by Beth Andrews
Still, she couldn’t be blamed for wanting, hoping, this time would be different. That Anthony was different.
“Can I see that?” she asked before she could talk herself out of it.
If he thought the request odd, he didn’t show it. Just handed his smartphone over. What a trusting soul. She could use that, she realized. Was using it. Her fingers faltered as she unlocked the phone. Her stomach pinched with guilt.
She ignored it.
It wasn’t like she planned on knocking him out and stealing his wallet. Besides, he’d come on to her. And he’d assumed she was older. She was just playing along. Having a little fun.
Holding the phone out, she snapped a picture of herself, added her number and saved it in his contacts.
“Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” she told him, handing the phone back.
Then she walked away, adding more sway to her stride than usual. She smiled. Maybe the next two months wouldn’t completely suck after all.
* * *
THE LAST THING ROSS EXPECTED when he got home after such a complete shit day was to discover that Jess had obeyed him. The yard was mowed, the kitchen floor spotless and a basket of folded towels sat on the end of the couch.
No, he thought, setting the plastic grocery bags on the end of the counter, the very last thing he expected was to find the table set and a pan of something simmering on the stove releasing the scents of chicken, onions and peppers in the air.
He did a slow turn to make sure he hadn’t somehow stumbled into the wrong house after being up for almost forty-eight hours. Brand-new flat screen TV on the living room wall, brown leather armchair and sofa, and the wagon wheel coffee table Jess had declared so ugly it should be doused with gasoline and torched—after someone had taken an ax to it. The mail scattered on the counter was addressed to him and sticking out from underneath a Chinese takeout menu were the sunglasses he’d been looking for for the past two days. He picked them up, hooked the earpiece on to the V of his shirt.
It was definitely his house.
He hurried upstairs, locked his service weapon in the gun box he kept on the high shelf of his bedroom closet. Stepped out into the hall as Jess came out of her room.
“You’re home,” she said, her hair held back on either side of her face with sparkly butterfly clips. “About time. I’m starving.”
She walked down the stairs ahead of him in a T-shirt and baggy sweats, the word sexy scrolled across her ass. He stopped as if he’d hit an invisible wall. Sexy. Jesus.
Next chance he got, those pants were going to mysteriously disappear. Just like that T-shirt—the one proclaiming her to be a “hot bitch”—had.
Being a cop didn’t mean he couldn’t be sneaky when the situation called for it.
He checked his watch as he reached the kitchen. Eight-fifteen. “You didn’t eat yet?”
“I was waiting for you.” She lifted the lid from the pan releasing a puff of steam. “Do you want peppers and onions in your quesadilla, or just chicken and cheese?”
A jar of salsa and a container of sour cream sat on the table along with an open bag of tortilla chips. Shredded cheese was in a bowl on the counter next to a package of flour tortillas.
“What is all this?”
“Uh…dinner. Duh.” She set the lid down, tore open the flour tortilla package. “Do you want onions and peppers or not?”
“You made dinner? What did you do now? It better not involve any felonies.”
“Nice,” she snarled, tossing a handful of shredded cheddar cheese onto a tortilla. “Real nice. I do everything you want me to do—including getting a stupid job—and all you can think is that I did something wrong.”
He squeezed the back of his neck. He was so far over his head here and drowning fast. What the hell did he know about living with—raising—a teenage girl?
“You can’t blame me for being surprised.” Although she probably would anyway. “When I left this morning, you were far from enthusiastic about anything I’d had to say.”
Shrugging irritably, she added chicken, onions and peppers to the tortilla then folded it over. “I had time to think.”
He waited but she didn’t elaborate, leaving him to wonder what she thought and how it got her to obey him. If he knew, maybe he could repeat it and make sure it happened again. “I’m almost afraid to ask but, how did you pay for all of this?”
“That cop didn’t tell you?” she asked, adding the quesadilla to a heated pan.
“What cop?” In the act of unloading groceries from a bag, he lifted his hand. “And please don’t say the one who busted you for shoplifting.”
