Miles of Lonesome Road

"OH MY God," Val muttered as he got home the next day. It was late—well, five o'clock, but since he was getting up at 3:00 a.m., it was late enough. He had just enough in him to raid his refrigerator, drink the last of his milk, and feed his fish so Laure's oldest, Shaw, could take care of them in two days. Shaw and his brother Russell had become the family's go-tos for housesitting. They were smart, resourceful, trustworthy, and Laure hadn't been able to afford the pool when she'd bought their house, so they were always really good at taking care of that and using it responsibly.

Yes, Val loved his family, but as he pulled up to his house and saw Laure's indigo minivan in the driveway, he couldn't help but wish they loved him just a little bit less .

Then he hit the top step of his porch, the smell of Laure's homemade spaghetti sauce hit him, and he took it all back.

When he got inside, Laure was in the kitchen, doing what she did best. Their mother was an okay cook, and since Laure and Val had been the oldest, they'd divvied up the chores, and Laure had ended up responsible for dinner more often than not while Val occupied the younger children. Laure, being the classic overachiever she was, had started looking up actual recipes and requesting ingredients from their mother, since she'd worked at a grocery store for most of their lives, and now there wasn't any dish Laure couldn't whip up from scratch in fifteen minutes from the rock-bottom contents of any sibling's refrigerator— with the help of a canvas tote full of spices they'd come to refer to as "Laure's go-bag."

Reg was also in the kitchen, sitting at the already set table and doing something mysterious and purposeful on his laptop. Both of them looked up when he walked in, and Laure gestured him to sit.

"You texted you had to be at the lot at three in the morning," she said, "which is ungodly awful, and since the boys were both at a movie, I figured me and Reg could make you some dinner, Russell and Shaw would have leftovers to eat when they're here, and you could go to bed a little north of ungodly awful and south of ‘I'm starving but too tired to eat.'"

Val laughed a little, because his sister charmed him—had charmed him, in fact, since the moment she'd been born. Maybe it was because she was the only girl, and maybe it was because her default mood was purposeful and bright, but he'd always treasured her, even when they were coconspirators in trying to rein in Sal—who had been an unholy terror from day one—and Dean. Dean had really been unfair, Val often thought resentfully. Prock-the-bucolic had come along after Sal, and the whole family had let out a giant sigh of relief, thinking, Oh, hey, at least the worst is past ! They hadn't counted on Dean and his absolutely genius daredevil brain. Nor on the demonic alliance forged between him and Sal to thwart the two older siblings and their "gross dedication to the rule of law." (Sal, holy heaven. Sal had nearly killed them all.)

"It's appreciated," he said fondly. "Heya, Reg, whatcha doing?"

Reg looked up in a sort of surprised haze, as though he had no idea why anybody would notice him of all people. Val tried not to swallow against a tightness in his throat. Damn. Reg had always been the quiet one. Maybe it was because he came right after Dean, who'd been so damned brilliant, and right before Chance, who'd been the glorious sunshine child all families wanted for their youngest, but Reg had always been quiet, the good child, the planner. Once when Reg and Chance had both come down with a terrible fever, their mother had taken both children to the doctor. Chance had two infected ears, which they'd all rather suspected because he'd whimpered inconsolably the night before, but Reg? Reg's ears had been infected, but he'd also had pneumonia and had been well on his way to congestive heart failure.

He hadn't complained once—not once —but after he'd been admitted to the hospital, he had directed his mother to tell Val to find his school notebook. He'd written something in there he needed Val to see.

It had been his will , and he'd been seven . Laure had found Val weeping in the younger kids' room, had read the painfully neat penciled printing, and had fallen apart on him. It was one of those memories children didn't tell their parents—or even other children in the family—but Val knew for certain he and Laure had always kept a special eye out on Reg after that. Of a family of rampant extroverts, Reg was the kid who wouldn't speak up for himself, the one who would give away his last toy to his little brother and read a book instead.

Reg may have thought he wasn't noticed, or that he'd been lost in the shadows cast by his little brother's sunshine, but Laure and Val knew who he was, and they would never not worry. Val may not have had any children, but he did know what it was to leave your heart absolutely vulnerable to another creature on this earth who might accidentally rip it out, and when his little brother gave him that dreamy, surprised smile, he knew the risk was worth it.

"I'm trying to compute how much those two missing shipments of product were worth," Reg said. He wore wire-frame glasses, and he took them off now and blew on them, then polished them on his microfiber T-shirt like he probably was not supposed to be doing. "I think it's… strange. It's very strange that two shipments of such a specialized item would be taken and left to rot. Val, are you sure you have to make this run?"

