Page 8 of Fragile Lives

“I don’t have any left,” she says, her voice small, nearly ready to cry. She’s one of those people who don’t know how to just say ‘no.’

“None?” I longingly glance at the hallway of the inn.

“No.” She shakes her pretty head, her elf ears flopping a little.

“Oh, well.” I sigh. “I guess call me when you have anything available.”

“Will do. Sorry again!”

“Don’t worry.” I wave at her, walk out the door, and back to my car. Fuck, I can try another town, but it’s like a thirty-minute drive on a good day.

Once I get inside, I pull out my phone and call Kenneth. He’s the local sheriff, and he would know if something is available somewhere around. Plus, he’s the reason I’m here today, so he owes me.

He picks up on the second ring.“Benson.”

“Do you know of any other accommodations around besides Dancing Pony?”

He sighs.“They’re packed?”

“Yeah.”

“Nothing around here.”He clicks his tongue.“You can stay at my place; I got plenty of room.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah. I’ll text you the address.”He yells something to someone and then returns to me.“Sorry, work. The extra key is on the beam at the back door.”

“Got it, thanks.”

“Sure. I’m stuck at the station for another thirty minutes, but that thing we talked about? I think it’s tonight. I’ll give you the details when I’m back.”

“Copy that.”

The end of the line goes dead, and a message follows a moment later. I plug the address into my GPS and drive to his place. I could probably crash on Alex’s couch, but something tells me he is unaware of the shenanigan his brother is up to. And I intend to keep it that way—Alex already has enough on his plate.

Benson’s house is a suburban-style, two-story brick building with more character in its gutter than my whole gigantic mansion in Boston. I walk around to look for the back door, and, as promised, I find the spare key on the beam. Opening the door, I step inside.

It matches the outside. Clean cut, simple but tasteful. Looking around, I get a feeling that Benson must have spent a few years in the military, judging by how neat and tidy everything is and the ninety-degree angles everywhere.

I drop my bag on the bench by the door and take my shoes off. My mother would have a fit if she saw me walking barefoot in someone’s house, but pissing her off is one of the last pleasures in my life. Even if she doesn’t see it.

I wash my hands and plant my ass on the couch, scrolling through social media. Seeing new tattoos made by my crew warms my heart. My parlors are among the very few things thatstill bring me pleasure in life besides being a tool to my mother, and I treasure seeing the beautiful work my employees put out into the world.

Thirty minutes later, the front door opens, and a tall, well-built dude in a sheriff’s uniform walks inside. I see the family resemblance right away. His hair is cut short, but besides that, he’s pretty much Alex’s twin, just a little older. A few stripes of silver mark his temples, and a few extra lines around his mouth and eyes. I stand up and walk to him, hand outstretched. He shakes it firmly and smacks my shoulder with his other hand.

“Thanks for coming.”

“Don’t mention it.” I smile. “Though I might say I’m curious.”

“I bet you are. C’mon, I’ll explain everything.” He takes his shoes off and proceeds to the kitchen. “Alex doesn’t know you’re here?” he asks, turning to me.

“No,” I say, following him. “Figured if you wanted him to know, you would tell him.”

“You figured right. Don’t want to get him involved.” He nods.

“And involving me is alright?” I ask with a smirk.

“It’s not like that.” He opens the fridge. “Want something?”