“It’s been a long week. Let me drive you home.”
“That’s okay,” Evan smiled. “I like to walk.” It was true; he needed physical activity like he needed air. Plus, he had to be gentle with Daniel. It wouldn’t do to alienate the boss’s kid, even if that kid happened to be a grown man.
“Oh, come on.” Daniel grinned back, a wide, white-toothed smile. Evan hadn’t seen much of Ravenswood yet, but he’d seen enough to know that the small town’s inhabitants adored Daniel Burne. And if he hadn’t, the easy expectation in Daniel’s green eyes would’ve made it clear. This man had never been told no, and never thought he would be.
Those were the men you had to watch.
“Alright,” Evan relented as they broke out into the cool, evening air. It was just after five, so Ravenswood’s streets were busy. Which meant that there was an old woman heading into the town centre on foot, and two Volvos making their way there via road.
“Great!” Daniel clapped Evan on the back, a firm slap that spoke of a camaraderie they had not forged. It was funny; in the army, that sort of immediate connection had come easy. But here, with this man, the familiarity set Evan’s teeth on edge.
“I parked in town,” Daniel said. “Just ‘round the corner.”
Evan nodded. Since ‘town’ referred to the centre of Ravenswood, and Ravenswood itself was about three miles long—surrounding farmland included— nothing was very far from anything else.
But Daniel managed to pack the next five minutes with a lifetime’s meaningless chatter anyway.
“So, where are you living? Those new flats?”
The flats had been built in 2015, but here in Ravenswood, that counted as new.
“Yep,” Evan confirmed. “Elm Block.” The Ravenswood habit of naming everything in sight was something he quite enjoyed.
Daniel, apparently, did not agree. His already-pale face blanched slightly, his brow furrowed. “Serious?” He asked. “Elm?”
Something in his voice had changed. It was tight, strained, slightly scratchy.
Evan slowed down, his eyes focusing on Daniel with curiosity rather than veiled disdain. “Yeah. Why?”
“That’s bad luck, mate,” Daniel said. He nodded his head over and over again, disturbingly emphatic. “Very bad luck. I suppose you had no-one in town to guide you. There’s some very shady characters living in Elm, you know.”
Evan’s brows flew up. “Shady characters?” He echoed. “In Ravenswood? I haven’t been here long, but that doesn’t sound right.”
“Trust me,” Daniel said darkly. “We all have our burdens to bear.”
Evan bit back a snort. Apparently, he could add Drama King to the list of Daniel Burne’s irritating qualities.
“Be careful,” Daniel continued. “I’m just saying.” Then he jerked his head towards a huge, blue BMW a few metres away, parked across two spaces. “That’s mine.”
Evan blinked at the monstrous thing for a moment, trying to come up with a compliment. He failed. To fill the silence, he returned to the ominous topic of his little block of flats.
“I only have one neighbour. Haven’t met them yet, but I think it’s someone elderly. They don’t seem to leave the house.”
“Hm,” Daniel grunted. “Well—”
His sage wisdom was, thankfully, interrupted. As they neared the BMW, a small figure came rushing around a nearby corner and knocked right into them both.
Chapter Two
Ruth entered the town car park with a lot on her mind. Major highlights included:
1. Her stomach cramps, which had gone from mild irritation to knuckle-biting pain in the space of twenty minutes.
2. The indignity of waddling about town with loo roll stuffed down her knickers.
3. The absolutely extortionate price she’d just paid for a packet of substandard tampons that didn’t even have bloody applicators.
4. Mrs. Needham, newsagent proprietor and town gossip, who would tell everyone that Ruth had come in to buy tampons as if they were Year Eight children instead of grown adults.
5. How much the average person might know about the theory of relativity. Because, the less people knew about it, the more she could get away with fudging the details for the latest issue of her web comic.
Was it really surprising, with all that to ponder, that she ran headlong into a pair of enormous men?
Ruth landed on the tarmac with an unladylike grunt. At least it was more elegant than the word currently burning through her mind: Motherfucker!
This was to be imagined, you understand, as an outraged yowl of pain.