Val regarded his brother thoughtfully. While not the whipcrack Dean was, Reg had a way of thinking ahead, of anticipating what was going to happen. That will he'd written when he'd been seven had come about because Reg had felt ill at school the day before, and had thought that perhaps some planning would be a good idea. He knew Chance wanted his favorite Matchbox car—a truck—but Reg thought it should go to Val because by then he'd been planning to drive one for a living.

"I do," he said. "You know Vinnie and his family. They're depending on me."

Reg nodded. "I'm going to research some other breeding stock Vinnie could use, just in case this goes sour. And I'll email him to have the lab and the genetic testing ready—maybe even research some extras." He shook his head, his brow, which should have been smooth as silk at twenty-six, puckering in concern. "I'm not okay with this. Stay alert, Val. I've got a feeling."

"I've learned to trust your feelings," Val said soberly. "I'll keep my eyes peeled. And definitely pass your ideas on to Vinnie, and to Dean too."

"Why Dean?" Laure asked curiously as she put tossed pasta in a serving bowl. "Reg, can you get the salad from the fridge?"

"Does it have craisins in it?" Val asked, knowing he sounded like a little kid and not caring. Laure really could make the ordinary extraordinary. She and Larry had been poor and young—and so happy. They had not counted on his stint in the military to earn money for college to cost him his life.

"Go stash that stuff in your arms and come see," Laure teased, and Val darted back to his bedroom to put together a load of laundry for the trip in the morning. By the time he came back out—washed, barefoot, and bearing a basket to put in the washer in the garage—Laure and Reg had the table set completely, and he hurried to start the load before coming to sit down.

Dinner conversation was light and fun. Sal had made sure he had help in June so he could come from Grass Valley, where he ran an art and antique shop, to attend the big family picnic right after Russell's graduation ceremony. Russell had finally chosen a college, and all the siblings had made a commitment to help him pay for it. The kid's grades were good enough, and he'd been one of his high school's best soccer players, so he'd gotten scholarships, but nobody got a free ride anymore.

They talked about Chance studying for his finals, which he took very seriously; Reg's quietly run graphic-arts business, which supplied everything from independent book covers to fully branded logo packs and beyond; and Laure's newest headhunting clients and how she needed to headhunt for her own staff because she really needed help.

Somewhere in there, Laure asked him one or two questions about Dean's good buddy and security expert, Rory McCauley.

"He was okay," Val said, remembering the man's self-confident saunter across his parking lot. "Thinks a lot of himself."

"For good reason?" Reg asked, trying hard to keep spaghetti off his chest.

"Oh yeah. Confident and competent—I'm putting money on it. And he does speak well of Dean." Of course, the one way to get the Royals' attention was to praise one of the siblings.

"What about cute?" Reg asked, and Val glanced at him sharply.

"This is not a pleasure cruise," he said, irritated all over again at Rory's smooth assumptions. He let out a breath and tried not to jump down Reg's throat. "Besides, he only wants a hookup. I'm too old for that shit."

"I'm not," Reg said wistfully.

"You're too young," Laure told him with a meaningful look. "And besides, Reg, you're not really built for a one-and-done."

"At this point, I'd settle for a one ," Reg grumbled, and Val and Laure met sympathetic eyes over the table, because Chance, they suspected, had known at least one boyfriend, but Reg, they were both pretty sure, hadn't had one yet, although he'd been known to quietly pine after a few unavailable men.

"It has to be the right one," Val said. "And thank your lucky stars you're smart enough to not do the revolving door bullshit. Nobody wants to hit forty and realize they're all alone."

And reluctantly he thought of Rory, who was actually older than he was. Had it occurred to Rory that there was more to life than hookups?

Conversation continued on, although Val was left with a wee niggling suspicion about Rory's placement as his shotgun for this trip, and Val finally had to concede defeat and admit he could not eat three portions of pasta, as he had when he and Laure had been younger.

But he might have room for whipped cream and fruit… for dessert reasons.

When dinner was done, they both chivvied Val to go shower and pack for his trip while they cleaned up. Val bid them good night right when he'd started to yawn, and Laure laughed softly, because it was barely six thirty.

"Be safe," she said after their hug. "Reg and I will do some research and forward it to Dean—he said he'd be near Austin, didn't he?"

"Yeah," Val remembered. "I have no idea what for."

