Page 1 of Road Queens
PROLOGUE
Sonny finally had to blink, since he could feel his eyeballs drying out. There she was: Cassandra Rivers in the, um, flesh. All six feet of flesh. Parking her Norton Commando. Coming around the front. Coming inside.Inside his place of business.Sonny knew this because his nose had been pressed to the windows as he followed her progress from back to front—there was a horizontal line of grease where he’d pressed his nose to the glass and tracked her movement across the big window. As soon as he realized she wasn’t lost, he raced behind the counter so he could (try to) look unconcerned AF when she walked in.
He knew her, natch. Everyone did; Prescott wasn’t that big, about ... four thousand people? Out of which maybe a dozen were cool? But Cassandra Rivers had never come into his shop, for obvious reasons. And after today, never would again. For obvious reasons.
“Morn—ack!” He coughed, tried again. “Morning, uh, Cassandra.” Not for the first time, he wished he’d inherited his dad’s bass instead of his mom’s contralto. Then he remembered it was 5:00 p.m. “Afternoon, I mean. Good afternoon. Uh. Welcome. To my store.” He coughed again. “More of a shop, though.”
She didn’t say a thing. Just strode up to his counter, held out a fist, opened it. Her key plunked down on his blotter. TheHeath-Ledger-as-Joker blotter he told his mother-in-law he didn’t need because it wasn’t 2010. But she’d had a crush on the late lunatic.
No hesitation either. Just clunk, right there on Heath’s face. Like she was dropping off dry cleaning she was in no hurry to get back, when Sonny knew it had to be like cutting off her feet.
Worst of all was his scumbag brother’s delight in her downfall. The little wiener set the standard for schadenfreude.
“So, um, Cassandra. I’m guessing you don’t want a receipt.”
She just looked at him with brown eyes so light, they were like whiskey. The good stuff. Angel’s Envy bourbon. Maybe Four Roses. Her hair was short and wavy and deep purple. It should have looked ridiculous on such a tall woman. (It didn’t.)
She was dressed the way she always was, since she planned to ride every day, even when it didn’t happen. (She was like Beatrice Tarleton that way. Also, it was his mother-in-law’s fault he knew the name of the twins’ mother fromGone with the Wind.) Black jeans with armor padding at the knees and hips, good boots, a navy-blue crocheted tank top under the black leather jacket. He’d seen her parked on her bike more than once, crocheting away. Hell, maybe she crocheted while she was riding; wouldn’t surprise him one bit. She and her friends were all degrees of crazy.
Or they used to be.
He tried again. “We were. Uh. Sorry to hear about, um ... y’know. Just a real shame.”
“Thanks.”
This close, he could see the scar that bisected her left eyebrow, snaking up and past her temple like a white wire. He bet guys asked her about it all the time. He also bet they didn’t get an answer. Or at least not a straight one.
He reached out and picked up the key, half expecting her to change her mind and stick a knife through his fist, retrieve her key, grab a Dum Dums lolly, kick him in the plums, then leave his shop, never to return.
But none of that happened.
“I’ll, uh. Make sure it gets to a good home.”
“It doesn’t matter,” she replied, which was the most shocking thing ever uttered in his shop since his uncle announced Biden maybe hadn’t donesucha bad job. Then, as now, he didn’t know what to say. How to answer the unanswerable?
He cast about, finally came up with, “We’re, uh. My wife and me. We’re prayin’ for you. And the others.”
“But not your brother, I bet.”
He almost laughed. “Well, no.”
She smiled! No, that was a grimace. “There’s no need for prayers. And the one who could have used them is dead.” Excruciating pause. “But thanks.”
Then she turned away and marched out all dramatic and cool, just like in the movies, except for the one detail movies never had to worry about.
“Wait, do you need a—how are you getting ho—”
Nope. Nothing. Not a pause. Not a backward glance. Just the shop door closing with a decisive clack.
Maybe she’d called an Uber. Or one of her deeply nutty pals. Maybe she was just gonna keep walking until Prescott was far, far behind her. It’s what he woulda been tempted to do in her situation, especially if he’d been cut free the way she was. “Well. Bye.”
He stared down at the key. “Now what to do with you?” he wondered aloud, and he was glad nobody was there to hear him talking to a key.
Besides, he knew exactly what to do.
CHAPTER ONE
Five years later ...
