Chapter 9: Texas Makeover
The jeans were the problem.
“They are a tactical hindrance,” Jean-Luc stated, standing stiffly in the middle of Bree’s living room. He held the arms of the starched black pearl-snap shirt away from his body as if it were contaminated. The Wranglers Carter had produced—dark, new, and relentlessly straight-legged—were cinched around his waist.
Carter, perched on the arm of the sofa, snorted. “They’re just jeans, man. Everyone wears ‘em.”
“They restrict the femoral artery and limit lateral movement. They are denim shackles.”
“You’re not going to a knife fight. You’re going two-stepping,” Bree said, her voice tight. She was twisting a simple silver bracelet around her wrist, a nervous habit. She’d chosen her own armor: dark jeans, boots, and a deep green sleeveless top that felt like trying too hard. “The point is to not look like you’re anticipating a knife fight.”
“Anticipation is what keeps one breathing.” He finally lowered his arms, the shirt pulling across his shoulders. It did fit him, disturbingly well. Carter had guessed the size with unsettling accuracy.
“Okay, final touch,” Carter said, producing a worn, dust-colored Stetson from behind his back.
Jean-Luc looked at it with profound mistrust. “No.”
“It’s non-negotiable. It says, ‘I am making an effort.’ It’s disarming.”
“It is a large, foolish-looking target.”
Bree walked over, took the hat from her brother, and held it out. “Put it on. Or I’ll tell Mom you have a violent allergy to her casserole and had to leave the state.”
Their eyes locked. A current passed between them, the unspoken ledger of their situation: the barn, the body, the debts, the lies. He held her gaze for a beat longer than necessary, then took the hat. He placed it on his head, adjusting the brim with a resigned efficiency. It shadowed his eyes, making the blue glint beneath like chips of ice in a dark stream.
The transformation was absurd and utterly effective. The sharp, dangerous lines of him were still there, but they’d been sheathed in local costume. He looked like a rancher from a luxury catalog—authentic, but unnervingly perfect.
“See?” Carter grinned. “You look like you herd organic, free-range cattle for a living.”
“I feel like a parody.”
“Welcome to Texas,” Bree muttered, grabbing her keys. “Let’s get this over with.”
The parking lot of The Last Call Honky Tonk was a sea of pickup trucks and dust. The thump of a bassline vibrated through the soles of Bree’s boots before they even reached the door. The air outside was cool, but stepping inside was like walking into a warm, beery sigh.
It was all familiar chaos: the neon glow of beer signs, the haze of smoke drifting from the outdoor patio, the click of pool balls, and the twang of a pedal steel guitar curling from the speakers. The floor was sticky. The smell was a permanent cocktail of spilled lager, fried food, and pine-scented cleaner.
Bree led them through the crowd, a familiar path to a high-top table near the back wall—close enough to observe, far enough from the dance floor for a quick exit. She felt eyes on them immediately. A few nods for her, curious stares for the stranger at her side. Her stomach tightened.
“I’ll get the first round,” Carter said, already veering toward the scrum at the bar.
Which left her alone with him. Jean-Luc removed the Stetson, running a hand through his hair. His gaze swept the room, not with tourist curiosity, but with a chilling, analytical precision. He noted the exits, the layout, the groups of men, the lone watchers. He was profiling the entire bar.
“Try to look like you’re having a mediocre time, not planning a siege,” she said, leaning closer so he could hear her over the music.
“They are not mutually exclusive.” His eyes settled on a cluster of men in camo jackets laughing too loud by the jukebox. “Those ones. Friends of Dale’s?”
Bree followed his look. Mitch Harper. Her breath hitched. “Yeah. The big one with the goatee. He was Dale’s cousin.”
“He is left-handed, favors his right leg slightly when standing still, and has been drinking bourbon. Four glasses, by the condensation rings.” Jean-Luc said it softly, as if noting the weather.
Before she could process that, a hand grabbed her arm.
“Bree Shepherd! Where have you been hiding?”
It was Lisa from the feed store, her smile wide and margarita-fueled. Her eyes darted past Bree to Jean-Luc, and her grin turned knowing. “Oh. I see.”
“Lisa, hey. This is Luc,” Bree said, the introduction now a rusty routine.
“A pleasure,” Jean-Luc said, offering a small, polite smile that didn’t reach his eyes.
