Chance laughs, but it’s clear he’s not amused.

“Is it about the money then?” I ask.

Chance stops on the sidewalk and crosses his arms. “You think I care that you two take a cut? What the fuck am I going to do with three billion dollars?”

Donate it to charity? Pay off small business debts and buy a fleet of seaplanes? Pay for multiple sclerosis drugs and treatment programs?

“If it’s not that,” Miles says, “then what the hell crawled up your butt and died? I mean, are you cranky all the fucking time?”

Chance starts walking again and his long gait eats up the distance to the bar, but he slows. “Shit.”

Miles and I look around. “What?”

“One of the many things that crawled up my butt and died, as you put it?” Chance rakes a hand down his face. “Him. Rick Vance.”

I follow Chance’s glare and glimpse an older man in pressed jeans and a crisp white snap shirt. He looks like he came out of a commercial for ironing starch. He’s walking our way. I can tell the second he sees us, or at least Chance, because his entire demeanor shifts. To anger. Rage, even. His face turns ruddy, and if I were closer, I’d probably see a vein bulging in his neck. His hands are clenched into fists.

Yeah, this guy doesn’t like Chance. Not one fucking bit.

Wait… Vance.

“You mean Carly’s father?”

“Also known as Mayor Vance,” Chance bites out. “You think I’m the only one with issues about you having your hand in Carly’s panties?”

And on her perfect tits at the spring.

I glance at Miles. I’ve only known my middle brother for a few days, but I recognize that look on his face. It mirrors my own.

This has got oh shit written all over it.

12

CARLY

My nerves are jumping under my skin, and all I’ve done so far is sit down on one of the sticky vinyl booth seats at Millie’s. I’m wearing jeans, as I just came from Bridger Ranch. I left a little early so I can get this over with during one of the restaurant’s lulls and be home for dinner, my mother none the wiser. She’d want to come with me, to literally hold my hand, but this is something I have to do on my own.

I recall how my bare thighs used to stick to these seats.

I was wearing shorts that last day…

No!

I steel myself and glance at the plastic-coated menu, complete with vintage photographs of the selections.

It hasn’t changed in five years. The vanilla malt is still a sickly yellow color, and the kid’s menu still includes the famous wiener man—a hot dog sliced lengthwise halfway and then boiled so the two halves look like legs, topped off with mustard eyeballs and a ketchup smile. I used to gobble it up as a kid. Now it looks kind of disgusting.