Текст книги "The Destiny of Violet and Luke"
Автор книги: Jessica Sorensen
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Текущая страница: 11 (всего у книги 18 страниц)
“What game?” I fake forgetfulness. “I’m just hungry. It’s like one o’clock and I haven’t had anything to eat. And the peroxide is for you—your hands look like shit.”
She looks down at her palms, cut up from the rocks, blood oozing out, and then back up at me. “Haven’t had your hangover food yet, huh?”
“Yeah, and I’m dying. I need to get some tacos in me.”
“Tacos? I thought you said you didn’t like hamburger?”
“Tacos are about ground beef. Not hamburger.”
“Potato, potato. It’s pretty much the same.”
“It is not,” I argue as I turn around and we start back toward the truck. “It’s completely different.”
“Maybe you should go get cleaned up first.” She runs her thumb down the side of my lip and the connection sends uninvited emotions coursing through my body. I have to clench my hands into fists, just to keep myself from grabbing her and crashing her lips against mine. She withdraws her hand and wipes her thumb and her finger together. “You have blood on your face and clothes.”
I shrug, smothering the desire to jerk her hand back to me, rip her clothes off and bend her over the hood out of my truck. “I’m fine with looking like a man who just beat the shit out of someone, but if you’re too embarrassed to be seen with me, you can sit in the truck.”
“ ‘A man who just beat the shit out of someone’?” she muses, stopping at the passenger door of my truck, her hand hovering above the handle of the car door. “Or a guy who just got his ass kicked?”
I can’t tell if she’s toying with me or not, but it’s both irritating me and exciting me in ways I didn’t know were possible. Half the damn time I have no fucking clue whether she’s being serious or not. Being a control freak, this should send me running, yet it’s having the opposite effect when it comes to her.
I decide to give her a taste of her own intense medicine, throw her off a little, regain the upper hand and hopefully scare her away. “Are you saying that I’m not tough?” I position myself in front of her, trying to get her to back up into the truck, but she stays still. “Or that I’m not a man?”
“I’m not saying either,” she says with a fervent look in her eyes that nearly sends me soaring through the roof. The more intense I get the more excited she gets, which makes me want to get even more intense. “Although, I’m guessing that despite that fact, you’re still about to show me that you’re both of those things.”
“Is that what you want me to do?” My voice comes out husky. This isn’t working out how I want, my plan of keeping her away backfiring on me. I take a step forward and then another, until I’m pretty much stepping on her feet. She still doesn’t back up and it frustrates me even more. “For me to show you how tough I am or how much of a man I am?”
She presses her lips together, her gaze unwavering, eyelashes fluttering. “I don’t want anything from you, Luke. I’m just simply saying what’s in my head. And the longer you’re around me, the more you’ll realize this.”
The longer I’m around her? Fuck. I reach a hand around the side of her and grab the door handle of the truck. “So you don’t think I’m tough?” I ask.
“I think you want to show me how tough you are and how much of a man you can be,” she says.
I put my other arm on the other side of her, so she’s pinned between my arms. Most girls in this position would back up into the door, but she stands firm, refusing to let me control her like I desperately want to.
“And how would I show you?” I drop my voice to a husky growl, intentionally this time.
“I’m sure you have your ways,” she replies, her gaze flickering at my mouth as I lean forward and our bodies press together.
It takes every ounce of strength not to seize hold of her hips and gently shove her back. Instead, I lean farther in, our lips inching closer. “I do have my ways…” I lick my lips and feel the sting of the cut. It reminds me of everything I just witnessed; with her, with me. I know if I kiss her it’ll more than likely lead to me jerking the door open and throwing her down on the truck seat, right here in broad daylight. I wouldn’t care who saw us. I never do. I’d just want to get this God damn need to regain control out of me, the need she’s putting in me. But then what would happen after it was all over? Would we go get tacos and come back to my dorm and hang out? Yeah, that doesn’t seem at all possible, but neither does screwing her and then bailing. I’m too far into her and I’m not sure how to get away or if I can get away at this point.
I clench my hands into fists as I fight the urge to shut my eyes and kiss her until she can barely breathe. I feel weak the moment I flip up that handle and start to pull the door open because I’m choosing to feel the vile, pathetic feelings of my past—how I did things I didn’t want to do, how my mother messed with my head, how I had no control over my life. I was a puppet. I was weak. I don’t want to be that person ever again.