“Well, aren’t you just something,” Lisa drawled, looking him up and down with appreciation. “Mavis said you were a looker. She did not exaggerate. Y’all enjoy your night!” She disappeared back into the throng, undoubtedly to spread the news.
Carter returned, balancing three longnecks. “They were out of the fancy stuff,” he said, handing Jean-Luc a bottle of Shiner Bock.
Jean-Luc examined the label, then took a slow drink. He swallowed. “It is… beer.”
The band launched into a faster song. The dance floor filled, a swirling mass of boots and denim skirts. Jean-Luc watched, his head tilted. “The pattern is simplistic. A four-count box.”
“It’s called two-stepping. It’s not meant to be decrypting the Enigma code,” Bree said, taking a long pull from her own bottle.
“Everything is a code,” he replied, his eyes still on the dancers. Then his focus shifted abruptly, back over her shoulder. His expression didn’t change, but the muscles in his jaw tightened. “Company.”
Bree turned. Mitch Harper was ambling toward their table, two of his friends trailing behind him like sluggish shadows. He was a broad, bullish man, his face already flushed with drink and a simmering, generic hostility.
“Bree,” Mitch said, ignoring Carter and Jean-Luc completely. His voice was a low rumble. “Heard you had some trouble out at your place. Sheriff poking around.”
“Everything’s fine, Mitch.”
“Funny, ‘cause I heard different. Heard you had some… unauthorized guests.” His bloodshot eyes finally slid to Jean-Luc. “This him? The cheese man?” He snorted a laugh, and his friends echoed it.
Jean-Luc placed his beer bottle on the table with a precise click. He turned to face Mitch fully, his movements slow and deliberate. He said nothing. Just looked at him.
The silence stretched, oppressive even over the music. Mitch’s smirk faltered under the weight of that flat, assessing gaze.
“We’re just having a drink, Mitch,” Carter said, his voice cracking slightly.
“I wasn’t talking to you, boy.” Mitch leaned forward, planting his hands on their table. He smelled of sweat and whiskey. “I’m talking to your sister and her fancy friend. See, Dale was family. And when family has an accident, we take it personal. We like to know the whos and the whys.”
Bree’s heart hammered against her ribs. “It was an accident, Mitch. The report said so.”
“Reports can be wrong.” Mitch’s eyes were locked on Jean-Luc now, a challenge. “You got something to add, cheese man?”
Jean-Luc’s lips curved into a smile. It was a cold, thin thing. “Only that you are in my light.”
Mitch blinked, confused. “My what?”
“You are blocking my view of the band. A rudeness, even for here.” Jean-Luc’s tone was conversational, as if discussing a minor inconvenience. “Move.”
A flicker of uncertainty crossed Mitch’s face. The script was wrong. He’d expected bluster, fear, maybe a heated denial. He hadn’t expected this glacial, dismissive calm. It unsettled him. His friends shifted behind him.
“You think you’re real funny, don’t you?” Mitch growled, pushing off the table to loom larger.
Jean-Luc didn’t stand. He simply looked up, the neon light catching the blue in his eyes. “I think you have had five bourbons. I think your balance is compromised. I think you should return to your friends before you embarrass yourself further.”
It was the clinical detachment that did it. The utter lack of fear. Mitch’s face darkened with real anger now, the bluster solidifying into something uglier. His hand flexed at his side. “You got a real smart mouth for a guy wearing another man’s clothes.”
In a single, fluid motion, Jean-Luc stood. He wasn’t as tall as Mitch, but his presence seemed to expand, filling the space around them with a sudden, silent pressure. He didn’t posture or puff up. He just was, a still, dark point in the room’s noisy chaos. He stepped close, into Mitch’s space, forcing the bigger man to look slightly down.
“These are my clothes,” Jean-Luc said, his voice so low only their table and Mitch could hear. It was devoid of all pretense, all accent. It was pure, polished threat. “The man they belonged to is gone. If you wish to join him in discussing the matter, we can step outside. Or you can walk away. Choose.”
Bree saw it then—the predator, fully unmasked. It was in the set of his shoulders, the dead calm in his eyes. This was the man from the cellar, the man with the contacts for specific needs. He wasn’t playing a part anymore.
