Chapter Four
The door creaks open and light spills in. “You up?”
I debate faking her out, but she flips on the light.
I force a squint, pushing up on my elbows. “Well, I was trying to sleep.”
My mom’s a tall lady with dirty blonde hair and a weakness for insensible shoes. She falls on the pretty side of average, but years of putting through one disaster after the next have left their mark.
She holds onto the doorjamb as she yanks her purple heels off and shakes her head. “Men are such assholes.”
Oh good, she wants to vent.
“I agree, but could we maybe talk about this tomorrow? I was just about—”
“I have to work in the morning,” she interrupts, shaking her head. “Jen called off, of course. I’m gonna need you to drop off the kids before school.”
I fail to stifle a sigh of annoyance. We’re down to sharing a car, which is a real headache. “Well, in that case I definitely need to get to sleep.”
She rolls her eyes, exaggerating her disappointment. “Fine, I guess girl talk can wait.”
“Goodnight.”
“One last thing. I’m definitely not going to be working Mondays after the next schedule. I was thinking, since now I have set hours Saturday mornings and Mondays off, maybe you could start looking into getting something part-time like we talked about? Save up for another car.”
“Fine,” I say, admittedly a little shortly. “I’ll see if I can find something.”
Apparently, I’m not psyched enough, so she tries to sell me on it. “It would be your car.”
It would be a family car, not mine, but I don’t argue. I can’t even get an hour to myself, let alone a car.
“Brax got suspended from work or he wouldn’t even be able to pick me up tomorrow; we’d be really screwed then.”
“He’s picking you up?” Also, what did she expect from a guy named Brax?
“We’re going out.”
“So I’m babysitting.”
It wasn’t a question, but she answers anyway. “If you don’t mind. We really need to spend some time together.”
I nod, lips pressed firmly together.
“If things keep going the way they have been, we might not need to re-up this lease,” she said, as if it’s a tempting possibility.
Literally the only thing I want to do less than move in with Brax is have this conversation with Vince Morelli hunched on the floor beside my bed.
Since I’m not being cooperative, she huffs and turns off the light. “You’re no fun. Goodnight.”
As soon as she’s gone, I pull the blanket up to cover my face. I consider, just for a moment, how ridiculous my life is. A minute ago, some criminal mobster I go to school with had his hands around my neck, threatening strangulation, and now my mom wants me to find a job with no experience that would be cool with very specific availability—but don’t worry, if things keep going well (despite men apparently being assholes?) we can move in with my new “daddy”—who is seven years older than me.
I feel Vince standing by my bedside, but I don’t remove my cover.
“You know what, if you wanna kill me, go ahead and do it now. At least then I’ll get some sleep.”
The bed sags and creaks and my eyes widen, but he can’t see. I feel him warm against my side, and then he’s tugging my blanket—and then he’s under it with me, turning his head in my direction.
“So, that was your mom, huh?”
“That was her.”
“Don’t like the boyfriend?” he surmises.
“It would be more normal if he dated me—and I get the feeling he’s had that thought a time or two. Cohabitation is not a good idea.”
“You need a new car,” he states.
“I need a new life,” I return.
“You might be in luck. I’ve never met a woman who got entangled with a Morelli and didn’t end up with a new life out of it, though I can’t say that’s always a good thing.”
That time I’m the one raising my eyebrows. “Are we entangled?”
“I have a feeling we’re gonna be.”
It’s quiet for about half a minute, then I say, “I’m not going to say anything to anyone. Honest. I have enough of my own problems; I don’t need to add a mob beef to the list.”
“I hope you’re telling the truth. Not just for my sake, but for yours,” he adds. “You should think of this like you’re covering your own ass just as much as mine.”
“I probably am,” I mutter. “If I would’ve made the call instead of cowering in my bedroom that night, they might still be alive.”
It must’ve been clear in the way I said it that it’s been weighing on my mind, because Vince considers it for a minute, but not with the cold, hard look he’d worn earlier. After a minute, his tone gentler than I expect, he says, “They wouldn’t. There’s nothing you could have done.”
I let it sink in for a second, but the relief I expected doesn’t come.
It’s probably verification that the guy lying in my bed right now is a murderer, but that doesn’t hit the way I expect it to, either.
“Now what?” I ask quietly.
“Well, looks like you’re gonna have to share the covers.”
Alarmed, my eyes widen. “What? You can’t stay!”
He’s already smiling, enjoying messing with me.
“Oh.” I blush.
Luckily it doesn’t take too long to figure out how we’ll sneak him out. My mother goes in to take a shower, and once the water turns on, we’re clear to creep down the hall.
I open the door to let him outside, but he hangs back, glancing down the hall we just came from. His gaze travels back to me, still unsure.
“You can trust me,” I tell him.
Nodding, holding my gaze he says, “I hope so.”
With that, he finally walks out.
---
“Can we get garlic bread?”
I look over at my little brother, taking a third sample cup from the little ‘try me’ stand in the grocery store bakery. “No. Allan, no more cake samples. You’re only supposed to take one.”
“I want cake,” my baby sister announces, reaching her hand out toward it. I roll my eyes as Allan grabs another one and hands it to her, flashing me an innocent look.
“It wasn’t for me,” he defends. “Why can’t we get garlic bread? Garlic bread is so good.”
“We are only here for a box of spaghetti and a jar of sauce. That is it.”
“Then why’d we get a cart?” he demands, not unreasonably.
