Very Wicked Things

Finally, we pulled up in my driveway, and his headlights showed Beckham House, a run-down brick building with beige trim that needed painting and mildew that grew around the roof. A wonky-looking metal fence framed the property.

“This where you live?”

“It’s temporary until my mansion and beach house are finished.”

He smirked at my snippiness, and the familiarity of it smacked me in the face.

I made a decision.

I turned the car off and took a big gulp, needing to know the answer to a question that had been burning in my head for a while. Since today was what it was, it seemed like the perfect opportunity. And we might not even be speaking tomorrow. “Do—do you blame me for your mother?”

His whitened face reared back. “You don’t quit with the questions, do you? First class and now this?”

“Not a quitter,” I agreed.

He groaned and rubbed his hands through his hair, making it stick up.

“Just tell me,” I said, my voice thin and reedy, taking up all the air in the car. “I can take it. It would explain—”

He held his hand up. “Just stop. Don’t ask me questions I don’t want to answer.”

“That’s not fair,” I said.

He shook his head. “Life isn’t fair. Even for a kid from Highland Park who seems to have it all but doesn’t.”

My heart dipped at the melancholy I heard in his voice, but I pushed it aside when the Mercedes pulled into a spot just across from us. “You know that car?”

He squinted at the vehicle. “No. Why?”

“They were behind us most of the way here. Probably nothing,” I murmured.

We got out of the car, and he said, “You go on in. I’ll go see who they are.”

“Only if you want to be shot,” I said, shrugging like I didn’t care. Playing it cool, having a panic attack inside.

“Shot?” he stiffened, peering at the car. It sat idling, the windows blacked out with tint. Whoever was in there, they wanted to remain anonymous. Was it Barinsky’s men?

“Don’t stare at them, Cuba.” Please. I turned toward the porch.

“Do you know who’s in the car?” he asked, his head going back and forth between me and the vehicle.

Maybe. “It’s a bad neighborhood. Maybe a drug dealer or a pimp. We don’t bother them, they don’t bother us. It’s a rule.”

He stepped out on to the street. “Fuck rules. You’re acting weird, so I’m going over there.”

“No need to be a bad-ass,” I snapped and without thinking grabbed his bicep. He came to an abrupt halt, and I should have let his arm go, but I just couldn’t. My fingers remained, lingering.

Because he felt hard and muscled—and divine.

No. I snapped my hand back and tucked it inside my skirt pocket.

I cleared my throat. “Look, there’s a liquor store on the corner and a naughty book store across the street. Cars park here frequently. It’s nothing. Please, let’s go inside. It’s been a long day, and I just want a cup of tea.”

And I wanted us off the streets.

He eyed me carefully for a moment but seemed to believe me.

“Tea, huh?” he said, following me up the steps from the street and onto the cracked sidewalk.

“Yep, Heather-Lynn makes the best tea. And Sarah needs the routine, so we do the same thing every afternoon…” I tapered off, telling too much. He didn’t want to know about my problems, and I didn’t want his pity.

“Who’s Heather-Lynn?” he asked.

“A friend,” I said, seeing Heather-Lynn’s face at the window. She ate this stuff up, so I stopped on the sidewalk and prepared for a grand entrance. And sure enough, the front door banged loudly as she barged out the double front door, her age softened by the glow of the porch light. She barreled down the step, smoking a cigarette, decked out in a pink, quilted housecoat and kitten heels. Thank goodness the negligee from this morning was nowhere in sight.

She carried her dog in her arms. I assumed Sarah was still sleeping, because most days she’d come out to greet me too.

When I looked over at Cuba to gauge his reaction, he already had a slow-rising grin on his face, and I shook my head. Did his affinity with females extend to all age groups?

“That is Heather-Lynn. She likes to salsa, was in a movie once, and loves to flirt.” My face softened. “She’s been Sarah’s friend—and mine—for years. The dog’s name is Ricky, also her ex-husband’s name.” He’d left her years ago for a cashier girl at Target.

Her heels slapped against the cracked concrete. “Dovey Katerina Beckham…” She halted and squinted, a mist of cigarette smoke following her. Completely pretending she hadn’t seen Cuba with me from the house. She ran her eyes over him, lingering longer than was appropriate on his crotch.

“Hello, Heather-Lynn,” Cuba murmured, charm oozing off of him.

“Why who are you?” she drawled in her slow Tennessee accent. I could listen to it all day, mostly because her voice brought up visions of fried chicken and potato salad.

“Are you Dovey’s new man?” she asked him.

“No,” I answered quickly, not missing that Cuba had gone rigid. Did the thought of us as a couple disturb him? “This is Cuba, a student from BA,” I said.

She looked surprised—yeah, she knew the whole story—but covered it up with a smile. “Odd name, I must say. It’s a country and not a good one. But you’re handsome enough, I suppose. Great body.” She cocked her hip, striking a pose. “Yeah, you’ll do.”