Monique’s gaze still tossed daggers, but she focused it on Reggie, who had taken her hand and was tugging at it. “Come on, babe,” he said. “We have better things to do.”
“She’s no good, Spike,” Monique said. “You’ll see.”
But Spike, as they called him, wasn’t even looking at Monique. Or Reggie or Rod or any of the thugs. He was looking at her, with those dangerous eyes. He tilted his head almost imperceptibly, giving her the slightest nod. As if he was asking her permission to intervene.
In spite of her churning stomach, her tremulousness from being pulled from the brink of disaster, and her relief at being whole and intact, she smiled back.
Then he wrapped his arm around her shoulder and walked off.
Sam focused on breathing as the boy from Clinker’s led her down the street. She struggled to put one step before the other. Because he was holding her in a way that was too possessive, one she never would have tolerated from a guy she barely knew. He smelled good, like Dial soap and the cool night air. And he was warm. She liked it all—him—way too much.
He didn’t say anything for several blocks. They’d wandered away from the square, and she realized they were near the auto repair shop. She could see the bright red doors shining in the glow from a fluorescent streetlight. He slowed to a stop and looked behind them, checking to make sure they weren’t being followed.
Maybe she should have been afraid that she was alone with him in the semi-seedy part of town, but she wasn’t. She felt safe for the first time in months.
They stood a couple feet apart under the streetlight. She’d gotten a sense of how tall he was as they’d walked, but straight on she realized his height was somewhere between Brad’s, who was six feet, and Ben’s, who was six four. Nice.
He angled his head in the direction of the shop. “Do you want to come up a minute?” he asked.
He reached out and touched a curl, one of many that had gone AWOL all over her head. She should have stepped back, or run, or done something, but she was frozen in place, mesmerized by his gentleness and the look in his eyes that made her heart beat runaway-train fast.
“You act so tough,” he said, his voice low and a little rough, like gravel. “But you aren’t, are you?”
She stiffened. “I am tough. Look, I didn’t need you to come along and—”
He held up his hands in defense. “You did knee Reggie in the balls.”
“Yes.” She looked at him assessing her and let out a heavy sigh. It felt like she’d been holding her breath for an hour. “Okay, fine. I was barbecued chicken. They were getting ready to feast.”
“Sure looked like it.”
“Wh . . . why did you help me?”
“I don’t like watching people turn into roadkill?”
She laughed, but it came out like more of a very unsexy snort. And that made him laugh. Which was a wonderful thing, because she’d never in all those months heard him laugh. It made his eyes dance and lifted that invisible weight he seemed to always carry with him.
She followed him up a set of concrete stairs to a studio apartment, the door of which was red, just like the infamous outside doors. “Mr. Clinker owns it,” he said. “I rent from him.” He opened the door and she followed him inside.
She wondered how long he’d been on his own. Everyone knew he’d been a foster kid who’d aged out of the system, but she had no idea if he had any family at all, and what would that feel like, to be all alone? In a way, she sort of knew, not having parents herself, what it was like to feel that constant lonely ache. But her family loved her. She’d never felt alone until recently.
He pulled two mugs down from a cupboard above the sink. One was black with the Clinker’s logo and the other was white with a rainbow and said “Best Day Ever.” He poured some water into a measuring cup and set it in the microwave, then dumped packets of powdered hot chocolate into the cups.
He owned one chair, a beat-up La-Z-Boy with the stuffing ripped out of one corner, and a small television. There was a stack of library books next to the chair. Music Theory for Guitarists, Songwriting for Beginners. She noticed a guitar case in the corner.
They sat on the floor and leaned against the back of the chair so they could look out the window. He turned off his lone floor lamp and they watched the snow fall, swirling crazily around the streetlight, clinging to the rooftops and covering the grass. He sat close to her, their shoulders touching.
“So you want to tell me what happened, Princess?” he asked softly.
She set down her hot chocolate and faced him. Why had he called her that? Almost like he was trying to create a barrier between them. “My name’s Samantha,” she said.
“Samantha,” he said softly. Hearing him speak her name sent a shiver clear through her. His gaze dropped to her lips. He took up her hands in his big ones. It made her feel—protected, which was weird because he was an unknown, the most dangerous-looking person she knew.
