All Flash No Cash (2 page)

The raffle motorcycle popped into his
thoughts, followed by a mental snapshot of CJ riding with him, her
long body pressed close behind his, her arms wrapped around him as
she whispered in his ear. Low in his belly, blood flooded and
hardness pressed against his fly. Was she thinking about him, too?
He laughed. Probably cussing him out for shoveling some of her
bullshit right back onto her.

****

Damn that Pete Gonally. CJ finished wiping
down the bar as her night security guard locked the front door. For
some stupid reason, the hayseed graphic artist had impressed the
shit out of her.

“All set, CJ.” Dolby saluted her and stalked
toward the back of the bar to do one last check of the office and
bathrooms. The big ex-Army sergeant would head upstairs and check
her apartment next, then go to the third floor storage area, as
well as the rooftop patio. They’d found stowaways sleeping it
off—or waiting to rob the place—too many times over the years.

“Thanks, big guy. I’ll be heading up in a
few.”

“Night, then.” He patted the pistol he kept
tucked inside his vest and winked at her, his walnut-brown wrinkles
appearing with his smile.

She smiled back. One of the rare times she
let down her tough-bitch façade was with Dolby. He and her father
had grown up together four blocks from the bar, and Dolby still
lived there with his family. He and Dad had served two tours in the
military, and he was the only person in the world, besides her
father, whom she trusted. And for good reason. This business was
full of liars and con artists and slippery salesmen who practically
demanded kickbacks.

She wiped her forehead with the back of her
hand and made one more round of the bar. In the small kitchen, she
checked that the deep fryers were off and the refrigerators were on
before shutting off all but the low lights that helped Dolby see
his way when he did his rounds during the night. The man had been
working the night shift at the saloon since Harry had purchased the
bar all those years ago.

At the back of the kitchen, she pressed the
elevator button. When the doors opened, she stepped in and keyed in
the code to the second floor. Her apartment. The one she’d grown up
in with her dad, and where she now lived solo. The doors slid open
and she trudged out. Dolby had been here, had checked every room,
every closet, and had left on a few lights for her.

The all-white space felt like diving into a
cool bowl of ice cream after the dark, heavy-wood atmosphere of the
bar. She turned on her laptop and sat on the white leather couch,
propping a couple pillows, each a different pastel color, behind
her. The art on the walls, framed in whitewashed barn wood, had her
father’s signature in the bottom right corners.

Amazing landscapes, still-lifes, portraits.
It had been his way of coping with stress. Everything from PTSD to
raising a smart-ass little girl all alone. Her computer beeped and
the screen popped to life. She should go visit him, even though it
did him no good, and made her feel like she was holding on to him
with a slippery rope.

She typed “Peter Gonally” into the search
engine. It came up with a few things. An award he’d won at his
graphic arts school, a 4-H award for his work with local youth
groups, and a link to his Facebook page.

“You’re a creeper, CJ.” She clicked on the
link anyway. He didn’t post often, listed his work as “Rancher.” He
had a few pictures of himself with buddies, a couple with girls,
which made her clench her teeth, for some reason, and quite a few
pictures of his artwork. Besides modern graphics, he did amazing
portraits and landscapes.

Very, very nice artwork. All different media,
but the guy had talent rolling off his big, lanky body. She tipped
her head back. She could easily drown herself in his light brown
eyes. Did they have green flecks in them? She’d love to get a
closer look. His nose had a cute little split on the end, and his
lips looked twice as full as hers. Yeah, he was a cutie, but too
young for her. She clicked on his “About” link.

She found his age. “Oh, yeah?” He was a year
older than her. Twenty-five. He looked so damned young. She touched
her face. Too much sun, long hours, and stress had aged her, and
she felt more like forty-four. “Maybe I could. A quick fling with a
sexy blond rancher/artist?” It might work.

Clicking back to the search results, she
found the county records for his family ranch. Just a small piece
of land owned by Morton and Daisy Gonally, run by sons Pete and
Huck. From the looks of Pete’s clothes, it must barely sustain the
four of them. No wonder he was trying to break into graphic
arts.

