Jillian and I engaged in a silent battle, one where she pushed in every passive-aggressive way she could, campaigning with all her strength against the relationship that Brant and I were forming. A battle without words, but through the man she loved and I had fallen for.
I walked into the next roadblock on a Tuesday morning, my day dedicated to HYA. Pulling through the gates, I was greeted by a shiny new male specimen, complete with a genuine six-pack, blinding white smile, and rugged good looks that a Hilfiger model scout would trip over herself to snag. He jogged across the grass, lines of dirt smeared across the ripped muscles of his chest, a trio of kids tailing him, their arms fighting for the football he carried. I watched him run toward me and wondered who he was and what he was doing inside the sanctuary that was this property.
Employees and volunteers at HYA were carefully vetted. Background checks, drug tests, and references were required. We’d had the same staff, give or take, for the six years I’d been involved. A new face wasn’t often seen. I watched him, his head coming up as my convertible came to a halt, his hand raised in greeting.
I put the car in park, my mouth curving at the view of the kids, detaching from the stranger to run toward my car. Opening the door, I was accosted with hugs, greedy hands pulling at my clothes, and one helpful boy closing my door with solemn responsibility.
“Thanks Lucas.” I wrapped a casual arm around his shoulders and hugged him briefly.
“They like you.” The stranger stood before me, legs slightly parted, the football jumping a lazy trip between his two hands.
“They like everyone.” I smiled, extending a hand. “Layana Fairmont.”
“Billy,” he said, giving my hand a firm shake, then holding the grip a bit longer than necessary.
I pulled at my hand, turning to the children to disguise the motion. Reaching out, I snagged the closest body and pulled her to me, tickling the little girl briefly before turning toward the main house and sprinting forward. “Race you guys to HQ!”
My tennis shoes hit the damp grass, the squeal of voices behind me causing me to increase my speed. I glanced over my shoulder, seeing the new guy—Billy—staying close behind me, his eyes leaving my legs to come up to my face, a flirtatious grin shot at me.
I ignored the look, turning back and focusing on the hill before me, my legs pumping up the embankment as I slowed my stride a bit to give the kids a fighting chance. Reggie, a seventh-grader who’d come to us three years ago, his arms already covered with gang ink, passed me, his long legs eating up the distance. I let him go, casting a quick glance around me to find the other kids. I slowed a little more, then let out a yell of mock frustration when the race ended.
I bent over, breathing dramatically, my back patted consolingly by Hannah, my personal favorite at the HYA compound. I turned to smile at her, my eyes catching on Billy, who watched me closely, an interested grin on his face. I looked away.
“How long have you been a volunteer here?” The question came from the other end of the main house’s kitchen. I didn’t stop my PB&J production, didn’t turn, knew the source of it without looking, the manly drawl a dead giveaway.
“Five or six years. I’m only here twice a week.” I unscrewed the lid to the jelly, avoided looking at the man who I was pretty sure just moved closer.
“I’m new.” Duh. “Just a volunteer.”
“How’d you find out about HYA?”
“Who?”
I paused my jelly application. Glanced over to see the man’s eyes darting around. “HYA… Homeless Youths of America…” Something was wrong with this picture, and I tried to pinpoint it. The man was nervous.
“Oh.” He let out a short laugh. “Umm… I think I read about it online.”
Nope. We were a privately funded organization, ran by donations. We stayed, for the most part, fairly discreet.
“Who was your referral?” I had abandoned the sandwiches, had set down the knife and was leaning against the counter, any attempt to avoid staring at his abs somewhat successful.
“My referral?” Fascinated, I watched the points of sweat dot his forehead and wondered what the hell this man was hiding.
“New volunteers require a personal referral from someone inside the organization.” I crossed my arms and watched his face.
His eyes darted like ping-pong balls. I knew he’d had a referral. Had to have. Wouldn’t have gotten in the gates, wouldn’t have the official nametag, which his shirtless self had stuck to the front of his workout shorts.