long, because he tips his head. “Meaning?”
“Nothing. Forget it.”
“Army brat?”
“Just brat.” As he laughs, I stand away from the desk. His brown eyes follow me. “And now I’m going to get some sleep.”
“That wasn’t much of a report on the evening,” he says, with mock displeasure. He has a sexy voice, sort of . . . messy. It’s the Pensacola in him, I guess. I like it. “I expect better next time.”
“Yeah. Maybe next time.”
“Night, Keeley.” His eyes remain fiercely attentive—totally at odds with how he scanned the place during our entire conversation. I take it as interest in me. Has to be, right? He’s not Jude, but after all the games at Yamatam’s, that’s a good thing.
I finally relax enough to smile back without all my psyched-out head games. It’s nice. It’s a relief. “Night,” I say with a little wave.
“By the way,” he calls when I’m halfway to the elevator, “who’s the girl you’re mentoring?”
“Adelaide Deschamps.” A frown darkens his expression and raises the hair on my arms. “Why?”
“No reason. Just wondered if I knew her.”
I don’t like deception, and I can spot it a mile away. There’s no place a guy can hide it on his face or in his voice where I won’t find it. Roaming eyes, unexpectedly bitter words—and now this?
“Sleep well,” he says.
I must be really tired, because the thought of calling Clair and John to tell them about such an earth-shattering night sounds exhausting. I’ll tell them in the morning. Instead, I remember only snippets of the short ride up the elevator, and barely anything about collapsing onto my narrow bed. What I do remember as I fall asleep is Brandon’s frown and the bad feeling he was keeping a secret from me.
What has everyone been missing when they look at Brandon Dorne?
Nine
W e’re just outside Kalamazoo.
The Buick LeSabre that Dad stole from a long-term parking lot at the Indianapolis airport has broken down. We’re parked at the side of a small highway. Smoke or steam pours out from the edges of the hood.
I’m . . . nine?
I’m in the backseat, watching semis pass. Their headlights are so bright. They leave giant whooshes of air in their wakes, shaking the car. Mom and Dad are outside fighting about who did what wrong. That means neither of them care that I really want my favorite teddy bear, Hammie, from out of the trunk. I’d get it myself if that wouldn’t mean attracting their notice.
It doesn’t matter when they jerk me out of the smoking car.
“You’re gonna help, Rosie girl,” my dad says. He looks terrible. His shirt is smudged with fast food grease stains. He’s got a goatee that needs cleaning up. Deeper than that, his eyes are wild—not from drugs, but from a lack of them. I know Kalamazoo is where they planned to meet up with some friends. I’m assuming “friends” means dealers or whatever.
Mom’s halfway to detox as well. She looks frantic, pacing, tugging at the hem of her too short, red, fake leather skirt. Her hair is platinum blonde and curled like a movie starlet. She could’ve looked pretty if not for her smudged eye makeup.
“Help?” The word is barely a squeak.
“We’re going to hide in there.” Dad points to a patch of thick trees. It’s summer. The air is humid and full of nighttime bug noises. “Understand? Hide . That means you can’t tell anyone.”
“Tell who?”
“Put these on,” she says, half snarling.
I don’t look at the clothes she’s thrust into my arms and I don’t ask if I can get back in the car to change. I already know the answer. So I do my best to hide against its far side, where the headlights can’t find me, and wiggle into my best dress. It’s my con dress. It’s the dress they make me wear when it’s time for a cute little girl to become living bait. Covered in lace and swirling patterns of roses . . . I hate it.
Tights.
Shoes.
Then Mom does my hair up in ponytails with bows. I
“Nothing. Forget it.”
“Army brat?”
“Just brat.” As he laughs, I stand away from the desk. His brown eyes follow me. “And now I’m going to get some sleep.”
“That wasn’t much of a report on the evening,” he says, with mock displeasure. He has a sexy voice, sort of . . . messy. It’s the Pensacola in him, I guess. I like it. “I expect better next time.”
“Yeah. Maybe next time.”
“Night, Keeley.” His eyes remain fiercely attentive—totally at odds with how he scanned the place during our entire conversation. I take it as interest in me. Has to be, right? He’s not Jude, but after all the games at Yamatam’s, that’s a good thing.
I finally relax enough to smile back without all my psyched-out head games. It’s nice. It’s a relief. “Night,” I say with a little wave.
“By the way,” he calls when I’m halfway to the elevator, “who’s the girl you’re mentoring?”
“Adelaide Deschamps.” A frown darkens his expression and raises the hair on my arms. “Why?”
“No reason. Just wondered if I knew her.”
I don’t like deception, and I can spot it a mile away. There’s no place a guy can hide it on his face or in his voice where I won’t find it. Roaming eyes, unexpectedly bitter words—and now this?
“Sleep well,” he says.
I must be really tired, because the thought of calling Clair and John to tell them about such an earth-shattering night sounds exhausting. I’ll tell them in the morning. Instead, I remember only snippets of the short ride up the elevator, and barely anything about collapsing onto my narrow bed. What I do remember as I fall asleep is Brandon’s frown and the bad feeling he was keeping a secret from me.
What has everyone been missing when they look at Brandon Dorne?
Nine
W e’re just outside Kalamazoo.
The Buick LeSabre that Dad stole from a long-term parking lot at the Indianapolis airport has broken down. We’re parked at the side of a small highway. Smoke or steam pours out from the edges of the hood.
I’m . . . nine?
I’m in the backseat, watching semis pass. Their headlights are so bright. They leave giant whooshes of air in their wakes, shaking the car. Mom and Dad are outside fighting about who did what wrong. That means neither of them care that I really want my favorite teddy bear, Hammie, from out of the trunk. I’d get it myself if that wouldn’t mean attracting their notice.
It doesn’t matter when they jerk me out of the smoking car.
“You’re gonna help, Rosie girl,” my dad says. He looks terrible. His shirt is smudged with fast food grease stains. He’s got a goatee that needs cleaning up. Deeper than that, his eyes are wild—not from drugs, but from a lack of them. I know Kalamazoo is where they planned to meet up with some friends. I’m assuming “friends” means dealers or whatever.
Mom’s halfway to detox as well. She looks frantic, pacing, tugging at the hem of her too short, red, fake leather skirt. Her hair is platinum blonde and curled like a movie starlet. She could’ve looked pretty if not for her smudged eye makeup.
“Help?” The word is barely a squeak.
“We’re going to hide in there.” Dad points to a patch of thick trees. It’s summer. The air is humid and full of nighttime bug noises. “Understand? Hide . That means you can’t tell anyone.”
“Tell who?”
“Put these on,” she says, half snarling.
I don’t look at the clothes she’s thrust into my arms and I don’t ask if I can get back in the car to change. I already know the answer. So I do my best to hide against its far side, where the headlights can’t find me, and wiggle into my best dress. It’s my con dress. It’s the dress they make me wear when it’s time for a cute little girl to become living bait. Covered in lace and swirling patterns of roses . . . I hate it.
Tights.
Shoes.
Then Mom does my hair up in ponytails with bows. I
Similar Books