“You’re beautiful, Princess, but you’d better drink your hot chocolate and go.” He dropped her hands and stood up and flicked the light back on. “Your family is probably worried about you.”
She stood up right along with him. “Don’t,” she said.
He looked puzzled. “Don’t what?”
“Don’t do this. Don’t save me and be nice to me and then push me away. Are you a bad person? Like, should I be worried?”
His lips curved up in a half-smile. “Maybe. I’m a lot different than you. And a lot older.”
“I’m eighteen. Except right now I feel like I’m eighty. I could really use a friend. I don’t have many of those left, especially after—”
In the middle of her rambling, he kissed her. His lips were soft and warm and he pressed them against hers so gently, yet so expertly, she thought she was going to die. She’d been kissed before, but not this way. The boys who had given her tentative good-night kisses were awkward, bumping noses. One stuck his tongue in her mouth and the first thing she did when she got home was gargle with Listerine.
He reached a hand around her neck and tugged her closer. Rested his other hand lightly around her waist. This time when he kissed her, he teased her lips apart with his tongue. He explored and played, until their kisses grew more frantic and urgent. She clung to him, fearing she might sink into a boneless blob of jelly on the floor.
“What’s your real name?” she asked breathlessly.
“Lukas,” he said. He was out of breath, too, and that pleased her. “My name is Lukas.”
Now there was a name she could wrap her fantasies around. Brief but exotic, with that hard “k” sound in the middle. No doubt about it, it was the sexiest name she’d ever heard.
For everything that was wrong in Sam’s life, those kisses were just about perfect. This strange boy, who seemed to want to pull away even as he couldn’t help kissing her, had saved her from a horrible fate. But he’d done something else. He’d given her hope.
CHAPTER 4
“Uncle Lukas, I’m hungry,” Stevie said, rubbing the sleep from his eyes bright and early the morning after the prom. Lukas felt a nudge, heard the smack smack smack of Stevie’s palm hitting his biceps. The kid was more accurate than an alarm clock about rising with the sun. “We’re out of Cheerios.”
Lukas’s gut seized, and not just because of the ungodly hour. As a kid, he’d done as Stevie had. Scavenged around various kitchens to survive. That had meant eating anything from chips and Cheetos to dry cereal, whatever he could get his hands on. Until Mom and Pop Ellis, he couldn’t ever remember having anything that required cooking for breakfast except in his dreams.
“C’mon, sleepyhead, get out of bed.” The child tugged mercilessly on his arm. Lukas cracked open an eye, suddenly remembering he was sleeping buck naked.
“Hey, who is that?” he asked, groping around with his hands until he lit upon the child’s sleep-tousled hair and warm skin. “Oh, it’s a little rug rat. Get over here.” In one swoop, he snatched up Stevie, tickling him and
tossing him up in the air and on top of his bed, where he landed, giggling, with a bounce. “Hi, little rug rat. What do you want for breakfast?”
“Pancakes. With blueberries and lots and lots of syrup.”
Since all that was in sight on the bus was an empty bag of Doritos and a beer can, he decided on the next best option, Pie in the Sky, or PITS as the town diner was affectionately called. “Then pancakes it is. With blueberries and whipped cream and syrup and a big glass of milk.”
Stevie wrinkled up his nose. “I don’t like milk.”
“I know you don’t like milk.” Lukas sighed. He hadn’t forgotten, he was just trying to suggest the right thing. Didn’t most kids like milk? And if they didn’t, weren’t they supposed to drink it anyway? Lukas didn’t want to hardline the kid so soon, so he said, “I’m sure they’ve got other stuff to drink. Let’s go get ready.”
“What kind of jammies do you have on, Uncle Lukas?”
Oh, oh. Busted. “Um, birthday suit jammies. Now go find some clothes.”
“Can I see ’em?” Stevie started to lift the sheets but Lukas distracted him by tossing him up again and flipping him in the air until he landed on his feet on the floor. He pointed him in the direction of the door and gave him a little push. “Now scoot!”
Crisis averted. Parenting was a tough job, one he needed to learn by the seat of his pants. He just had to remember to keep his on at all times.
