Thick black hair fell into the sink and onto the towel spread at the sink's porcelain base. Both sides of his head were now smooth, the top spiked like a mohawk. Five minutes more, and he was totally bald.
He brushed hair from his face and neck and stared into the mirror. He had a hard face, almost criminal.
This was his life. Bald was how he'd always started baseball season, even as a T-baller. The wounds had scabbed, but never fully healed.
He thought back on his birth mother and his prick of a stepfather. His family history was dark and unforgiving.
Raymond Rhodes had married Lana Anders when she was seventeen, and four months pregnant. She'd told Ray that he was the father, only to have DNA prove otherwise.
Ray had gone ballistic when the blood tests revealed he was raising his brother Joe's child. Ray had always envied Joe's popularity, intelligence, and athletic ability. Envy turned to hate when he learned his brother had been screwing Ray's high-school girlfriend.
Joe had joined the Marines before Kason was born. A week after Kason entered the world, Joe had been killed in a deployment overseas. Joe had never known he'd fathered a son.
With each birthday, Kason had grown more like Joe. Ray had refused to let Kason call him Dad. Kason had grown up in Springfield, Missouri, under Ray's sneer and backhand slap. Kason became his stepfather's punching bag at age six.
A boot to the ribs was Kason's alarm clock. Knuckles to his chin reminded him to brush his teeth. The worst came when Ray caught Kason in camouflage pants playing combat.
Ray had grabbed Kason by the back of the neck and hauled him into the house. He'd told Kason if he wanted to imitate his dead military dad, Ray would shave him for boot camp.
Ray had held the boy down and buzzed him bald, then batted him on the back of the head. Kason now looked even more like the birth father he'd never known.
T-ball that year had been a killer. Ray made the shaving a yearly ritual. Little league was a nightmare.
A baseball cap hadn't hidden his baldness. The Springfield Sox had looked embarrassed for him. The other boys kept their distance, as if his shaved head were contagious.
Kason had played hard, but never got close to his teammates. Over the years, he'd adjusted to being alone.
Throughout middle and high schools, Ray had attended Kason's baseball games. His shouts from the stands had been loud and abusive. When his team lost, his old man called him Kassie.
The girl's name triggered every bad memory from Kason's youth. In the end, humiliation had given Kason fight. He now expelled his demons from the batter's box and out in left Held. Adrenaline pumped with every home run and fly ball caught at the wall.
Exhaling his past, he cast one last look in the bathroom mirror, then stepped out through the hall and into his bedroom. He pulled on an olive T-shirt and jeans. He had two hours before he had to report to James River Stadium.
Time enough to stop for breakfast on his way to the park. After practice, he'd help Dayne pack up her food and move her down the road.
Returning to the kitchen, he found her gone. The kitchen counter was wiped clean, the coffeemaker was turned off, and the eggs were put away. There was no sign of the tire iron.
Cimarron lay by the door, looking lost and left behind. Where had Dayne disappeared to? He'd wanted to talk to her before he left.
Kason let the Dobie out to do his business. While he waited, he shaded his eyes and squinted down the road. He concluded the dot in the distance was Dayne on her bike, running an errand or going to work.
He had six miles to catch her.
Once Cim was back in the trailer, Kason climbed into his battered black Hummer and took off after her. They needed to set a time for her to leave.
The gravel road made riding a bike difficult. He came up on her slowly, watching as she wobbled, caught her balance, then hit a rock and skidded. She nearly fell off her Schwinn.
He pulled up beside her, rolled to a stop, then lowered his window. “We need to talk.”
“Can't, I'm late for work.” She breezed past him in her yellow Frank's Food Warehouse shirt and khakis.
“I'll give you a lift.” He pressed the accelerator, caught up to her. “You can toss your bike in the back.”
“I'd rather ride.” She threw more muscle into her pedaling. The wheels on the bike spun up dust.
What the hell was her problem? He didn't have time to chase her down the road. She'd pulled away from him now by three car lengths. Her shoulders curved low over the handlebars and her khakis pulled tight across her bottom. No sign of a panty line. Tomboy had a nice ass.
Kason drove by her, then cut the wheel sharply, forcing Dayne to stop. She jammed on the brakes so jarringly fast, the chain fell off.
“You jerk!” she shouted at him as he exited the Hummer. “Now I have to push my bike to town.”
“I offered you a ride,” he reminded her.
“Which I refused, Prison Break.”
Her reference to his baldness spiked his temper. When she tried to push past him, he curved one big hand over the bike's basket and stopped her in her tracks.
He then took a step back when she balled a fist, ready to flatten his nose.
“God, you're obnoxious.” He blew out a breath, did a mental ten count. “You moved into my mobile home without permission and are now riding your bike on my road. Let's wrap it up and call it a day.”
“Not until I see the deed to the trailer,” she huffed. “And unless your name's on the street sign, this is a public access road.”
In actuality, the road was private. He'd scored a county permit and paid out of pocket to have the dirt road cut and graded to access the main highway when he'd bought the thousand acres. It was listed with the county as Rhodes Street, though an official sign had yet to be posted. His road formed a T with the highway, where a gas station, family diner, and the wholesale warehouse attracted local traffic.
Kason wasn't about to tell Dayne he owned acreage as far as her eye could see, and that he had legal documentation to prove it. Unfortunately, when it came to the trailer, she had him by the balls. There was no deed.
He'd picked up the double-wide for the towing fee. Dale Crenshaw, the original owner, had been older than God and on his way to a nursing home.
According to Crenshaw's caregiver, the man had advanced Alzheimer's and was alone in the world. He stared into space, eyes blank, shoulders slumped. Crenshaw couldn't remember his own name, much less where he'd stored the deed.