For an instant of blissful, foolish shock, Ruth blinked down at the ground. Then she looked up slightly, just a touch—enough to see two pairs of sturdy, boot-clad feet before her. The sight of those feet, along with her embarrassment, took Ruth from mildly irritated to unreasonably angry.
But really. Those boots were entirely too solid, quite abominably stable. The men hadn’t even wobbled. They might at least pretend to be slightly unbalanced, since she was literally on the floor. Such firm uprightness in a situation like this struck her as rude.
“I’m so sorry,” one of the men said. She didn’t know which, because she refused to look up at their faces. She had quite enough to process right now without bringing faces and expressions and human lifeforms into it.
But one of the men, presumably the one who had spoken, ruined things completely by bending down to her level. He could do that, you see, because he hadn’t fallen. The prick.
He crouched before her, bringing his faded jeans into view, and then his tight, black T-shirt—what a ridiculous outfit in February—and then… well, some rather interesting musculature.
That musculature broke through Ruth’s haze of unreasonable annoyance, prodding her sharply. It said, Look at that chest! Look at those biceps! You’d better check out his face, just to see if it’s equally impressive. Quality control, and all that.
Reigning in the urge to throw a temper tantrum—she was feeling fragile, what with the tissue in her knickers—Ruth looked up.
“Holy shit,” she said.
The most beautiful man on Earth frowned at her. “Are you alright? Did you hit your head?”
Ruth didn’t bother answering. Talking to this guy could not possibly be as worthwhile as simply looking at him.
In fact, talking to him might ruin the effect. Or her ruin her concentration, at least.
So he continued to ask unanswered questions, and she continued to watch his lips move.
They looked soft. The thick, dirty-blonde beard covering his jaw looked soft too, and matched the too-long hair falling over his brow.
His bone structure, unlike his hair, didn’t look soft at all. Nor did his furrowed brows or his piercing eyes, blue as a summer sky. Of course, skies were never blue in England—but she’d seen the sky in Sierra Leone, spent hours staring up at it from her grandmother’s garden. That was the best slice of sky on Earth, so she felt authorised to make the comparison.
The stranger’s voice was raw and satisfying, threaded with something that might’ve been concern, and it soothed Ruth’s embarrassment-induced irritation beautifully.
But then came a voice that brought it back ten-fold.
“Don’t bother,” said Daniel Burne. “She’s slow.”
Ruth’s head snapped up, her gaze settling on the person she hated most in the world.
His smile was as cruel and as gorgeous as ever. For a moment, Ruth’s heart lurched. But then she looked back at the stranger, who was still crouched beside her—who was frowning—and she felt slightly consoled.
The stranger was far more handsome than Daniel. How he must hate that.
Biting down on the inside of her cheek, Ruth stood. She ignored the fact that the tissue in her knickers felt slightly dislodged. She ignored the fact that there must be grit and dirt on her pyjama bottoms, and even ignored the fact that she was in her pyjamas at all, with only a jacket to hide them.
Ruth folded her
arms across her chest and took a deep steadying breath, staring Daniel down. She said, “If I’m slow, what kind of man does that make you?”
His lip curled. “Opportunistic, perhaps.”
Direct hit, of course. She’d expected nothing less.
Her jaw set, Ruth turned on her heel. Daniel wasn’t worth talking to, anyway. He was beneath her notice. He was a gnat. But gnats were infuriating too, when you couldn’t squash them.
“Wait!” The stranger called.
Ruth ignored him. She walked faster. She could see her car now, just a few metres away, gleaming like an oasis in the desert.
Then she heard the heavy footsteps of a man running behind her. “Miss!” He called. “You dropped your…”
Ruth stopped. Her hands balled into fists. She spat out, “For fuck’s sake,” and her breath twisted before her like smoke in the evening air.
The man was right behind her now. “I’m sorry,” he said. He seemed to say that a lot.
She turned to face him. He really did look apologetic. Maybe because she’d fallen, maybe because Daniel was a prick, or maybe because he was holding out the box of tampons she’d dropped.
