“I don’t, I take the—”
“You’re not taking the bus. Get in the car, or Leisure Suit Larry is going to be blocked in until you do.”
Burt opens his mouth to say something then closes his mouth as Laura giggles.
Oh come on, is this really necessary?
“Get in,” Quentin says, his voice low and dangerous, but there’s a hint of a grin on his face.
I pull at the strap on my tote bag, frown, and stalk around to the other side to drop into the car.
As soon as I close my door, Quentin throws it in reverse and swerves out of the parking lot and back into the road. He leans back in his seat and drapes one arm over the windowsill, resting the other wrist on the wheel.
“You’re going to get me fired,” I say coldly.
“Nah.”
“Burt doesn’t like people making fun of him.”
“Burt’s a fucking asshole pervert,” Quentin says cheerfully. “Karen said you have a class tonight. You want to go straight there, or should I drop you off at home?”
“What? No, I need to go home and change first.”
“Why?” he says, and flicks the hem of my sleeve. “Weird lime green is your color.”
I pull away from him but, God, I’m blushing like a fourteen-year-old. I cross my arms.
“I can’t go to class like this. I have to dress professionally.”
“Nurse is a profession.”
I sigh and roll my eyes. “First, I’m not a nurse, I’m a receptionist. Second, professionally means business casual.”
“What kind of class is it?”
“I’m trying to finish my bachelor’s degree. I was planning to go to law school before—” I cut myself off.
Not his business.
“Before what?”
“Nothing, it doesn’t matter.”
He snorts. “Suit yourself.”
I glance over at him, and the glance turns into a stare. I can see the outline of a bigger bandage on his thigh along with the ones on his arm and one on his chest.
“What happened to you?”
He blinks at me. “Huh?”
“Your arms and your leg. You’re all bandaged up.”
“I cut myself shaving.”
I give him a hard look but he doesn’t relent, though when he scratches his chin, I think he might be hiding a grin.
“That’s the best you can do?”
He shrugs.
I shrug back and turn away from him, sighing as I stare out the window.
“How long have you been having problems with the boss?”
I stare at my own reflection then look past it to his. He’s not looking at me, exactly, but he keeps glancing at my shoulder. I shift in the seat and sigh.
“He’s always been like that. He’ll fire me eventually if I don’t sleep with him.”
Quentin’s hand grips the wheel until it creaks.
“Then why are you working there?”
“I need a job and that was the only one that I could find. After Russel—”
I stop myself.
“Who’s Russel?”
“Ex-husband.”
“Ah.”
“It’s his house,” I say bitterly. “He fights me tooth and nail on alimony and child support, and with the two of them together it doesn’t cover the mortgage. If I don’t keep Burt appeased—”
“Burt?”
“The dentist.”
“Right.”
“If I don’t keep Burt appeased, I’m out of a job. I’ll lose the house. If I lose the house, Russel will get custody of the kids.”
“Russel. He’s Karen’s dad?”
“Yeah. Karen and Kelly, my youngest. She’s ten.”
“She didn’t mention a sister.”
I clear my throat. “My daughter was in your house?”
“Yard, yeah. Not really ‘in.’ She was poking around the back windows.”
“Did she say why?”
“No, but she asked if I like you.”
I plunge my head into my hands and groan.
“What’s wrong with that?”
“Nothing. You don’t have much experience with girls, do you?”
He gives me a sharp look.
“I mean girl children.”
“No, can’t say I do.”
I roll my eyes. “So you don’t know. Good, we’re almost here.”
I lean back as Quentin waves at the gate guard and rolls into the neighborhood. It’s a quick drive down the two streets, and then he’s pulling into my driveway.
I sit awkwardly as he looks at me.
“We’re here.”
I almost feel like I should invite him in.
Then Karen makes the decision for me. She throws the front door open and shouts, “Mr. Mulqueen!”
Oh for God’s sake.
I palm my face as she shouts, “We made you a pie! Come in!”
Wait, what?
He looks at me. “Should I?”
“I don’t know…”
“Up to you,” he shrugs, “but you do owe me a pie.”
I scowl at him and step out. I say nothing but he follows me up the driveway anyway and to the front door. I step inside and smell…burning.
Dropping my tote bag, I rush into the kitchen and yank open the oven.
The thing inside is round, and it’s in a pie pan. I guess that qualifies it as a pie of some sort. The crust looks overdone and the filling is a brownish glop. I snap on a pair of oven mitts and lift the thing onto the stove top and step back.
“Smells good,” Quentin says, striding into the kitchen.
I turn slowly and look at him.