Neither of us mentions that my brother’s crime wasn’t one they took quite so lightly.
“He’s got a parole hearing. I think early next year.”
“He’ll get out,” he says, although we both know it’s not a given.
In the ensuing silence, I latch onto the sight of his thick, corded neck, the hair-rough Adam’s apple that moves whenever he takes a swallow of booze.
“How’d you get into this business?”
My startled gaze lifts to preternaturally light eyes. “Oh. Randomly, I guess. Waited tables. Bartended through college. Then stuck around because it was quick money and I liked it and it paid for my husb—” I clear my throat to get that word out of my body. “Myex’sgrad school.”
His thick brows rise. “He ever pay you back?”
The answer to that question’s caught in the nasty snarl of emotions clogging my chest.
The best I can do is a forced smile and a redirect. “What about you?”
“Me?”
“How’d you get into your line of work?”
“Well, your brother’s part of it, I guess.”
“Yeah?”
“Frank convinced me not to ruin my life by doing what he did the second I got out.” He looks down, gaze lost in the glass of booze for a few seconds. I want to ask so many questions, but manage to hold my tongue. “Helped me find a program for ex-cons. Welding. I was a brawler, you know. Had to do something physical to get it out of my system and working nights down at the plant wasn’t gonna cut it.”
“You’d lose your soul doing that.”
“Yeah. In some ways, it was worse than prison.” When he looks up, his smile’s very faint, barely a smile, actually, but it’s so attractive that the weight turns liquid and slides further south. “Or almost.”
I get the feeling, looking at him, that nothing could be worse than prison. I don’t let myself consider what Frank must be going through.
“Anyway. I had someone outside, too, who gave a shit enough to take me in and point me in the right direction.”
I picture a woman, of course.
“Was that around here?”
“Over in the valley. Guy ran a gym. He…” His eyes flick up to meet mine. “You don’t want the full story.”
I do, actually, but it would be weird to admit that. Instead, I go with. “Is that where you grew up? The valley?”
“Yeah. Workin’ in my parents’ diner. On 81. In some ways, I guess you could say the diner raised me.”
“Well, you’re good.”
“I get by.”
Staring at the glass of amber liquid in my hand, I suck in a deep, shaky breath, and finally meet his gaze. “Thank you. For taking over the kitchen. And all the other stuff you’ve done. I didn’t realize you were…” My throat goes tight. “And thanks for tonight. I don’t entirely get why you’re here, especially since you don’t need the money, but I owe you?—”
“You want the truth?”
Do I? I hesitate, watching him watch me. It’s a strange sensation to be the focus of so much attention. I’m not used to it. Can’t say whether or not I like it yet. I lick my dry lower lip and shrug with a nonchalance that is eighty percent bravado. “Sure.”
“I swung by ’cause Frank asked me to. Took the job because I liked the look of you.” The straightforward words shut me up and steal the air from my lungs. I’m still trying to come up with a response when he says. “I heard your messages. All of ’em.” His eyes flick up to one of the speakers, quiet now, then back to look at me. “Bad news.”
Mortification heats my face. “That was private.”
