riley. Problem is, you never uphold your side of the deal.”
“I just need help this one last time and I’ll be able to pay you back.” Funny thing is, he isn’t referring to money.
The hardware store is my family’s legacy—been around since Swiftwater became a modernized town. If you need it, we’ve either got it, or can get it.
Thing is, the store isn’t the only service the Clarks have provided to the residents of this sleepy town. I don’t know the story of how it all started, but somehow over time, the hardware store became a place to conduct other business.
I deal in favors and secrets. Information is both my power and currency. When my dad brought me into the fold of the store’s other dealings, he told me two things. One, we don’t break rules, we bend them; and two, we do the right thing, even if it ain’t always the clean thing.
I’ve got my pockets full of politicians, law enforcement, the clerk’s office, auto body shops, bookies, and bail bond agents. Personally, I don’t give a shit about what goes on in this town, so long as it doesn’t affect me or my family.
People feed me secrets and information to build up credit at my “bank”, so if they ever need a favor, they can cash in. From land deals to affairs and divorces, I’ve got my hand in all the cookie jars.
Like when Reid needed help exposing the deputy sheriff who’d abused and harassed his then girlfriend, now wife. Or when he got arrested for beating the guy half to death, and needed to make bail near instantly, and secure an otherwise unavailable court date.
I can make situations disappear, pull documents from thin air, and place the right threats when necessary.
Riley here traded a wealth of information to get his gambling debt wiped from a local bookie. The bookie agreed to wipe the debt so long as I disclosed some key information to him about another gambler who he needed to collect from.
“You don’t have anything of value for me. You spent all your good will getting your debt erased. I don’t want to hear a word about what you need until I know what you’re offering is useful.”
Riley sputters, sweat shining on his bald head.
“I don’t have time for this. Go home, get your shit together, and I might consider hearing you out.”
As far as these dealings go, my word is law, and he doesn’t dare question me. As soon as the door chimes shut behind him, I slump into the desk chair and drag my hands down my face.
Mia’s documents arrived as I requested, not a problem in sight. She was understandably leery of the pristine driver’s license, birth certificates, marriage license, and social security cards for her and Everly.
But she also had no other option than to accept them as offered and move on with her life. She was able to open a bank account and submit the remaining paperwork to the school for Everly’s enrollment in kindergarten.
I considered giving them a different last name as an added layer of protection from being located, but decided Mia doesn’t deserve to live like she’s in hiding. Let him come. He’ll meet his maker.
While I waited for the documents to be delivered, I tracked down the piece of shit husband and did a deep dive unearthing everything in existence about Carter Spencer Whitaker.
Forty-two-year-old male, Kansas City native. Insurance broker for a nationwide insurance chain. Six-foot-four, swimmer, two-hundred pounds. I can see so much of him in Everly, but not nearly as much as the radiant beauty she got from Mia.
I don’t have current plans to use any of the information I have on him.
But it’s handy having his social security number, date of birth, driver’s license number, bank account information, phone number, address, and contacts for just about anyone he’s ever met, should I ever need to handle things my way.
“Daddy!” Harper bounds into the store, loaded down by her backpack, hair tangled and matted from sweat. The days are still uncomfortably hot but dipping lower overnight as we move into autumn.
“Hey, you. How was school?” I wrap her in a bear hug as she tells me about her day. Mia and Everly are standing off to the side, patiently giving us our family moment.
It’s been the same every day after school for the past two weeks. Mia’s settled in as Harper’s nanny flawlessly. My household’s never run so smoothly. I’ve yet to worry about anything school or meal related.
I’ve even been able to resume my early morning duties at Lucky Spurs Ranch, now that I can leave knowing there’s another adult here to care of Harper. Maybe seven’s my lucky number after all.
She makes the breakfasts, packs the lunches, preps the afternoon snacks, and cooks damn-near gourmet dinners, always with dessert. I’m going to get soft around the middle if I keep eating seconds of everything she makes.
“Need anything from me?” I ask over Harper’s head. Mia shakes her head, eyes darting to the back of the store where the door to the stairwell awaits.
“Okay girls, let’s go have a snack and check for any homework.” Her melodic voice fades the further into the store they walk. I close my eyes and wait for the sound of footsteps on the stairs, and the apartment door locking.
Checking the time, I have just under three hours to wrap up some side business before I close the store at 6:00 p.m. One of the great and frustrating things about living in such a small town is unless it’s The Flying Pig or Bean she’d be devastated if they disappear. She’s growing too attached to her nanny.
Hell, I’m growing too attached to her nanny.
“Smells great, ladies.” I say, walking to greet them in the kitchen.
“We made chicken tarma-john. Tarma-john, right Mama?” Everly says, adorable as all get out.
Mia’s warm chuckle wraps around me like a hug. “Parmesan. Par-meh-zahn,” she enunciates for Everly. Both girls repeat after her, pleased as punch for the attention and vocabulary lesson.
“One of my favorite dishes.” I wink at Mia involuntarily, bringing a flush to her cheeks.
What the fuck was that? I don’t wink at people, especially not my kid’s nanny.
Dinner passes in a flurry of happy chewing, stories about the day, and a comfortability I could get used to.
When Mia dishes up dessert, I swear drool drips from the corner of my greedy mouth.
“Peach cobbler?” I ask stupidly, because it’s clearly peach cobbler, but my brain doesn’t work right when I’m this close to her.
“I hope that’s alright…”
Her confidence has grown over the past few weeks, but I still catch traces of uneasiness or fear when I move too quickly, if I’m in a bad mood, and especially at meal times. I praise her cooking relentlessly.
Hopefully one day it’ll sink in that I’m not going to combust over a slightly burnt piece of garlic bread, like her husband would’ve.
“You must’ve talked to Olivia or Cecelia for insider information, because chicken parmesan and peach cobbler are literally my death row meal.”
“Your what?” Everly asks.