She clicked off the page and checked her
email. All junk. Most of the girlfriends she’d made in school were
gone. They’d gone away to college, then off to work in big cities.
The girls who stayed local were all married with kids. Not much
time to hang out with their workaholic, bar-owning friend. And none
of them dared come to Dirty Harry’s. The crowd here…a bit too
uncultured for them.

Shutting down her computer, she lay back on
the couch and held a pillow over her stomach, feeling…what?
Unsettled? Anxious? Lonely? Hell, how could she be lonely when she
spent eleven hours a day surrounded by people? She held the pillow
over her face. Maybe it was the thirteen hours a day when she had
only herself for company.

Pete used the forklift to unload the bales,
then parked the truck in one of the Quonset huts. He walked across
the grass separating the ranch buildings and his parents’ house.
The sun would be setting soon, earlier and earlier now, as winter
approached. He should have turned down the job for Dirty Harry’s,
spent his spare hours working on his house construction. But
something drew him to the job, told him it was a project he needed
to do.

On the porch, his old dog, Bo, got stiffly to
his feet, wagging his tail as the mutt ambled toward the steps.

“How’re the old bones, pup?” Pete sat on the
top step, giving his buddy a long scratch behind each ear, watching
the sun slide behind a puffy cloud. The scent of his momma’s
meatloaf curled out from the screen door, and his stomach
grumbled.

“Is that you, Peety?” Her sweet voice sang
from the kitchen.

“Yes, ma’am. Can I help you with anything?”
He always asked.

“Oh no, I’ve got everything just about
ready.” Daisy Gonally always declined his offer. The screen door
hinges squeaked behind him, and her footsteps sounded along the
porch. “Here you go.” She sat down next to him and handed him a
bottle of beer. She took a pull of her own, then brushed a
gray-blonde hair off her face and up toward the knot of hair at the
top of her head. Her shorts reached down below her knees, and her
floral-embroidered T-shirt had a few spots on it from cooking.

“Wyatt and Annie say hi.” He tapped his
bottle on hers and drank, cooling him from his tongue to his
belly.

“They doing okay?” Her brother and
sister-in-law owned a small farm in Wyoming, where Pete had picked
up the bales. Even though it would have saved money for the Gonally
Ranch to buy hay locally, he made the seven-hour trip, paid premium
price for the hay, and did so to help out family who’d been having
a lean year. Years. But that’s what family was all about.

“They’re great. They told me to bring you
with next time I drive down.”

His momma nodded, using her thumb to spin her
wedding ring on her finger. “Maybe. When things slow down here a
bit.”

Things never slowed down here, and his taking
that job for Dirty Harry’s was going to put things behind even
more.

“We eatin’ any time tonight?” His dad’s voice
came from inside the kitchen.

Momma groaned and got to her feet. “No rest
for the wicked.” She tapped her beer on Pete’s shoulder. “C’mon.
Let’s feed the old bear.”

“I’m standing right here.” The screen door
framed Mort Gonally’s tall, wiry body, his mostly-bald head dark
brown from the sun, his face…not looking too happy.

“And you still got your hearing.” Momma
giggled. “Well, move out of the doorway, or you’ll never get fed,
old man.”

He gave her a grin as he pushed open the
screen door for her. Then his dark-green eyes turned toward Pete.
“You put that hay up?”

“Yes, sir.” Pete followed him into the
kitchen where they took their usual seats at the square table.
Momma set bowls and platters in front of them, sat, and started
grace. Pete looked to his left, where Huck always sat. His big
brother hadn’t been home in months. Huck gave the excuse that he
was working, but most Fridays, he’d pack a bag and head out of the
apartment they shared on the oil field in Williston, North Dakota.
Their roommates, Shaw Donahue and Dax Marshall, didn’t know what
Huck was up to on weekends, either.

The clink of silverware on china brought him
back and he accepted a bowl from his dad. Heaping mashed potatoes
on his plate, he winked at his mother. “Best cook in the
Dakotas.”

She gave him a look. “You’re buttering me
up.” Handing him the bowl of green beans, she watched him closely.
“What do you have to tell us?”

The woman was far too intuitive.

His dad pushed the platter of sliced meatloaf
toward him. “You ready to buy the ranch? Is that what this is
about? ‘Cause, I’m not gonna be forced—”

“No. Not yet.” Pete set a slab of meatloaf on
his potatoes and drowned the whole thing in brown gravy. At
fifty-nine, his dad wasn’t ready to give up farming. His momma…she
was more than ready. She’d already picked out a place for them in
Texas, near friends who’d retired early. “But I do have some
news.”