“For Casey—she likes to ride.”
“No fair, I want to ride. Make her take turns.”
I pull the cart to a sudden halt and take a deep breath. “We are not fighting over who rides in the cart. We’re not. Can we please just go get the food for dinner so we can go home?”
“I don’t wanna go home,” Allan complains as he redirects toward the pasta aisle.
I start moving again as he meanders along, telling me how boring home is. I can’t really argue that point. Without cable, there are only so many options for television, and even I‘m sick of the same kid shows over and over. “Maybe you guys can play with your Legos,” I suggest. “Or color a picture to hang on the refrigerator. You’ve got stuff to do.”
“It’s all boring,” he informs me.
“Just grab the spaghetti,” I tell him, slowing to a stop in front of the wall of pasta boxes.
“Spaghetti, huh?”
My heart drops out my chest cavity as I recognize Vince’s voice, spinning around to find him standing right there in the aisle with me.
“Kid’s right,” he says, smirking at my discomfort. “That is kind of boring.”
My heart continues to skitter around my chest as I glance behind him, checking that he’s alone. He notices, and his smile wilts as he seems to consider it.
“Just me,” he says, less amused.
Like that makes much of a difference. I don’t say that though. Uncertainty rules me as I try to figure out how I’m supposed to react to him suddenly showing up wherever I am. That seems paranoid, but earlier in class, instead of giving the seat next to me back to its rightful owner, Vince sat there again.
“Okay, can we get some garlic bread now?” Allan asks, not noticing my sudden discomfort.
Instead of answering my brother, I tentatively meet Vince’s eyes. “What are you doing here?”
“Shopping.”
There’s no reason to assume he isn’t—everyone needs groceries, after all—but I don’t believe him. I nod anyway, turning back to my cart and pushing it to the edge of the aisle without a word.
Wheeling the cart into the narrow space between the registers, I take both items from the cart and place them on the belt. Then, as is natural from that angle, I glance behind me.
There’s Vince, in line behind me. He’s wearing dark wash jeans and a charcoal gray shirt, and man, for a murderer, he looks good.
Just thinking the m-word causes my stomach to sink, and I look at the cashier, wishing she’d hurry up.
“Who are you?” Allan asks him.
“A friend of your sister’s,” Vince answers.
I cut a glance his way, since that’s not how I would describe him. “Why are you in line?”
“Hm?”
“You said you were at the store because you were shopping.” I indicate his empty hands. “You didn’t buy anything.”
A dark brow raises, then he grabs two snack sized bags of chips from the impulse-buy rack and holds them up for my brother. “Which one should I get?”
I roll my eyes as my brother jabs the orange bag. Vince puts the other one back and holds up the bag, shaking it. “See? I’m buying something.”
The cashier rings up my items and gives me my total. I freeze, frowning at the computer screen. I brought exactly $4 with me—just enough to buy a box of spaghetti and a jar of sauce. I’m somehow fifty cents short.
“Wasn’t the pasta on sale?”
“Yep,” she says, glancing at the screen.
I awkwardly draw my money out of my pocket and count it, knowing there won’t be enough. I don’t understand why. Did Allan not grab the right sauce?
It’s humiliating, especially with Vince standing right there, but I don’t know what else to do. “Um, how much was the sauce?”
She regards me with vague irritation and I flush.
“It’s just—I didn’t bring my purse in,” I say, even though there’s no more money in my purse. “I thought I brought in enough, but I’m a few cents short.”
She digs the jar of pasta out, and sure enough, it’s a size larger than the one we usually get. I hadn’t been paying attention when Allan grabbed it, because Vince threw me off.
“Okay, I’ll just go back and grab the right one,” I say, reaching out to take the jar of sauce.
Before I can, Vince is squeezing past the cart, coming toward the register. He drops the chips on the belt and takes the sauce out of my hand, giving it back to the cashier. “Can you just add the chips to her bill?”
“You don’t have to do that—I can just go get the right one. I could’ve paid for it, I just…”
He holds up a hand to stop me, handing the cashier a twenty dollar bill. She quickly adds his chips to the bag and gives him the new total.
“Give her the change,” he says, moving past me to grab the grocery bag.
I couldn’t be more humiliated as the cashier hands me the money—which is saying something, because I’ve been embarrassed on several occasions in this grocery store. Being poor sucks.
“You really didn’t have to do that,” I murmur.
Vince shrugs, like it’s nothing. I look at the $14 in my hand like it’s printed on gold.
The difference between us couldn’t be more pronounced.
“You could invite me to dinner to thank me,” he teases, waiting for me to wheel my sister toward the door.
“You want to come over for dinner?” I say, my disbelief evident.
“Well, I haven’t eaten any yet,” he says, like that makes all the sense in the world.
“With my siblings?” I add, now really looking at him like he’s crazy.
“Hey, I work with what I’m given,” he states.
I automatically wheel the cart outside, but once we get to the car and I realize we’re more or less alone with Vince, my discomfort seeps back in.
Lowering my voice, I tell him, “You don’t have to keep an eye on me, you know.”
“Maybe I want to keep an eye on you,” he returns, meeting my gaze.
I swallow. “Why?”
He merely shrugs, opening my passenger door and placing the grocery bag inside. “I’ll meet you at your house.”
I want to argue—I don’t necessarily want to be alone with the guy who broke into my house the night before, but I know it won’t do much good. If Vince wants to come over for dinner, he’ll come over for dinner—whether he’s invited or not.