He hugged Reg, who said, "Don't forget pictures of the sky," and Val promised to do that. It was a custom their father had started when he'd taken up trucking with Val as his shotgun, and Chance, Reg, and Dean had missed the two of them when they were on long trips. Val had kept it up, and even though his brothers were all grown, whenever one of them was anywhere but Bakersfield, they all sent each other "somewhere else sky"—even Sal, who had been too old for the game in the first place.

They left, and Val closed the door behind him and toddled off to bed, making sure to turn off his lights and set his alarm nice and loud for Ungodly Awful a.m., as Laure called it. As he closed his eyes in sleep, he remembered the mention of Rory McCauley over dinner again, and chuckled to himself.

Oh yeah. Those assholes had totally sicced McCauley on Val, hoping the two would get together.

Val smiled as he drifted off. God love them all.

RORY MCCAULEY may have been skirting around revealing anything personal when they were at dinner, but apparently he could take instructions well. He showed up at the truck lot with two giant and fresh iced coffees, as well as a bag of chicken-and-waffle sandwiches.

Val had been there for the past hour, powering up the rig, double-checking his hitches and air hoses and generally making sure they could take off and safely hook up the cargo the minute McCauley showed up.

He had to admit that the breakfast sandwiches and sweet iced coffees went a long way to assuaging any doubts Val might have had about the man's company for the next six days. He may not have been ready to sleep with the guy, but he was pretty sure they could transport cargo without killing each other.

"Gracias," he said, taking a deep pull on the straw. "Let me show you where to stow your gear."

Val's rig was not a luxury apartment on wheels—and yes, he'd spent some time checking those out and dreaming—but it was comfortable. It featured a sleeper that doubled as a couch with storage space underneath, secure cabinets on either end, one for clothes, one for groceries, with a minifridge with lots of water and sodas in addition to several sandwich wraps for the next two days. It also sported net pockets attached to the back of the passenger seat where he stashed his clean laundry. He changed the sheets after every trip—if it was longer than a week or two, he'd stop at a laundromat—and had some cleaner for spills and to generally freshen the place up. Now that he owned the business, he wasn't gone as long as he used to be, but this was still a place where he slept, ate… lived. There was a flat-screen television that folded out from behind the driver's seat, and he had a modest satellite hookup on the roof to guarantee him streaming services so he never missed an episode of his cop shows if he could help it. Generally? The space was clean, neat, and even a little bit colorful, thanks to the brightly colored cartoon-themed curtains, cushion covers, and comforter his mom had sewn to celebrate the day he was able to afford his own rig. There was even a small toilet, which he scrupulously maintained and cleaned, wedged at the foot and slightly behind the bed.

"The passenger cupboard should hold your knapsack," he told Rory after giving the man a hand up into the interior. "You can stow your guns and ordnance under the bed—there's a lockbox for it if you like." He paused. "I mean, I assume you're not going to travel with it over your knees, Wells Fargo pony style."

Rory chuckled. "Nope. The lockbox will be fine. Do you have a security board?"

Val grimaced. "That depends on the load we'll be hooking up from the cattle place. It's going to be small—a twenty-eight-foot trailer, and most of the inside is refrigerator components—but hopefully it's got some alarm technology in the back. Otherwise I've got some soccer chairs under the bed that are going to come in mighty useful for guarding the payload."

"So you say. From what you've described, we're driving straight through."

"Ugh. Man, there's got to be some grass-touching and moving the body. I mean, when I was younger, I could do it straight through, but staying in a truck cab for twenty-four hours straight can break you. No, that's another reason for a seatmate. This way we can both get some exercise in while never leaving the payload alone." He gave a rather apologetic shrug. "I know that's not the conventional business model. It's why loads like this—don't laugh, I didn't mean the pun—are so important. Providing security for a reasonable-sized payload is a boutique service, but it also lets me pay my drivers enough to take care of themselves while they work. One more lousy hour isn't going to make or break most deliveries, but time to sleep or eat or run around for a minute, or hell, even take a piss that's not in a bottle, can make or break a driver."

Rory nodded. "It probably gets harder and harder to do when your competition is going through drivers like Kleenex."

Val nodded, appreciating the acknowledgment. "Two of my guys signed on with me expecting to be ground into the pavement. While the pay is slightly lower than they were making at the other places, they stay with me because—as one of them says—I don't work them into kidney infections and exploding varicose veins."

"Good for you," Rory told him. Then with a wink, "It's no more than I expected from Dean Royal's big brother, but don't tell him I said that."

