“You don’t get it. You don’t think like I do.”
“I know that.”
“College isn’t for everyone, you know.”
“I know that, too.”
I ducked further into the shadows when the door to the bar slammed open, giving way to tan, tattooed legs and a denim-covered ass made for eating. Fuck, what I wouldn’t give to spend a lifetime—or at the very least, an hour—between those dimpled cheeks.
Nessa wore her curves with confidence, which only made her more intriguing, intimidating. Five-and-a-half feet of charm andassertiveness packed into cutoff shorts and Old Navy flip-flops. She made me nervous in a way I hadn’t experienced since I’d been a scrawny teenager struggling to ask Maddie Mason to the homecoming dance. That had been the spring before I’d made varsity and shot up seven inches practically overnight.
“Are you even listening?”
I snapped out of my Nessa Gibbs-induced daze and lowered my voice. “I hear you, Belles.”
“You should be okay with me wanting to drop out. After all, you’re the one footing the bill.”
I stepped away from the wall, watching as Nessa trotted down the sidewalk, keys clutched between her fingers like Wolverine. She might not have wanted an escort, but I wasn’t going to leave until I knew that she made it safely to her car.
“You know the cost isn’t a problem.”
“Then what is?”
How could I explain this to her in a way that she would understand? How could I tell my baby sister that for years, I had watched as our father had financially manipulated our mother, the woman he had gotten pregnant when she’d been barely out of high school and he’d been old enough to be her father, and that a degree was the first step toward making sure that never happened to her, too?
Talk about a conversation that no brother wanted to have with their sister. It wasn’t fair for either of us. Still, it beat being stuck in an abusive relationship. This way, whether Bella understood it or not, she would always have something to fall back on, to sustain herself if Mom or me weren’t around.
“Look,” I told her, evening out my tone. Tonight wasn’t the night for this conversation. Not when I could barely muster the energy to hold up a bag of loaded tater tots. “The semester just started. You just moved into your new apartment. Please, do me a favor and give it a chance.”
Silence met me from the other end of the phone.
“We can revisit this conversation at Christmas.”
“Fine,” she grumbled.
“Thank you.”
An engine rolled over down the street, drowning out the sound of my rumbling stomach. I watched as Nessa’s car, which was desperately in need of a wash, pulled away from the curb, bound for the east side of town.
“Belles, you know I love you.”
“Yeah, yeah,” she said, exasperated. “If youreallyloved me, you would prove it.”
“How?”
“By getting metwohives for Mom’s yard.”
Nessa
“Ness, the box of L.J. Howard books came in.”
I looked up from my clipboard in time to see Xan, one of my part-time sales associates, lug a large cardboard box in from the back door and set it on the counter. Good thing one of us had upper body strength.
“Perfect timing,” I told them. “I was just wrapping up this week’s inventory check.”
“Do you want me to scan and stock them?” they asked, tapping the box with their pink-and-blue checkered coffin nails.
On top of being an excellent writer, who somehow balanced attending classes three days a week with slinging romance novels the rest of the time, Xan was also a wiz at nail art. I, on the other hand, could barely manage to paint my right hand, even after twenty or so years of practice.
