The Reasons to Stay (Harlequin Superromance)

by Laura Drake

  Nacho pulled the car door handle. “I just want to get this over with.” He stepped out, and walked to the barn.

  She turned off the engine, left Mona to her death throes and hurried after Nacho. “Wait. That thing could fall on you.”

  A rusted metal sign on the door read This Property Protected by Smith & Wesson.

  Priss peered into the gloom that had swallowed Nacho, her unease ticking like a crazed Geiger counter in her head. When she stepped in, the smell of ancient motor oil and fresh paint assaulted her. Standing in the damp dirt just inside the doors, she waited for her eyes to adjust.

  “Oh, wow.” Nacho’s awestruck voice came from somewhere ahead.

  She walked toward it, winding her way through a path lined with damp cardboard boxes and tangled rusted metal as high as her head. The rat maze turned, ending in a huge open area, lit and warmed by large lamps on poles.

  In the center, Nacho was on his knees in front of an old Harley-Davidson. With really tall handlebars and a long, deep seat, it seemed to squat on its broad back tire. The chrome flashed in the lamp’s light, but it was the gas tank that drew Priss’s eye. Orange-tipped gold flames rose through the black paint, so realistic that when Nacho raised his fingers to touch it, she opened her mouth to warn him.

  “Do not touch that!” A Godlike voice boomed from the rafters.

  Nacho jerked his hand back as if he had been burned.

  Priss looked to the hayloft and into the eyes of an enraged yeti.

  “Do. Not. Move.”

  The warning wasn’t needed; Priss and Nacho stood, shocked to stillness.

  A talking yeti she could possibly believe in. But one wearing a faded Grateful Dead T-shirt, jeans and motorcycle boots? The man—for that was the only other option—started backward down the ladder growling unintelligible words, his long frizzy black hair bouncing with every step. His back was broader than the ladder, and the boards under his hairy hands looked like toothpicks in comparison.

  At the bottom, he turned and, hands fisted, advanced on Nacho. “Goddamn kids. You come to rip me off too?”

  Eyes huge, Nacho just stared.

  “Hey!” Priss stepped out of the labyrinth, forced her cowardly feet forward, and inserted herself between the two. “Back off, dude. He’s not hurting anything.” Though her brain screamed not to, she turned her back on the huge hunk of attitude with facial hair, and grabbed Nacho’s shaking hands. Tightening her lips, she tried to telegraph toughness. Nacho got it. He shook her off and hung his thumbs in the front pockets of his baggy jeans.

  “I had a break-in a month ago. I thought—”

  She spun. “Bet you get a lot of repeat customers by scaring the crap out of people.”

  He reached a huge paw into his back pocket and pulled out a purple bandana, folded it lengthwise and tied it around his forehead. It didn’t do much to tame his hair, but it made him look marginally more human. “What do you want?”

  Priss stepped out from between the two, but not far. “My brother needs to talk to you.”

  A nanosecond of pure terror crossed Nacho’s face.

  He needs this. She tightened the muscles in her stomach and made herself still. He needs this.

  “Um. I didn’t steal your paint.” His eyes darted, probably scouting the nearest escape route. “But I used it.” The rest of his breath huffed out of him. “For tagging.”

  The man’s bushy eyebrows merged when he frowned. “Where?”

  “The Bekins warehouse.” Nacho’s voice shook, but he stood his ground.

  Priss kept her fists at her sides, ready to step between them again.

  “Oh, yeah, I saw that.” He squinted, tugging the beard that covered every bit of skin but his lips. “What’s your name?”

  “N-nacho.”

  “Well, N-nacho, not bad work. For a beginner.”

  Nacho looked like a prisoner whose firing squad had just taken a smoke break.

  “But.” He pointed a blunt finger. “Defacing private property is a crime, and accepting stolen property can land you in jail.” He leaned into Nacho’s personal space. “Did you learn anything?”

  “Y-yessir.”

  “What?” It was more a demand than a question.

  “Crime costs more than it’s worth.”

  His barely discernible lips quirked. “Good answer.”