As soon as Lukas opened the glass door to the old diner an hour later, he felt the blast from the past. Actually, he smelled it. Most diner coffee smelled burnt but not here. It smelled fresh roasted, strong and bold. He couldn’t wait for an IV infusion.
The denser aroma of bacon and the sweeter one of fresh-off-the-griddle pancakes blended with chinks of silverware and chatter that told him the restaurant was full of people who clearly enjoyed rising early and, God forbid, eating. He remembered coming here years ago with Sam, having long conversations over milkshakes or coffee or midnight pancakes. Conversations that often went on for hours, where they lost all track of time.
The clock on the wall read seven thirty. He scrubbed a hand over his face and resisted the urge to slap himself awake. His usual late-night routine had him sleeping until noon and eating his first meal around two. He’d been lucky to sneak a smoke outside of his bus, after he got dressed, to satisfy his nicotine craving. Now if he could get some caffeine, he might be able to function.
“My tummy’s growling,” Stevie said, looking around. “It smells good in here.” There went that uncomfortable pang again in Lukas’s own stomach. It tended to hit him when Stevie spoke. Lukas didn’t want Stevie to be hungry. Ever. He might not know much about being a father, but he knew how to order food. And order away they would.
“I’m starving,” Stevie said, eagerly popping into an orange vinyl-covered booth that faced the park. Nothing much had changed in the past six years. Or sixty.
“Hi there, what can I help you—” The waitress was middle-aged, with blonde hair pulled back in a bun. “Oh, wow, hi.” Her face flushed as she realized who she was talking to. “I, um, can I take your autograph—I mean your order.” She cleared her throat and tried again. “Can I take your order?”
“Leave the guy alone, Darlene,” Buzz, the owner, called from the kitchen, over the sounds of sizzling food and the scrape of a metal spatula against the grill.
“Sorry. Sure. It’s just that social media is going crazy about you today.”
Of course. The prom visit. A feel-good story. Not too big of a deal.
“TMZ’s been snooping around trying to find out about that pretty girl you kissed. It was Samantha Rushford, right? Didn’t you two have a thing a while back?”
Dammit. He should never have lost control like that. Now the press would go after Samantha, all because of his impulsiveness. He’d wanted to show this town he’d matured. That he wasn’t the pissed-off-at-the-world auto mechanic who’d left here six years ago with fifty bucks in his pocket.
He wanted to show her he’d matured.
“Take his order, Darlene,” Buzz called.
He smiled, hoping that would deflect the waitress from asking more questions. “Coffee for me, please, and pancakes with blueberries for him, thanks.” He turned to Stevie, who was blowing bubbles in his water with his straw. “What do you want to drink with your pancakes?”
“I’ll have coffee, too.”
“Nonsense. He’ll have milk.” The proclamation came like a decree, in a loud, take-no-prisoners voice. Lukas and Stevie turned together in time to see a foreboding woman with a bold, flowery dress and hair blacker than Coca-Cola waste no time plunking her large pocketbook onto the tabletop. She squeezed her rather ample form next to Stevie, who quickly scooched over because it was either that or be mowed over.
Darlene made a break for the kitchen. Even Lukas found himself sitting up straighter and smoothing out his shirt. “Mrs. Panagakos,” he said.
The woman reached across the table and grabbed his chin in her hand and shook back and forth. “Lukas Achilles Spikonos. You finally had the sense to come back home. It’s about time.” Her brown eyes, heavily made up with eyeliner and eye shadow, got misty behind her big jeweled glasses. “And who, may I ask, is this?”
She released Lukas’s chin from her death grip to eyeball Stevie, who immediately shrank back into his seat.
Lukas smiled. “This is my nephew, Stevie.”
“Hello, Stavros. What a fine, handsome boy. I am Alethea Panagakos. Sit up straight when I speak to you.”
Stevie looked to Lukas for guidance. All he did was nod a little. Because it was fruitless to fight a tsunami. Fortunately Stevie’s pancakes came just then, and he happily dug in.
Mrs. Panagakos turned to Lukas. “Samantha told me you need a babysitter.”
