Page 113 of Thug

“I’m fine,” he said. “Where are the hostages?”

Something weird was going on. I just didn’t know what it was. “I haven’t seen them in a while. They’re probably sleeping.”

He disappeared.

I touched up my makeup began my search for Price. Shouting in his home was frowned upon unless it was an emergency. If one of us didn’t know where the other was, we were supposed to look, not shout.

I found Price in the living room, petting the hostages.

“Let’s go,” I said, my tone expressing slight frustration.

He whispered something to each of the cats and carefully placed them on the sofa. “It’s not a big deal,” he said. “We’re just going to eat.”

“It must be a big deal,” I argued. “You shaved. Whenever you decide it’s time to shave, it’s never at night.”

“I looked like hell.”

He had a week of growth on his face. He always had a week of growth on his face. I scowled. “You looked like you.”

“C’mon.” He gestured to the door. “Let’s go.”

I followed him to the motorcycle. I hopped on and crossed my arms in a huff, prepared to go to nowhere. I loved Price all that came with him, but I really couldn’t bring myself to enjoy secrets about something as simple as a dinner destination.

We rode for twenty minutes in silence. With the sun low in the sky we exited the highway. Each side of the narrow chat road was lined with giant saguaro. They were a hundred years old, at least, which gave hint as to the age of whatever was at the end of the road.

“Secrets are dumb,” I said into Price’s ear.

“It’s not a secret,” he said. “We’re here.”

The road seemed to lead to nowhere, other than the distant mountains. My interest piqued. We weren’t going to a restaurant I knew that much. A mile of gravel road later, we pulled in front of an expensive looking stucco home.

I pulled off my sunglasses. “Who lives here?” I whispered.

“His name’s Jim Gardner,” he said. “But he goes by Jack. Cactus Jack.”

I couldn’t remember anyone named Cactus Jack. “Does he ride with you?”

The front door opened. A frail man who appeared to be in his late seventies or early eighties stepped outside the home. He was dressed in a brown and white plaid long-sleeved shirt, jeans, cowboy boots, and a straw cowboy hat.

He lifted his hat. “Evening.”

“Evening, Jack,” Price said. “Not too early?”

Jack faced the mountains. “If you want to see that sun set, I’d say you’re on the cusp of being too late.” He looked at us. “Time’ll tell, though.”

“He’s adorable,” I said. “Where’d he come from?”

“Friend of my father’s,” Price said. “Mother and father, actually.”

“Secrets told amongst friends are nothing more than relabeled lies,” Jack shouted.

“Holy cow,” I whispered. “He’s got good ears.”

Jack, standing nearly thirty feet from us, laughed. “He sure does.”

I was embarrassed and wanted to redeem myself. He reminded me of my grandfather, who died when I was in middle school. While Price situated the motorcycle, I introduced myself.

“Hi.” I extended my hand. “I’m Gray.”