“Stop yelling at me!”
“How many times are you going to pull this stunt? You’re my wife, and I’m telling you to go home.”
“I’m going back to the tavern. Quinn’s fine. I dropped him with the neighbors.”
“You’re lying. Do you want my boss’s wife to keep nosing around in our business? If another complaint goes in to those damn social workers, Winnie Marks will be back to hinting I should put my son up for adoption.”
“Tell your boss and his high-and-mighty wife to stay out of our business. I told you I left Quinn with friends, and he’s fine.”
Rae lolled her head to the side. “Both of you, shut up! Can’t you see I’m sleeping here?”
As she sat up, a sickening rush of stars cascaded across her vision. Whoa. When they cleared, she managed to focus on the approaching couple. Late twenties or early thirties. A beefy man with a woman who barely reached his shoulders. The woman’s close-cropped hair was dyed a freakish shade of blonde that was nearly white. In the moonlight, it was hard to make out the tattoo on her neck. A pitchfork?
The man seemed familiar. Blinking slowly, Rae couldn’t recall why.
The woman was faster on the uptake. “Mik, look who it is. Isn’t she the girl who’s dating your boss’s son?”
“Her name’s Rae. She hangs around the service desk whenever Daddy makes the little shit work. The boss treats her like his favorite pet. Weird, if you ask me.”
The woman neared. She chuckled as Rae, scrambling off the hood, nearly lost her balance.
“Are you a princess, Rae?”
“Of course not.” The words slurred, and she clamped her mouth shut.
The woman smirked. “Why does the boss man like you? You’re not much to look at.”
The insult stung. “Because I’m a perfect marksman,” she tossed back, taking care to enunciate every syllable. A stupid thing to say, but nothing else came to mind.
“You’re . . . what?”
“A perfect shot,” Rae said, dimly aware that the whiskey was giving her confidence. Although she was dizzy, she managed to point at the post office. “See over there? From where you’re standing, I can hit a target that far away.”
“Bullshit.”
Griffin, where are you?
“I don’t care if you believe me. I’m the best marksman in the county.”
The man—she remembered now, he was a mechanic at Marks Auto—strode past his wife.
“Marksman? You’re no man. Not with those bodacious titties.” He laughed at his own joke. “You’ve sure got a bod.”
His wife whacked him on the chest. “Shut up, Mik.” The sexual innuendo didn’t sit well with her, and she backed Rae up against the car. “What are you doing out this late, little girl? Is Griffin on his way to meet you?” Chuckling, the woman surveyed the empty lot. “I guess if you’re a kid in high school, anyplace will do.”
Humiliation collided with Rae’s bravado. “Lady, why don’t you listen to your husband and get home to your kid?”
Through her drunken haze, Rae sensed she’d gone too far. The woman—Penny—was no one to mess with. Rae hadn’t meant to provoke her.
Penny was, she now realized, also drunk. So was her husband. A sliver of fear dove through Rae. She was woefully unprepared to deal with grown-ups who were under the influence. Griffin’s parents only drank socially. Her father hardly drank at all. Before her mother’s death, her parents drank a glass of Scotch on special occasions, but that was about it.
“Where do you get off, telling me what to do?” Penny demanded. “You’re worried about my kid? You go home and take care of him.”
“I don’t even know him.”
“Yeah? Well, he’s more work than he’s worth. The little brat can’t do anything for himself.” She pivoted suddenly, toward her husband. “Why don’t you go home and deal with Quinn? I sure didn’t want a kid.”
The remark shivered anger down her husband’s spine.
“I’m going back to the tavern,” she added. “I need to have some fun.”
The anger put something fierce in Mik’s eyes. “You said Quinn’s staying with a neighbor. Did you leave my son alone in the apartment?”
“Who cares if I did?”
“I care, you lazy bitch!”
“He’s in bed. He’s asleep.”
A fearsome charge passed between the couple. The electricity snapping between them was veering toward overload. Rae wanted to get away before the argument went too far. After too many swigs of whiskey, she didn’t trust her feet.