Mitch saw it too. The drunken bravado drained from his face, replaced by a primal, instinctive caution. He held the stare for another second, two, then his eyes flickered away. He took a half-step back.
“This ain’t over,” he mumbled, the words lacking conviction. He turned and shouldered his way back to the jukebox, his friends following, casting wary glances behind them.
Jean-Luc sat back down. He picked up his beer and took another sip. His hand was perfectly steady.
“Holy shit,” Carter breathed, his eyes wide.
Bree just stared at him. The noise of the bar rushed back in, a wave of normalcy that felt like a lie. “What was that?” she whispered.
“A conversation.”
“You threatened to kill him.”
“I presented him with options. He selected the prudent one.” He looked at her, the mask of the charming boyfriend slipping partially back into place, but the edges were still razor-sharp. “The code here is simpler than I thought. It is not about strength. It is about the perception of consequence. He believes I would follow through. That is enough.”
The band segued into a slower song, a wistful ballad about lost highways. The tension at their table was a live wire, but the rest of the bar moved on, oblivious.
“Bree.” Jean-Luc’s voice was different now. Softer. He nodded toward the dance floor. “We should dance.”
“Are you insane? After that?”
“Especially after that.” He stood again and offered his hand. It was not a request. It was the
It was the next move in a game only he fully understood. Her every instinct screamed to refuse, to retreat to the safe, familiar anger she wore like a coat. But the eyes of the bar were on them—Lisa from the feed store, Carter’s worried stare, Mitch’s lingering glare from across the room. To refuse now would be to show fracture, to invite more questions.
She placed her hand in his. His fingers closed around hers, his grip firm and unsettlingly warm.
He led her onto the crowded floor, his other hand settling with a confident weight at the small of her back. He didn’t assume the typical hold. His posture was different, closer, more proprietary. The first steps were halting on her part, a stiff resistance. “I don’t need you to protect me from gossip,” she muttered into the space near his collar, breathing in the scent of clean cotton and something darker, uniquely him.
“This isn’t about gossip.” His voice was a low vibration near her ear. He guided her into a slow turn, his movements sure. “It is about demonstrating a settled fact. A unified front is harder to challenge.”
“We’re not unified. This is a business arrangement.”
“Then dance like it’s a merger.” His hand pressed slightly, steering her around another couple. He was a surprisingly good lead, adapting the simple box step into something fluid. The music was a mournful wail about lost love, but his focus was absolute, a tactical exercise in perception management. She felt the solid muscle of his shoulder under her palm, the faint, careful tension in his side where the bandage lay hidden.
She forced herself to relax into the rhythm, to stop fighting his guidance. The room began to blur at the edges, the other dancers fading into a mosaic of color and noise. There was only the heat of his hand through her top, the solidity of him against her, the incongruous scent of expensive soap cutting through the beer-and-sweat haze of the bar. It was dangerously easy to follow.
“You’re good at this,” she said, the admission torn from her.
“I am good at learning what is necessary to survive.” His eyes scanned over her shoulder, ever watchful, before returning to her face. The blue was softer in the dim light, but no less intense. “This is not so different from navigating a room in Marseille. The signals are merely… boot-shaped.”
A faint, unwilling laugh escaped her. It felt strange on her lips. He felt it, the slight tremor against his chest, and his mouth quirked in response. It wasn’t the cold smile from the confrontation. This was smaller, more real. It changed his whole face, carving a fleeting vulnerability around his eyes.
The song began to build to its close, the singer’s voice cracking with faux emotion. Jean-Luc’s hold shifted, imperceptibly tightening. His gaze dropped to her mouth, then back to her eyes. The calculation was gone, replaced by a frank, hungry curiosity that stole the air from her lungs.
For a suspended second, the fiction dissolved. The crowd, the debt, the looming fire—none of it existed. There was only the magnetic pull between them, a terrifying and tangible force. Her lips parted.
The song ended. The spell shattered with a scatter of applause and the band leader’s drawled “thank ya kindly.” The space between them flooded back with noise and reality. Jean-Luc’s expression smoothed into its neutral, polite mask so swiftly she wondered if she’d imagined the lapse. He released her, taking a half-step back.
“We should go,” he said, his voice all business again. “Carter is waiting.”