She rolled her eyes. “The old guy at the station. The fat one? I stopped by to get money from you so I could pick up some groceries but you weren’t there so he gave me some cash. Said he’d square it away with you when you got back.”
He slammed a can of tomato soup onto the counter harder than necessary. “Damn it, Jess. I don’t want you taking money from my coworkers,” he said, humiliated at her going around with her hand out like some charity case.
Like he had no idea how to take care of her.
“Sure. No problem.” She flipped the quesadilla—and when did they get a spatula? “Next time I get hungry, I’ll walk down to the beach…harpoon myself a fish for lunch.”
Holy shit, she was right. Again. He’d left her here this morning with no food and no money. He pulled out his wallet. “Here.”
She eyed the two twenties in his hand warily. “What’s that for?”
He set them next to the coffeepot. “It’s your allowance. For helping around the house,” he added, feeling like an idiot.
“I thought that was about taking responsibility and doing my fair share.”
He should be pissed she’d thrown his words back at him but at this point he was just glad she’d listened to him. “It is. And as long as you’re doing it, you’ll get an allowance.”
Maybe if he’d done this when she’d first come to live with him, he wouldn’t be out five hundred dollars in credit card charges, not to mention the one hundred and fifty bucks she’d taken from his dresser drawer.
“But this money is not to go toward any alcohol, drugs or drug paraphernalia,” he said. “Understand?”
“There goes that pretty bong I’d had my heart set on.”
“I hope you’re joking.”
“Yes, Uncle Ross. That was a joke.”
Good. Although maybe he needed to start giving her random drug tests, just to be sure. “I didn’t know you could cook.”
And wasn’t it interesting that after all these months of living with him, she decided to make dinner now, tonight? He’d like to say that the why and how of her sudden turnaround didn’t matter, but he wasn’t that gullible.
“Yeah, well, I learned pretty early that if I wanted to eat something other than cold cereal for supper I needed to learn at least the basics.”
He shifted uncomfortably as he pulled out one of the three boxes of cereal he’d bought from a grocery bag. Not that he’d planned on feeding her Honey Nut Cheerios for supper. He thought he’d make grilled cheese if she hadn’t eaten yet.
“Heather didn’t cook?” he asked of his sister.
“Mom’s…schedule…didn’t really mesh with mine.”
He paused as he put the cereal in an upper cabinet. “What does that mean?”
Jess’s expression was carefully blank, her movements jerky as she transferred the quesadilla to a plate. “It means she couldn’t cook dinner because most days she was usually passed out by 4:00 p.m. When she wasn’t, she was too strung out to be trusted around sharp utensils and a hot stove.” She faced him, her hands on her hips. “So do you want one of these or not?”
“Yeah,” he said, carefully shutting the cupboard door instead of slamming it like he wanted. “I’ll take one.”
He finished putting away the groceries then leaned against the counter, watching while she fixed his food. Jesus. All these years he and his paren
ts had known Heather was using but she’d traveled so much, dragging Jess up and down the East Coast, from city to city and state to state, they hadn’t realized how bad it had gotten. Hadn’t been able to help.
His parents had tried. They’d paid for Heather to go into rehab twice; once right after Jess was born, underweight but otherwise healthy. The second when Heather was picked up for possession when she and Jess had been living in Fort Lauderdale with one of Heather’s low-life boyfriends.
It wasn’t until Heather got busted eight months ago after she’d returned to Boston that Ross was able to step in and do what was right. Now it was up to him to take care of Jess, to make sure she was healthy and safe. And, most important, that she didn’t end up like her mother.
Jess added his quesadilla to the one already on a plate then handed it to him. “You can put this on the table.” He sat down, setting his cell phone next to his full water glass while she got a drink from the fridge then took the seat across from him.
And he realized it was the first time they’d shared a meal since she’d moved in with him. She flipped open the tab on her soda and took a sip.
“Should you be drinking that for dinner?” he asked.