I wait for Violet to move out of the way so I can get the door open, but she doesn’t budge and I’m the one who ends up stepping back, losing again. It’s an unsettling place I’ve arrived at and I don’t know what to do with it beside drink myself into a stupor and hammer my fist through anything that gets in my way. My body is actually shaking as my mind craves the burning, blissful taste of alcohol.
“So where are we going to get tacos?” She sidesteps around me and hops in the truck, tucking her skirt in as she brings her legs into the truck.
“You pick,” I say as I shut the door.
She smiles a plain, fake smile, not even giving me the benefit of a real one. “It doesn’t matter to me,” she says as I climb into the cab. Then she kicks her feet up on the dash and flops her head back against the seat, looking as calm as can be.
I have to wonder if she really means it. If nothing matters to her, and if she’s beginning to matter to me.
Chapter 9
Violet
We go get tacos, stop by a drugstore, go to the electronics store to pick up a new phone for him because apparently he lost his last night, then go back to his dorm. The conversation is as light as air, which makes it complicated, in my book. It’s too easy to be around him and it’s not supposed to be that way with anyone. Things are supposed to be hard so it makes it easier to keep up my wall and stay detached, so if and when he decides to exit my life, it’ll be like he was never really there at all.
But I can feel my wall collapsing, especially when he didn’t kiss me while we were by his truck. He could have and I could tell he wanted to. I probably would have let him, too, if only to taste the rush of adrenaline that was forming at the tip of my tongue the second he leaned into me. The way I was hyperaware of his body heat and my own was unfamiliar and it terrified me. All I wanted to do was silence the fear awakening inside me, but the closer he got to me, the quieter I got on the inside. He was my escape from my emotions, yet he was putting them in me at the same time. It was the strangest feeling and I had a difficult time deciding what to do. So I just stood there and let him decide and eventually he moved back and I was left relieved and disappointed.
I’m still analyzing why. The only conclusion I can come up with is that all the stress of being homeless and going to the police department tomorrow has caused my head to crack open and I’m not thinking clearly.
Only minutes after being in his dorm room, he leaves me alone in his room to take a shower. He has packed up hardly any of his stuff, which makes me wonder what he’s going to do when morning comes around.
I douse a cotton ball with peroxide and press it to my hand, feeling it sizzle against my dirty, scraped skin. I now have $7.56 less than I did, all because Luke didn’t want me to get an infection. I was fine with the risk, but he insisted it was unsafe. I almost laughed at him. If only he knew just how unsafe life can get for me.
I flop back on the bed that doesn’t have a sheet on it, just a mattress, the one that was Kayden’s I’m guessing, and stare up at the ceiling, rotating the cotton ball around on my hand. It burns and makes my palm ache, but I let it soak into me as I figure out my next step.
I’ve never had a friend before, if that’s even where Luke and I are moving toward. Preston and Kelley were the closest to friends I ever had, but they were more like my crazy babysitters/landlords than anything. There was no one actually caring enough about me to convince me to buy peroxide and Band-Aids, to clean some cut up and properly take care of myself. There was no one who would beat someone up simply because they were groping my breast. Luke had hammered his fist into Preston’s face without even so much as a second thought.
My heart starts to pump harder as I think about it, the way he did it without any hesitation, when the dorm door opens and Luke enters. He’s wearing a towel wrapped around his waist, his skin still a little damp from the shower. His lean muscles carve his stomach along with a massive welt he probably got from the fight. He’s got a serious set of tattoos. Most are sketched in dark ink and tribal shapes except for an inscription that’s too small for me to read from this far away.
I drape my arm over my head, unable to take my eyes off him. “I like your tats.”
He sets his dirty clothes down on the dresser and shuts the door with his foot, his brow curving upward. “Was that a compliment?”
“Perhaps.”
He sinks down on the made bed across from me and disappears out of my line of vision. “You have some of your own, on the back of your neck, right?”
“Yeah, two of them,” I say, returning my concentration to the ceiling, my hand balling around the drying-out cotton ball. “I have more, though.”
“Where?”
“It’s a secret.”
He pauses and the mattress squeaks. “So, do you want to just crash? I’m kind of tired.”
I shake my head, listening to my heart thud in my chest. Even though I’m tired, if I just crash then I’ll have to think about what happened and if I think about what happened I’ll have to feel how I feel about it and if I feel it, I’ll just want to get up and do something reckless. Then afterward, I’ll be content and get tired, wanting to crash, and the whole process will start over. It’s a vicious cycle. “I’m not tired at all.”
