Page 11 of No More Secrets

“Gotta run. Guys are loading up. Can I call you at this number tomorrow?”

“No. I...” She peeks over her shoulder at the librarian. She stacks books behind Shiloh, pretending she’s trying not to listen. “I’ll email you when I book my ticket.”

“Cool. Can’t wait. Wish me luck tonight.”

“Good—” He hangs up. “Luck,” she mutters.

Defeated, Shiloh deletes the call from the log and returns the phone, wondering where she can find cash and fast. She doesn’t want to spend another day like today here.

“Everything all right?” the librarian asks, tucking her phone in the tunic’s front pocket. Shiloh nods, and the librarian picks up a stack of books, hesitating before she carries them to the cart, her head shaking.

Shiloh eyes the wallet in the purse. An easy grab. She’d have the cash out and wallet dumped in a trash can before she leaves the premises, she’s that quick.

Her gaze lifts to the surveillance camera aimed at the front desk, and her shoulders round. With nowhere to go, the encampment a question in the air, she returns to the stacks. She’s thirsty, filthy, and broke. Back pressed to the shelves, she slides to the floor and hugs her knees. A sob bubbles up, and she covers her mouth to drown out the noise, but she can’t stop the tears.

6

Lucas didn’t plan to meet Mike and Oscar at the Lone Palm. He just knew they’d be there. Permanent fixtures at the bar, the Cliff and Norm of California City. Val is tending. She sends him a smile before going back to the cocktail she’s mixing. Some guy nursing a beer chats her up. She’s only half listening, hardly interested, and walks away to drop off a drink while he’s still rambling.

The Lone Palm is a stucco box on the side of the road with a marquee-style sign above the door that features the night’s cocktail special in lights. The parking lot is asphalt covered in an inch of desert dust. There used to be a lone palm in the center of the property, but the winds of ’96 split the tree, leaving a fifteen-foot toothpick. The bar never changed its name or bothered planting another tree.

A couple of marked transport trucks from the prison are parked out front. Rafe’s buddies. Lucas almost turns around when he sees them. He isn’t in the mood for trouble. But given his luck, trouble would find him anyway. One of these nights Rafe will confront him, and Val will call the cops on the ruckus that follows. Then that’ll be the end of the road for Lucas.

But fuck. He needs a drink. So here he is.

Lucas settles onto the leather stool beside Mike. Oscar’s on Mike’s right. Val approaches, handing off the drink she mixed to a woman in jeans and a cowboy hat. “Usual, Luc?” Blue eyes meet his. Long brown hair falls lower than the neckline of her ribbed tank. Tattoos that meannothing to him but probably hold stories of their own run up her right arm, ending with a floral burst that coats her shoulder.

“Yeah.” He pops a few pretzels from the community bowl into his mouth.

“Another round, boys?” Mike grunts with a nod, and Oscar slaps the bar in approval. “Coming right up.”

“Ivy listed my old apartment yet?” Mike asks, finishing off his whiskey sour. He slides the empty glass to Val’s side of the bar.

“It’s listed. Still empty. Building hasn’t sold either.” Palms flat on the sticky wood surface, Lucas plays it like a keyboard, anxious for a drink. He wouldn’t call Mike and Oscar friends. More like unintentional drinking buddies. He shows up. They’re here. They drink and shoot the shit, Ivy a mutual acquaintance. In fact, Mike confessed Ivy told him to strike up conversation with Lucas when she learned he was spending his evenings at the Lone Palm. That woman’s always looking out for him.

“Hard to sell without tenants.”

“Yep.” Hard to sell when Dusty’s can’t move product, or said product is swiped from under his nose.

“I thought about buying it,” Mike says. Lucas quirks a brow. Mike shrugs. “It was a thought.”

“You’re supposed to be retiring,” Oscar pipes up.

“I am retired. Sitting behind a cash register chatting with folks is retirement. Janie wants to travel.”

Oscar works a toothpick in his teeth. “Don’t blame her. I wouldn’t want to be stuck making subs either. Though Ivy’s are the best in town.”

Val returns with their drinks. She sets a Corona with a lime and a side shot of Jose before Lucas. He drains the tequila before she serves Mike and Oscar their drinks.

“Want another, baby?” Val asks as Lucas pushes the lime slice through the Corona’s narrow neck.

“That would be great.”

The second shot arrives quick. Val touches the back of Lucas’s hand. “Good to see you here tonight. You doing okay?”

His gaze drops to their hands. Silver rings adorn her fingers. A leather cuff hugs her wrist. Her finger traces his thumb before she lays her hand a mere inch from his. He forgot how soft her skin feels, how silken her hands are despite the repetitive washing as she works the bar.

He feels a buzz in his center. Instinct demands he pull away. But he pushes past the urge to retreat and luxuriates in the split second of human contact she offers him, that he allows himself to feel. He skims the back of his fingers along her forearm before reaching for his beer. When he doesn’t feel repulsed by the contact or break out in a sweat, he nods. “I’m good.” Tipping back the bottle, he takes a long swig.

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