Chapter

12

A fully clothed Boone Daniels—meaning dressed in typical redneck fashion of cut-off jean shorts and a t-shirt stained with what I hoped was not last night’s debauchery—sat in front of us on a sullied couch. A cigarette hung from his tobacco-stained lips.

Last time I saw him was over ten years ago, but Boone looked as if he’d aged twenty some in that time span. His face appeared shrunken, as if his drug-fueled body was sapping his youth. Brown stringy hair hung out from the back of the baseball cap, so worn, the team logo was unrecognizable.

He rubbed his chin with the loaded .25-caliber gun in his hand. A hand that trembled slightly from the weight. “Now what’s all this here about?”

I started to speak, but Brodie silenced me with a quick glance. “We know you called in that tip about Charlotte’s granddaddy.” Brodie didn’t wait for him to deny it. “What we need to know is, why?”

Boone sputtered but it was all bluster, his words at odds with the calculating glint in his hard eyes. “I ain’t no snitch.”

“Why did you call Danny with that tip?” Brodie leaned in, either unaware or unconcerned about the gun Boone held only inches from Brodie’s stomach. His tone suggested Boone tell the truth.

The hard affected gaze in Boone’s eyes flickered slightly. He was afraid of Brodie. The tip of his gun lifted, aimed directly at Brodie’s heart. My breath hitched for a moment. Did he fear Brodie enough to fire? My lungs withered as the silence grew.

Finally, I couldn’t take it anymore. “Boone,” I said, forcing his attention to me. My voice was as smooth as the finish of Lucky’s best barrel. “Please. Jack didn’t do this. You know it as well as I do.”

Boone’s notice shifted from Brodie to me. The gun swung too. My stomach clenched as I stared down the short barrel. The chrome plating had long ago disappeared, leaving the weapon an off-gray color. A deep chip sat on the front sight.

Brodie shifted in his seat, doing what looked like his best to shield me with his body. Briefly, I wondered if his actions were second nature after serving in the military. “Listen to Charms,” Brodie said in a calm, controlled voice. “Jack’s been good to Gett. We owe him.”

“I don’t owe him.” Boone’s gaze suddenly blazed as he eyed me. “Or any Lucky, for that matter.”

“Did you kill Roger?” I asked just as quickly. Stupidly, without a thought for my safety, or Brodie’s. “Is that why you turned Jack in, to get the heat off you?”

Boone jumped up, long, thick legs pacing a circle around us. Brodie grabbed my thigh, his fingers digging in. “Let’s not annoy the guy with the gun, Charms,” he said quietly.

My brain said he was right, while my heart, locked away with Jack in a jail cell, said to push until Boone told us the truth.

Or shot one of us.

Given the circumstances, I hoped for the former but suspected the latter. “What did Roger do that made you kill him?” I asked, my voice calm though my heart slammed wildly in my chest. How much could I push Boone before he pushed back? “Did he cheat you out of some money? Was it a drug deal gone bad?” Not that I’d heard any rumors about Roger and drugs, but why else would he associate with scum like Boone? No rumors at all surrounded Roger’s name. Which was weird in a town this small, a place where everyone knew and judged everyone else’s business.

Boone froze, the gun in my face. I swallowed hard, but before I could react, Brodie snatched the weapon out of Boone’s hands. Without a word or pause, he field-stripped it, removing all the bullets and the magazine in ten seconds. Once empty, he set the pieces on the table.

Boone’s glassy, red eyes widened. “How’d you …” he stuttered.

I snapped my fingers to regain his attention. His unfocused gaze swung my way. “Come on, Boone,” I said, my voice growing soft, almost comforting. “Confession is good for the soul.”

“Bite me,” he snapped. “I didn’t kill Roger.” He stopped, a smug smile on his dirty face. “Jack did.”

I started to rise, but Brodie’s hand eased me back. “No, he did not,” I said.

Like a child, Boone’s face turned red, and he started stomping his foot. “I can prove it.”

“What?” I drew back.

“You heard me, you stuck-up bit—”

“Watch your mouth,” Brodie cut him off with a warning.

Boone snorted as if he didn’t care, but his hand, the one lighting a cigarette, trembled even more. “You’ve always been her little protector,” he said to Brodie. His eyes raked over me, both disgustingly and dismissively. “Is she worth it?”

“Just tell us about this supposed proof and we’ll leave you to your day.” Brodie waved his hand around at the stacks of illegal weapons and questionable containers of chemicals. “Unless you’d prefer I make my own phone call to my brother, the sheriff …”

“One of these days you Getts are gonna push too much.” His fingers twisted into an imitation gun, which he fake-fired. “And then we’ll find out who’s lucky, and who got get.”

His wordplay sounded rehearsed, as if he’d practiced the threat a million times in the cracked mirror above the sink. Be that as it may, as intimidation went, the words left a lot to be desired.

Brodie rolled his eyes but stayed on topic. “The proof?”

Boone looked between us and then lowered his voice to a staged whisper. His cigarette stale breath turned my stomach. “You don’t know it, but Jack Lucky had plenty of reasons to want Roger dead.”

“We know all about Jack paying off Evan’s debt, and his threatening Roger and you if either of you ever loaned Evan another dime, if that’s what you mean.” I gave him a hard frown to emphasize my words. “So do the cops. Thanks to you.”

“That reminds me,” he said, brown-stained spittle forming at the corner of his lips. “You tell that cousin of yours he better pay up”—his vindictive gaze fell on me—“or else.”

“Are you threatening her?” Brodie’s face lost what little humor he had left. His hand clenched into tight fists, ready to beat Boone senseless, that was if he had any sense to begin with. Which I doubted. Not only had he threatened me in front of a witness, but a witness ready and able to tear him apart, piece by filthy piece.

I grabbed Brodie’s arm, feeling his hard muscles bunch under my touch. “Unless you want Brodie to smash your face in, again,” I said, stifling a smile at the memory of an unconscious Boone lying in a pool of his own urine after Brodie knocked him out twelve years ago, “I suggest you tell us about this supposed reason for Jack wanting Roger dead. Other than the debt, that is.”

Ignoring my dig, Boone’s features lifted, his lips curving into a wicked smirk. “Roger siphoned fifty grand from Lucky over the last two months.” His light-colored eyebrow rose. “Bet you didn’t know that.”

This time I did jump up. “He stole from Jack?” My anger rose to boiling level. Hell, if Roger wasn’t dead, I would’ve shot him myself. Twice.

“Oh, no.” Boone sneered, showing off missing and broken teeth. “He took every dime from the distillery. Lucky Whiskey would go under in another few months if someone hadn’t offed Roger.”

“How do you …?”

“Hell,” he said with a bitter laugh, “with you at the helm, it’s bound to go bankrupt anyhow. And then good ole grandma Rue will scavenge through the remains.” He turned his spiteful gaze on Brodie. “Isn’t that why you’re here, Gett? To help your granny steal Lucky?”