“He dropped me off, and I was getting ready for you to pick me up when . . .” She slams her head against the wall. “Fuck!”
My pulse is raging in my ears. “Tell me!”
She shakes her head. “I don’t want to.”
“Someone was here, fucked up all your shit, and you’re protecting them?”
“Not protecting them. I’m protecting me.”
I rub my forehead, praying for patience. “Who was here, Eve.”
“No—”
“Yvette!”
Her head whips around to face me. “My dad, okay? Happy now?” She motions to the kitchen with a firm flip of her wrist. “He showed up and cleaned me out, including my emergency stash.”
“Say again?”
She shakes her head. “Please, don’t make me. Like I’m not humiliated enough.”
“You’re tellin’ me”—my voice vibrates with the force of my anger—“your Dad busted in and robbed you.”
“Ha.” She smiles, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. “When you say it like that . . .”
I rein in my temper. Blowing up in her face and punching holes in the walls isn’t going to help anyone. With a deep breath, I stand and hold out my hands. She stares at them for a few silent seconds before placing hers in mine. I pull her to her feet, and she rushes straight into my chest, catching me off guard when both her arms circle my waist.
I hold my arms out and fight off the immediate discomfort of being hugged like this. Slowly, I lower one arm to her back followed by the other, which only tightens her grip.
Fighting I know. Drive and determination as well. But comforting another person is . . . I take a deep breath and she melts into me further. Huh, not good, but maybe not too bad either.
“Get your shit. We’ll talk in the car.”
She tilts her head back to look in my eyes. “Do we have to?”
“I’m assuming this isn’t the first time this shit’s happened.”
Her chin dips, which is all the confirmation I need.
“Definitely talkin’. Now go on. I wanna get the hell out of here before I do something I regret.”
With slumped shoulders, she drags herself to her bedroom and comes back out with a backpack slung over her shoulder.
“That it?”
She nods, and we lock up and head to my place. We’re barely out of the driveway.
“Start talking.”
She takes a long breath and slumps deeper into her seat to prop bare feet on my dashboard. The length of her cotton dress pools around her thighs to expose her legs, and I’m dying to slide my palm from ankle to thigh.
“My dad is a drunk, and he’s addicted to gambling. He’s destroyed every relationship he’s ever had and feels like, since we share DNA, I should fund his habits. End of story.” Her gaze slides to the side window.
“He show up like this often?”
She shakes her head and her chin drops.
My gut burns with frustration. “In one night, you’ve met my son and my ex. I’ve got my shit out flappin’ in the breeze. It’d make me feel like less of an ass if you do the same.”
Her eyes move to the front windshield. “It’s not the same thing.”
“The hell it’s not.”
With a long sigh, she drops her head back to the seat. “I’ve been giving him money since high school. It started when he got so in debt he was homeless, living on the streets and begging for change.” She shakes her head. “Funny thing is I gave him money back then because I was embarrassed. I didn’t really care if he had to dig in garbage for food, but the thought that someone I know might see him or find out I was the daughter of a homeless man . . .”
“So you kicked him a few bucks here and there?”
“Something like that.”
“Eve.”
“I opened a checking account for him and deposited half of my paychecks.”
“That’s a hell of a lot more than helping him out, Eve. That’s supporting him.”
“Not back then. I didn’t make that much.” She pulls her hair over her shoulder and picks at the ends. “But now, yeah.”
I can’t believe she’s giving him the money she earns so he can blow it. Now all those unpaid bills make sense.
My hands grip the steering wheel. “So what was tonight about?”
“He spends what I give him too fast, and when he doesn’t win at the tables, he comes looking for more.”
“Why did you let him in?”
She shakes her head, opens her mouth to say something, but doesn’t and slams it shut. “Why do you care, Cameron? I mean . . . can’t we just hang out without sharing our life history with each other?”
What? That’s my line. I concentrate on the reflective paint lines on the freeway in front of me. Why the fuck do I care? She’s a grown woman. Who she gives her money to isn’t my concern. And yet, why do I feel as though it is?
“You’re a woman. A dude shows up to rough you up in your house, rob you. Any man who’s worth his salt would ask questions. Simple as that.” That’s such bullshit and I know it.
“You’re a good man. But trust me. I’ve handled my dad on my own for as long as I can remember. I’m okay.”