“Okay,” I agreed quietly then hesitantly asked, “So, um… what is the way to go about doing that?”
“I don’t know. Seein’ him, that is not a kid who’s escaped an abusive home. Or it’s not the only shit in his life. He’s terrified, of what, I have no clue. But whatever it is, it’s huge or at least it is in his head. We have to find some way to establish trust so he’ll let us approach or he’ll come forward.”
“Food,” I said instantly and his head jerked.
“What?”
“Food. I’ll put out food. And… and… a coat!” I cried. “He needs a coat. I’ll go buy him one. I’ll put it out by the dumpster.”
“Honey, he’s not goin’ back to that dumpster. Not again. Not ever.”
“Oh,” I whispered as my mind raced and I came up with another idea. “At the library. By the return bin. He returns his books. He hasn’t been back in a week because, well, I chased him last time and he hasn’t returned any books either. But he will. He always does. I’ll put food and a coat out by the bin. And… and… more books. I’ll find ones like he likes to take and I’ll put them out there. With a note telling him he can find what he needs there and if he needs anything he’s not finding, to leave a return note and it’ll be left for him.”
I watched Chace jerk up his chin before he said, “That’s a good idea.”
I grinned at him and said, “Thanks.”
His eyes dropped to my mouth, it seemed strangely that his body went still then his eyes came back to mine and he asked instantly, “Why were you crying?”
I felt my grin die and I took a step back, murmuring, “Chace –”
“Why were you crying?” he repeated.
I took another step back saying, “I don’t think –”
My heart started to beat harder when he took a step toward me and he asked again, “Why were you crying, Faye?”
I started actively retreating as Chace started actively advancing and I said, “I think I told you that’s none of your business.”
“Faye, why were you crying?”
I hit the foot stand of my bed and was forced to stop.
Chace didn’t stop until he was toe to toe with me, neck bent, eyes locked to mine.
“I’ll ask one more time, honey,” he said gently. “Why were you crying?”
I felt it prudent, considering his proximity, to answer.
So I did.
“I was listening to a song that made me cry.”
His brows went up. “A song that made you cry, leave your house in the dead of night and walk to the elementary school playground?”
To this, I offered lamely, “It’s a good song.”
His eyes moved over my face as his lips whispered, “It’s a good song.”
I held my breath unsure what was happening but I was sure what was happening to my heartbeat. It was escalating. And my skin, it was tingling. And my blood, it was firing.
I stopped holding my breath and pulled in a needed one.
Then I straightened my shoulders and said quietly, “I’m home safe now, Chace. You can go.”
His eyes came back to mine and he didn’t go.
Instead, he asked, “What song was it?”
No way in heck I was sharing that.
“Dobie Gray’s, ‘Drift Away’.”
There it was again. Another fraking lie!
His eyes lit and his mouth twitched before he asked, “The song that moved you to tears and drove you into the cold night was a song about a man who gets through by listening to rock ‘n’ roll?”
I was realizing I really needed to pay more attention to lyrics when I answered with another lie, “Yes.” Then to add validity to something that was nowhere near valid, I added, “My favorite part is when he sings while people clap.”
And right then, in my apartment, I watched Chace Keaton throw back his handsome head and burst out laughing.
Seeing it, hearing the deep richness of it, my hands went behind me and curled into the iron of my foot stand so they could assist my legs in keeping me standing.
I was prepared to ask him to leave when he stopped laughing (not that I wanted him to stop laughing, ever) but he got there before me by tipping his eyes back to mine and ordering through his laughter, “Put it on.”
I blinked and my chest seized.
Therefore I had to force out my, “What?”
His eyes scanned my apartment, spied my stereo then came back to me.
He tilted his head to my stereo and repeated, “Put it on.”
“Put what on?” I asked stupidly.
“‘Drift Away’.”
Oh God!
“Um… I’m kind of tired,” I informed him.
“Faye, honey, you just ran through a very cold night chasing an abused, terrified kid. You’re not tired.”
There it was, him reading me again.
“Um…”
“But I bet that song will help you relax and unwind.”
He was right. It would. It was on my unwind playlist for that very purpose.
“Uh…”
“Put it on.”
“Chace, I don’t –”