“What else would I drink?”
“Milk.” Weren’t kids supposed to drink a lot of milk? “It’s good for you.”
Her answer was another of her vision-impairing eye rolls.
He added sour cream and salsa to his plate, cut into his quesadilla with the side of his fork and took a bite. “This is good. Really good.”
“They’re easy,” she said as if it was no big deal. But the tips of her ears were pink. She mixed her sour cream and salsa together on her plate. “I could make you another one if you want.”
“That’s okay,” he said, though he’d plowed through half of his already. “You go ahead and eat yours first before it gets cold.”
She cut hers into three triangles, picked one up and dipped the tip into her sour cream/salsa mixture. They ate in silence but it wasn’t uncomfortable, more like…wary. As if neither of them wanted to do or say anything that would jinx the undeclared truce they seemed to have going on.
Which worked for him. He preferred the quiet.
He’d cleaned his plate when she cleared her throat. “So, in case you were wondering,” she said, setting her drink down, “I start tomorrow.”
Wiping his hands on a paper napkin, his mind blanked. “Start what?”
She set the remainder of a triangle down and stood. “My new job. The one I told you about?” She turned the stove back on and frowned at him over her shoulder. “God. Do you even listen to anything I say?”
“I listen. You didn’t mention what this new job is, though, or where it’s at.”
“I’ll be waitressing,” she said, putting together another quesadilla. She laid it in the pan then wiped her hands on the towel hanging from the oven door handle. “At the Ludlow Street Café.”
Ludlow Street Café. He knew of the place, had been in there once or twice. Big, two-story building downtown. Blue paint. Great burgers. “That’s—”
His cell phone vibrated, caller ID flashing the name and number of the dentist in Boston where Ross had sent Valerie Sullivan’s dental records.
“Chief Taylor,” he said, pushing his chair back as he listened to Dr. Roberts give his findings. “You’re sure? Okay. Thanks for getting to it today.”
He ended the call and got to his feet. Went upstairs for his weapon, clipping it in his holster as he came back down. After glancing around, he spied his keys by the empty grocery bags on the counter, grabbed them and skirted the table.
“Where are you going?” Jess asked.
“I have to go out, make a death notification.”
“Now? I thought you wanted another quesadilla.”
“I did. Do. Stick it in the fridge and I’ll eat it when I get home.” He opened the door and paused to look back at her. Why she seemed so disappointed and peeved when she couldn’t stand to be around him for more than two minutes, he had no idea. Then again, he didn’t understand much about her—or females in general.
“Do not leave the house,” he ordered. “Understand?”
“Whatever,” she muttered as he stepped outside and shut the door behind him.
* * *
TREE BRANCHES SCRATCHED Layne’s arms, stung her face and neck as she raced through the woods. The dark surrounded her, crept in on her like a shadow, threatening to swallow her alive, to pull her into its depths. Terror coated her throat, dried her mouth.
Unnamed urgency propelled her forward until she stumbled into a sudden oasis of light and greenery. Brilliant moonlight shone down, warm and golden, illuminating the three figures in the clearing. A man, his thumbs hooked in his front pockets, his hair dark and tousled. His lips curved slowly into a grin, one sexy and dangerous that didn’t reach his deep green eyes. Across from him her father waited, tall and proud, his legs apart as if he was still on board a ship. A cap covered his short, graying hair; his face was weathered, worn and wrinkled from a life spent at sea.
And in between them, her beautiful face tipped up, her arms outstretched as if she could somehow gather the moon’s rays in her embrace, stood her mother.
Oh, God. A sob rose in Layne’s throat. She swallowed it. But Valerie was just as wildly, gloriously beautiful as always. Her long dark hair streamed behind her in a breeze Layne couldn’t feel, her lips upturned in a sly, secretive smile. Always secrets. Always lies.
Valerie looked longingly at the dark-haired man then faced her husband. She reached her arms out to Tim Sullivan. Begged him to forgive her. To take her back.
