by Jill Shalvis
A few hours later, the front door opened and Mike stood there, eyes glossy, crooked smile in place. He gave an exaggerated wave.
You’re drunk, Kevin signed.
Nah. Just a little looped. When he signed the looped part, he nearly took out his own eye.
Tell me you didn’t drive.
Nope. Got a ride. Mike blinked exaggeratedly and eyed Kevin. You look like hell. What hit you?
A Mack truck.
Was her name Mia Appleby? Mike laughed at the thought, but when Kevin didn’t, Mike shook his head. Ah, Christ. She got you again, huh?
I don’t want to talk about it. Kevin went to the kitchen, hunting through the cabinets until he found a bag of chips. He turned around to find Mike watching him. You going to do that interview tomorrow? The one you got from Monster.com? What was it, a data inputting thing?
Mike shrugged. Haven’t decided. Sounds boring.
Ah, hell. Here they came, the excuses. Maybe boring is what you need right now.
What I need right now is another drink.
Kevin watched him stalk out the door again and felt that same ache he felt whenever he looked at the troubled kids in his classes. He couldn’t fix them any more than he could fix Mike, and it killed him.
In fact, he couldn’t fix any damn thing. Pushing away from the counter, he groaned at his own aching muscles, particularly the ones in his thighs. Apparently Miss Hotshot Mia Appleby was going to kill him as well.
Chapter Seven
One would think being thrown to the floor and ravished within three steps of his front door would have a man sleeping like a baby.
But Kevin slept like shit, and then was interrupted by a four a.m. text message from Mike.
Remember when you said stay out of trouble? Tried. Failed. I’m at county. Bring cash.
Kevin groaned and didn’t move. No. He wasn’t going to do this again, damn it. Mike’s ass could just sit in jail this time.
But as he lay there in his cozy bed, he began to imagine all the things that could be happening to his brother. “Fuck.” Tossing aside the covers, he got up. “Idiot,” he muttered and headed for his bike, not knowing which of them he was talking about.
Public intoxication. For the second time this year. Fuming, Kevin threw the spare helmet at Mike, who caught it at his chest. It’s four in the morning.
Not to mention he’d been forced to max out his credit card for bail.
But Mike was uncharacteristically out of charm, and looking a little green, he dutifully put on the helmet and got on the bike behind Kevin.
They made it home before Mike slid weakly off the bike and got sick in the gutter, then lay there on the sidewalk and smiled shakily up at Kevin. Ah, admit it. What fun would your life be without me?
Kevin could think of lots of ways, starting with having more money and ending with having more peace, but saying it wouldn’t matter. This is the last time.
To which Mike grinned. He didn’t believe it, of course, and Kevin couldn’t blame him, not when he’d always come through. It was what he did, who he was.
The Go To.
One would think he must also love banging his head against the wall. I mean it, Mike.
No you don’t. Mom told you to take care of me for the rest of my life, and you feel just guilty enough to do it. Mike lay there, getting his color back by the second, looking cocky again. You love me, man.
Disgusted with the both of them, Kevin shook his head and walked into the house, leaving Mike to crawl inside.
You feel guilty enough to do it.
Wasn’t that the sorry truth. If he closed his eyes, he could still see his stepfather coming toward the pesky toddler Mike, could still see himself not getting to Mike in time to protect him from the blow—
From below, he heard the front door slam. Apparently, Mike had gotten inside. Guess there were some things he could do for himself, after all.
Now if only Kevin believed it.
Mia woke up three minutes before her alarm went off. Stretching, she felt a vague tightness in her muscles and let out a very satisfied smile.
Thank you, Kevin McKnight.
The guy had a mouthwatering body and knew exactly what to do with it.
Her morning ritual was to pad down the hallway to flip on the coffeemaker, and then hit the shower. She was halfway to the kitchen when she remembered.
Hope.
