Page 37 of Missed Exit

He’s genuinely nervous. Huh, I didn’t know the cocky little shit had it in him. I don’t correct him on the girlfriend assumption.

“She usually drinks red, but if she doesn’t want the white, maybe you can take it back home to your driver.” I step aside to let him in as the car that dropped him off pulls away. “Is she not joining us?”

“Oh, I didn’t know if I should bring anyone. You didn’t say, and I didn’t want to assume anything.” He shrugs. “She’s going to pick me up in a few hours, unless I need to text her sooner.”

“Is that the same girl who was hanging on your arm when I left you at the bar?”

“Yeah. Whitley. She’s great.”

“Party girls always are. In the beginning.”

“She’s not, though. We only had one drink before we left the bar. That’s not her deal.”

“Roads were dry. Summer, so you can’t blame ice on the road. You expect me to believe you blacked out while sober?”

“No. I was fully awake, just being stupid. Going too fast and not paying attention. My right front tire went off the road. No shoulder and more of a drop-off than I realized. I lost control while I was trying to get back up on the pavement. Rolled it. Twice.”

“Was Whitley in the truck with you?”

He stares at his boots. “Yeah.” Before he looks back up to meet my eyes, he shakes his head hard. “I know we got lucky.”

“That only happens so many times in one life.”

“I know. And I know you probably don’t believe me, but—”

Greta comes bounding over like she’s just realized he was here.

“Derringer, hi. I’m so glad you could come.”

“Thanks for having me.” He holds out the bottles he’s brought. “I-I didn’t know if you preferred red or white.”

“Aw, I was just saying I should’ve thought to get wine. And here you are, being the perfect guest. That’s so sweet. Thank you. Come to the table. Dinner’s ready.”

Excuse me? I brought wine first! And I bet it’s a nicer bottle than either of the ones he just handed you.

Let it go, Law. Let it go.

Her pot roast is fucking amazing. And so are her small talk skills. You’d think I’d be better at that, given my line of work. But I’ve never been much for mindless chit-chat. I’ve been told I can come off abrasive. It’s never my intention.

If the situation is business, I like to get to the point. If it’s personal, I’d rather have a real conversation about something that matters.

She’s got Derringer going on and on about how he got into music. He’s spooling out all his childhood memories for her. Started piano lessons when he was four. Got his first guitar when he was seven. His dad would let him busk downtown in front of the Pecan Tree Café, while he was inside signing real estate contracts and mineral leases.

“He liked to do business in public back then,” Derringer clarifies. “Always liked feeling important. These days, he spends more time on his plane, flying to Fort Worth or Houston nearly every week.”

A kid from the wealthiest family in the area, playing for change on the sidewalk while his dad was in a corner booth, being important. I bet people wagged their tongues plenty about that. The Wells family is still a favorite subject of gossip in this town.

And I can feel for Derringer having to grow up in that spotlight, but he’s grown now, and he contributes his own material.

“Yeah, I heard your family was in the oil business,” Greta says.

“They make sure everyone hears that.”

“You’re not interested in following in their footsteps, I take it.”

“No, ma’am. Not in the least. I know I had a lot of advantages growing up because of oil money, but I know enough about that business to know it’s not for me.”

“Your dad has his own plane? If he flies that often, it seems like it would be easier to move closer to the big cities.”

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