He sighs heavyheartedly. “Then what do you want to do?”
I boost up on my elbows to look at him, fixing my attention on his swollen jaw instead of where his towel is starting to open up. “What do you usually do on a Sunday night?”
He reaches for a bottle of Jack Daniel’s on the desk by the foot of his bed. “Get drunk and get laid.” He watches my reaction as he tips his head back and takes a swig.
“Isn’t getting drunk bad for you… because you’re a diabetic?”
He shifts his weight uncomfortably and then looks away toward the window. “I’m fine. I don’t do anything I can’t handle.”
I seem to be making him upset and I don’t understand why. But I let the subject go, since I’m the last person who should be lecturing anyone on what’s good and bad for them. I sit up and slide to the edge of the bed, planting my feet on the floor. “Well, if getting drunk and getting laid is what you want to do then you’re going to have to go have fun solo,” I say. “Because I don’t do either of those things. Well, I drink sometimes, but not a lot.” I divulge the truth to him, but not deliberately. My brain is clearly tired.
His eyes immediately snap in my direction as he chokes and alcohol sprays out of his mouth and onto the carpet, making my confession worth it. “What?” he sputters, setting the bottle back down.
“What? Drinking makes me act vicious and kind of crazy so I try to avoid it unless I want to act mean and crazy.” I know that’s not why he’s choking though. He’s choking because I said I was a virgin.
“You mean more than you already are?” he asks warily, wiping the whiskey away from his lips with his hand.
I cross my legs and the split on my skirt opens up, revealing my thighs. I notice his gaze travel toward them, his eyes blazing with something I’ve seen in guys’ eyes many times. I can’t help but wonder if Luke could be my reckless thing at the moment if I decide I want to go that route. The way he hit Preston, without so much as thinking, and the strip club fight… it makes him seem sort of dangerous, which makes me think he could feed my craving. But do I really want to get involved? Feel a connection? Because when he kissed me in the truck, I’d felt something other than numbness. I felt a spark. Life. Need.
“Yeah, so imagine how bad I can get,” I say.
His heated gaze skims from my legs to my face. “It’s probably a good thing then.” His fingers seek the bottle again, his blazing eyes still fastened on me. He takes another swallow, peering over the bottle at me.
“Does it make you uneasy?” I ask, leaning back on my hands, amused that I’m making him tense over the fact that I’m a virgin, yet he won’t comment on it. “That I am.”
He sets the bottle down again and his tongue slips out of his mouth to moisten his cut lip. “Does hearing that you get crazy and vicious when you’re drunk make me uneasy? Why would it when you’re that way sober?”
“Don’t play dumb,” I say. “I know you’re thinking about how I just told you I was a virgin, which is why you spit out your drink all over the floor… so does it make you uneasy, knowing I haven’t had sex.”
“No, but your bluntness does.” He rubs his eyes with his hands to conceal whatever look is crossing his face. “I… I just don’t get how.” He lowers his hands to his lap, “How you…” His eyes skim up my body, lingering on my legs and then on my see-through shirt. “How you could be one?”
“A virgin.” The word itself seems to make him uneasy, which only makes me want to say it more. “Why don’t you get how? Not everyone wants to have sex.”
“Yeah, but…” He trails off assessing me with his intense brown eyes and now I’m the one that has to work to not fidget. “You dress the way you dress and act the way you act… you fool around with guys… it doesn’t make sense.”
“I dress the way that I want to,” I tell him, tucking my hands under my legs to try to hold still. “And I act how I need to, but I don’t get why that would make you think I’m a slut… Is it because of Callie? I think she might have thought I was a whore or something.”
“Why would she think that?”
I shrug. “Probably for the same reasons you think I am.”
“I didn’t think you were a slut,” he insists. “I just thought…” His eyes enlarge and then he clears his throat. “Anyway, so if I can’t drink or get laid tonight, then what else is there to do?”
“You can do whatever you want.” I put my hands on my lap. “I just said that I don’t drink or get laid.”
He seeks the bottle again and tips his head back, pouring the last few drops down his throat. He gets up and tosses the bottle into the trash by the foot of the bed. I bite my lip watching his muscles ripple like they did when he was fighting with Preston.
“We could play cards,” he suggests, opening the closet door. He bends down to pick a shirt up from off the floor and the towel slides lower and lower on his hips. I’m not sure if I’m so much as fascinated with his body as how my body is reacting to the sight of him. Invigorated. Excited. I’ve never been excited over a guy before. I’ve either been disinterested or afraid. With people in general.