The guest bedroom door was cracked, and she peeked in. The kid lay flat on her back, mouth open, a soft breath emitting at regular intervals. Well, look at that. Unlike every potted plant or goldfish Mia had ever attempted to keep, she hadn’t killed the kid overnight. Hope didn’t even look wilted.
Hope snuffled in her sleep, then rubbed her face and tucked her hand beneath her cheek. And just like that, void of makeup and her tough veneer, she looked all of ten years old, soft and sweet.
Ha! Sweet like poison maybe. Mia supposed this was why the gods made kids so cute when they slept: because it kept parents from murdering their young.
Then a long, shuddery sigh escaped Hope’s chest, the kind one let out after a long sob-fest.
Uh oh. Mia looked closer and her stomach sank. Yep, all the telltale signs were there: the puffy eyes, the tear streaks on the silk pillowcase…
Suddenly Hope’s eyes opened, and though they widened at the sight of Mia, she played it cool. “Whatcha looking at?”
Mia played it even cooler. “You. You look pretty like that. Without all that horrid, cheap black makeup.”
Hope snorted.
“I mean it. You have beautiful blue eyes and an extremely nice mouth. Why do you do yourself up like the living dead?”
“You wouldn’t understand.”
“Try me.”
Hope laughed. “Yeah, right. Adults don’t understand sixteen-year-olds. I’d be wasting my breath.”
Mia laughed, too. She laughed good and long, and ended up having to sit down right there at the foot of the bed because, damn, if she hadn’t once thought the very same thing.
“Whatever,” Hope muttered, looking miffed.
Mia just laughed harder; she couldn’t help it. “Yeah, I know nothing about being sixteen. Nothing at all, because I went from fifteen straight to seventeen without passing go.” She swiped her eyes. “Ah, hell, that was fun. Thanks.”
Hope rolled her eyes.
The girl didn’t appear to have much of a sense of humor. Mia blamed Sugar for that, because Mia’s momma, faults and all, had at least been able to laugh at herself. “You know what? You’re right. I wouldn’t understand. I was never desperate to get away. Desperate to find something new, a place where I could grab my future.”
Hope blinked. “You…really felt that way?”
“Every. Single. Day.”
“Desperate to get out?” Hope pressed. “Like…like you were going to die if you didn’t?”
Humor gone now, Mia nodded.
Hope just stared at her. “So…”
“Yeah.”
They actually had something in common. Neither of them said it out loud, though. Nope, the Appleby women had pride in spades, so much so they often couldn’t get out of their own way.
Hope busied herself playing with the blanket over her legs. Clearly she wanted to say something, probably how eternally grateful she was that Mia had taken her in, that she hadn’t been shipped back immediately.
“So what’s wrong with your eyebrow? I mean, it looks pretty stupid.”
Honestly, the love in the room was simply overwhelming. Mia put a finger to the singed spot and sighed. “Long story.”
“I have some black eyebrow pencil.”
Yeah, that would fix it. “Thanks, but I’ll manage. So. A week in California.”
“You’ve got the most God-awful traffic here.”
“Oh, trust me, you’ve seen nothing yet. You’ll get a good glimpse of it this morning, though.”
“Why?”
“Because I have to go to work. We’re going to have to find
somewhere for you to go for the day. Kevin said something about a teen center next to the high school. I think they do day trips—you should get to see something fun today.”
Hope looked horrified at the thought. “A teen center?”
“Well, I can’t just leave you here.”
“What’s the matter Apple Pie, you don’t trust me with the family china?” she drawled.
“Or the silverware,” Mia drawled right back.
When Hope just exuded hostility, Mia smiled. “If you don’t like being treated like a thief, first order of business—stop stealing. And don’t ever call me that again, by the way.”
“I didn’t take that lipstick.”
“Whatever, Sticky Fingers.” Mia stood up. “Fact remains, I can’t leave you here to terrorize my neighbors.”
“Yeah, Sexy Old Guy looked real scared of me.”
