Strong and Steady

“It means when you decide to get out there, you get way out there.” He patted my shoulder. “Gray’s not the only one watching out for you. What time tonight?”

I told him.

“I wouldn’t miss this for the world.”

22

GRAY

* * *

My dad wasn’t too hard to find since I knew where to look. There was nothing in Wyoming as far as the eye could see. Open grassland, undulating hills, mountains in the distance for a stretch. I loved it. That was why, as soon as I had the cash, I bought a ranch of my own. An escape. I wanted to take Emory there, get her alone. Get her beneath me again. No interruptions. For days.

There were parts of Wyoming I wanted to avoid, like where I grew up. I never wanted to step foot on that land again. I hadn’t been back since I left for the Marines and had no reason to do so now. My father, thank fuck, was at the casino. It was on the reservation only thirty miles from the ranch, and I could feel the tension creeping into my shoulders with each passing mile.

I had to deal with him, and he sure as fuck wasn’t coming to me. The only reason I was doing so now was because of Emory. No one fucked with her.

No one.

The casino could be seen for miles, like a city seen from space, the only thing on the prairie besides the double strips of pavement for the highway. I exited, parked in the large lot and went inside. Even with the powerful ventilation systems, smoke hung thick in the air, and the sound of the slot machines—the digital music, the pinging of the game and the clinking of coins falling into little plastic cups—was quickly going to give me a headache.

He wasn’t hard to find. I knew what he liked. Knew how he wasted his money. The horses. He sat in a plush chair with about thirty flat screens on the wall in front of him, broadcasting races from all over the country, stats and race information a ticker tape across the bottom of it all.

I dropped down in the leather chair beside him and stared blindly at one of the screens.

“I figured you’d show up.”

The man was in his late sixties, his hair long ago gone to white. His skin was overly tan and had the weathered appearance of a three-pack-a-day smoker. Even now, a cigarette rested in an ashtray on a side table by his right elbow, a glass of what I knew to be whiskey and water beside it. It was early to drink, but this was Wyoming—where people did whatever the fuck they wanted—and this was dear old Dad.

“What do you want this time?” I asked.

I’d never given him money. He’d never needed a dime from me, he had enough of it, even with his gambling habit. Instead, he always wanted me to fix a fight or take a fall in one of my own, so he could win. I never did anything he requested. Never. In retribution, he fucked with me, calling me—I’d ditched one phone number for another more times than I could count—and even sent people to my gym to make trouble. It had all worked; I’d wasted time and energy thinking about the guy, dealing with his shit.

It was hard to imagine how an asshole who lived in the middle of nowhere could ruin my life, but he had. Had. Past tense. I had Emory now, and he couldn’t touch me any longer. Not with her in it. My life was just fucking starting.

“Nothing,” he snapped.

I shook my head slightly, wishing I had a drink of my own, so I could dull the feelings this meeting brought out. My jaw clenched. “Nothing? Since when have you wanted nothing?”

My cell vibrated in my pocket. Worried it was Emory, I glanced at the screen, then, when it wasn’t her number, or Paul’s, I tucked it away.

“Don’t worry, that fight that’s coming up? Your guy’s going to lose on his own poor skills, your own fuck-all training, and then I’ll win.”

I slapped the armrests of the chair and stood. “Great.” I looked down at him, hands on hips. His eyes held no warmth, no love, nothing. He wasn’t a father. He was just some fucking loser who’d somehow spawned me. “Then leave me alone.”

“And your girlfriend, too?”

My phone vibrated again, but I ignored it. The fact that he mentioned Emory had my fists clenching. I knew how to fight with fists and was used to a verbal

sparring match with my dad, but that was over inconsequential shit not Emory. I wanted to beat the fuck out of him, kill him with my bare hands—that’s how much I hated him, but this was a casino. There were cameras everywhere, and he knew it. This was his sanctuary, and he was safe here.

If we were on the ranch, he’d be dead, and no one would ever know. Hell, I’d leave him somewhere no one would ever find him. Besides the coyotes and buzzards.

But this wasn’t the ranch. This wasn’t the ring. This was a mind game. If I made Emory out to be something important, he’d pick at the very idea of her like a scab. So I shrugged it off. “No girlfriend.”

“Oh? She was a bad fuck? She looked pretty limber to me.”

My eyes narrowed, but I kept my cool. Barely. “If you want to fuck with me, fine, but let’s leave everyone else out of it.”