Chapter One
Mr. Clarke
Even before the silver Lexus pulled up in front of Pete Eason’s trailer, he’d known something wasn’t right.
The man climbing out of the car, looking like a newly minted hundred dollar bill, was Mike Clarke. He’d contacted a friend of Pete’s because he’d heard Pete might be interested in an odd job. That was true. Right now, Pete was interested in any job he could get. But now that he stood here looking at the man who had hired him, Pete had a funny feeling that something just wasn’t right. To start with, Pete wasn’t usually hired by guys who looked like this one, and when he was, they damn well didn’t drive out to his house in a Lexus to pick him up and take him to the site.
Pete rose from his seat on the bottom step and nodded a greeting.
The man nodded back and smiled. “Good morning.”
Clarke lounged gracefully in the space between his open door and the body of his car, his casual stance making his suit coat gape wide. He didn’t wear a tie, and his top two buttons were undone because it was a hot July Missouri morning. Pete could see Clarke's wiry, dark blond chest hair peeking out of the gap in his dress shirt. He tried not to look at them, but it wasn’t like looking at the man’s face was any better. Clarke was broad, handsome, and slightly scruffy in a way that belied his nice car and clothes and made him seem accessible in a way Pete knew damn well he wasn’t.
Clarke was still smiling, and the gesture made his pale blue eyes dance. “Well? You ready to go?”
Pete bent down, picked up his lunch pail, and headed toward the passenger side of the car. Then he frowned. “You sure you don’t want me to drive myself?”
Clarke looked puzzled. “But we’re going to the same place.”
Pete grimaced at the Lexus. “But I’m gonna get your car all dirty.”
Now Clarke was amused. “It cleans up, Peter.”
“Pete,” Pete corrected. But he opened the car door and slid carefully into the buttery leather of the seats.
The car smelled good, like money and leather and man. The smell intensified when Clarke got back into the car, and as they turned out of the trailer court and headed back to the road, the smells converged around Pete, wrapping around him like a blanket.
“So,” Clarke said as he headed south toward I-70. “How much did they tell you about the job?”
Pete shrugged and kept his eyes on the road. “Said somebody needed help clearing debris out of a house and that they paid good money.”
He saw Clarke glance at him out of the corner of his eye. “That’s it? And you just took the job?”
“Not a lot of jobs around here right now, Mr. Clarke.”
“Mike,” Clarke corrected.
Pete rubbed his hand over his mouth to hide a grimace. Shit. He hated it when the bosses wanted to pretend they were chummy. “Just here to do a job. That’s all. Don’t need to know much except where the Dumpster is.”
Clarke was nodding, and Pete suppressed a sigh because he could sense more conversation coming. This one must be one of those bleeding heart liberals trying to get in touch with the “common man.” Pete wondered what “Mike” would think if he knew how Pete would like to touch him. He got a swift, explicit mental image of the other man’s horror, and it made him smile.
Which, of course, the bastard caught. “Care to share the joke?”
“Nope.” Pete wiped his face clean and turned back to the road.
They got off the interstate and headed up into the hills. Clarke was driving them down rutted, rotten roads no Lexus was ever meant to see. Pete wondered what it was like to have so much money that you could drive a forty-thousand dollar car down a piece of shit road like this and not even break a sweat.
“That’s quite a lunchbox,” Clarke said.
Pete looked down at the beat-up black tin in his lap. “Is it?”
“It looks old.
Mr. Clarke
Even before the silver Lexus pulled up in front of Pete Eason’s trailer, he’d known something wasn’t right.
The man climbing out of the car, looking like a newly minted hundred dollar bill, was Mike Clarke. He’d contacted a friend of Pete’s because he’d heard Pete might be interested in an odd job. That was true. Right now, Pete was interested in any job he could get. But now that he stood here looking at the man who had hired him, Pete had a funny feeling that something just wasn’t right. To start with, Pete wasn’t usually hired by guys who looked like this one, and when he was, they damn well didn’t drive out to his house in a Lexus to pick him up and take him to the site.
Pete rose from his seat on the bottom step and nodded a greeting.
The man nodded back and smiled. “Good morning.”
Clarke lounged gracefully in the space between his open door and the body of his car, his casual stance making his suit coat gape wide. He didn’t wear a tie, and his top two buttons were undone because it was a hot July Missouri morning. Pete could see Clarke's wiry, dark blond chest hair peeking out of the gap in his dress shirt. He tried not to look at them, but it wasn’t like looking at the man’s face was any better. Clarke was broad, handsome, and slightly scruffy in a way that belied his nice car and clothes and made him seem accessible in a way Pete knew damn well he wasn’t.
Clarke was still smiling, and the gesture made his pale blue eyes dance. “Well? You ready to go?”
Pete bent down, picked up his lunch pail, and headed toward the passenger side of the car. Then he frowned. “You sure you don’t want me to drive myself?”
Clarke looked puzzled. “But we’re going to the same place.”
Pete grimaced at the Lexus. “But I’m gonna get your car all dirty.”
Now Clarke was amused. “It cleans up, Peter.”
“Pete,” Pete corrected. But he opened the car door and slid carefully into the buttery leather of the seats.
The car smelled good, like money and leather and man. The smell intensified when Clarke got back into the car, and as they turned out of the trailer court and headed back to the road, the smells converged around Pete, wrapping around him like a blanket.
“So,” Clarke said as he headed south toward I-70. “How much did they tell you about the job?”
Pete shrugged and kept his eyes on the road. “Said somebody needed help clearing debris out of a house and that they paid good money.”
He saw Clarke glance at him out of the corner of his eye. “That’s it? And you just took the job?”
“Not a lot of jobs around here right now, Mr. Clarke.”
“Mike,” Clarke corrected.
Pete rubbed his hand over his mouth to hide a grimace. Shit. He hated it when the bosses wanted to pretend they were chummy. “Just here to do a job. That’s all. Don’t need to know much except where the Dumpster is.”
Clarke was nodding, and Pete suppressed a sigh because he could sense more conversation coming. This one must be one of those bleeding heart liberals trying to get in touch with the “common man.” Pete wondered what “Mike” would think if he knew how Pete would like to touch him. He got a swift, explicit mental image of the other man’s horror, and it made him smile.
Which, of course, the bastard caught. “Care to share the joke?”
“Nope.” Pete wiped his face clean and turned back to the road.
They got off the interstate and headed up into the hills. Clarke was driving them down rutted, rotten roads no Lexus was ever meant to see. Pete wondered what it was like to have so much money that you could drive a forty-thousand dollar car down a piece of shit road like this and not even break a sweat.
“That’s quite a lunchbox,” Clarke said.
Pete looked down at the beat-up black tin in his lap. “Is it?”
“It looks old.
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