With a tilt of his head, he presented his hand but didn’t reach toward mine. “I am Drayven Narax.”
We stood that way for a few seconds, our fingertips only inches apart.
“You’re supposed to shake my hand.” I smiled. Maybe the endorphin release at being saved caused giddiness to settle in my belly. “You’re not from around here, are you?”
“Not exactly.” He clasped my hand in his, his fingers against my palm and shook it, as if giving me an up and down high five.
What the hell…I shifted my hand and angled it so the tender skin between our thumbs met. “Thisis a handshake. You know, the thing we do in greeting. I dunno what the hellthatwas.”
Even in the semi-dark, his neck flushed a violent red.
“That is not a greeting.” He pulled his arm away and stuck his hands into the back pockets of his cargo pants. “WhereIcome from, we touch the tips of our fingers together, signifying we are one in that moment.”
“That sounds weird and sweet.” I tried not to stare, but I was enthralled. He spoke strangely and seemed clueless when it came to handshakes. “Where are you from? I can’t place your accent.”
“My accent?” He touched a thick bracelet on his wrist. “I was not aware I had an accent.”
“It’s faint, but it’s there.” I opened the tailgate to my truck, then dug around in the cooler next to my mattress. “Wanna beer?”
“A beer?”
“Yeah, a beer. Yes or no?”
“Y-yes.”
Pulling out two cans of Bud from their icy, watery bath, I shut the lid and turned.
He seemed so lost, so out of place.Like me. No home, no family, just odd jobs to get me from one day to the next.
But I didn’t know his situation, not truly. Momma had always said my imagination had no limits. As usual, when I thought of her, a heavy sadness fell around my shoulders.Why did she leave me with Roger? Had I not shown her enough love? Did I make her leave?I knew these questions should’ve been stupid, especially at my age, yet the always lingered.
With a deep, focused breath, I shrugged the depression away.Now’s not the time to rehash the past.I tossed a can to Drayven. “Catch.”
His hand shot up so fast I blinked twice to make sure I wasn’t hallucinating.Nope. He’s quick as a cat. I’m lucky for that, I suppose, otherwise I’d be on my way to the hospital.
“So, where ya staying?” I rolled an old tree stump closer to him and pointed, then sat in my chair and popped the top of my can. The yeasty taste slid down my throat. “Ah, that’s good.”
His eyes watched my mouth as I took another swig, then his attention followed my throat. When he caught me watching him, he jerked his gaze to my face. “I am not staying here, just visiting.” With a quick glance at the old stump, he sat, his spine erect. Tilting the can to the side, he read the label. “I have never triedal-co-hol.”
The puzzlement on his face made me chuckle. “I don’t drink it often, but every now and again, I enjoy one after a long day of work.”
He pulled at the tab, and my attention flickered to his long, slender fingers. “So, Gerri Johnson, what is your occupation?” The can fizzed briefly, then he held it to his lips and chugged the entire thing in one gulp.
I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand. “I mostly paint.”He’s going to get one hell of a rush when the alcohol hits his bloodstream.
He licked his lips and grimaced. “Beer is not good.”
“There are people who would argue that.” I grinned. “And I have to admit it was an acquired taste for me.”
“So, your occupation is painting.” He pointed to my unfinished canvas. “Like that?”
“I wish.” I see-sawed the can back and forth in my grasp, enjoying the cold, wet condensation collecting on the outside of the aluminum. “I don’t really like to be in one place for too long,so I stay at parks and look for small painting jobs in the area. It’s easy to find work most of the time.”
“What happened to your home?”
I shrugged. “My stepdad was a prick and kicked me out at seventeen, even though the house was in my mom’s name.” I craned my head toward my camper. “But you know what? It wasn’t really a home even then. My truck is all the home I want. Everything worked out for the best.”At least, that’s what I always tell myself.
A line formed between his brows. “I think I can understand how you feel. I have never even seen my home.”