"Big head?" Val asked, because he knew his little brother.

"Arrogant little shit," Rory confirmed. "I mean good , but cocky as hell."

It was Val's turn to chuckle. "That's my boy," he said smugly. "So set up your gear, use the bathroom in the trailer one more time cause it's bigger, and let's be on our way."

"I can do that," Rory said. Then he grinned. "And you're welcome for breakfast."

Val caught his glance and knew he was getting a little back for when Val took care of dinner without asking. "That was kind," he conceded.

"No," Rory said, and his intent was clear. "Not kind. Pure calculation on my part."

Val rolled his eyes and fought off the speeding pulse, because yes, he was pleased that Rory was still trying. "It takes more than chicken and waffles to make me put out, sir."

Rory's laugh was positively filthy. "You haven't tasted the sandwiches yet. For all you know, they're magical sex chicken and waffles, and I'll get my knob waxed on the way."

Val had to swallow against the image, him on his knees in front of Rory's long, rangy body. Or that long, rangy body bent over while Val pounded into it.

Or, well, the other way around.

"No breakfast sandwiches are that good," he said, feigning a confidence he didn't feel. Hell, at this point he was so primed, all he needed was a crude come-on.

"Wait until we're on our way," Rory said mildly, "and tell me then."

TWENTY MINUTES later Val's giant diesel folly (as Sal was fond of calling it) rumbled up Highway 5 to the turnoff to the east where Elite Cattle Company had most of its grazing land, slaughterhouse, and insemination labs. As they pulled off the road, Val tried not to glance around and ponder, but he couldn't help it.

"This place seem… well, un-Elite to you?"

Rory grunted. The grass was green, and the cows were well fed; that wasn't the problem. But the fencing was substandard razor wire, in some places shored up with PVC pipe, and Val didn't know why the cows—the giant cows—weren't out wandering the road. The feeding barn appeared dilapidated, the roof sloping in the middle. The hay racks were mostly empty, and the laboratory building they were headed for was a low-slung cinder-block building that didn't look like it could air-condition itself, much less house the refrigerated units of product that should have been loaded into the trailer by now.

"Well, I'd say you were distracting me from how much you liked that sandwich," Rory drawled, "but yeah. I'd have to agree with you." He glanced around unhappily. "The cows are… well, fat . And sort of… weird. Boneless. Like, you know, they were bred without bones in their legs. But healthy. But the facilities… no."

"I was hoping it was a trick of the light," Val muttered, which should have been the reason since dawn was breaking over the horizon, and the gray ambience did serve to make the old outbuildings particularly… grayish.

"Are you sure your friend sent you to the right place?" Rory asked, doubt in his voice. "I mean—"

"Their trailer is rusty," Val muttered in disgust. "Oh Jesus. I'm going to have to be all over this thing in inspection." He cast Rory a sideways glance. "You wouldn't want to do me a favor, would you?"

Rory's return nod held what Dean had told him was twenty years of a solid career in law enforcement. "Let you distract the paper pushers with being picky and shit while I take video?"

Val took his hand off the jouncing wheel of the rig for a moment to touch his finger to his nose. "That would be awesome," he said. "I do not have a good feeling about this."

Rory nodded, and Val wondered if he'd be willing to use some of his resources to look into this operation. Sure, all Val was supposed to do was take the shipment from point A to point B, but given all the trouble they'd had already—and the shady feel of the place—Val was agreeing with Reg and wondering if there was more than bad luck involved in Vinnie's misfortune.

He felt his face go grim and angry as he thought of his friend getting cheated, and next to him, Rory cleared his throat meaningfully.

"You cannot look at these people like that," he said, "or they will think you're suspicious."

"But I am suspicious," Val retorted. "Look at this place. I can't believe cows conceive here in a quick fuck against the wall, much less in a test tube with insemination. I can't believe the cows that come out of this place are worth eating ."

Rory grunted. "I know that." He gestured toward an outbuilding that should have been their dairy, but instead of cows lined up neatly in their stalls, twisted pipes and broken equipment were clearly visible from the road. "There is something very hinky about this. But your friend has a lab, didn't you say that?"

"He said it," Val replied. "He needs it to inspect the product, inseminate the embryos, and then implant them in the wombs." He didn't mention the part about Reg looking up independent labs yet, but given the state of this place, he thought it more and more likely one would be needed.

"Romantic," Rory said dryly. "But the point is, he can inspect the product, and if there's a problem with it, we can get the USDA involved and the FBI fraud division and all sorts of people who could shut this place down. But all we are— all we are—is transport. So let's transport and then take care of whatever it is we're transporting."

