The Reasons to Stay (Harlequin Superromance)

by Laura Drake

“YEAH, BUT GARCIA has like seventy-five strikeouts, Barney,” Priss said as she wiped down the bar while glancing at the game on the TV. The usual suspects lined the other side of the bar. “And he’s got a thirty slugging percentage, which is pretty danged good for a pitcher, you gotta admit.”

  “Ah, the A’s suck hind tit.” He took a sip of his beer.

  She squinted at the grizzled old man. Hair stuck out everywhere—including his ears. “Why are you such a die-hard Tigers fan? Did you used to live in Detroit?”

  He puckered his lips and looked into his glass like it held straight lemon juice. “No. I just like them. Is that okay with you?” He slid off the bar stool, hiked his too-big pants, and strode for the bathroom.

  Priss watched him go. “What’d I say wrong?”

  Porter coughed into his fist. “His grandson is a backup shortstop for the Tigers.”

  “Wow, that’s amazing. He must be so proud. I’m surprised he never mentioned it.”

  Ian shot a glance over his shoulder, then said in his soft burr, “Barney’s ex-wife turned his kids against him. He’s never even met his grandson.”

  Porter said, “But don’t bring it up. Barn’s real sensitive about it.”

  “I bet.” Priss imagined the old guy sitting in a shabby apartment at night without even the distraction of a TV to keep his regrets at bay. It seemed she and Nacho weren’t the only mutts in town, sniffing around the trash cans of polite society.

  Her boob vibrated.

  She pulled her phone from her bra. She didn’t recognize the number, but hit the button anyway. “This is Priss.”

  “This is Officer Armijo, of the Widow’s Grove Police Department. Is this Priscilla Hart?”

  “It is.” Her heart banged a beat like the drum solo in Wipeout. The clock next to the TV read four. Nacho was supposed to be home by now. Please don’t let it be about Nacho—

  “Ignacio Hart gave me your number. He is one of three boys we apprehended for defacing private property.”

  A depth charge of acid exploded in her stomach. Shit. She scrabbled for the pad and pen in the pocket of her apron. “Where is he?” She scribbled the address.

  “Ma’am, if you can be here in ten minutes or so, we’ll wait, cite him and release him into your custody. Otherwise, you’ll have to collect him from the station.”

  “I’ll be there in just a few minutes.” She hit End. Her fingers fumbled as she dropped the phone back into her bra.

  You can’t leave. Floyd’s not due here for another half hour.

  You can’t stay—they’ll take Nacho to jail!

  “What’s wrong?” Barney was back on his stool, his caterpillar eyebrows near his hairline.

  “I’ve got an emergency. I have to go.” She scanned the bar. Thank God the lunch rush was over. Only a few tourists sat at tables, sipping margaritas. Floyd lived in Pismo Beach, a half hour away—he may have already left his house, but there was no way he was getting here in the next five minutes.

  She couldn’t just run out and leave an open cash drawer. But she couldn’t shove all the customers out and lock up, either. Panic sizzled across her spine and popped along her nerves. Her mind skittered down dead-end corridors like a rat in a maze.

  The door to the kitchen opened and Gaby’s bent form shuffled out, her hands full of a basket of chips and a bowl of salsa.

  Priss ducked under the waitress station and jogged over to her. “Gaby. I need your help.”

  The old lady looked at Priss as if she’d broken out of a locked ward. “Really.”

  “I have an emergency. I have to go—like right now. If you’d just man the bar for a half hour till Floyd—”

  “Floyd would be pissed. Sounds like you have a problem.” She shuffled by.

  Priss grabbed her forearm. “Look, I’m begging you. This is really important. Please?”

  The old bat stared lasers at Priss’s hand until she let go.

  “Seriously. I’ll pay you.”

  Her head jerked up, her greedy little eyes bright. “How much?”

  “Twenty-five bucks.”

  “Don’t waste my time.” She walked to the table in the corner and set down the chips and salsa.

  It was going to take at least five minutes to get to the address the officer had given her. Priss felt the time ticking by in her pounding heartbeat. She blocked Gaby’s retreat to the kitchen, “Fifty.”

