Page 11 of Lone Star

Amarillo

Seven

“What can I do to help?” Michelle asked, the morning after Candy had gone to meet Pacer, and survey the scene.

He’d kissed her soundly, and said, “Nothing but stay safe, baby.”

She’d rolled her eyes, and decided to talk to Jenny and Darla about it, see if they could send a care package to Pacer at the very least.

(She spared a thought for the fact that it was only the three of them looking after all these boys, and again wished that some of the bachelors would marry so she didn’t have to worry about them so much.)

Candy and Blue went off to see Pacer again, talking of checking in with the FBI as they tugged their cuts on over thick jackets.

When Darla offered to watched TJ, Michelle went into town, to TLC, just to have a quick meeting with her assistant manager, she vowed…

But suddenly it was the dinner hour, and Candy was standing right in front of her at the hostess station where she’d become involved in trying to reboot the glitchy computer there.

“I see you’re taking it easy today,” he drawled, and she jumped a little, flushing immediately with guilt.

“I am,” she said, tucking a stray lock of hair behind her ear. A fruitless effort, she realized, by feel; her elastic had gotten all stretched out and her ponytail was more down than up at this point.

“Uh-huh, looks like it.” His eyes sparkled with suppressed mirth…but they bore dark circles, beneath. His whole face told the story of a long, tiring, frustrating day, down to the too-deep lines bracketing his mouth, smile lines that had been frown lines, today.

His coat was coated in reddish road dust, and she reached out automatically to brush some of it off his president patch. “You okay?” she asked, quietly, and the lead hostess, Janet, turned discreetly away to give them as much privacy as possible, given they stood in the crowded entryway of a popular bar.

“Yeah.” His tone – deeply tired – told another story.

“No luck, then?”

“Nah.” He tilted his head. “Thought I’d come put the fear of God into that barback you think’s nicking the Jack Daniel’s.”

“I’ve already spoken to him,” she said primly.

“Yeah, but.” He lifted one of his Lean Dogs’ famous fists and tightened it until his knuckles cracked. “I figure a little reinforcement couldn’t hurt.” A grin tugged at his mouth, and his eyes had a wholly different gleam, now.

Michelle sighed. “Fine. But don’t get blood on my floors.”

He chuckled. “Yes, ma’am.”

He went off, and she and Janet applied themselves to figuring out what the hell was wrong with the monitor in front of them, frozen on the table screen and refusing to update or allow for any kind of navigation. They’d restarted it manually twice, and Michelle had grown frustrated enough to want to smash the thing and buy a new one, when a twangy, female voice said, “Excuse me.”

Michelle glanced up, already searching for one of the other hostesses, regretting that a computer SNAFU had rerouted the whole wait line for the dining tables – and the woman standing opposite arrested her attention.

She was tall – at least a head taller than Michelle – curvy, and blonde. Deeply tan, and wearing a scoop-neck shirt that showed off a lot of cleavage; blood-red nails flashed as she tossed her hair over one shoulder. Her makeup had been applied with a practiced hand, but Michelle noted the fine lines that marked a lot of summers spent laughing in the Texas sunshine. She placed her as fortyish, and as the sort of woman who turned male heads, and liked it. She had a definitive look-at-me aura that left Michelle instantly self-conscious about her falling-down hair and her grubby flannel shirt, one of Candy’s that she’d rolled the sleeves of and belted around her waist to serve as a dress of sorts over leggings.

Not that it mattered. Stupid hormones.

“I’m so sorry about the delay,” Michelle began, “but we have a line forming over there–”

“Oh no, honey, I’m not waiting. At least not yet.” The woman rested an elbow on the edge of the hostess station, and hiked her cowhide purse up higher on her shoulder with a casual motion. “I’m looking for Derek. This is his place, right? Is he here now?” She smiled, teeth very white behind painted red lips.

Michelle wasn’t proud of the flash of possessiveness that flared in the back of her mind.What do you want with him?she thought, with an inward baring of teeth. Plenty of Amarillo natives knew him as Candyman: as the jovial, too-handsome, larger than life biker with the mean swing. He was like a mascot, or a minor local celebrity – but “Candy” was as familiar as it got. He wasn’t “Derek” to any of them. Who was this woman, and how did she know his name?

She must have made a face, because the woman’s smile widened. “I’m an old friend,” she explained. “Melanie Menendez.”

It took a second, but then the last name jumped out. “You’re related to Pacer?” Michelle asked.

Melanie’s brows lifted. “Yeah.” It was her turn to look uncertain. “His sister.”

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