“I won’t take your money for a sandwich, and I definitely won’t let you pay me to stay.”
“I wasn’t asking.”
I wipe my hands. “Listen, I let you stay in my daughter’s room because I can’t deal with a court day where an injured man says how I ran him over. Even though I was there for a house call for my client, who happened to be staying at the Crossbow mansion, just having been in the vicinity will raise suspicions that my lawyer will have to fight in court with my ex. And every time my lawyer fights with my ex, I have to shell out a stack of bills as thick as my thigh.” I bite into my sandwich. He’s not eating yet. “You’re lucky I’m keeping you.”
He opens his mouth and shoves half the sandwich inside, bites, and rips it into two. Eyes on me, he chews. Okay, the way he’s looking at me makes me want to get on my knees and pray for mercy. I should probably make him another sandwich. Or five. Or I could turn down the sass.
Yeah, no, I probably couldn’t do that last one even if I tried, so I lay out three slices of bread and stack him a triple-decker since he has a big mouth. I put it on his plate nicely. “There you go. I didn’t fling it at your head, so saythank you.” I toss the empty bread bag in the bin under the sink.
“Thank you,” he says. “I haven’t eaten in a while.”
“You don’t have to tell me when you’re hungry. After almost twenty years of marriage, I know what a man needs before he does.”
“You knowaman,” he repeats with emphasis on one man, my ex-husband.
“Don’t get me started.”
“But I must. I’m interested.”
I set my hands on my hips because that’s where I’m strongest. “Fine. I’m scorned, okay? ‘A man’ is a reference to any man who is not my father or my family. I’ve grouped you all into a single character I call an Asshole. That’s with a capital A. I’m only helping you because I ran you over.”
“Wish you hit me harder?”
“Maybe.”
He laughs.
It’s a nice, masculine sound that lights up his face. He’s very handsome. I shouldn’t think that, but I’m not blind.
You know what? Icanthink he’s handsome. He’s a grown man. I’m a grown woman. Albeit much older than he is, but still, a woman.
He sticks out his plate like a beggar, but I have no more bread.
I put the plate in the sink. “I can start on dinner now if you want.”
He shakes his head. “We’ll need supplies.”
Who calls foodsupplies? Or maybe it’s the language. He’s not a native speaker, but he does speak with a barely noticeable accent, so he’s fluent. Which means his vocabulary must include the correct word, which in this case is food. Or groceries. Or similar. Supplies is… Maybe he’s in the military? Did Crossbow hire him for his skills? The way he handled the gun was skilled.
I need to let the mystery of the man be. Stop being so curious about him.
I bite the sour pickle and wash my hands, then round the kitchen bar to where he’s sitting. His leg is up on the other bar chair. His ankle is looking rough. He’s wearing Chi-chi’s boy shorts and the black Metalminini T-shirt I got her after the concert we went to her sophomore year in high school.
“You are not wearing my daughter’s underwear, are you?”
“No. That’s why I need supplies. Clothes, food, some hardware.”
A picture of Massio Crossbow on the TV screen derails my reply. Under the image it reads: “Presumed dead.”
I gape. “Holy crap, turn it up.” I reach for the remote, but the man swipes it so fast, his hand is a blur. Those are some fast reflexes. He must be military or law enforcement or something along those lines.
The man unmutes the TV, and we listen to the reporter, who confirms what the captions say. Massio Crossbow, Selnoa’s kingpin and one of the most awful men in the world, is presumed to be dead.
“Serves him right,” I say. “What kind of a man hangs his wife from a bridge? And by her intestines, so her extremities hang at awkward angles? I remember I was in the school bus the day we passed under the bridge where she hung, and I kept thinking, how come this woman is just hanging there for days with nobody picking up her body, you know?”
The man stares at his hands.
“You probably don’t remember that.”