  The crone paused. “I can’t fix nothing fancy. I can open a beer.”

  Relief flooded Priss, liquefying her knees. “Thank you, Gaby, I—”

  “Pay me now.” She put out a hand.

  Priss reached into her apron pocket, hoping she had that much on her. “Jesus, do you really think I wouldn’t pay up?” Hurry. Hurry.

  “I wouldn’t trust you with a bag of garbage.”

  Priss pulled out bills and counted them. Forty-five. Gaby’s tight lips and crossed arms told her not to even bother asking. She spun to the patrons at the bar. “Can someone lend me a five?” She took the step to the bar. “Please?” She hated that word. Hated the weakness it implied. But she had no choice.

  Porter held out his hand to Barney and Ian. “Come on, ante up, men.”

  Ian handed over a few singles. Barney took an old-fashioned rubber change purse from his pocket and sorted through it with a finger.

  Priss felt a pinch in her chest at asking this poor old man for money, even as her head screamed, hurry!

  Barney contributed two quarters.

  Porter added the remainder and handed over the bills and change to her cupped palm.

  “You guys are the best. I owe you. Big time.” And she hated that, too.

  She turned, slapped the bills in Gaby’s palm, and poured the change on top. “Even if you are a greedy old bat, I’m grateful.” And she was mostly grateful that the old woman didn’t stall any longer, counting it.

  Priss trotted to the back door. “Tell Floyd I’m sorry. I’ll call him.”

  * * *

  THE WIDOW MAKERS stood in the parking lot of the Bekins warehouse, waiting for their parents. Two cops stood by their squad car, talking to the warehouse manager.

  Nacho glanced at Joe. “Come on, homie, be cool.”

  “You don’t know, man,” Joe sniffed once more and took a deep breath. “My uncle is gonna kick my ass. For real.”

  A pale-faced Diego dug stones out of the dirt with the toe of his shoe.

  Nacho glanced down the road, not sure he’d be happy to see the beater convertible. He’d be sprung from the cops, but then he’d have to face his pissed-off half sister. He’d stayed chilly when the cops busted them but now his hard-ass act was melting like an Otter Pop in August. He swallowed a thick wad in his throat.

  She might send him back to the kid warehouse.

  Screw that. I’ll just run away.

  But it was one thing to say it; another to do it. He had no money. Nobody would believe he was old enough to work—even if he could escape this shitty burg.

  So I’ll find somewhere safe to sleep and eat out of Dumpsters behind McDonald’s.

  He’d come up with lots of possible hideouts, lying awake at night in the group home: the bushes behind the school, the dried-up stream that ran under the freeway overpass. But now that he might really have to use them, they seemed pretty lame. More like dreams he made up so he’d feel better.

  Besides, the cops would find him eventually and send him back to the kid warehouse.

  God, he couldn’t wait until he was old enough to be in control of his own life. But he couldn’t make time go fast enough. That dream was years off.

  In the meantime, Priss had good food, a nice place, and he even kinda liked her reading to him. Plus, that Potter dude was pretty cool; he’d hate to miss what happened next.

&n
bsp; The big black Caddy turned into the parking lot. Feeling like he was facing a firing squad, Nacho set his face muscles into the tough-guy look he’d practiced in the mirror a zillion times. He shoved his shaking hands in his armpits.

  Priss got out of the car and walked over to talk to the cops. One of them pulled out a pad and started scribbling while she talked. She put her hands out and looked like she was arguing, but not loud. Not pissed, like she’d been with that Adam dude. She tipped her head and smiled up at the cop, but he kept writing.

  They’re not taking us to jail? He spoke quiet, out of the corner of his mouth. “They’re just giving us a ticket!”

  His friends didn’t look like that made much difference. Hell, the news didn’t make him relax much, either. His sister was scarier than the cops.

  Priss took the ticket from the cop, said something to the warehouse manager, and they walked down the side of the building together.

