“Good you still got it in your sights,” he told her and she looked to him after pulling down a glass.
“Never let it out of my sight, sweetheart.”
Joker fought back swallowing against the lump suddenly clogging his throat.
She poured him milk.
After she did that, she slid it along with the cookies toward where he was leaning a hip against her counter. “Where you been?”
“Here and there,” he answered, reaching for an Oreo. He gave her his eyes. “Home now.”
“Good, Carson,” she said softy.
“Not Carson. Known as Joker, Mrs. Heely. Left my father’s son behind.”
She nodded, surprising him with her easy acceptance of that, her eyes moving to his cut before lifting again to his, “Found a home.”
“Yeah, and brothers.”
“Hear some of those motorcycle boys can raise Cain,” she noted. “Hear some of them take care of their own.”
“I got both.”
She grinned. “Reckon that’s good.”
“It is,” he assured her.
“Missed you,” she whispered, blindsiding him. The look on her face, her tone, the suddenness of it, taking it in, his insides shredded. “Worried for you, bad. Missed you, worse. Thought about you every day and—”
He shut her up by shoving the Oreo in his mouth and pulling her in his arms.
She wrapped hers around his middle and pushed her face in his chest. She was tough, though, and he wasn’t surprised when she got a lock on it and didn’t lose control in about the time it took him to chew and swallow the cookie.
But when she tipped her head back, she said, “God took my boy. Then He gave me you.”
That was when his insides started bleeding.
He stared down at her wrinkled face. A face he remembered from since he could remember. Her hazel eyes bright with wet.
He had no clue.
Fuck.
No clue.
But he should have had one. She’d given him a million of them.
His voice was gruff when he began, “Mrs. Heely—”
She shook her head. “We won’t go on about that. You’re here. You’re healthy. You’re strong. You’ve found where you fit. I’m happy. If you needed to leave to find that, then it’s good. But this time, for this old woman, would you stay around awhile?”
Joker gave her a squeeze and it again came out gruff when he said, “Not goin’ anywhere.”
She pulled her arms from around him to rest her hands on his chest.
For his part, Joker did not let go.
“Good,” she whispered before she slapped him twice on the chest with both hands and pulled out of his hold. “Now, eat your cookies and tell me everything. And don’t leave anything out, even if it’s juicy. I’ve been telling the folk around here about you for a year. We all need to get caught up, and we’re sick and tired of PG.”
“You do know I’m not tellin’ you shit that’s juicy,” Joker replied.
She tossed him a look. “I’m older than you, you’ll hardly shock me.”
“Wanna bet?” he asked.
“Try me,” she shot back.
And that was when it happened.
Joker’s lips twitched.
It wasn’t big on the outside.
But it still was huge.
* * *
Joker pulled into the parking lot and saw immediately that Carissa’s Tercel was one of the best cars there.
He stopped, idled and looked around.
Four stories. L-shaped. All brick. All flat. Outside walkways made of cement. Ugly iron banisters. Same for the stairs, a set at the front, a set in the bend of the L. Not one thing there to make it look anything other than what it was. Cheap apartments for those unlucky enough to have to live there.
And he saw a few of those unlucky enough to have to live there.
A man and a woman hanging out on the walkway by the railing, second floor up. The man was smoking, the woman looking like she was giving him shit, the man looking like he was about two seconds away from doing whatever he felt he had to do to make her stop.
An old lady on the bottom floor, head tipped back, housecoat on, feet in slippers, watching them, probably so she could share what she saw wide. But she was doing it in a way that Joker knew she’d seen it before. From the couple. From others. And she’d seen a fuckuva lot more.
A couple of kids hanging around the cars, looking like they were up to nothing, but whatever that nothing was, was no good.
Joker looked to the third floor, scanned, and saw the numbers he was searching for, the middle one hanging upside down.
Apartment 323.
Carissa’s place.
He felt his mouth get tight as he pulled his phone out of his pocket.
His thumb moved over the display and he put it to his ear.
“Brother,” Tack answered.
“Where are you?”
“It’s Sunday. Where would I be?”
At home, with his woman and boys.
“Need a word,” Joker told him.
“How quiet does this word have to be?” Tack asked.
“I could come to you. You share what I have to say with Cherry, your call. But outside that, quiet.”
“Where are you?”
“Nowhere good.”
“Don’t wanna make you haul your ass up here, don’t wanna haul my ass to the city. So, help me out, Joke. Where’s halfway?”
“Morrison Inn,” Joker told him.
“Thirty,” Tack replied and disconnected.
Joker shoved his phone in his pocket, glanced at Carissa’s apartment, knowing she was there because her car was and figuring she was up there alone, killing time until her boy was back.
He wasn’t about to take the steps he knew she had to take, lugging up her kid, lugging groceries, to knock on her door to make her less alone.
He just had to settle in the knowledge that sometime tomorrow she’d have her boy back.
So she’d be okay.
Or as okay as she could be.
He rounded the lot and drove out of Denver and into the foothills to hit Morrison Inn.
He had a beer in front of him on the bar when Tack walked in.
He waited until Tack had his own beer before he started.
“Heard word the renters at Tyra’s old pad gave notice.”
Tack had the beer to his lips, his eyes to the bar, when he replied, “Heard true.”
“Want you to offer it to Carissa.”
Tack’s eyes came to him.
“Give her some bullshit about how Tyra bought it years ago, mortgage low or paid off or whatever. I don’t give a fuck,” Joker told him. “I’ll find out what she’s payin’ now. You throw a couple hundred on that so she can’t read the bullshit. Whatever’s the difference, I’ll pay the rest.”