Regardless, I want to feel it more, let it shower over me. “Cards?”
He has a tattoo on his shoulder blade, a dragon. I touch the back of my neck where my own dragon tattoo is as he stands back up and turns around with a deck of cards in his hand. “But the deal is that we can’t play for money.”
“Good, because I don’t have enough to play with,” I say, still assessing his body, but more discreetly.
“Neither do I.” He sits down on the bed with his legs over the edge, so he’s not flashing me, and puts the cards on his lap. “However, I never just play Texas Hold ’Em for nothing.”
“Why not?”
He clears his throat. “Because it was how I was taught to play.”
“By who?” I was taught to play by someone, too, and for money. A couple I lived with for about six months used to throw these Texas Hold ’Em parties and I would sit beside the table while Mr. Stronton explained the rules to me. I got pretty good at it too, but it’s been a while since I played.
He cuts the deck in half and shuffles them. “By my dad.” The way he says it, his voice stressed, makes me speculate if something happened to his dad.
“Where’s your dad now?” I rise to my feet, adjusting my skirt.
He aligns the cards on the bed, looking up at me. “He lives in California.”
I cross the room to the bed he’s sitting on, the navy blue sheet balling up beneath me as I sit down and get comfortable. “Then why don’t you just go live with him?”
He grips the shuffled deck of cards in his hand. “It’s complicated.”
“What about your mom?” I ask.
“Even more complicated.” His knuckles whiten as he tightens his hold on the cards. “What about your parents? What happened to them?”
“They left me on the doorstep of the neighbors when I was six months old,” I lie breezily. I’ve been doing it for years, making up elaborate stories to avoid the painful truth of what happened when strangers ask me. “I guess they didn’t want me or something.”
He cuts the deck evenly in half. “Is that the truth? Or are you making up a story?”
“Why would I make up a story about that?” I ask innocently, tucking my leg underneath me. Again his eyes go to my legs, gradually drifting up to my thighs.
He studies me unnervingly as heat caresses my skin and coils in my stomach. “To avoid the real truth.”
“So are we going to play Texas Hold ’Em or what?” I aim to change the subject.
“Yeah… but there’s a stipulation,” he says. “For every hand you lose you have to tell me one thing that’s true about you.”
“I don’t like that rule,” I tell him. “And I don’t like telling the truth.”
“Why? Are you afraid you’ll lose?” he challenges me with haughtiness.
“I’m not afraid of anything.”
“That can’t be true. Everyone’s afraid of something.”
“Fine,” I give in. “But if you lose, then you have to tell me something true about you—and something good.”
He fans the edge of the cards with his finger, like he’s counting the cards. “What if I don’t have anything good to share?”
“I’ll be the judge.” I stick out my hand toward him. “Now give me the cards so I can deal. I’m dealer.”
He turns his hand over with the deck in them. “I usually like to deal.” He puts the cards in my hand, sighing, like he’s surrendering something very valuable.
I wrap my fingers around the deck. “Do you play a lot?”
“Occasionally when I need money.”
I shuffle the deck, even though he already has. I was taught never to trust anyone else when it comes to playing cards. I toss the top one to the side and deal.
I lift my cards up and peek under them. “If we were playing strip poker, you’d lose after one hand since you’re only wearing a towel.”
He picks up his cards, pressing back a smile. “Yeah, but I won’t lose.”
“That’s awfully arrogant of you.” I flip over three cards on the bed, lining them up between us.
His mouth gradually expands to this know-it-all smile. “I know.”
I turn over my cards and he gives me this strange look. “There’s no point in hiding what we have since we’re not actually raising the stakes.”
He smiles. “I’m keeping mine hidden, so go ahead and deal another.”
I do what he says and the next card I deal is an ace. I have one, but I don’t get excited just yet. Even though the odds are in my favor, doesn’t mean they’ll end up that way. First rule of cards. And of life.
Luke’s expression is a mixture of inquisitiveness and boredom, which makes no sense since the two don’t really go together. “Deal the last card,” he says.
I turn it over and lay it down. None of the cards are suits and there’s nothing close to a flush or run. I have a good chance of winning or at least tying if he’s lucky enough to have an ace.
“What are you smiling about?” Luke wonders, rearranging his cards. “Maybe I have an ace, too.”
“I didn’t know I was smiling,” I say, biting my lip to stop. “What do you got?”
He places his cards down and my elation instantly sinks. “What can I say?” He rubs his jawline thoughtfully. “I must be lucky.”