  Priss let out her breath and put a hand on Nacho’s shoulder. Under that kind of pressure, what he said would have to be the truth, wouldn’t it? “Okay, we can go now.” She just wanted out of this creepy place and away from its volatile owner.

  Nacho shrugged from under her hand. “Um. Sir?”

  “Name’s Bear.”

  Of course it is—no one is named Yeti.

  “Mr. Bear—could you tell me how you did this?” Nacho pointed to the flames on the bike’s gas tank. “They’re epic.”

  She heard the rumble of Bear’s chuckle in his chest first because it was at ear-height.

  “It takes years of practice, kid, and the right tools.”

  Nacho looked up at Bear, hero worship plain on his face. “Would you show me?”

  Priss put her hand on the back of Nacho’s neck and propelled him ahead of her, straight toward the exit. “Getting late. We gotta go. Sorry to bother you.”

  They were picking their way through the rusted-wire maze when the Godlike voice echoed through the barn. “You come back sometime. We’ll talk.”

  Nacho had turned and taken a step back, before she snatched his collar and swung him back around. “Don’t even think about it.”

  But before Mona even hit the black top Nacho started in. “Did you see that sweet paint job? Shit, that guy—”

  “Don’t swear.” She glanced to Nacho’s happy-kid smile. He smiled so seldom. She tightened her lips to stop her responding smile. It’s not your job to make him happy; it’s your job to keep him out of jail. And safe.

  He gave her the puppy-dog eyes. “I could come over after school and hang out with Mr. Bear.”

  “Doesn’t that guy scare the crap out of you? He looks like he eats kids for breakfast.” Her fear made the words pour out hot. “Besides, you’re grounded, remember?”

  Nacho fell back against the seat with a huff.

  She kept her eyes on the road as retroactive fear bloomed in her mind. What the heck would she have done if that Bear guy hadn’t backed off? Her bluster wouldn’t have gone far with a guy twice her size. He looked like a parolee. That lizard Ms. Barnes would lay a little green egg if she knew Nacho was hanging out with a guy like that.

  Priss swallowed lead-shot prayer beads of worry. She’d been so busy snatching Nacho from one disaster to the next, she hadn’t had time to consider that her brother’s safety, his happiness, hell, even his morality—or lack thereof—was on her.

  Nacho may try to look tough, but he was just a kid, naive and vulnerable. Brass-knuckled responsibility battered her gut.

  Priss thought back to that first day, when she’d only gotten ten miles from here before turning back—where had she thought this road would end?

  You didn’t think. You reacted.

  As she had when she left Las Vegas, all those years ago. She hadn’t been looking ahead—she’d been looking over her shoulder, running from where she’d been. And she should know by now that was a good way to end up flying into a closed window.

  * * *

  A BELL SOUNDED when Adam opened the door to The Widow’s Adventure Travel Agency. Posters of exotic destinations crowded the walls, vying for attention: Tahiti’s white-sand beach seduced, Paris crooked a red-tipped finger, while the cliffs of Dover sang a siren’s call.

  God, he wanted to go—to all those places.

  “Hi, Adam,” the owner hailed him. “I got that information you asked about
.”

  “Hey, Nancy.” His march from the drugstore ended as he crossed the sun-splashed linoleum. He loved the thought of coming here every month, making plans. “Which one?”

  “The Amazon River Cruise.” She slid a trifold brochure across the counter. An orange, yellow and black spotted frog on a vivid green leaf stared from the cover.

  He breathed out. “Ooooh.” A thrill zinged and his stomach plunged on a roller coaster’s first dip.

  “You’d fly from LAX to either Brazil or Peru, depending on if you want the lower or upper river.” She flipped the brochure to a map on the back. “Then you hop on a thirty-passenger ship for your cruise. They also have pontoon-boat excursions into the smaller tributaries. You can do a zip-line canopy tour, a nature...”

  He tuned out the rest, imagining himself in a pith helmet, breathing water-laced air, staring through binoculars into the jungle as a diesel engine chugged and water lapped the sides of their small boat....

