The Price of Grace (Black Ops Confidential 2)

He stared at her. “Yep. Love matters more.”

Hearing her own words echoed back to her, she drew in a shaky breath. She reached out, as slow as if she were approaching a dangerous animal, and rubbed a thumb over his jaw. “I really like you, Dusty.” She dropped her hand. “But I still can’t trust you.”

He leaned forward. “Don’t trust me. Don’t.” He let that hang there a moment, acknowledging that she was right. It was a moment in which the lies, like wisps of an old spider web, clung to him. “Don’t trust. But let me help you. That’s why I’m here.”

She balled up the tissue and put the fisted hand to her forehead; bits of white tissue poked out from her fingers. “I don’t need rescuing.”

“What do you need?”

She dropped her hand. “Right now, I could really use some Motrin.”

He nodded, leaned the rest of the way forward, and kissed her lightly on her cheek. “Okay, then, we can start with that.”

Chapter 31

Off nearly every surface of Club When? the light show flashed red, white, and blue. Music pulsed from the speakers. People crowded onto the dance floor, bumping and grinding.

Dusty had to admit, he liked working here. A lot. The rhythm of the bar, the way the air began to buzz as people streamed inside. One second prep work, the next he ran around, exchanging pleasantries with people from all walks. And then there was Gracie.

Though she’d started the night in a haze of gloom, her mood had lifted. Now as she worked, she swayed those hips, that ass, in a way he was sure God himself deemed to be one of the most pleasant sights on this planet.

Damn, being here with her felt right.

It felt right when she bent to get something from a fridge and his eyes found their way to her fine, round ass. Made his palms itch.

It felt right when she caught him looking, smiled without reprimand, and all that guardedness, all the hostility meant to ward people off was suddenly not there.

It felt right, so right, when Gracie, rocking her hips to one of his favorite songs, shot him a what-are-you-waiting-for look, and he forgot for a moment those things called boundaries.

He put an arm around her waist and drew her back against the front of his body. He’d expected her to elbow him hard enough to give him second thoughts, but she moved with him. Against him.

People hooted approval. He dipped his head to her ear, and sang with “Make You Feel My Love.”

And when she turned to him with a blush? Oh, he liked how she blushed. He could make a game of it—all the ways he could get Ms. Gracie Parish to blush.

It felt right, so right.

Until he remembered exactly why he was there. Then he felt like shit. He had to talk himself into focusing on his investigation. Remind himself of exactly who he was after and why.

As the night wore on, he had to remind himself again and again. Especially when Gracie whizzed by him smelling like candy and whiskey. Nearly bit his lip in half. Nothing could be more irresistible.

Too quickly, the evening of laughter and drinks and darting here and there quieted down. The music switched off. The lights came up. And the club went into standby mode.

As he put away bottles, Gracie sat at the bar with a clipboard, taking stock. She looked so damn earnest. Not a “trace”? of makeup. Hair pulled back. Chewing on the tip of her pen and closing one eye to evaluate her paperwork.

Dusty waved goodbye to the last of the servers and returned his attention to Gracie, who’d turned her attention to him. She took the pen from her mouth. “Where did you come from?”

Why did the fact that she wanted to know about him cause his heart to beat faster? Finished cleaning, he began to count the register. “I thought that was obvious. Kentucky.”

“Not so obvious. Let me guess. Your dad is one of those typical Southern fathers, super into his family and God and horses.”

“Well, I could ride a horse long before I could ride a bike. But my dad was more interested in himself than family or even God. He was a faith healer.”

Gracie cradled her chin in one hand. “That sounds pretty religious to me.”

Finished counting, he wrote down the number before answering. “The way my dad operated had nothing to do with God. He was a fraud.”

The corners of her eyes creased. “So you never saw any miracles?”

He shut the register. “I saw what he classified as miracles. People pretending to be healed, because only unworthy or sinful people didn’t get healed.”

“Pretending? If someone shows up and can’t walk, you can see if they’ve been healed or not, right?”