I scrunch my nose at his cards. “How is it even possible for you to get pocket aces?”
“Any hand’s possible.” He relaxes back on the mattress on his elbows and the towel slips open just enough that I can see his thighs. “Now I get to ask a question.”
“Go head.” It doesn’t mean I’ll tell the truth. “Ask away.”
His legs spread apart a little and I swear I can see his balls. “Tell me why you jumped out the window that night.”
I don’t miss a beat. “I was tripping on acid and I wanted to see if I could fly.”
He rolls his eyes. “I’ve seen people tripping on acid before and you definitely weren’t.” He tosses his cards aside and overlaps his hands on his lap. “Come on, Violet. Tell me the truth.”
I frown. “I really don’t want to.”
“Well, you have to. It’s part of the game.”
I waver, biting my fingernails. He’s taking all the fun out of the moment and replacing it with pressure. “Would you believe me if I told you I was trying to fly?”
“Were you?” His body goes rigid. “Were you trying… Did you do it on purpose?”
I drop my hand to my lap. “You think I’m suicidal?”
“I don’t know what to think,” he says, swallowing hard. “That’s why I’m asking you.” His voice comes out off pitch, troubling, and I wonder why.
“I’m not. I promise.” I pause, trying to shake the emerging feelings out of my body. “What about you? Why were you looking for a fight that night?”
He shakes his head. “You haven’t won a hand yet, so I don’t have to answer.”
I lower my gaze to his cards on the bed. “How the hell did you end up with two aces?”
“I guess I’m just lucky.”
“Luck doesn’t exist.”
We stare at each other stubbornly and then reluctantly I give up, which might be a first for me. But I’m still determined to win the next hand and get an answer from him to level the playing field.
“I was running from a couple of guys,” I say as I collect the cards from the bed. I can’t believe I just gave in to him like that. “That’s why I jumped out the window.”
“Why were you running from them?” He hands me his discarded cards and I add them to the top of the deck.
“No way.” I scoot the cards across the bed toward him. “That would be two questions and you only won one.”
He picks up the cards with a smirk on his face. “That’s okay. I’ll just ask you after I win the next hand.” He shuffles the deck and deals out the cards, looking so pleased with himself.
I end up losing that next hand and he asks me the same question I refused to answer earlier, and then waits patiently for me to respond.
“I did something,” I answer, annoyed. How the hell did he win that hand? It’s bullshit. First two aces, then two queens.
“What kind of something?” He has the deck of cards in his hand and is fanning them with his thumb.
“I screwed someone over.”
“That’s still not really an answer.”
“Well, it’s the best I can give you,” I say, but he just keeps staring at me, fanning the cards, over and over again, his sexy brown eyes weaseling their way under my skin. “Fine.” I give in for some crazy reason, the bliss I felt earlier slipping farther and farther away and I know that soon I’m going to have to do something about it. “I screwed them over during a deal a month or so ago.”
He processes what I said and then sits up, chucking the cards aside. “Wait? ‘Deal’ as in drugs?”
I shrug with my hands out to my side. “Are you really that surprised?”
His eyes scroll up and down me. “Yeah… I don’t know.” He scratches his head. “Why do you do it?”
“Because it’s a job,” I tell him. “I also work as a waitress because I hate being in debt and school has made me get in debt a lot.”
“But you could go to jail. Or worse stuff could happen.” He swallows hard. “Drugs are dangerous, Violet.”
“So.”
“Doesn’t it bother you? What could happen to you?”
“Not really. Life is just life, whether I’m living in the streets, behind bars, or in a dorm.”
He frowns at me. “I had a friend that went to jail once and things weren’t great for him for a while.”
“Things are never great for me.” It slips out and the shocked look on his face makes me want to take it back. “It doesn’t really matter anyway,” I hurry and say, hoping to distract him. “I don’t have a supplier anymore so I won’t be dealing for a while.” I swallow hard at the truth.
He frees a breath, his solid, tattooed chest puffing out. “Where do you get the drugs?”
I hold up two fingers. “That’s two questions and again I only owe you one.”
Shaking his head, he grabs the cards and quickly deals another hand. He wins again and my suspicion rises because he has an ace and a queen and the probability of him getting such good cards three times in a row is unlikely.
“I’m not so sure these are legitimate wins,” I state, putting my cards on top of the deck. It’s not that I’m pissed, which is strange. I’m more intrigued than anything because usually I’m the one screwing someone over, but if he is cheating—if he’s fucked me over—that’d be a first in a long, long time. “I think you might be cheating, Mr. Stoically Aloof.”