  Nacho heard the guy say, “I doubt the owner would agree, but it’s pretty good.” They stopped by Nacho’s creation.

  Bekins was in bold black letters that leaned back like the word was going fast. Yellow-tipped orange flames streamed from every letter. He’d just gotten the B of the next word done when the law showed up.

  “Well, let the owner know that I’m going to pay whatever it costs to clean it off,” Priss growled like a pit bull with a toothache. “And I’m taking it out of Nacho’s hide.”

  All the air went out of him. Maybe it would have been better if the cops had taken him to jail.

  I am dead meat.

  * * *

  ON THE DRIVE home the only sound was the rumble of Mona’s engine and the wind.

  Inside Priss’s head, it was much noisier.

  I am going to kill him. Outrage boiled in her chest, expanding to fill her already filled spaces. Damned kid.

  But you’re not ten years old with a father in prison.

  That excuse only works once. He burned that one with the shoplifting stunt.

  She wanted to look at him—wanted to know what his face would tell her. Was he worried? Pissed? But the tendons held her neck lockjaw-tight and staring straight ahead, eyes on the road. Besides, what Nacho felt didn’t matter. Not this time.

  Pressure built in her skull, then radiated out with a shiver to fill everything inside. When the anger had nowhere else to go, it pushed down into her bones. It made them shake. I’m giving him what I wanted from a mother. I’m trying to make the kid feel safe and wanted. Then he pulls this shit.

  She opened her mouth to vent some pressure, but then closed it. This wasn’t a conversation for driving; she’d wreck the car for sure. Her skin felt taut, bulging with the seething mass of outrage beneath it.

  He promised he wasn’t going to break any more laws. Little bastard lied to me.

  She braked and pulled into the broad alley behind the shops. The smell of hot garbage from the Dumpsters swirled behind the windshield. She halted in one of the oil-stained spaces behind Hollister Drugs. Nacho pulled the door handle before she could throw the car in Park.

  “Stop.” At her hissed warning, he froze in his seat.

  She shut off the engine and slid over until the rigid muscles of her back brushed the door. Nacho wore a “don’t give a shit” mask. At least she hoped it was a facade because, if that really was his attitude, he was going to be very, very sorry.

  “So, this criminal thing with you, it must be genetic, huh?” Sarcasm dripped like blood from her razor-wire words.

  He glared through the windshield at the brick wall. “Don’t you talk about my dad. You don’t know shit about me, or him.”

  “I know you’re heading down the road to meet him in prison.”

  He spun, red fury staining his face. “You don’t care!” Saliva flew from his mouth. “You said it the first day I met you!”

  The lid blew off the mountain of her temper. “You ungrateful little shit. I dumped a boyfriend and a respectable life in Colorado to come here and bail out your raggedy little ass.”

  His voice rose full volume, to match hers. “You don’t want me! You’re just some brown-noser goody-goody who gets off on people thinking you’re all holy.”

  “How can you say that!” Beneath her skin, she was on fire. The flames roared. Any flimsy control she possessed went up in a whoosh. “That is not true! Do-gooders almost took me down when I was a kid. I was trying to save—”

  “You never asked if I wanted your help! I don’t need you. I don’t need anybody!” He snatched the door handle and was out of the car faster than she’d have thought possible.

  “Don’t you dare walk away.” She got her legs under her, stood on the seat and vaulted over the door.

  Nacho stomped around the back of the car, anger rolling off him like the heat off the asphalt.

  She stepped in front of him. “We had an agreement! I told you I’d stick by you. And you promised no more law-breaking!”

  If looks could slice, she’d be bleeding.

  What the hell, she was bleeding.

  He crossed his arms and spit, “I never said anything! You assumed I agreed.” A ray of triumph lit his eyes. “Hey, you did the same with that Adam guy, when you didn’t tell him I was moving in. Worked for you.”

  Her hands spasmed when she realized she’d been had. She fisted them to keep from grabbing him by the shirt and shaking him. Instead, she stabbed a finger at the building. “Get your ass upstairs. Now.”

