A stalker and blackmailer who is checking my math homework. My brain is slowly separating into tiny pieces and it’s going to be a very short trip to become a resident in the land of gone crazy.
But my mom? My mom’s happy. It’s Wednesday evening and the cramped kitchen is full of hungry men in black leather Reign of Terror vests and too-loud conversations. They were all drawn in by the scent of freshly baked bread and lasagna. I’ve got to admit, Mom makes a mean lasagna and she bakes bread you sort of think was created in heaven.
“No one can have any more lasagna until Chevy gets in here and makes his plate,” Mom announces like everyone in the room is her child.
I’ve eaten more than my fair share tonight, yet I’m considering the corner piece of lasagna with the burnt edges. Those are my favorite and I think I might still have room in my stomach for more. But with the way Pigpen’s eyes are flickering between that piece and me, I might have to stab him in the hand with a fork to get it.
“It’s mine,” he whispers. “Go for it and you’re going down.”
Despite my best intentions, I smile and his eyes shine with the win.
Cyrus walks into the kitchen from the back door and at the same time Chevy comes in from the hallway. His hair is dark and damp from a shower and his T-shirt clings a little too tight. Butterflies race in my stomach at the anticipation of waiting for his eyes to meet mine.
But Chevy doesn’t look at me—he watches Cyrus and the butterflies give way as I frown. Cyrus isn’t doing anything unusual. He washes his hands at the sink, makes a few comments here and there to the guys, but Chevy is seeing something else, something no one else sees.
Finally, he does tear his eyes away from Cyrus to me and he smiles. That pirate one, the gorgeous one, the dimpled one, the one that makes me very aware he has something up his sleeve. He eases into the chair beside me, holds out his empty palm, fists it, then magically produces a coin. Within seconds, he’s rolling it over his knuckles in a movement I’ve never been able to mimic.
Chevy’s not the only one who can read people. I’ve known him for too long. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.”
“I can read you better than you think.”
“Really?” His eyes wander along my body and I turn pink. “What am I saying now?”
I reach out to steal the coin, but it falls into his palm, and when he reopens it, the coin’s gone. He waves his fingers as he waggles his eyebrows. Yeah, he’s hiding something and it’s not the coin.
Pigpen passes the pan of lasagna in Chevy’s direction and he takes two squares for himself, then deposits the corner piece on my plate. I smirk at Pigpen and he scowls back at me.
The moment Chevy has enough salad and bread on an additional plate to feed a developing nation, the locusts descend and take the rest of the food. Mom stays by the sink and has this pride and satisfaction on her face that I once again find myself envious over.
“Maybe you should have been a cook,” I say, and the guys quiet down. I talk now, but not a ton.
Mom blinks several times. “Are you talking to me?”
I nod with lasagna in my mouth, then swallow the Italian goodness. “Maybe you should have been a cook in a fancy restaurant. Your food is that good. Did you ever think about it? Cooking school?”
Mom seems surprised by the compliment and accepts it with a good-natured grin. “I don’t need a restaurant when I have all these growing boys.”
Rumbles of male laughter and my own glow dies. Mom notices and her smile wanes. Why can’t anything just be about her? Why does it always have to involve the Terror?
“I stopped by your practice today,” Cyrus says, and Chevy, who had been absorbed in his food, lowers his fork. “Why was Ray running your routes?”
The air catches in my throat and my head turns to Chevy. In fact, every conversation ceases and all eyes are on him. Chevy mixes his salad around his plate, then uses his bread to push the lettuce onto his fork. “I’m benched.”
He shoves the food into his mouth as Cyrus stares at him like he announced he has leprosy. “Why? For this week? Because you missed practice last week?”
A shrug and a drink of water. “Indefinitely.”
“What happened?”
Chevy finishes chewing, then tosses his fork onto his plate of half-eaten food. “I was kidnapped.”
“And?”
“The school board has decided since I was kidnapped, then I must be involved in gang activity. Until it’s proven otherwise, I’m benched.”
My heart stops, and I reach out and touch Chevy’s shoulder. Football is his life. It’s his release. It’s his everything.
Guys are cursing, saying words full of malice, but all I can do is focus on Chevy, wishing he’d look in my direction, but he’s locked in a stare with Cyrus. Neither of them speak, don’t even blink.
Cyrus breaks first and scoops lasagna onto his fork. “I’ll talk to your coach. Get this cleared up.”
Chevy pushes away from the table and my hand falls from his body. “Coach said he’ll get it cleared up. No need for you to get involved.”
“No way. You’re family and we take care of our problems.”
“Coach specifically told me he doesn’t want you involved. He said you talking to the school’s administration, the board, will only hurt my case, not help.”
Cyrus goes red and his fork clanks against the table when he throws it down. “You’re my family and we will take care of it as we see fit. The Terror will stand behind you.”
“Not on this. Let Coach handle this.”
“We know how to handle the school board. We know how to talk to them to get them to understand.”
“No!” Chevy snaps, and I shake with his voice. He never raises his voice. Not like this. Chevy doesn’t lose control. “The football team—it isn’t your world. It’s my world. It’s completely separate from you, from the Terror, from this house. You don’t get a vote on this. If I say Coach is going to take care of it, he takes care of it.”
Cyrus shakes his head, opens his mouth like he’s going to argue, but Chevy mutters, “Fuck it,” snatches his jacket off the back of a chair and goes for the back door. It creaks open, then slams shut.
When Cyrus goes to stand, I smack my good leg against the table, rattling everyone’s plates, as I struggle to get to my feet first. “Let me.”
I fumble with my crutches in haste as Chevy can move faster than me when I have two working legs. The men maneuver out of my way, and Man O’ War opens the door for me. I’m out, frantically scan for Chevy, and he’s already halfway across the yard, moving toward his bike.
“Chevy!”
He turns, and when he sees me, he stops. I’m hobbling as fast as I can, the crutches digging into my arms. As if he realized I wasn’t a dream, Chevy stalks in my direction, and when he comes close enough, I let go of the crutches and fall into him, knowing he’ll catch me. My head to his shoulder, squeezing him as tight as I can. “I’m sorry.”
Chevy hugs me back, in a bear sort of way, his body encompassing mine, his arms steel bands, his nose nuzzling into my hair as if he can’t find a way to get close enough.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper again. “I’m so sorry.”