  When he turned the page, his heart tripped into a manic rhythm, pumping an adrenaline surge that weakened his knees. A glossy photo showed a man hanging suspended by a slim rope over a yawning canyon. Mesmerized in vicarious horror, Adam took a few moments to realize Nancy had stopped talking. He glanced up.

  Her features were painted with pity. “How many years have we done this?”

  A flush of heat surged, boiling up his neck to burn his face. “I can’t make up my mind. There are just so many amazing places in the world to see.” He slapped the brochure closed and stuck it in his back pocket. “Thanks for this. I’ve got to get back to the store.”

  “Wait, Adam—”

  The door closed behind him, cutting off the sympathy he didn’t want to hear. But he felt it nevertheless in the weight of Nancy’s regard until he left the travel agency’s plate-glass window behind. As he walked toward Hollister, a coffee-scented breeze from the neighboring bakery’s patio cooled his damp face.

  I’m not doing that again. Not ever.

  But even as he recited the litany, he knew that in a few weeks, his wanting would draw him again to the travel agency like a junkie to a pusher.

  Sliding the brochure out of his back pocket, he glanced at the gaudy frog. He imagined himself at an airline terminal, suitcase rolling behind him, the dark maw of the gangway ahead.

  At the other end of that black tube stood an airplane, waiting to swallow him. Apprehension crawled over his skin like Amazonian bugs. He shook it off with a shiver.

  Feeling a brush at his shoulder, Adam looked up. A boy hurtled past, glancing back, mouth open in a laugh of delight. A shout rang out and another boy ran past, chasing. They looked free, unfettered—familiar.

  The kids turned a corner and were gone. Adam stood in the middle of the sidewalk wheezing as a guilt-tipped knife slammed into his gut.

  A fluke had slammed both his and Roger’s childhoods to a full stop.

  But at least I had a chance at adulthood.

  The knife sliced again. He lost a lot in the accident. But in the years since, he’d allowed the fear to take everything else—his chosen career, his freedom, and finally, his pride.

  And without those, how much of a man was left?

  Priss was dead-on right about him. He watched life from the outside, without getting any of it on him. Walking faster, he dodged pedestrians on Hollister. Priss was tiny, but she jumped headfirst into life, swimming through whatever came. What excuse did he have?

  Dammit, he was done wasting his life, being afraid. He owed Roger that much.

  He didn’t know why, but he’d been given a life.

  It was time to reclaim it.

  * * *

  AFTER DINNER, PRISS and Nacho assumed their usual positions on opposite ends of the couch. Priss leaned against her end, feet tucked under her, listening.

  “Harry himself examined silver unicorn horns at twenty-one Gall—” Frowning in concentration, his mouth moved like a fish taking a breath.

  “Sound it out.”

  “Gall-ee-ons. Galleons?”

  “You got it. That’s a kind of money. Go on, you’re doing good.”

  “Galleons each and minis—” He did the fish thing again. “Mini-s-cu-l—”

  “Miniscule. It means tiny.”

  “Then why can’t they just say that?” He slapped the book closed. “Can’t you just read to me? It’s a lot more fun.”

  She stretched her legs out and snuck her toes under the blanket. “There’s more to life than fun, dude.”

  “Not for me. When I grow up, I’m only doing fun stuff.” When her feet bumped his, he pulled his knees up.

  “Is eating fun?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, how are you going to get money to eat if you don’t work?”

  “I’ll work. But I’m only doing jobs that are fun.”

  She took a moment, trying to find fault with that logic. “You may be smarter than I thought.”

  He grinned at her as only a kid who still believed he knew it all could.

  “What kind of job would be fun to you?”

  He looked over her head, eyes dreamy. “I want to paint cars and stuff. Like Bear does. That bike was sweet.”

  She should have known he’d get back to that. He’d bugged her about it all the way home. Shaking her head, she said, “The sad thing is, Nacho, if things don’t change, you’re probably not going to get the chance.”

  “Why not?”

  She glanced at the clock in the kitchen. “Let’s get your bed made up.” She put her feet on the cold floor and stood.