“If you’re referring to Kevin, he’s only thirty-something.”
“Like I said, old.”
Mia’s jaw tightened. “Get dressed. Do you have anything that’s not black?”
“No.”
“We’ll go shopping after I get off work.”
“On your dime?”
“Would that make you move faster? Fifteen minutes.”
“I need more like thirty. And can we go to the grocery store and get some food, too? Or do you plan to starve me?”
“Tell you what. I’ll give you fifteen minutes now, and fifteen more tomorrow morning. And if you pull it off, yeah, we’ll hit the grocery store and load up on any and all the disgusting food your heart desires. Get going.”
Hope buried her head beneath her pillow, but when Mia pulled the door shut behind her, she heard the rustling of the covers, signifying she was at least moving.
Kevin woke up with the alarm at what felt like only five seconds after he’d laid his head down, having dreamed of Mia in that damn wet silk, the material clinging to every inch of her, the look on her face as he nudged her over the edge, the way his name sounded on her lips.
A scalding shower might help marginally, he decided. Walking by Mike’s bedroom, he heard the snores emitting and, not feeling kind, made the house shake when he slammed the bathroom door. It brought a sliver of grim satisfaction.
The hot shower did not, as it brought more thoughts of Mia.
Next time she came knocking, wearing only thin silk, dripping wet, eyes large and luminous, mouth full and wanting his, he wouldn’t open the door.
Yeah, right.
But he sure as hell wouldn’t dream about her all night. He had other things to be thinking about. Such as his job and how he’d been given every troubled kid in the entire school because he was the new guy. But he’d deal with that, and his resident pot smoker. He’d deal with a boneheaded principal who only cared about the bottom line and not which kids were slipping through the cracks.
And he’d deal with his brother, who was too old to still be slipping. He’d deal with all of it and be fine, like always.
He turned off the water only when it ran out of hot. Deal with that, Mike. He’d just reached for his towel when he heard it. Or felt it, rather. The heavy, rhythmic boom of a low bass so loud it hit in tune with his every heartbeat.
This street was mostly fancy white-bread, so the music, sounding like rap now that he opened his bathroom window and stuck his head out, wasn’t the typical music for the crowd that lived here.
Interesting.
More interesting, the music came from the direction of Mia’s house. He pulled on his clothes and walked into the kitchen.
Mike had gotten up and sat at the table with a pad of paper and a pencil. Shocking, as Mike didn’t usually rise before noon. His back to Kevin, he was hunched over the paper, erasing something and making a low-pitched sound that from a hearing person would have been frustrated muttering.
Kevin peeked over his shoulder.
To do, Mike had written.
Whatever he’d written beneath that he was now desperately erasing. The page ripped and he growled, tearing the piece of paper off the pad, crumpling it up, and tossing it in the corner with a grand gesture.
When he saw Kevin, he went still for a startled beat, then put on a lazy smile. Morning.
What was that? You making a to-do list?
Mike’s smile faded. So?
So you’ve never been organized before. What was on it?
A reminder to pick up your no-more-nosy pills.
Funny. Kevin went for the piece of paper, but Mike shoved him back, hard enough that he plowed into the refrigerator. The bag of potato chips on top of it hit him in the head, raining chips all over him.
Mike smirked.
Kevin smirked back, then dove for the paper.
Mike dove, too, and they landed in a heap on the floor, crunching chips into dust beneath them.
Specifically beneath Kevin, who was on the bottom, damn it. “Get off, you lug—oomph,” he said, seeing stars when Mike landed his elbow in his ribs.
Taking advantage of Kevin’s pain, Mike grabbed for the paper, but Kevin flipped him, then inched forward for the paper just out of reach.
Mike put a knee in his back, let out a huff that Kevin knew was a laugh, and while Kevin gaped for air like a fish, Mike snatched the paper, tearing it into little bits.