He caught a look zipping between his parents.
“I have a job painting a motorcycle.”

“Really?” His mother’s face lit with
happiness.

His father’s dropped in a frown. “Just when
are you going to find time for that? You work on the Bakken, you
work here weekends, and you go to school.” He set down his fork.
“Which one of those is going to get pushed aside?”

Pete tipped up his chin. “I’m going to need
to be gone weekends for the next month.”

Mort tossed up his hands and looked toward
the ceiling.

“That’s fine, Pete.” His momma touched his
hand. “We’ll manage.”

“How?” His dad shot her a glare. “Even with
the hired man here Monday through Friday, we barely keep up without
the boys here.”

“Listen.” Pete had worked this all out. Now
he just had to convince his old man. “I’ll tell Huck he has to come
home weekends. And if he refuses, I’ll ask one of the Amhurst boys
to come and work. Two of them, if you want.” The neighbors had five
boys, all working their family’s ranch, and they always helped the
Gonallys in the spring and during fall roundup.

“And I suppose you’ll pay for them with all
the money you’re raking in these days.” His dad could never believe
how much money roughnecks made on the oil field, nor how hard they
worked for it.

“Yeah, I’ll pay them.” He went back to
eating. He knew what was coming next, and wanted to get down some
of Momma’s awesome cooking before his stomach soured.

“Why do you have to do that art thing? Don’t
you have enough going on?” His dad poked at his food, warming up to
his favorite topic. “You say you want to buy the ranch, but you
still do your drawing? Why?”

Daisy let out a long breath. “Do we have to
do this during supper?”

“Dad, it’s something I like to do.” He
gestured around them. “I love the ranch, hell, enough to break my
ass…pardon the language.” He winked at his momma. “Break my back on
the oil field to buy it. But I want to do the ‘art thing’ too.” He
pointed toward the living room. “You got your sports on TV, your
cattlemen’s association, and your Pheasants Forever group.” He
pointed to his own chest. “This is my thing, and it has been since
I first picked up a crayon.”

Pete climbed down off his pulpit. Preaching
would do no good. His old man just didn’t get him. Huck had always
hunted with their dad, gone to the cattlemen’s dinners, watched
sports with him. Pete had always been happy sitting on a hill
drawing landscapes.

His dad stared hard. “Pete, how do you
ever—”

“Let it drop, Mort.” His momma refilled their
glasses with milk. “He’s good at his art. Be proud of him.”

Mort’s head dropped. “I am proud of you,
son.” He picked at his food. “Don’t ever think that I’m not.”

A knot formed in Pete’s throat. It’d been a
long time since he’d heard those words. “The bike I’m painting is
being raffled off at a bar in Deadwood. The money’s going for
Alzheimer’s.”

“That’s a worthy cause, dear.” Daisy squeezed
his hand. “Buy me a few tickets? I’ve always wanted a custom
chopper of my own.”

His dad choked on his milk, and laughed as he
mopped his face with a napkin. “Oh lord, watch out for Miss Daisy
on a motorbike.”

The rest of their meal passed with less
drama, and as he was ready to leave for North Dakota, Pete had a
cooler of leftovers in his blue two-door truck, his clean laundry
in a rucksack in the truck’s box, and had kissed his momma goodbye.
“See you Friday.” He waved and drove off, north toward his day job.
He yawned and opened a can of cola. “On the road again.” He just
couldn’t wait to
not
be on the road so damn much.

****

Pete walked into the apartment he shared with
his brother and their high school friends. The lights were off, and
after he brushed his teeth, he tiptoed into the room he shared with
Shaw.

“That you?” Shaw’s voice rumbled, sleepy.

“Yeah, sorry.” Pete peeled out of everything
but his boxer briefs and climbed into the extra-long twin bed on
the other side of the room from Shaw’s.

His friend yawned. “Anything exciting back in
Lemmon?”

“Nothing ever exciting in Lemmon.” Pete
rolled onto his side. “I got a call from my art school Saturday. I
got a job painting a motorcycle.”