“Prove it then.” His lips quirk. “Now, for my next question. Where do you get the drugs?”
“From a panda bear,” I say the first thing that pops into my head, not ready to fully accept he’s won this hand.
His forehead creases and then he chuckles under his breath. “Oh my fucking God, you are seriously the strangest person I’ve ever met.”
“Thanks.” I shake my head and shuffle the cards on the mattress in front of me.
He puts his hand over mine, stopping me from shuffling. “No way. You still need to answer my question.”
“What? ‘Panda bear’ wasn’t a good enough answer for you?”
“Where do you get the drugs from?” He withdraws his hand from mine.
I align the cards evenly against the mattress. “From the guy you beat up today.”
His lips part in shock. “How do you even know him?”
“He’s my foster parent, or was from the time I was fifteen to eighteen.”
“Your foster parent?” He gapes at me. “Are you fucking serious?”
“What do you think?” I remain as composed as I can, making him work to see if I’m telling the truth.
He firmly maintains my gaze. “I think you are.”
“Okay then. You have your answer.”
“Okay then.” He repeats my words, his face contorting with perplexity as he takes the deck from me. “Next hand.”
This time I watch him carefully, calculating every one of his movements. Everything seems flawless, until I go to pick up my dealt cards. I notice him shift his weight forward and scratch his leg. I swear to God it looks like he takes something out from underneath his ass.
“Wait a minute.” I raise a finger, setting my cards down as I lean forward. “Did you just take a card out from under your ass?”
“Now why would I do that?” He lifts the two cards he has as he presses his hand innocently to his chest. “Besides, where would I put the other cards I dealt?”
“How the hell should I know,” I say. “Maybe up your ass.”
He blinks at me, unimpressed and I get to my feet. Without any warning I push on his arm so I can look under his ass. He busts up laughing again and I make a mental note that I’ve involuntarily managed to get him to laugh twice in the last few minutes. I don’t know what it means, other than I must be on some comedian trip and he finds me amusing when no one really has before.
As he tips to the side, and lets me look under his ass, I get a peek of his ass as the towel slouches lower on his hip and smell the scent of booze on his breath.
There’s a card hidden under him, just like I thought and I snatch it up and hold it between my fingers. “You were cheating the whole time, weren’t you?”
He grabs the card away from me, a trace of a smile at his lips. “I always cheat at cards. It was how I was taught to play.”
“So you knew I’d lose every hand and you’d get to ask the questions.” I sink down on the bed, crossing my legs, unsure what to make of this. No one’s ever played me like that. “I’m not sure whether to be pissed off or impressed.”
“I’d go with the latter,” he tells me, his smile growing and reaching his eyes.
“I could do that…” What the hell is my problem? I should be getting upset with him. He played me. And I kind of like it, in a weird, playful way. “But I only think it’s fair that you answer some of my questions.”
“Why’s that fair?” he asks, tightening the loosened towel on his waist. “I should get to ask more questions for being clever enough to trick you, which I’m guessing doesn’t happen that often. I’m guessing you’re usually on the giving end instead of the receiving.”
“I get to ask you three questions,” I say, cutting him off. “And the first one I want to know is why don’t you have anywhere to live?”
He’s unenthusiastic about my question. “That’s really what you’re choosing to ask?” he asks and I nod. “Fine, but it’s nothing interesting like dealing drugs.” He blows out a loud breath, leaning back down on the bed, propping sideways on his hip. “I do have a place to live, but it means going back to live with my mom in my hometown and I don’t want to do that.”
“Why not?” I ask. “You don’t like your mom?”
“Not really.” He lifts up two fingers. “That’s two questions, for the record. You only get one more.” His voice quivers and so do his fingers. I feel bad for him because I can tell there’s more to it then what he says. As much as I loved my mother, I know from my time in foster care that not all mothers are sweet and loving like mine was. Mine would read me stories, sing with me. She even taught me how to play the piano, but there are some who don’t like children, who hurt them, not just physically, but emotionally, both of which I’ve experienced.
I thrum my fingers on top of my leg, thinking how far I want to delve into his head and my own. “Why don’t you just rent a place here?”
It wasn’t the question he was expecting and he’s startled by the easiness of it. “Because I have about two hundred bucks to my name.”
“Me, too.” I lean back against the headboard and kick my feet up on the bed. “How coincidental is that?”