Val grunted, because it made sense.

"And the part about me not looking like an asshole?" he muttered.

"You want them to like us. Nothing to see here, folks. Just an ignorant trucker and his cowpoke security. For fucks sake, Val, I know you're a smart guy, but how hard is it to play friendly and dumb?"

So hard. Rory had no idea how hard it would be. He and his family had spent their entire lives living up not only to the name Royal but to their ridiculous first names and the super hopeful expectations set on their shoulders by their well-meaning, slightly goofy, and a little out of touch parents. When you were born with a name like Val's , you spent your entire life on the playground proving to the world that book smart was not the only kind of smart, and it didn't matter how brilliant your peers thought they were, you were still quicker, tougher, and meaner.

And yes, goddammit, smarter .

But as they continued down the rutted dirt road, Val got a good gander at one of the cows behind the barbed wire, and while the cow was fat and glowing with health, there was a sort of… hollowness to the creature, a sort of resignation there, and Val wondered suddenly how much of that cow's meat was genetics and good food, and how much was steroids and sugar.

And suddenly he wanted very much to see if these people were doing right by his friend.

"Nothing to see here, folks," Val said, affecting "dumb country boy" like that's who he was born to be. "Just a dumb trucker, getting his load and not asking no questions, all in a day's work."

"That's my boy," Rory mumbled. "That'll keep us up to our assholes in chicken-and-waffle sandwiches."

Val grunted. "Yeah, I'm still not putting out for one."

Rory's low chuckle was enough to shore up his resolve. "You let me know the secret, son," he said, "and I'll buy a whole whack of it for ya."

And Val wanted to tell this man that all he asked for was a little bit of honesty, some openness, some emotional exchange. It wasn't that Val hadn't had one-night stands, but that's not what he was looking for now, and if you didn't go into something as emotional equals, how were you going to make a relationship work?

But he was coming to the trailer lot and could see his trailer, landing gear down and ready for him to back into the hitch and lock it, and now was not the time.

"Any sex that comes in a paper bag, old man, is not the sex I want to be having," he returned under his breath, and then, very carefully, he went into positioning the cab so all he'd need to do was back the king pin under the jaws to hitch the rusty trailer.

He fixed the brake and left the truck idling before swinging down out of the seat and using the step to the ground. When he got there, he strode back toward the trailer hookup to check things out.

What he saw made him frown.

"That bad?" Rory asked, when he'd walked around to join Val.

"No," Val muttered. "That good. The trailer itself looks like crap, but I'm not HVAC certified. The couplings—the shit I could complain about—are in perfect working order. I need to check the manifest to see what I'm signing off on."

"What do you mean?"

Val gave a snort of frustration. "Vinnie insisted on my services. If he didn't specify the condition of the truck, he could be liable if I don't pick up the contents."

Rory let out a low growl. "What are you going to do?"

Val took out his phone. "So happens," he muttered, "I've got a brother for that."

And with that, he started to text Prock.

Goddess bless his brother. Prock lived in Visalia, which meant he could be waiting for them at the nearest rest stop with everything he'd need to keep the refrigeration unit in the back running—including duct tape. Just in case. Just in case this rattletrap of a trailer looked like it wasn't going to do its job.

"Hi, yes," said a pleasant voice coming from the back of the trailer. "Can I help you?"

"I'm Val Royal. I'm here to pick up the delivery for Vinnie Aiello?" Val peered frantically around, trying to find the owner of the voice, and finally a figure appeared from behind the trailer.

A very lithe , very female figure, Val could see, and he raised his eyebrows as the woman—barely that, maybe twenty-one at the outside—sauntered down the trailer line with her hands in her back pockets and her chest thrust out.

Val raised his eyebrows and then stared the woman in the eyes. "Do you have the contract I need to sign?" he asked, out of patience. God, basic courtesy dictated somebody be out there to greet him from the get-go.

"Uhm, yes," she said, cheeks coloring. She reached into her back pocket and pulled out a tablet, scrolled quickly until she found the right page, and then handed it to him. "I'm, uhm, Violet Cassidy, the, uhm, daughter of the owners."

"I'm Val Royal," he answered, not paying attention to her in the least. Scowling, he went back and actually read the contract. "And I'm not signing this."

She actually squeaked. "I'm sorry?"

