“What do you mean?”
“Do you want me to spell it out for you? You areH-O-T.” She ducked her head, suddenly embarrassed, “And speaking of hot, here, let’s serve you some hot pizza because trust me you don’t want this cold.” She undercut her awkward joke with an equally awkward forced chuckle.
“I enrolled in seminary after Ma died,” he said suddenly. “And even though we weren’t close, she was still my Ma. And the way she went...” His throat worked hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “It wasn’t good.”
“Did she get sick?”
“Yeah, the disease was called heroin.” His smile was bitter. “As you can imagine, she ran around with some pretty shady characters. One of ’em must have killed her. No one knows who. An old lady found her body dumped in a parking garage in Rhode Island. Ma was on the concrete. Gunshot to the head.”
“That’s terrible.” Margot’s stomach heaved.
“Police never got a lead, never found who did it. I’d majored in theology at Boston College. Growing up, there was this guy, Father Kevin, and he saw me through a lot. He was a parent for me when no one else was. When my pal Sully decided to enter the priesthood, I decided why not. ‘Relieve the troubles of my heart and free me from my anguish.’ Psalms Twenty-Five, Sixteen, Seventeen.”
Margot felt trapped in a confusing confluence. On one side, there was her honest admiration of a man who’d faced extraordinarily difficult circumstances and tried to find an outlet for healing. On the other side was the fact she was turned on close to a ten out of ten. What was it about hearing this big lug of a man quoting Scripture that got her motor running?
She didn’t know, but she was willing to find out.
As the thought hit her, it was like a record scratched.
Bad motor! Turn off. Go back in the garage and think about what you’ve done.
She glanced at the kitchen and pointed, grateful for a distraction. “Look. I think that must be the doppelgänger that Dusk mentioned.”
Behind a food counter a tall, bearded, ginger-haired guy was tossing a pizza.
“Is he wearing hemp necklaces?” Patch said in a strangled tone.
“At least four or five. And that looks like a genuine vintage Grateful Dead T-shirt.”
“I got mistaken forthatguy?”
“Hey, he’s pretty handsome.”
Patch turned around and cocked a brow. “Your type.”
She shrugged. “I’m what you call an omnivore. Geeky. Bad boy. Mountain man. Sporty.”
“Sporty, eh?”
“I mean, my last boyfriend owned an MMA studio.”
“That asshole who was at your house.”
“An apt description.”
“I don’t like him.”
“Something we have in common. But I don’t want to talk about Stefan. I want to hear your verdict on the pizza. Go on, you haven’t taken a bite. Don’t think that I haven’t noticed.”
He glanced down with a sigh.
“Don’t be a baby. You face down slap shots travelling a hundred miles an hour. Enjoy the cheez.”
“That’s the problem,” he said glumly. “There is no cheese here.”
“C-h-e-e-z,” she spelled out.
“Fuck.” He shoved a piece in his mouth and chewed. His features remained inscrutable as ever, even as a vein rose on his neck.