He raised an eyebrow. Funny she should choose that example. He moved over to her, picked up a rag, and wiped the bar. “I once saw an old woman who couldn’t walk. We’re in this big meeting hall. Folding chairs set up, fluorescent lights, incense, and Tiger Balm.”

He finished with the rag, put it in the bucket under the counter, leaned against the bar. “Dad came over to her. Now he’s a big, powerful guy. The kind of fellow who can intimidate with mannerisms and voice. Dad puts his large hands over hers, and his voice rings out.” Dusty raised his hands to demonstrate. “Walk.”

He lowered his hands. “Moments like that you could feel his power, feel the tension in the room, everyone standing up from their folding chairs, looking. It was something.

“This lady’s feet began to move spastically. My heart started to pound. It was going to happen. I knew she’d walk. People oohed and aahed. Everyone praising God. My dad commanded louder that she rise. His powerful voice gave me goosebumps.

“Her feet went twice as fast, she put her bony hands on the armrests of her wheelchair and tried to lift herself. Her arms shook, her legs gave, and she fell back into her seat with a cry.”

Gracie’s face followed the story, showing interest, then puzzlement, then sadness. She got it. Some wouldn’t.

“Dad told her, told all of us, it was her fault. She’d done something in her past, some wrong she needed to be forgiven for. If she repented and trusted God, she’d be healed. She began to cry. The whole congregation, including me, blamed her.”

“That’s awful.”

“Yeah. But back then, because I’d never been taught to think any other way, I believed him.”

Gracie rubbed at her arms. “When did it change for you?”

“I was seven. Nearly died from a bladder infection. Dad’s thinking was if he couldn’t heal me, or anyone in his ministry, and I use that term very loosely, then God had deemed us unworthy.”

Her face showed stark disbelief. “That’s crazy.”

“It seems crazy to me now too. Back then, trembling and sick and dying, I thought, ‘Why did I lie about that cookie? Why did I forget to say yes, ma’am? Why won’t God let me live?’”

Her face softened with empathy, not sympathy. He appreciated that. Nothing to feel sorry about. That part of his life had helped make him the dogged, determined man he was.

“I’ve never heard you say yes, ma’am.”

Had to smile at that.

“You Northern girls beat it out of me. Nothing harder than trying to explain to some hot thing you’re trying to make time with that yes, ma’am is just upbringing.”

She laughed. Got serious. “How’d you survive the illness? Did you get better?”

He looked past her to the empty bar, the strip-lights along the dance floor. “My mom went against my dad, reached out to my uncle Harvey. He worked in law enforcement. Showed up with his gun and his partner, threatened an investigation if Dad came after us. An idle threat, but the old man wasn’t so well-educated. He agreed. Uncle Harvey raised me, helped deprogram me. Thanks to him, I came to see the world differently. Maybe got a bit of a chip on my shoulder for people who try to force their views on others.”

She lifted her eyes to his. He could tell she knew what he was saying. It was out there. Why he was here. Why he was investigating her family. Why he cared.

Ball was in her court.

Chapter 32

Seated at the bar, her chin propped in her hands, in the after-hours quiet, Gracie absorbed what Dusty was saying about his father. A manipulative and abusive man.

She let his statement “Maybe got a bit of a chip on my shoulder for people who try to force their views on others” expand into the quiet between them. She let it echo inside her. He was sending her a message about Momma, about the League, and his motivation.

Though she wanted to, she didn’t feel the need to respond immediately, to fill the silence with her side. Their eyes met, stayed locked. She enjoyed it, the way his sun-soaked eyes heated her.

“We had similar upbringings, but not exactly the same. Your father would’ve sacrificed you for his own sense of self-importance. Momma sacrifices herself to save others.” Gracie saw that more clearly since John’s visit. For years Momma had taken Gracie’s anger over John. When in truth John had planned to go all along.

He leaned toward her. “I certainly am interested in learning more. Mind if I ask some questions?”

Oh boy. Time for a subject change. “Your breath smells really good. Did you eat one of my candies?”