"This contract calls for payment upon pickup. That's not what Vinnie negotiated. He showed me the contract. He pays you after the product is delivered and he's had a chance to have his own techs analyze the product and make sure it's viable. And I haven't checked out the refrigeration units in the trailer. For all I know there's a nasty come-stew in there that will bankrupt my friend and cause me to have to burn my clothes. If you'll excuse me, I'm going to at least check on what's in the trailer."

Violet Cassidy gasped a little, and Val moved to the back, where Rory had already opened the trailer doors and lowered the gate. After one last check to make sure the landing gear was on the ground and he and Rory weren't going to get dumped on their asses when they walked inside the compartment, Val moved in.

It was supposed to be a walk-in refrigerator with a lockbox freezer filled with cryogenic containers of straws to be used to inseminate the cows. Vinnie had said something about the straws fitting into "guns," and frankly, Val was peacing out of the rest of that conversation. But what Val did know was that the sperm had to be either refrigerated or frozen. This batch was frozen —there was no appreciable difference in fertilization rates—and the tanks had to be maintained externally at a certain temperature. Basically, there were a bunch of cryotubes keeping the spermcicles frozen, packed inside a big cold space to help them function.

Val glanced around the refrigerator, which did not seem that cold at all , and then checked out the controls on the freezer tanks, which actually did register the correct temp. But he could hear the freezer compressor wheezing like an asthmatic goat and wondered how long before the refrigerator went and then the ambient temperature in the back of the trailer got hot enough to kill the freezer no matter how much it wheezed.

"Fuck me ," Val muttered, and next to him Rory grunted.

"What's the plan, hoss?"

Val shook his head. "I've got my brother headed out to meet us at the rest stop and work on the refrigerator and freezer units, because right now, this will hardly get us to the rest stop, much less across the desert. But my big worry is the contract. I can't sign for this, but I don't want to risk Vinnie's business either."

"What does your friend say?" Rory asked.

Val waggled his eyebrows. "Good question," he murmured, pulling out his phone.

Vinnie was already up—probably had been up for quite some time, if Val knew his hardworking friend in another time zone. Quickly, Val outlined the situation over speakerphone, hoping his friend had some suggestions, because he didn't.

Vinnie was by turns despondent and indignant.

"God dammit, why would they do something like this?" he snarled. "What in the hell? I've got a thousand head here going into season within a week , and this was my business plan for the next year."

"Look," Val said, "did you get Reg's email? He was going to send it last night with some suggestions."

Vinnie blew out a breath. "Yeah," he said. "That kid's smart. But Val—"

He didn't need to finish. It was a lot to do in a short amount of time, but Val had a bad feeling about this. "Vinnie, I'm not saying the product is bad—not yet. But you have the contract that says payment isn't liable until delivery, right?"

"Yessir."

"So doesn't that mean I can sign for it all I want and you don't owe them shit?"

"Yeah, but Val, you take responsibility for the shipment. What if it's already been spoiled?"

"Now see," Val said, "that's what I'm wondering about. If I sign that contract saying I take possession of the shipment and clarify what condition it's in , can I get the shipment independently assessed? That's what Reg suggested anyway. So before you take possession, we get this product tested to see if it's good. And that way if it's bad, you at least aren't out the cost of the shipment to these guys."

"But what do I do with the in-season cattle?" Vinnie all but wailed.

"Like my brother said, does it have to be this cow jizz? Can't you research some other super stud? You know he'll help you if you ask—he's good at that shit. Because if you can find somebody close to your neck of the woods, you can have that batch run out to you as soon as we get this assessed. I know it's a small window. We get this batch to a facility near you for assessment in the next twenty hours, you deal with the fallout, and within the next eight hours, you have another shipment on the way. Can you do that? It'll get you the straws to the ranch in a week, either way."

"Why near Vinnie?" Rory asked.

"Because these people have an impeccable reputation," Vinnie said. "Whoever you are―"

"Rory, my security guy," Val supplied.

"Oh, pleased to meet you. This company has a sterling rep, Rory. And this situation Val just outlined is very not okay, which means I can't trust any of the sources—inspectors, ranches, businesses—in Elite's vicinity to assess the product. There's no way of knowing who's been paid off over there."

"If it's that big," Rory asked, "shouldn't you call in some authorities?"

Vinnie grunted. "You know what? You're right. I'll text you the lab near me that I'll have you drive to, and I'm going to talk to the USDA and have them meet you. Is your HVAC specialist certified? Can he make sure the apparatus is good within two hours after you take possession?"