“Yes. But I thought you were moving back to Greece?” Alethea had kept an eye on Lukas after his accident a few years ago. More than an eye. She’d cooked fabulous Greek food for him for weeks while his arm was broken and he couldn’t work. She might look foreboding on the outside but her insides were all rizogalo—Greek rice pudding.
She sighed heavily. “I was so lonely after I divorced. I wanted to return to Mikonos where I would be surrounded by all my relatives. But then my mother came here to live with me, so I decided to stay. So do you need me?”
He leveled his gaze to hers, knowing there was no point in icing over the truth. “I need you.”
“Great,” she said, clapping her hands together in glee. “Then I start tomorrow. But I have conditions.”
He was afraid of that. “Okay, whatever you say, it’s fine.”
She held up a warning finger. “I must tell you what they are. First of all, Stavros, you need a haircut and let me see your teeth.”
Stevie automatically clamped his mouth shut. “Let me see them, paidi mou,” Alethea said. Stevie crossed his arms over his chest. “Oh, I see you are stubborn, like your uncle, yes? Stubborn Greek boys. Well, you must brush your teeth. And your socks don’t match.”
“We’ll do our best to be more tidy tomorrow,” Lukas said. “Right, Stevie?” He winked at the boy, just to make sure he knew that Alethea’s bark was worse than her bite.
She turned to Lukas. “And don’t get me started on you. How come you’re still single? You need a nice girl to settle down with, now that you have a family to raise. Stavros needs more brothers and sisters to grow up with.”
“Mrs. Panagakos, I—”
“Don’t you Mrs. Panagakos me, young man. You’re a father now. You have responsibilities. You’ve officially left your salad days behind you.”
He had no idea what salad days were, but she made it sound like it was a good thing they were in the rearview mirror. “Here comes my committee now,” she said. “Stavros, Lukas, I’ll see you boys tomorrow.”
Crazy relief tore through him. The woman was an organizational whirlwind. She was desperate to give love. And she cooked like a Greek Paula Deen. Lukas grabbed a napkin to w
rite on. “I’m renovating one of the houses on the west side of the lake. The Ellises’. You know it?”
“Let me get a pen.”
She rummaged through her enormous bag. Out came a full-sized bottle of hairspray, a packet of wet wipes, a travel-sized can of Lysol, and a kitty shank. She finally produced a pen, which said, Vote for George Gianopoulos for Councilman. He scrawled the address and handed her the napkin and pen.
“Wonderful. I’ll see you boys at eight o’clock tomorrow.” She got up and ran to a group of women who’d just come through the door.
“That old lady scares me,” Stevie said, blowing out a big sigh.
“She scares me, too, buddy.” He lowered his voice. “And you’d better call her Mrs. Panagakos or who knows what might happen.” Lukas made the slit-throat sign with his finger across his neck. Stevie gulped. Until he suddenly began jumping up and down on the vinyl seat and waving frantically at something in the distance. Lukas turned. Samantha Rushford stood at the entrance, being engulfed in an Alethea-hug and surrounded by two other old ladies who made their way down the aisle.
“Sam. Samantha!” The little boy unashamedly flagged her down until she couldn’t help but stop at their table. This time, he scootched over of his own accord.
“Hi, Stevie,” she said with a wide smile, taking the time to sit down next to him.
She wore a yellow printed sundress, her hair swept up in a thick ponytail, and when she breezed by, Lukas caught a whiff of grapefruity body wash. Pretty. He couldn’t resist letting his gaze drift down the line of her lovely neck and settle on her fabulous breasts. When he forced his gaze upward, she was frowning. Busted. Samantha eyeballed him like he’d just crawled up from the local sewer. “Lukas.”
“Hey,” he said, rubbing his neck to cover the fact that his face suddenly felt hot. Real smooth. Before he could come up with something more intelligent, Stevie moved in.
“I’ll share my pancakes with you.” Stevie was clearly bartering his precious pancakes for her attention, which she gave in spades, tousling his hair and hugging him. Lukas watched the interaction with what he hoped was disinterest, but truth was, it amazed him how instantly and without hesitation she gave the boy her affection.
This Loving Feeling (A Mirror Lake Novel) Page 5
