A Desperate Man

1

Quinn hated this shit. He chain smoked as he tried to keep his foot on the gas to get to his old hometown. His whole body rebelled at the idea of going back there. Elsewhere, he could be himself. In Spruce Creek, Nevada, he’d always be a MacGregor first, and anything else second.

He was two weeks out of rehab, and while he was pretty sure he’d kicked the habit, he felt twitchy like he hadn’t since withdrawals. All he’d wanted was to find a place to live somewhere as far as possible from Nevada, but he had unfinished business and so here he was, driving through exceedingly familiar scenery: tangled wind-flattened shrubs at the side of the road, houses with the paint worn off them by the weather, everything sun-bleached and a little run down.

He hadn’t been back since he was about to turn eighteen. He and his mom had left town and she now lived in New Hampshire with her slightly younger partner. She said it wasn’t love yet, that she wasn’t sure if she knew what that even was, but that she felt hopeful and that was more than Quinn could ask.

There were several trailer parks around town, and pretty much all the houses looked to be around the same kind of price range. He skipped Main Street for now, and headed directly to his uncle’s house.

Uncle Ian lived in the fanciest house in the whole town. Not that it said much, really, but at least it had been kept in shape and there was some pretty decent landscaping going on at the sides of the house.

Quinn parked in the large gravel lot, making sure he couldn’t be boxed in. He felt itchy, going into the proverbial lion’s den. The fact that he was used to much bigger criminal organizations than the one Uncle Ian operated here meant very little. This was the territory that was supposed to be Quinn’s by now.

If only his dad hadn’t fucked up and killed the sheriff a decade ago, eh?

He glanced at himself in the rearview mirror and frowned at how same yet different he looked than the last time he was here. He had shorter hair now, messy and thick as it had always been. In his teens, he’d liked to drive his dad nuts by refusing to cut it. That summer, when he’d followed his cousin into that party he had no place in attending, it had been down to the middle of his back. Sometimes he missed it, but his current lifestyle didn’t exactly support keeping hair like that clean.

He took his gun from the glove box and stuck it into the waistband of his jeans, then made sure it was obvious but not obnoxious by careful placement of the hem of his T-shirt in the back. He had a knife strapped to his ankle. He never went anywhere unarmed. Well, actually, he’d just spent ninety days without anything to protect himself with on his person, and after getting out of rehab it had felt better to carry his weapons of choice than he thought a line of coke would’ve.

An older, even more serious version of his cousin Jimmy walked out of the front door.

“Showtime,” Quinn murmured under his breath, and got out of the car.

He strolled to the little porch and peered up at Jimmy. They gave each other a once over, then Jimmy grinned a little.

“Well, I’ll be damned.” Jimmy extended his hand and as soon as Quinn took it, he hauled Quinn up the few stairs into a back-breaking man hug.

Quinn made a show of grunting and punched Jimmy’s shoulder when he let go. “Asshole.” Then he looked at the still somewhat familiar features and smiled. “Time’s been kind to you, cuz.”

Jimmy chuckled. “You, not so much. What the fuck have you been on?” He turned and gestured for the door, but didn’t wait for Quinn to go first.

“Coke, mostly,” Quinn replied dryly, and Jimmy barked out a laugh.

“I’m not sure if I’m supposed to be surprised or not,” he admitted.

“I dunno, I mean, when you’re around the stuff a lot and need to stay awake and alert for extended periods of time…” Quinn shrugged.

“I guess so.” Jimmy showed him into the living room. “Dad should be home soon. He went to have a chat with Mr. Barnes. Mom’s getting her hair done in town.”

Having a chat meant making sure whatever excuse for protection money he had these days, Mr. Barnes would pay up.

Then, because he had to get to the reason for his reappearance, he asked, “How’s Uncle Ian? Like really? Not what he’ll tell me.”

Jimmy walked to the kitchen. “Beer or water?”

“Water, thanks.”

Once they had their drinks, Jimmy sat on the other couch and sighed. “It’s not good. Prostate cancer, but it’s aggressive as fuck and he’s decided he doesn’t want chemo and whatnot this time.”

Quinn frowned. “Mom said it was bad, but she didn’t tell me he’d already had one cancer before?”

“Nobody knew except my parents and I. Dad kept it a secret.” Jimmy sipped at his beer. “You know how it is.”

And boy, did Quinn know. Face was everything in this business. You couldn’t be perceived as weak.