"You know Prock," Val said without a doubt. "He'll be about half an hour away after we leave this place."

"All right, then," Vinnie muttered. "Okay. We have a plan. It's a shitty plan, and it might still bankrupt me, but it's better than no plan."

"Vinnie, did you have any of these problems with the other shipments?" Val asked suspiciously.

"Nossir. The trailers that were presented with those shipments were in top shape."

Val grunted. "Interesting."

"Why?"

"Because there's… well, there's a girl waiting on us outside."

Vinnie's silence was eloquent. "Well, uhm, Val, you've reassured me for years that girls were not your problem."

"Ha-ha. No, the problem is she's obviously been told to throw her tits at me during this little transaction, and she seems genuinely without a, well, plan now that this does not seem to be working."

Another one of those speaking silences, and Val became aware that Rory was biting his fist to keep from guffawing out loud.

"Could you maybe pretend it was working?" Vinnie begged. "Look, Val, if you throw a fit there , we've got no way to prove they're trying to sabotage the shipment, and I'm out the fee as well as more money if they sue me for backing out on a deal. But if you…. God, couldn't you just leer , and make some noises about how we all know your signature doesn't mean anything until this shipment is delivered, and then you can get out of there?"

"I'll keep my phone on to record," Rory said helpfully. "You make sure she knows you're not taking responsibility, merely possession, and I'll send the file to Vinnie and to my son. That way we'll have it in case there need to be legal proceedings."

"Perfect," Vinnie said. "Val, please? Nobody's going to take away your gay card if you smile at the girl and let her think you've been fooled."

"I certainly won't," Rory said, his voice low and rumbly and sexy as hell.

Val glared at Rory, but to Vinnie, who had worked for the last ten years since his uncle had passed to keep the family business in the family, he said, "Sure, sure. But if the gay police come and take my card, I'm having them call you," he threatened.

"I'm good for it," Vinnie assured him. "Tell me after you've had Prock shore up the units. I'm going to be hunting for a new stud."

Vinnie hung up, and Rory met Val's eyes with an amused glance of his own.

"Please don't," Val said, mindful that he had to go outside and pretend to flirt with a girl half his age.

"I've got to," Rory said, that wicked glimmer in his eyes that Val was starting to know already.

"Fine. Get it out of your system."

"Aren't I lucky I've already found a new stud of my own," Rory purred, and Val rolled his eyes.

But he also laughed before swinging out of the refrigerator and then the trailer, leaving Rory to lock up and follow him while he went and got his stud on.

Violet, as it turned out, was as inept at flirting as Val.

"So," she said prettily, holding the tablet awkwardly at breast level, "you can put your signature right there, right?" She peered upside down at the signature page and wagged her chin. "Right there."

"Sweetheart," Val said with patience, "you need to put those things away, because you and me need to talk."

Her hands dropped, and she gazed up at him with the saddest anime eyes brimming with tears that he had ever seen.

"But you need to sign the contract," she whimpered, and he sighed.

"Let me look at it again," he said. "And then we'll talk about why I'm probably not signing it."

He took the tablet from her carefully, not even brushing her fingers, and ignored the warmth and stickiness of sweat on the backside. After some careful studying, he handed the tablet back.

"So," he said, "I cannot guarantee that this product is good. Look at this trailer. I can't guarantee that if anything happens to the product between here and Austin it's going to be my fault. I can't assume culpability for shit that I had nothing to do with. My signature on that thing would be a lie, but I'll tell you why you're going to tell the lie that I signed it."

"Why?" she asked.

"Because I'm going to take possession of this trailer whether I sign that contract or not. You can report me for theft or you can tell your bosses I signed the contract and it should be going through any minute now." Some trailers had anti-theft protection that would lock up the brakes as soon as the trailer left the proscribed area, but he was wagering this one did not.

"My father said…." Her lower lip trembled. "I'll get into so much trouble," she whispered.

"Look, do you work here?" he asked, because she wasn't wearing boots or even the kind of jeans that people worked in. The rips at her knees had been artfully applied, and the striped men's shirt she wore over a lavender tank top had a distinctly feminine cut to it.

She shook her head. "I… I go to college nearby," she said. "My dad called and said he needed a favor if I want him to keep paying my tuition." Her voice dropped. "I… I really don't want to go into the family business. My brothers took this place over, and they promised I could go into something else."

"What is it you want to do, darlin'?" Rory asked, ignoring the irritated glance Val shot him.