At the newsagent, Mrs. Needham had asked if she wanted a bag for five pence, and Ruth had thought, Goodness me, five pence on a bag when I have two good hands? And said, “No, thank you.”
Now she was rather wishing she had parted with the five pence.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” The man asked. “I’m sorry about… Daniel’s behaviour.” He said Daniel’s name with the sort of tone she’d use to say kitten killer. Maybe that’s what this gorgeous stranger thought: that Ruth was a kitten.
She snatched the tampons from him, turned her back, and walked away. He’d learn the truth soon enough.
The only question was—which truth?
Ruth started her engine and pulled out of the car park with almost reckless speed. Still, she wasn’t fast enough to miss an intriguing tableau.
The stranger striding away from Daniel. Daniel shouting after him.
Ruth lowered her car window, just a touch, to catch the words.
Daniel called, “You’re really pissed? Over a girl like her?”
A girl like her. It was a familiar phrase, especially from Daniel’s lips.
But there was nothing familiar about the stranger. He tossed a glare over his shoulder and called back, “Don’t worry about it. I’ll walk.”
Chapter Three
The next morning, Ruth opened her curtains and scowled at the unholy brightness of 10A.M.
She was not made for mornings.
But today, she’d have to cope. Ruth wanted to be out of the house when the courier came; it was easier that way. Plus, a brunch date with her sister was long overdue.
She chanted those reasons to herself as she got dressed. Pyjamas, she knew, were frowned upon in public settings, so she wore a soft, jersey tracksuit instead.
Whatever.
Hannah was waiting for her at the Greengage Cafe, which held the dubious honour of being Ravenswood’s only cafe. It was also the only place, aside from the local pub, that served food before 5 P.M. Ruth couldn’t go to the pub; too crowded. Plus, she didn’t mix well with tipsy locals.
So she shuffled into Greengage, and sank into a dainty, white chair opposite Hannah, and tried to blend into the furniture. It didn’t work very well, maybe because the chair was barely wide enough to contain Ruth’s arse. Or maybe because Hannah, in her shiny lip gloss and jewel-toned knit set, was ruining Ruth’s bland effect.
“Sit up straight,” Hannah said. The please was silent. She snapped her menu shut and caught the eye of a passing waitress with ease. “What will you drink?”
“Water,” Ruth mumbled. Why Hannah asked every time, she had no idea.
“And what will you eat?”
Ruth rolled her eyes. “You know what I’ll eat.”
“I wouldn’t dare to assume.”
“Don’t be an arse.”
As the waitress neared, Hannah’s exasperation melted into a beatific smile. “Good morning, Annabel.”
The teenager didn’t smile back. Her tone robotic, she said, “Drinks?”
“We’re ready to order, thank you.” Hannah’s light, pleasant voice never faltered, and her smile never wavered.
Ruth didn’t know how she did it.
“We’ll have a strawberry lemonade, an orange juice, and water for the table. I’ll have the…” Hannah studied her menu as if she hadn’t already chosen. She was always conscious of seeming too perfect. She knew it intimidated people. “The eggs Benedict,” she said finally. “Ruth?”
Sigh. Clearing her throat, Ruth said, “Ham and cheese omelette. Brown toast, no butter. Thanks.”
The waitress, Annabel, didn’t even look in Ruth’s direction. She shut her notepad with a little slap and snatched the menus from the table.
“Well,” Hannah murmured. “You fixed that girl’s bike, once. Do you remember?”
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
“About five years ago. Her father wouldn’t take it down to Mack’s, and you fixed it for her.”
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
“She had braces. She thought you were God on earth.”
“You blaspheme too much. Mum would slap you.”
“If Mum hasn’t slapped either of us yet, she never will.” Hannah winked one perfectly made-up eye.
Ruth laughed. That was her sister’s superpower; she could always make Ruth laugh.
Sometimes, being with Hannah was as easy as ever. Sometimes, being with Hannah was like tiptoeing through a landmine of Ruth’s own guilt and self-loathing.