  Nacho bounced off the couch. “Why wouldn’t I?”

  She picked up the throw from the sofa. “I know you’re only in elementary school, and you think this stuff you’re pulling won’t matter when you grow up. But it does.” She folded the blanket, smoothing the creases. “You do jail time, you’ve got a record. Who’s gonna hire you then?”

  He pulled the cushions off the couch and flung them. “Bear would hire me.”

  He was probably right. She wouldn’t be surprised to hear that guy had a record of his own. “Stack the cushions behind the couch. If you get up in the middle of the night, you’re going to trip over them if they’re in the middle of the floor.”

  While he went to retrieve the cushions, Priss bent, grasped the loop, and pulled it to bring out the mattress portion of the sofa. “What I’m trying to tell you is that life isn’t as easy for mutts like us.” She flipped open the mattress. “Don’t get me wrong. Mutts have a lot going for them. They’re scrappers—survivors. Some people would rather have a mutt than some foo-foo dog. But we don’t come with a pedigree and daddy’s bankroll.”

  Nacho walked to the linen closet in the wall outside the bathroom and came back with his rolled-up sheets, blanket, and pillow.

  “We only have two things going for us that no one can take away.”

  He dropped the top sheet, shook out the fitted sheet, and together they stretched it over the mattress. “What?”

  “Our pride and our good reputation.”

  “Yeah, right.” He didn’t say “lame,” but his eye roll did.

  As if his words had twisted a thermostat, the furnace deep inside her roared to life with a blue blaze of heat. “Don’t you mock what you don’t know.” She took a deep breath. “I got accused of something I didn’t do when I was a kid.” She snatched the top sheet and snapped it so hard it popped like a whip. “Something horrible.” Her shudder made the words come out all shaky.

  He let go of the sheet and went still. “What happened?”

  God, she didn’t want to talk about this. But it was up to her to teach him what life was like. She plopped down on the bed. “I’ll warn you, this isn’t a good bedtime story. But you asked.” She patted the mattress. “Sit.”

>   He sat, one foot under him, watching her close.

  “I was around your age, when some do-gooder called Social Services on Mom for leaving me alone at night. They took me away and put me in foster care.” She fingered the sheet under her hand. “As if the Brenans were better than Mom.” She snorted. “They lived in this little house on the outskirts of Vegas and Mr. Brenan worked all the time. They needed the money, but I think he worked two jobs in part to get away from the crazy women in that house. Mrs. Brenan was a social climber. Do you know what that is?”

  Nacho nodded. “A mutt that wants to be a show dog.”

  “Dead-on.” She smiled. He really was a smart kid. “I guess by the time I got there, Mrs. Brenan had realized it was never gonna happen for her. But she had Suzie.” Priss said it in the same mocking singsong voice she had all those years ago. “She was a year older than me. Mrs. Brenan wanted to get her daughter in commercials to make her famous. And with her blond, curly hair and blue eyes, Suzie was cute. Only one problem.” She used her index finger to push up the end of her nose as far as it would go. “She had a pig nose.”

  Nacho sniggered.

  “Mrs. Brenan wanted money for a nose job for her piglet. Mr. Brenan couldn’t work any more hours so that’s where I came in. Apparently she planned on banking the money the state gave her for me. I didn’t care. I just wanted to do my time until Mom landed another job and came to get me.”

  Nacho leaned forward, rapt as if this were better than a Harry Potter book. “So did they lock you up and starve you?”

  “No. It wasn’t too bad, at first. I ate what they ate and I got Suzie’s hand-me-downs to wear. All brand-name, nice stuff. Nothing was too good for Suzie.”

  “So, did you get accused of stealing her clothes?”

  “No. It was Suzie.” Priss winced, remembering, and wrapped her arms around her middle. “She wasn’t only spoiled, she was mean. Deep down, worm-in-the-apple bad. She didn’t want me there from the minute I walked in the door.” She shook her head. “Here she had everything, and yet she was jealous of me. She did stuff—mean stuff to me behind her mother’s back.”