"Environmental science," the girl said, giving the trailer a baleful glare. "But first I've got to have the money to go. "

"Okay, then," Val said, blinking. "So whatever's going down here, you have nothing to do with it. Fair. You go to your dad, tell him the contract's in the mail, and I'll be on my way. By the time they figure out I haven't signed a thing—and that even if I had , the contract my employer signed is way more legitimate than this ever could be—you are back at school, and everybody here will have a different set of worries. You understand me?"

She nodded and sighed. "It probably wasn't even my dad's idea," she told him dispiritedly. "My brother Robert is such an asshole. God. He even picked out this outfit!" She untied the shirt—which now that it wasn't tied above her midriff was obviously a woman's dress shirt—and tucked it into her jeans.

"All right, then," Val said. "You hang out here until we're a speck of dust down the driveway and get your big blue eyes all ready. Can you practice for me?"

She batted those eyes at him and said, "Oh my God, I have no idea why it's not going through! I swear I saw him push the Sign button, Daddy, I do!"

Val shuddered.

"Bad?" she asked, suddenly that anime forest creature again.

"Nope," he said. "You were really good. Just… just don't make a habit of lying, okay? Something tells me you need to use your powers for good."

She gave him a beleaguered smile. "I have no idea what that means," she said sincerely. "But if you're going to take the truck and not put up a fuss, I can pretend to be a virgin who's never had a beer, and believe me, that's a bigger stretch."

Val tried to keep his eyes from rounding too much and swung into the cab so he could back the king pin into the clamp.

To his surprise, Rory took care of the hoses, running Val through the brake-light checks and pressure checks like a pro, saving Val the trouble of getting in and out of the cab to do it himself. Once the refrigerator doors and the tailgate were closed, Val was on his way, Rory laughing his ass off in the passenger seat.

"Do you mind?" Val asked, annoyed, as they left the property and turned toward the freeway that would take them to meet Val's brother Prock.

"Nope, happy to!" Rory chortled. "Oh my God . I can't believe your friend even asked you to flirt. You took one look at that tablet on her ta-tas and you were like, ‘Okay, fuck this.' It was precious ."

Val grunted. "I'm not great with bullshit," he said, scowling.

"This is supposed to surprise me?" Rory asked, still laughing. "Oh my God , that was fabulous. I am now under no illusions about you, Val Royal. Everything I see is everything I get!"

"What's that supposed to mean?" Val grumbled, embarrassed.

Rory must have heard the underlying hurt in his tone because he sat up straight and wiped his eyes. "That means you don't have an ounce of subterfuge in you," he said, his voice suddenly kind. "You can't lie. Apparently it would make your head explode." His voice grew a little rougher then. "Which I guess explains why I got the brush-off the other night."

Val blew out a breath. "It wasn't a brush-off," he defended. "I was busy, I had a busy day planned, and it's not even seven in the morning the day after that. It was more of a caution flag than a brush-off."

Rory cocked his head. "It was a brush-off," he said, not even bothering to sugarcoat it. "You can't lie. It's not in you. So you're not going to have a one-nighter with someone who can't be honest with you. So I didn't talk about myself, and you weren't having any. I get it now."

"So you'll stop hitting on me?" Val asked, not sure what he was hoping for with that question—a yes or a no.

"I was married for five years to a great woman I hooked up with in college. She got pregnant, we married because we were supposed to, and we produced a great kid named Anthony, whom we're both crazy about. And then I confessed that there was a reason Anthony was looking to be an only child, and we agreed to raise him together but live apart. She remarried, I worked a lot, and I haven't had a real long-term relationship since, but I sure have enjoyed the short-term ones I've had."

Val gaped as Rory paused for breath.

"What?" Rory said. "I just spilled my whole life story for you. Are you going to say anything?"

"Why?" Val asked finally, when he could get his brain to function again.

"Why what?"

"Why would you tell me all that?" Because Val's brain was going to be chewing that infodump for hours .

"Because you want honesty," Rory said with a shrug. "And I still want you."

Val concentrated fiercely on the road, unable to come up with a single response to that.

"Don't worry, kid," Rory said. "You get back to me on that."

"I'm forty years old," Val said after a moment. "I'm hardly a kid."

"Thank God," Rory said with satisfaction. "Anything under thirty-five has me running for the hills." He shuddered. "Just wrong."

Val gave a bark of laughter, but that was it. He was going to have to digest his coffee, his job, and Rory's absolutely bald admissions all at the same time, and Rory was going to have to accept that with the rest of him.

Although points in Rory's favor, he didn't seem to mind that much.