When it was like that, things only got worse and worse. Hannah would be upset at Ruth’s cold silence, and try to hide it, and Ruth would want to say, It’s not you or anything you’ve done, it’s me and this fucked-up tongue that won’t obey and this fractured mind that won’t think and the guilt I thought I’d gotten over lurking like a shark beneath dark waters. Can you forgive me for making you pretend? Can you forgive me for being yet another reason you pull up that false smile? I am an ungrateful sister.
Today was not one of those days. Nothing dramatic occurred. Hannah wasn’t too annoyed when Ruth refused to drink the juice she hadn’t asked for. Ruth managed not to drop anything or spill anything, or otherwise command the kind of attention that made her want to jump into a grave. Things were easy.
Until they weren’t.
Cameron Wright and Will Hardy wandered into Greengage with raucous grins and boisterous words. They had been inseparable as children, and adulthood hadn’t changed that. They’d also been nasty little shits, and adulthood hadn’t changed that either.
Ruth wondered if they’d ever been more than a metre apart since infancy; she rather thought not. And yet, they always shouted to each other as though they were miles away.
Until they set eyes on Ruth. They were silent enough then. For a moment.
“Well, well!” Cameron grinned. His smile was too wide for his narrow face, so he looked like a cartoon character, mouth pasted over hollow cheeks. He sauntered over to Ruth and Hannah’s table, flattening his palm against the varnished wood. He leaned over Ruth, and said, “Look what we have here.”
“Gentlemen,” Hannah murmured. “My sister and I are waiting for the cheque.”
“Gentlemen,” Will mocked, making his voice high and tight. He came to stand beside Cameron, folding his arms and thrusting his hips forward. “Hello, Hannah. How’s your stick?”
Hannah released the sort of exhausted sigh she typically reserved for misbehaving toddlers, and did not answer.
Ruth stared dully at a crumb on her plate and tried to unlock her latent mutant powers. She knew she had some. They should come out under moments of extreme stress. Surely, if she could teleport or, say, tear a man’s head from his body, that ability would make itself known now?
“You know,” Will continued, smirking over at Hannah. “Your stic
k.”
“Yes,” Hannah drawled. “The stick up my arse. Don’t worry, Will; I understand the joke.”
The two men guffawed together, as if they hadn’t told that ‘joke’ a thousand times over the last ten years at least.
Then Cameron turned his attention back to Ruth. His eyes roamed the front of her oversized hoodie until they settled on the place he judged her breasts to be. Leering at a body he couldn’t see, Cameron said softly, “When you gonna give me a ride, babe?”
Ruth looked up at him, her face blank, her eyes dead. “You know the rules. I only fuck guys with money.”
Under the table, Hannah kicked her in the shin. Ruth ignored it.
Cameron straightened, his too-wide smile impossibly wider. “I’ve got money,” he said, making sure his voice carried.
“So have I,” Will said, more quietly. Because he was married.
Neither of them saw the manager coming over to their table, but they jumped slightly as the big man cleared his throat.
Walt Greengage put his big hands on his skinny hips and gave all four of them—Ruth, Hannah, Cameron, Will—a hard look. Then he said, “You ladies paid your bill?”
Ruth sighed. She reached into the deep pocket of her tracksuit bottoms and found a couple of twenty pound notes. The bill was £23.65. She threw both notes onto the table and stood, unable to even look at Hannah. “We’re going.”
She and Ruth left the café in silence, and stalked through the town centre in the same state. Only when they were far, far from Greengage did Hannah speak.
“Why do you let them do that?”
Ruth turned to face her sister. They were standing in the shadow of the town’s yarn shop, on a side street that not many frequented. Hannah would choose this for a confrontation, if she was too angry to wait for a completely private space.
“Are you blaming me for that?” Ruth asked.
Hannah’s dark eyes flashed. Her sensible shoes tapped against the gravel street, heel to toe, one after another. This meant that Hannah was furious, and holding it back.
“You know I’m not blaming you,” Hannah said tightly. “But I do wish you would stand up for yourself instead of… instead of goading them!”
A Girl Like Her (Ravenswood Book 1) Page 2
