Page 59 of Finding Storm

She gives me a look. “There’s really a band called Five Finger Death Punch?”

I laugh. “Yep. Terrible name, great fucking music. I’ll play them for you sometime.”

“You want to listen to Madonna with me?”

“I don’t actually mind Madonna.”

“Really?” Her whole face lights up.

“Just FYI, you do know that Madonna has made a shit-ton of music outside of the eighties?”

“I’m aware,” she says primly. “I just like her early stuff.”

“I really liked her erotica phase.”

“Course you did.” She rolls her eyes, and I laugh.

“So, you admit that you do know some music outside of the eighties?”

“Never said I didn’t. I just choose not to listen to it.”

And if I ain’t thankful for that because it means she has no clue who I really am.

“So, you’re from LA?” she asks me a moment later.

Oh, yeah, I said that when we were back at the garage.

“Yeah.” I could stop at that, but my lips keep moving. “I was born in Queens though. Moved to LA when I was thirteen.”

“When you were adopted?” she asks, her voice a touch quieter.

I nod. And she doesn’t ask any more details, and I’m glad for it.

Stevie seems to know when I’m done talking. It’s a trait I appreciate. Especially when everyone is always up in my business, asking me questions about my life all the time.

“This is us,” she says a few moments later.

I follow her up the steps toward a big split-level house with gray bricks and blue paneling. The upstairs has a balcony over the entryway to the house.

It reminds me of a house you’d see in one of those Hallmark movies. You know the type, where the big-city guy shows up to try to buy the house, so he can flatten it and build offices there and ends up falling in love with the hot female owner.

And no, I don’t spend all my time watching Hallmark movies. But Tru watches them, and sometimes, it’s hard not to get drawn in.

Those shitty movies are as addictive as crack.

Not that I’d ever admit that out loud.

I ignore the pang I feel in the center of my chest when I think about Tru.

I’m not going there right now. I’m not losing this good feeling I have from being around Stevie.

She lets us in the front door, closing it behind us.

“Gran,” she calls out, walking toward the reception desk in the hallway. She picks up a piece of paper off the desk. “I left her this note before I went out. She’s probably not home yet.” She rounds the desk and drops the paper into a waste bin behind there.

I lean my hip against the desk.

“I’ll just quickly check you in. Grab that shirt I promised you. And then I’ll show you to your room. Any preference to which room? You have your pick. Our last guest left this morning, and no one else is due for a couple of days.”