Bree nodded, her skin buzzing where he’d touched her. She turned and saw Carter already by the door, shooting anxious glances toward Mitch’s regrouping crowd. They moved through the throng, a tense, silent procession. She could feel Jean-Luc behind her, a shield and a threat all at once.
The night air outside was a shock, cool and silent save for the muffled music. They walked quickly to her truck. “Get in the back, Carter,” Jean-Luc said, not unkindly. It was an order.
“Why?”
“Because if they decide to follow, a silhouette in the passenger seat is a target. A silhouette in the back is ambiguous.” He opened the passenger door for Bree, his hand briefly on the frame above her head. She climbed in, the vinyl seat cold through her jeans.
He slid into the driver’s side before she could object, taking the keys from her numb fingers. The engine roared to life. As they pulled onto the dark county road, his eyes flicked to the rearview mirror. “Headlights. Two miles back.”
Carter twisted in the back seat. “Is it them?”
“We will assume it is.” Jean-Luc’s hands were relaxed on the wheel, his driving fast but preternaturally smooth. He took a curve without slowing. “Briar. The shotgun. Is it loaded?”
The question cut through her daze. “In the rack. Yeah.”
“Good.” He didn’t look at her. His focus was on the mirror and the unlit road ahead, a ribbon of asphalt swallowed by the enormous Texas night. “If they close the distance, you will need to be ready to use it.”
The reality of it, cold and stark, landed in her gut. This wasn’t a dance anymore. The headlights in the mirror glinted, holding steady. The barn was waiting to burn, a man was already buried in her root cellar, and now the consequences of Dale’s “accident” were following them home through the darkness. The truck hurtled forward, a tiny metal pod in the vast, swallowing black.
The truck hurtled forward, a tiny metal pod in the vast, swallowing black.
“Are they gaining?” Carter’s voice was thin from the backseat.
Jean-Luc’s eyes flicked between the road and the mirror. “No. Holding position. They are either incompetent or merely trying to intimidate.” He sounded faintly disappointed. His fingers tapped a silent rhythm on the steering wheel. “The turnoff to your property is in three miles.”
“We can’t lead them to the house,” Bree said. The weight of the unseen shotgun in the rack above her felt like a third passenger.
“We will not.” He accelerated, the engine groaning. The headlights behind them dwindled slightly as he took the next curve with a precision that felt alien in her heavy Ford. “They are driving a truck with a lifted suspension. Its handling is poor. They will not risk this speed for long on these roads.”
A mile blurred past, nothing but the dash lights and the tunnel their headlights carved. The pursuing lights faded further, then veered off abruptly down a county line road. The pressure in the cab didn’t lift. It crystallized.
“They know where we live anyway,” Carter said, slumping against the seat.
“But they do not know what we are capable of,” Jean-Luc replied. His tone suggested they were still figuring that out themselves. “We need fuel. The station on the east route. It is public, well-lit.”
They rode in silence for another ten minutes, the normalcy of the flickering gas station signs a surreal contrast to the last hour. Jean-Luc pulled up to the pumps. “Both of you, inside. Buy something. Be seen being normal.”
Inside the fluorescent buzz of the Quick-Stop, Bree grabbed a six-pack of Carter’s favorite soda and a bag of chips. Her hands were steady, a fact that surprised her. Carter hovered near the coffee station, his gaze locked on the door. Jean-Luc stood at the counter, paying for the gas with cash from his own wallet, making quiet conversation with the bleary-eyed clerk about the unseasonable chill.
That’s when she heard it.
The bell on the door jangled and three men walked in, talking loudly. They were dressed too well for Dog Creek—silver watchbands, tailored sports coats over crisp jeans. They had the easy, entitled swagger of men who were used to money smoothing their path. One of them, a guy with a neat gray-flecked beard, clapped a hand on the counter near Jean-Luc.
“–gotta be with Tommy, I’m telling you,” one of the others was saying, his voice carrying. “The old man was paranoid. He wouldn’t have let it out of his sight.”
“Well, Tommy’s sight is currently at the bottom of a bottle at the Silver Slipper, so that’s just great,” the bearded man grumbled, nodding thanks as the clerk handed him a pack of cigarettes. “Without that ledger, we’re just spinning our wheels. He could’ve put it anywhere.”
“The boss ain’t happy. Wants it resolved. Permanently.”
