“Yes. But.Frank.”
“I’m good.” He lifted his free hand. “Marriage, wedding, rape trial. We got lots to do. Come on.”
She went, but not without misgivings.
~*~
Shep waited until Cass was safe (or relatively so) behind the doors of her classroom building, then started his bike, rode to the nearest jewelry store, and had a minor breakdown in the parking lot.
He paced circles around his bike, glancing occasionally at the sun flares on the window of the store, scrubbing his hair into disarray and wishing things had gone differently. Fuck that attorney, honestly.
“Son, are you okay?” an elderly man walking toward the store stopped to ask him, wrinkled face full of concern.
“Yeah. Fine, thanks,” Shep said, gruffly, and waved the guy off.
The thing is, hewantedto get married to Cassandra, but he wanted to do itright.
His parents were the sort of couple who seemed to hate one another, and who stayed together for financial reasons or just plain stubbornness. His mother was shrill, his father stoicand henpecked. He hadn’t been home in at least ten years, and his last impression of them was his dad burying his face in a car magazine while his mother shrieked at Shep’s departing back: “I feel sorry for whatever poor woman you marry!” She hadn’t taken well to his Lean Dogs cut, and so he’d walked out while she was still wrist-deep in the chicken she’d been preparing for another horrible family dinner.
That was his measuring stick for marriage, flavored unfavorably with what he’d seen on TV, and in movies. The women he’d slept with and casually dated had furthered his idea that marriage was nothing but conflict, every day a minefield, and that at some point the clashing would outweigh the sex. He’d spent his twenties, thirties, and even early forties convinced he was allergic to marriage.
But then there was Cass, who, at seventeen, sized him up with a bold, bored look and said, “Neither of us is happy about this arrangement, but we might as well make the most of it. Do you like terrible horror movies?” They’d been forced together, but she’d immediately, disarmingly roped him into her corner, so that it had been the two of them versus Raven and the other “adults” who’d thought she’d needed a minder. She was neither intimidated by him, nor in awe of his raw sexual magnetism (he embellished a little in his own mind, sue him), and against all his expectations, he’d come to care for her as a friend.
In hindsight, it was no wonder he’d fallen in love with her. He’d never enjoyed a woman’s company so much, and boy, did he enjoy the hell out of hers. Cohabitating the last few weeks was soeasy. And it was sogood. The sex blew his mind, yes, but mostly he loved hearing her humming in the other room, and sitting on the couch together, and waking with her head tucked under his chin.
He never wanted her to leave.
And he’d been thinking, for days now, that there was one surefire way to keep her around for the long haul. A way that involved carefully selecting the right ring, even if he had to take a loan out for it, and choosing the right moment to get down on one knee and offer it, and himself, to her. For the rest of his miserable life.
Instead, Melissa Dixon and Raven Blake had suggested he do it in broad fucking daylight right in front of Cass.
Cass was going to say yes, her face had been all aglow with her yes, but itwasn’t supposed to go that way. He was supposed to surprise her. It was supposed to beromantic, for fuck’s sake.
Bristling with anger, he charged across the parking lot and into the store—“Welcome, sir, I’ll be right with you!”—and promptly deflated when he caught a glimpse of all the bright, shiny shit under glass.
A tiny slip of a saleswoman came over, perky and chirpy, and didn’t bat an eye at his stammered, “Uh…engagement rings. And—and wedding rings, too, I guess.”
“Engagement rings are right over here. Do you have an idea of what you’re looking for?”
He did not.
He wound up back in the parking lot, pacing more circles around his bike. Mav’s words from several weeks ago returned to him, his calm, confident assurance that he ought to call Mercy Lécuyer down in Knoxville for advice. Shep wasn’t in the business of asking for advice from anyone, but he’d never met anyone who talked so adoringly about his wife before, and he was about to have one of those, wasn’t he? And he for sure adored her.
He whipped out his phone and dialed before he could think better of it.
Mercy picked up on the second ring, the background ringing with garage noise. “Hey, Shep!” He sounded genuinelygladto hear from him. Shep tried to remember when that had ever happened…and then realized he’d been greeted by name.
“How’d you know it was me?”
The background noise receded, and he thought Mercy was moving somewhere quieter. His tone was fond, and faintly amused when he said, “I programmed your number into my phone, same with all the New York boys. How’d you get hold of me?” he returned, a smile in his voice.
Shep scrubbed a hand across his eyes, and though he hadn’t seen the man in person in years, it was easy to envision him: his massive frame, and his long black hair, and that easy, sunny way he smiled, like all was right with the world, even when, perhapsespeciallywhen, he was extracting answers from someone. He still recalled the stink of the shed where Mercy had tortured Mikhail Morozov until the once-proud bratva strongman had been a whimpering, bleeding, sniveling mess. Mercy had whistled to himself while he did it, pleased and unbothered. His tone now was fatherly; or, at least, Shep’s fantasy ideal of fatherly.
“Also,” Mercy continued, “Mav reached out a few weeks ago and said I should expect your call.”
“He what? That asshole,” Shep said, more stressed than pissed. “Did he tell you what about?”
“No. He just said he’d told you to call me.”
