The Box by Jeremy Brown (ebook reader play store txt) 📕

so far. Now, I’m gonna give you this card because she asked me to. But if you mess with her—if you cause her any sort of trouble—you’re done here. No more shows. No more John Cougar. Mellencamp or otherwise.”

Connelly placed his left palm on the bar and raised his right.

“I assure you, my dear. My intentions are pure.”

Marie raised an eyebrow and shook her head, and Connelly felt sorry for her. A woman who’d heard every line and lie and excuse possible from the sad, simple minds of men, yet knew she’d always be willing to at least listen.

She gave him the card and said, “Just make sure you invite me to the wedding.”

When Marie walked away Connelly sent a text to the cell number from the card.

“It’s Adam, the rock star from Len’s. You in town?”

He drank his coffee and waited.

A few minutes later she called.

“Returning a text with a call? I’m flattered.”

Nora said, “Yeah, well, I’m driving, so calm yourself. I’m about forty minutes away, you want to meet for lunch?”

“Sure. You want me to get some soup going for you?”

“No, I’m starving. It’s a burger day.”

“Then a burger shall be waiting for you.”

“My hero. See you soon.”

He put the phone down and couldn’t help grinning like an idiot. The fact that someone liked him—no matter who he was pretending to be—made him feel good.

The inevitable fallout was for another day.

Ten minutes later the lunch crowd started flowing in, so he relocated to the booth Rison and Bruder had used and let Marie know about the burger baskets he’d need in another fifteen minutes. He had a hunch Nora picked up speed after their call and he wanted the food waiting when she arrived.

And if she was late, and the food was cold, she might feel bad and want to make it up to him.

When she slid into the booth it was exactly thirty-three minutes after the call.

“You made good time,” Connelly said.

She smiled at him, then down at the food.

“No offense, but I’m going to talk with my mouth full.”

“Do your thing.”

They ate and talked a little about her job—which was in the logistics department of a massive office supply company, not a submarine captain or Russian spy—and the drive, and what kind of car she drove: a leased Lexus paid for by the company, and he eventually turned the conversation to the farm.

“So how long do you plan on making this trip every weekend? Is the end in sight?”

“God, I hope so. I mean, I love this place and the people, the ones from here, but the drive is killing me. And just the stress of it, you know? It’s like this thing hanging over my shoulder, and sometimes I’ll get caught up in work or a run, or whatever, and forget about it. Then I’ll go, wait a minute, what was I supposed to be worrying about? Oh yeah, that’s right. And boom, it all comes back down on me.”

He said, “What do you mean, ‘the ones from here’? You’re not a fan of wandering musicians?”

“Hm?”

“You said you love the people from here. Like there are other people, not from here, who don’t deserve your adoration.”

“Oh. I did?”

Connelly nodded and squinted at her.

“Nora, are you a xenophobe?”

“Oh, please. No. Stop squinting at me. No!”

She took a handful of his fries, and it worked. His suspicion became outrage.

Nora said, “I’m not a xenophobe. But I don’t like assholes, no matter where they’re from.”

“What’s that got to do with the farm?”

“It doesn’t matter. Forget I said anything.”

She pointed at his guitar case.

“You’re playing tonight?”

“I am. Did you bring your bongos?”

She smiled, and Connelly was thinking about how to guide her back to the farm talk when the front door opened and three men came in, laughing and speaking Romanian.

Connelly recognized them but couldn’t recall from which group.

None of them were the tall bony one with the torch eyes.

All three had wide shoulders and thick necks and big hands. They wore insulated flannel jackets and knit caps, and with the beards and neck and hand tattoos they almost looked like gym hipsters, but one look at their flat eyes—not a shred of irony or mirth in them—shattered that suspicion.

Nora followed Connelly’s gaze.

Her body stiffened and her knuckles turned white around the napkin clutched in her hand.

The men saw her and did a terrible job of acting surprised. They waved and smiled, eyebrows cocked like the four of them were in on a secret, then their eyes slid to Connelly and they went back to looking like sharks.

Connelly made a mental note that somebody at Len’s—and he really hoped it wasn’t Marie—was telling the Romanians when Nora arrived.

He leaned forward and touched her hand.

“You okay?”

“Yeah.”

She turned and looked down at her food and got busy moving things around. The ketchup bottle got nudged a few inches, then her glass of water slid where the bottle had been.

Connelly said, “Those guys friends of yours?”

“No.”

“This is gonna sound like a crazy jealous guy thing, but…ex-boyfriend?”

She reared back.

“Oh, hell no. You think I’d…no. Ug.”

She shuddered and poked more things around, taking her anxiety out on the salt and pepper shakers.

The men took a table near the front of the restaurant and sat so all three of them could watch the booth.

Connelly didn’t know if they were the advance team, checking things out before more showed up—possibly the tall one, to terrorize Nora—or if these three were just there to make her jumpy.

Either way…why?

Nora had something they wanted, or knew something they didn’t want her to know, and they were making a concerted effort to keep her uncomfortable.

Maybe it had something to do with the farms and the money, maybe not.

Regardless, Connelly decided to make something happen before the place got more crowded with Romanians or otherwise.

Connelly said, “I’m gonna hit the bathroom. You need anything?”

“From the bathroom?”

She was distracted now, thinking about something else and working hard to keep from looking over her shoulder at the