The group moved off toward the beer cooler, their conversation dropping to murmurs. Jean-Luc had gone very still. He didn’t turn to look at them, but Bree saw the way his shoulders had set, the deliberate slowness with which he took his change and receipt.
Back in the truck, hauling onto the quiet road home, the words hung in the air between them. The ledger. Tommy. Permanently.
“Who were those men?” Bree asked, her voice tight.
“No one of consequence.”
“They weren’t from here. They talked like… like Mitch wishes he could talk.” She watched his profile, lit by the green dash glow. “What’s a ledger?”
“It is nothing.” His grip on the wheel tightened, knuckles pale. “A business matter. Not yours.”
“Everything that brings men like that to a gas station in the middle of the night feels like it’s becoming my business.” The anger was a welcome heat, burning away the last of the dance-floor confusion. “You told me this was about Dale. About a debt. Simple.”
“I told you what you needed to know to secure your farm. The situation is fluid.”
“Fluid.” She spat the word. “People keep turning up dead or talking about things being resolved permanently. My barn is scheduled to be a crime scene tomorrow. So don’t tell me it’s nothing.”
He didn’t answer. The rest of the drive passed in a silence so heavy it felt like another presence. Carter, wisely, said nothing from the back.
The farmhouse was dark, a hulking shape against the star-flecked sky. They filed inside. Jean-Luc moved through the rooms, checking windows with a silent, predatory efficiency that was now routine. Bree put the kettle on, more for something to do with her hands than a desire for tea.
When he returned to the kitchen, his jacket was off. He stood opposite her, the scarred wooden table between them like a border.
“The ledger,” he said finally, the word a concession. “It is a record. Transactions, names, accounts. The true, hidden finances of an operation much larger than Dale’s petty stealing.”
Bree went cold. “What kind of operation?”
“The kind I was sent here to extract myself from.” He leaned forward, palms flat on the table. “My former associates. They believe I took it when I left. They believe it is my insurance policy. A weapon against them.”
“Did you take it?”
“No.” The answer was flat, absolute. “The old man who kept it, Dale’s superior, was paranoid. He hid it. He is dead now. The men at the gas station, they are looking for it. They believe it has passed to a man called Tommy. A weak link. A drunk.”
“And they think you have it.” The pieces, ugly and sharp, began to click into place. “That’s why you’re really here. Hiding. Not over some philosophical disagreement. You’re a loose end they want to tie up, and they think you have their book.”
“Yes.”
“And Dale?”
“Dale was a small-time thief who worked for them. He recognized me. He thought kidnapping me would be a ticket to their good graces.” Jean-Luc’s smile was a grim slice. “He was incorrect.”
Bree stared at him, the full, terrifying scope of it dawning. The barn fire wasn’t just about insurance money. It was about drawing attention away from the property while a war she hadn’t known about raged around it. She was a pawn in a game between predators. “They’re going to keep coming. For you. For that book.”
“They will. Unless they get the ledger. Or unless they are convinced, beyond any doubt, that it is gone forever and that I pose no threat.” His blue eyes held hers. “The ledger is not with me. It is with Tommy. We need to find it before they do.”
“We?” The word burst from her. “This isn’t my fight! My fight is keeping this farm and my brother alive!”
“It is the same fight now.” His voice dropped, low and urgent. “They have seen me with you. You are already a part of the calculation. The fire tomorrow will create chaos, a distraction. We will use it. We find Tommy. We find the ledger. It is the only thing that can end this.”
The kettle began a shrill whistle on the stove. Neither of them moved to stop it. The sound screamed into the quiet kitchen, a perfect mirror of the alarm shrieking inside her. She was trapped. The path forward was no longer a desperate gamble to save her home. It was a plunge into a deeper, darker water where things like ledgers got men killed.
The whistling reached a piercing crescendo. Carter finally shuffled over and jerked the kettle from the burner. The sudden silence that followed was deafening.
Jean-Luc was still waiting for her answer, his expression unreadable. The man from the dance floor was gone. The consultant was gone. Only the predator remained, offering her a terrible, necessary pact.
She looked past him, out the dark window toward the condemned barn. Then her gaze settled on Carter, slumped and exhausted at the counter. She had no choice at all.
“Where do we find Tommy?” she asked.