“A gentleman never tells,” he replied smoothly.
Deacon nodded. “Find me a gentleman and we’ll ask just to be sure…have you got the numbers for me?”
Quentin pulled out his phone and flipped through the numerous documents on it until he found the proposal. “It’s all there. Profits were down, but you know why. We talked about that. I’ve also included the plans for expanded production and distribution, but that’s a long-haul return. This will make you money, but it’s going to take at least five years before you see any of it.”
“I know what I’m getting into here, Quentin. I know about your fucked-up father and what he’s done…I also know that you wouldn’t try to sell me on this unless you were convinced that it would work. I’ve always loved Kentucky…loved it since I played college ball here. But I know that if I wantto fit here, to make a home here, I have to be part of something and not just an observer. Buying into Fire Creek gives me that. So, I’m in. Send the contracts to my attorney, and we’ll get the financing sorted out…by the way, I’m buying a house in Fontaine. Have an appointment to look at it this afternoon.”
Quentin shook his head. “No half measures with you…ever. Are you sure you want to live in Fontaine? Your entertainment options are pretty limited.”
“As long as I can get beer and SportsCenter, I’m good to go.”
Quentin rose to his feet, as did Deacon Mallory. They shook hands. “I didn’t realize your standards had lowered so much.”
“I’m too old to party without jeopardizing my good looks,” Deacon answered with a grin.
“Cocky bastard.” Quentin shoved his phone back into his pocket and turned to walk away.
Deacon called out. “I know you weren’t fighting over a woman… ?cause you don’t do that. But I also know you well enough to know that one’s got you tied up in knots.”
Quentin shrugged, though it cost him. God above, hehurt. “Just wait until you meet the one who does that to you.”
Deacon grinned. “I can’t fucking wait.”
Seven
Ciaran eased his truck to a stop at the end of the formerly gravel, but now mostly mud, driveway of the Barnes’s house. House was probably pushing it. The ramshackle trailers, all cobbled together, looked more like something out of a Mad Max movie than like something that would be sitting in the middle of bourbon country.
Picking up the file from the seat beside him, he skimmed the documents and photos inside. Yes, he was helping out Quentin to appease Mia, but he was also helping out his soon-to-be brother-in-law, Matt Crawford. It seemed that during his recent stint at Blackburn, Joey had shared a cell with a talkative Russian fellow by the name of Sergei. And since Sergei was no longer talking to anyone, Joey Barnes might be their best shot for getting more intel on the original source of the drugs Sergei and his associates had been peddling.
Getting out of the truck, he walked casually up the driveway, as if he had every right to be there. Sneaking up on paranoid-ass drug dealers was worse than doing a night drop in a war zone. A large dog chained in the yard growled and barked as he made his way onto the porch. Boards shifted beneath hisweight, and he wondered how the whole thing didn’t just fall through.
Ciaran knocked on the door and waited. Then he knocked again. From inside, he could hear the shuffling of trash, bottles being knocked over. They might have had a party, or they might just live that way. He didn’t know, and he honestly didn’t care.
Through the closed door he heard someone shout. “Answer the fucking door, bitch!”
Ciaran clenched his fists at his side. He’d never spoken to a woman that way in his life, and it pissed him off to hear it from someone else.
When the door did finally open, it wasn’t some strung-out young girl like he’d expected. The woman was probably middle-aged, and yet she could have been a hundred. Rail thin, her gray hair tied back in a messy knot and dressed in clothes so old and threadbare it was a wonder they didn’t simply disintegrate on the spot—she was probably the saddest creature he’d ever laid eyes on.
“Can I help you?” she asked.
Her voice was rough from chain-smoking for years, but still timid and weak. She ducked her head and wouldn’t makeeye contact with him, but it allowed the bruise on her cheekbone to stand out in stark relief.
“I’m looking for Joey…I need to talk to him,” Ciaran replied evenly, the whole time wondering if Joey was responsible for that bruise.
“He’s not here,” she replied and started to close the door.
Ciaran caught it with his palm, keeping her from closing it in his face. “Where can I find him?”
“I don’t know. He’s a grown man and doesn’t have to tell me where he goes or when he’ll be home.”
“But he will be home?” Ciaran demanded.
She sighed again, heavy and broken. “Maybe. I don’t know. He’s been running wild ever since he got out…it was better when he was still locked up. Least then I knew where he was.”
“Don’t say another damn word!”
The man, if he could be called that, who’d been yelling and cursing inside was making his way to the door. It wasn’t her husband, Ciaran realized. It was another of her worthless sons. The wifebeater, which was ironic, the dirty jeans, gauged ears, neck tattoos, and sideways hat were pretty indicative that he didn’t have any sort of legitimate employment. But the brand-new truck parked in the yard clearly said he had money.
