“You just met him.”
“Not now. Friday night. He hit on me and he stared at my ass while he did it.”
Joy. Utter joy. Okay, not utter, but the sole joy I’ve had since Friday night. Ryan yanks off his hat, runs his hand through his mess of sandy-blond hair, and shoves the hat back on. I like him better with his hat off.
“Is this true?” Scott asks.
“Yes,” stutters Ryan. “No. I mean yes. I
asked for her phone number, but she didn’t give it to me. But I was respectful, I swear.”
“You stared at my ass. A lot.” I turn and lean over a little so I can give a demonstration.
“Remember, there was a rip right along here.” I HC TITLE-AUTHOR
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slide my finger along the back of my leg.
“You bought me tacos afterward. And a drink.
So I’m assuming you must have enjoyed the view.”
I hear muffled male comments and I peek at the crowd of men farther down the sidewalk.
The first genuine smile slips across my face.
Scott’s going to love a show. Maybe if I push hard enough I’ll be home in Louisville by dinner.
“Elisabeth.” Scott drops his voice to trailer-park pissed. “Turn around.”
Twelve different shades of red blotch Ryan’s cheeks. He doesn’t even look at my ass, but at my uncle. “Okay…yes, I asked her out.”
Scott does a double take. “You asked her
out?”
Hey now. Why’s he surprised? I’m not a
dog.
“Yes,” says Ryan.
“You wanted to take her on a date?”
Uh-oh. Scott sounds happy. No. I’m not
going for happy.
“Yes.” Ryan holds out his hands. “I
thought…I thought…”
“That I would be easy?” I snap, and Scott HC TITLE-AUTHOR
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winces.
“That she was funny,” Ryan says.
Yeah. I’m sure that’s exactly what he
thought. “More like you thought it would be fun to screw with me. Or just plain screw.”
“Enough,” hisses Scott. His narrowing blue eyes rage at me as I thrust my hands in the stiff pockets of the new jeans. Scott lowers his head and pinches the bridge of his nose before forcing that fake relaxed grin into place. “I apologize for my niece. She’s had a rough weekend.”
I don’t want him to apologize for me to
anyone. Especially not to this arrogant ass. My mouth drops open, but the brief white-trash glance Scott gives me shuts it. Scott becomes Mr. Superficial again. “I understand if you don’t want to help Elisabeth at school.”
Ryan has this blank, way too innocent
expression. “Don’t worry, Mr. Risk. I’d love to help Elisabeth. ” He turns to me and smiles.
This smile isn’t genuine or heartwarming, but cocky as hell. Bring it, jock boy. Your best won’t be good enough.
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Ryan
THE WALLS OF OUR KITCHEN used to be
burgundy. As kids, Mark and I would race
home from the bus stop and when we’d burst into the kitchen we’d be greeted by the aroma of freshly baked cookies. Mom would ask us about our day while we dunked the hot cookies in milk. When Dad came home from work, he’d sweep Mom into his arms and kiss her.
Mom’s laughter in Dad’s arms was as natural as Mark’s and my constant banter.
With an arm still wrapped around her waist, he’d turn to us and say, “How are my boys?”
Like Mark and I didn’t exist without each other.
Thanks to the renovations Dad finished last week, the kitchen walls are gray now. And thanks to my brother’s announcement and my father’s reaction to the announcement this HC TITLE-AUTHOR
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summer, the loudest sound in the kitchen is the clink of knives and forks against china.
“Gwen came to your game,” says Mom. It’s
only the third time she’s mentioned it in the past twenty-four hours.
Yeah, with Mike. “Uh-huh.” I shove a hunk of pot roast into my mouth.
“Her mom said she still talks about you.”
I stop mid-chew and glance at Mom. Proud
for earning a reaction from me, she smiles.
“Leave him alone,” Dad says. “He doesn’t
need a girl distracting him.”
Mom purses her lips and we enter another
five minutes of clinking forks and knives. The silence stings…like frostbite.
Unable to stomach the tension much longer, I clear my throat. “Did Dad tell you we met Scott Risk and his—” psychotic “—niece?”
“No.” My mother stabs at the cherry tomato rolling around in her salad bowl. The moment she spears the small round vegetable, Mom glares at Dad. “He has a niece?”
Dad holds her gaze with irritated
indifference and follows it up with a drink from his longneck.
“I gave you a wineglass,” Mom reminds
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him.
Dad places the longneck, which drips with condensation, next to said glass right on the wood of the table—without a coaster. Mom shifts in her seat like a crow fluffing out its wings. The only thing she’s missing is the pissed-off caw.
For the last few months, Dad and I have
been eating our dinners in the living room while watching TV. Mom gave up food after Mark left.