They both got to their knees, breathing like lunatics, crumbs of chips falling off of Kevin.
You still fight dirty, Kevin signed, then brushed himself off.
Mike grinned. Thank you.
Kevin shook his head, disgusted with the both of them. What the hell is wrong with you?
Mike looked at him but ultimately shook his head and turned away.
Kevin pulled him back around, half braced for another wrestling session.
Mike tried a smile, but it failed to reach any real wattage. You ever get tired of rescuing me?
Hell, yes!
So why do you?
Well, if that wasn’t the question of the hour. He’d been doing it for so long it had become second nature, ever since that terrifying morning when their mother had gone out shopping and said to Kevin, “Watch over Mikey.” Kevin would never forget standing there in the ER waiting room, just a little kid himself, his mother sobbing as she yelled at him, “You were supposed to watch Mikey!”
No sane person would blame the kid, but sometimes guilt had nothing to do with being sane.
Now Mike was waiting for an answer, and the only one Kevin had couldn’t be uttered. So he shrugged. Don’t make me look at that too closely or I’ll remember how pissed off I am at you.
Mike looked at his feet, huffed out a breath, then looked up again. I don’t want to be this guy anymore.
What guy?
The happy-go-lucky fucking loser.
Kevin’s heart squeezed, and he shook his head. You’re not a loser.
I don’t have any money, I mooch off my brother for a place to live, and I don’t have a job.
You’re going to get that job you interviewed for.
I didn’t get the fucking job, all right? They cancelled the interview. They went with someone with a better resume, someone who’s kept a job longer than a week.
Ah, hell. I’m sorry.
Yeah, and I was looking so forward to sitting at a computer for ten hours a day typing my fingers to the bone entering data processing info. He moved toward the door.
Kevin had promised himself no more interfering, no more rescuing. And yet he still rushed to get in front of his brother, putting his back to the door so Mike couldn’t slam out. I’ve been thinking.
Mike lifted a brow. Don’t hurt yourself.
Shut up and listen. I need help at the teen center.
Mike’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. I thought the teen center’s up for sale, and that once the building sells, the teen center is goners.
Right. But until that happens, I need someone.
I don’t want a pity job.
Ah, come on. You know damn well there’s no such thing as a “pit
y” job. A pity fuck, maybe, but not a pity job.
Mike wouldn’t take the job. He wouldn’t, because deep down, Kevin was convinced, Mike liked being unemployed, liked the handouts, the free ride.
The pity.
But it was just as hard to turn his back on the guy now as it had been when Mike was a little kid, not hearing the shouted warning of some danger coming from behind…
I have no experience, Mike pointed out.
It’s organizing sports and events. Easy stuff.
Mike let out a snort that didn’t have any humor in it and shoved his fingers through his hair.
Kevin waited.
When Mike finally nodded, he looked extremely defenseless.
So you’ll do it? You’ll interview?
I’ll think about it. Mike pushed Kevin clear of the front door and opened it.
Kevin held him back. You’ll interview? he repeated.
Jesus, you don’t need to shout. Mike smiled at his own joke, showing a shadow of his old self. I said I’ll think about it.
Four o’clock. I’ll have the board members come. Be there.
Nodding, he turned to the door, then looked back. You have a potato chip in your ear.
And then he was gone.
Kevin shook his head and more chips fell. He gathered his keys and helmet and headed out, too.
The rap was still booming. The house immediately to his left was Mr. and Mrs. Dickenson. They were a couple in their fifties who enjoyed cruises to Mexico, morning walks through the hills, and opera. Not rap.
“Turn that crap down!” boomed a female voice through the morning air.
He felt the grin split his face, and he eyed the second house on his left.
Mia’s.
Seems she and Hope were at least communicating. He headed down the walk toward his bike, then stopped when he heard the click-click-clicking of heels. This was accompanied by a low grumbling in one Mia Appleby’s soft, silky voice as she walked to her car.
