And Eric saw it then, the hope that Ace had always had for Sonny, the growth that seemed to make the others believe even more fiercely in rainfall in the desert.
And he saw it in Ace’s first day back, and Jai’s too, how happy they were to be in their own domain, how much joy they took as Sonny took them around and showed them any changes he and Dimitri had made in the past weeks, how much they bothglowed with pride to see the business they’d all worked so hard to sustain was going to make it through another rough patch.
Eric had been part of that. No gun, no bullets, no blood.
He could do an honest man’s job. He felt the same pride Ace and Jai did. Felt worthy of a Sonny Daye.
Maybe it was then, that day, that he began to hope. Maybe it was that Brady had faded from the news, had even faded from social media. He was another hero that would be quietly forgotten—Colin Kaepernick, Reality Winner, Brady Carnegie—someone who had shed blood and given up safety for the greater good, and who only had wounds to count in the end.
But who maybe couldn’t have seen any other way to go.
Eric could respect that. And he could also, maybe a little, hope that when all was said and done, Brady would find more reasons to come back to their little corner of the world than to stay away.
Hope. Like rain in the desert, only a little was needed to sustain the life of a heart battered but sound.
Big Hard Sun
BRADY HADsomehow been the recipient of some appearance stipends for all the stupid news shows he’d been asked to appear on, and he’d also, laughably enough, continued to collect his paycheck as a deputy. He’d used some of the money to have his stuff put into storage—courtesy of the FBI—after he’d abandoned his apartment, and the rest of the money on, well, a car.
A fast car.
A dark blue Ford Mustang to be exact, because, well, he thought maybe Sonny could do something with a car like that.
But that was a question for another day.
One of the first things they’d tried to confiscate from him had been his personal phone, and he’d blessed Burton for demanding that before Brady had even thought about it.
He’d gotten a dirty look from Jessica when he’d been asked to surrender his personal effects, but he hadn’t cared. As far as anybody official was concerned, he was the sole proprietor and perpetrator of all the mayhem involving that phone and Arlen Cuthbert.
Fortunately, he’d been right. There’d been a whole lot of whales to fry, and nobody had been too worried about bringing charges against one small law enforcement fish.
Which was why he’d had the balls to ask for one meager concession when all was said and done and he’d found himself upright, walking upon the jobs and reputations of the fallen.
“Really?” Jessica had asked. “Some people want you to run for Congress—you sure you want to aim so low?”
Brady had scowled at her—by the end of this thing, they were on each other’s Christmas card list, not least because he’d been right. Cuthbert had threatened her family, personally, and Brady had assured her that he wouldn’t trust a person who didn’t defend their family.
He’d said it with a level look, and after that, whenever there was an obvious question or evasion about how in the hell he’d gotten that phone onto the airwaves and who in the fuck had helped him do it, he’d given her that face again, and she’d helped him cover.
She understood the assignment.
She helped him protect his family, and he wouldn’t betray that she’d neglected her duty because she’d been protecting hers.
It was a partnership that had gotten them both through the worst of the questions—many of them hostile and misleading—as they’d set the freight trains in motion to squash the people whose names had been on that phone.
But at last, as the May sunshine began to blast the desert for certain, Brady felt safe to return.
God, he hoped he was still welcome.
What kind of welcome could he hope to have after leaving his lover bleeding by the side of the road?
But he couldn’t stay away anymore.
He’d dressed for the occasion—a new leather jacket, some slacks, some shiny shoes. He’d had to be on television enough that he’d taken Jessica’s help with his hair, and even a little bit of moisturizer to combat the constant desert burn.
Suddenly, it had become very, very important that he not be ragged and sad and dejected when he showed up on Eric’s doorstep. He was holding his heart in his hands—not his hat.
Still, he fidgeted nervously with his hair after he parked alongside the house that the Winnebago used to be parked in front of. There was a brand-new Subaru there. Lime green, which made Brady smile. The front yard had been landscaped—drought resistant, with lots of succulents and some fruit trees and with friezes and arbors in strategic places to keep the direct sun from baking the front porch in the morning.