Of course he would, Layne thought numbly. Even after all this time, after everything Valerie had done to him, he’d do anything, give up everything that mattered to him, to make her happy. He’d put her first, just as he always did. Above his daughters. Above his own pride.
Tim held out his hand but before Valerie could step forward, the dark-haired man was there, his fist wrapped around Valerie’s hair as he yanked her head back.
No, Layne shouted, but her words were stolen, snatched in that unfelt wind and carried away before anyone could hear. Her legs were heavy, her head fuzzy. For a moment, she couldn’t move and desperation seized her. She had to save her mother.
She had to stop him.
But no matter how hard or fast she ran, she never got any closer. Could do nothing when her father joined the dark-haired man and Valerie, her mother reaching for her husband even as she laughed. And laughed. Secure in the power she held over both these men, over all those who wanted her. Who loved her. Squeezing her eyes shut, Layne covered her ears with her hands but the sexy sound of her mother’s laughter only got louder, filling her head until she heard nothing else, until her own thoughts seemed to dissolve into that husky sound.
A shot rang out and Layne jerked, opened her eyes to find she no longer stood at the edge of the woods but in the middle of the clearing, a gun in her shaking, blood-covered hands.
And at her feet lay her mother’s crumpled, motionless body, a bloodstain blooming across Valerie’s chest. Her lips were blue, her eyes…Tori’s eyes…Layne’s own eyes…open but unseeing.
The gun slid from her numb fingers as she dropped to her knees and screamed.
CHAPTER SIX
SOMEONE SHOOK HER. HARD.
Layne bolted forward, smacked her forehead with a sharp crack against what felt like a concrete wall. Her eyes swam.
“Ow,” a familiar, male voice said. “Damn it. Wake up, Layne.”
Her heart racing, Layne glanced around frantically. She was on the recliner in her sister’s living room, the Red Sox game flickering on the muted TV in the corner, sounds from her nephew’s birthday party floating in through the open windows. Lying on the back of the couch, Tori’s cat Fang, a calico with enough attitude to rival his owner’s, lifted his head then stood and stretched before leaping to the floor.
A dream. It’d all been a dream.<
br />
Her cousin Anthony stood before her, one hand rubbing his forehead, the other holding a plate loaded with a huge piece of lasagna and three slices of garlic bread.
Not a concrete wall, she thought as she lightly touched the ache above her eyebrow. Her cousin’s hard head.
“Anthony.” Her hands were unsteady as she shoved the hair out of her face. “You scared the hell out of me.”
“That’s no reason to give me a concussion,” he griped, pushing aside an unlit scented candle so he could sit on the coffee table.
“Guess you should’ve thought of that before you shook me so hard my back teeth are still rattling.”
“What else was I supposed to do?” he asked, forking a big bite of lasagna into his mouth. He chewed and swallowed. “I called your name—several times—but you kept on twitching and moaning. Bad dream?”
“No, I try to get a workout in while I sleep,” she said dryly, helping herself to the plastic cup he had beside him. “It’s called multitasking.”
“Funny.”
She took a long drink, still so freaked out by the dream she didn’t even realize what she was drinking until she’d drained half the glass. “Tori let you have beer? And in front of your parents?”
He took the cup back, frowned when he saw how much she’d had. “Want to card me? Last time I checked, twenty-one was the legal drinking age.”
Oh. Right. He’d had his twenty-first birthday in March. “I still can’t believe you’re old enough to drink. I just got used to the fact that you’re taller than I am.”
“I’ve been taller than you for six years.”
“Yeah, but I’ve only recently accepted it.” She had to look up to meet his eyes when they were standing; he had a scruffy beard and a man’s wide shoulders. When had that happened? “My God, I used to change your diapers.”
“I hate when you remind me of that.”
“Why do you think I bring it up so often?”
“I never should’ve said yes when Dad asked me to get you,” he said, scooping up more lasagna.
“You said yes so you could sneak more food.”