  He stepped around her, making sure no part of them touched. Once by, he ran for the metal back door. He flung it open and it slammed against the wall with a hollow boom like summer thunder. Then he was gone.

  Not caring that the hot metal seared her palms, Priss sagged against the car, suddenly empty to the deepest pit of her guts. Anger was gone. The firestorm had burned through everything inside. Ashes of the anger danced in black spots across her vision. She focused on breathing in. And out.

  She’d learned long ago not to trust anyone, figuring if she didn’t expect anything of anyone, she couldn’t be let down. If this kid could hurt her—and he had hurt her—it was because she’d let him inside her, under her skin.

  She moaned and ran a hand through her hair. When had that happened? Why? She’d been soaring through life. Light, free.

  Except for the past.

  She’d always believed she’d left the past in her rearview mirror. But she’d been wrong. It was still there, stuck like bubble gum to the bottom of her shoe. The past was stretchy and sticky. And not going away.

  She stuffed her seared hands in her front pockets.

  Long ago she’d learned not to expect the truth from outsiders, but she’d always demanded it of herself. Today it was time for some truth.

  She saw herself in Nacho. He may only be half her blood brother but they had the same upbringing. It wasn’t much, but seeing her childhood though his eyes, Priss was able to remember that it wasn’t all bad. That is, until Social Services had “saved” her from her life and thrown her to the wolves.

  And leaving Nacho to that fate would have been like throwing herself to the wolves. She may be tough, but she wasn’t tough enough to do that.

  * * *

  ADAM STOOD BY the garbage bins out back, trapped. He’d just tossed some empty boxes in when the Caddy roared around the corner. Before he could make himself known, the yelling had commenced. He couldn’t very well whistle his way through the alley, pretending to be oblivious. So he stayed where he was while they went at each other like rabid dogs.

  The back door slammed against the wall when Nacho barreled through. He caught a glimpse of him tearing up the stairs before the door fell closed again.

  Jesus.

  He should feel smug, seeing Priss dangle on the other end of a lie of omission. But he didn’t. He had a half-baked ur
ge to comfort her.

  He sneaked a look around the edge of the Dumpster. She leaned against the car, head hanging—the picture of defeat.

  He took a step, then stopped. She’d rip skin off him for having witnessed that. He may not know much about Priss, but he knew pride was a big chunk of what powered that little dynamo.

  Like a burrowing animal, empathy opened a hollow space in his chest. She looked so worn down. Clearly she’d taken on too much when she took in that hot mess in tennis shoes. She wasn’t obligated to, either—she didn’t even know the kid a month ago. No one would have expected it of her.

  Then the empty space in his chest filled with something like admiration. That was one brave lady. Even a guy who had none could recognize courage when he saw it. And Priss’s combination of courage and vulnerability pulled at him. He wanted to help even though he knew she wouldn’t want anyone to see her like this.

  Jesus, Preston. You’re afraid of heights, flying and just about anything slightly dangerous. Are you afraid of that tiny little bit of a woman, too?

  Yep, I am. That little bit of a woman stood firmly under the heading dangerous.

  But still, he couldn’t just leave. She may not welcome help, but she needed it.

  Oh, man, just don’t let me say the wrong thing. Whatever the hell that might be. He took a deep breath, carefully arranged his features to blandness and strode across the alley to her.

  When she looked up, he pulled his handkerchief from his back pocket and handed it to her.

  “I’m not crying.” She took it, sniffed and wiped her eyes.

  He shoved his hands deeper into his back pockets to keep from doing something stupid, like putting his arms around her. “Okay.”

  “I’m not.” She blew her nose then straightened. Her chin went up. “When I get really pissed, this happens. It’s like a cough—involuntary.”

  “I get that.”

  She started to hand over the dirty handkerchief, but after glancing at it, stuck it in her back pocket. “I suppose it’s too much to ask that you didn’t hear all that.”

  “I heard.” The tenderness in his voice brought her head up. He fisted his hands in his pockets to keep from touching her arm. He knew Priss wouldn’t welcome what she’d only see as pity. “You know he’s testing you, right?”