Outside the Lines (12 page)

“You're sure?” I ask, because I have to.

“You're implying I don't have my finger on the pulse?” His tone is softer now, more deadly. “That's the respect you have for your old man? Chop the head off the snake and everything will fall into place. My son would know that without me having to say it.”

So much for code.

“Yes, Pop,” I answer, because that was a directive. Oliver Savoca is going down. “You got any dance partners you can send my way?”

He barks a laugh, then there's a click. He's gone.

End of our touching family reunion.

I lower the phone, take a deep breath. There's no one I can trust. Even he knows it.

Blood pounds in my ears over the bad bar music. I hang my head as my whole world swirls down the toilet like a giant turd. “Fuck!” I say again, pounding my fist through the wall.

“Hey,” someone says. I look up to see the brunette at the opening to the hallway. “Everything okay?”

No. Everything is totally fucked.

She saunters up the hall toward me and hooks a finger into one of my belt loops, pulling me toward her. “I can think of a better way to relieve stress.”

I grab her ass and yank her toward me, but when I seal my mouth over hers, I realize I need to be a whole lot drunker before I do this. Three rounds later, she hasn't stopped talking about her shitty job and pregnant sister, and I'm regretting my decision to let her stay.

I knock back the last of my drink and rub my fingers at the waitress, who nods and goes to the register. “I've got to hit the road.”

The brunette's hand slips between my legs and finds my package, flaccid now from all her jabbering. “You got a car in the lot, big boy?” she slurs.

“You need a ride somewhere?”

She leans in, pressing a whole lotta silicone up against my arm, and whispers in a cloud of alcohol, “I'll ride you anytime.”

I pay the check and stand, striding for the door, not really caring one way of the other if she follows. She does, and when we get to my car, she's got my fly down before I even have the door closed.

“Holy shit,” she groans appreciatively.

I adjust the seat back and let my knees fall open, giving her all the room she needs to do what she's doing with her hands. I'm zoning out, but my fuzzy thoughts come to a sharp focus on my dick a minute later when she goes down on me.

I drop my head back into the headrest and forget everything except what's happening between my legs. This is exactly what I needed to put things in perspective: a mindless blow job. I keep my eyes wide open and fist a hand into the hair on the back of her head, pressing her deeper.

Maybe it's because it's been a few months since I've been with anyone, or maybe it's because I'm fucking bursting with stored-up sexual tension from all those trips to a certain untouchable blonde's classroom, but it's over pretty fast. As I unload down her throat, despite my best effort to stay right here with this girl I don't know or give a shit about, the face I see in my mind has wide-set ocean blue eyes that pierce straight into my soul, and the name on my groan is “Adri.”

The brunette says something to me. I have no fucking clue what it is, but she leaves in a huff.

I zip up and crank the ignition, but then realize the storm in my head and the alcohol in my bloodstream make driving impossible. I cut the engine and tip my head back into the rest. It's the better part of forever later that my head starts to clear. I shoulder out my door and take a lap through the parking lot to test my sobriety. Getting picked up on DUI right now sure as fuck wouldn't help my cause or my family.

I'm passing the back of the bar when I hear a high-pitched whining from near the Dumpster. Next to it is a cardboard box. I peer inside and see the source of the whining—two gray puppies huddle in the corner of the box, shaking against the cool night air.

I drag a hand down my face. “Christ.”

I stick my hand in. One of them sniffs it, hoping it's food, no doubt. The other one backs deeper into the corner. I stroke my finger down the nose of the one checking me out. “Who the hell left you here?”

He whines, licks my finger.

I scoop up the box, carry it back to my car, set it in the passenger seat, and know I'm going to regret this in the morning.

*   *   *

“What the hell are you thinking, Rob? They could carry some disease, or have fleas,” Lee says as I overflow the cereal bowl on the floor with dog food.

I'm thinking we're never going to get our life back. I'm thinking if they're taking out the few guys who were loyal to me, they're coming after us next. Which means I'm thinking we're screwed seven ways to Sunday. We can't go back and it's only a matter of time before everything goes sideways here.

My head pounds. I'm still in the clothes I was wearing yesterday. More than anything, I want to shower the bar stench off me, but everyone was asleep when I came in last night. I sat on the kitchen floor with the puppies trying to keep them quiet until they finally fell asleep. And when I dozed against the cabinets, what came to me was the memory of the last time I brought home a stray dog.

It was the fall after Mom died. I thought Pop might be mad, but he told me we could use a guard dog if I could train it—make it obedient. It was aggressive and used to living on the streets, so Lee wouldn't let it in the house for fear it might hurt Sherm. But I was determined to gain its trust. I bought it toys and fed it from my hand, getting bitten in the process more than once. But little by little it became less feral. Over the next few months, I taught it to sit and roll, to fetch and shake. I loved that dog.

Until the day Pop came home and saw it in the backyard, chewing on the rawhide bone I'd given it as a reward for learning a new trick.

“That's your idea of a guard dog?” he sneered, the vein down the center of his forehead swelling as his face reddened.

“He'll chase off strangers,” I said, even though it was a lie.

Pop pulled his piece, pointed it at me. The dog sat up with the bone in its mouth and tipped its head curiously. Pop cocked the gun, held it to my forehead. I tried through sheer force of will to make that dog bare its teeth at the threat and growl. Instead, it padded over and dropped the bone at my shaking feet, its tongue lolling out, waiting for a pat on the head.

What it got instead was a hole in the head when Pop jerked the gun downward and shot it.

“I told you to train it and instead, you broke it,” Pop said as I stood there staring at my dead dog and swallowing pain that I couldn't show him. He tucked his piece away and started for the house. “Love makes you vulnerable,” he said without looking back. “Never forget that.”

That's where my mind was when Lee kicked me awake when she came down to make coffee a few minutes ago.

It turns out the thing I regret about last night isn't the puppies, despite Lee's look of consternation. It's the fuzzy recollection of a brunette in my car that turns my stomach.

“Listen, I could have left them there to die, or I could bring them home. I thought they might do Sherm some good. I'll take them to get checked out at the vet on Monday.”

Her expression softens as she surveys the two balls of gray fur, one dark and one light.

I picked up a variety of dog food on the way home, hoping they'd be able to eat something. I tipped the box on its side and put a bowl of water on the floor for them. The darker one, who's the more curious of the two, ventured out to explore the kitchen, then lapped at the water. The other one hasn't left the box. I moved the water into the box, but he still hasn't taken any. I also put out some canned food, which the bolder one ate.

“Maybe,” she says, reaching out and scratching the dark one's head. But then her gaze lifts to me and hardens again. “But I swear to God, Rob, if I'm the one who ends up scooping poop, you will find it in your bed.”

“You and Sherm doing okay sharing a room?” I ask, leaning into the counter.

She nods. “He's sleeping all night in his own bed now.”

“Good.”

She goes to the coffeemaker, gets it fired up. “Do they have names?”

“They're both male. I got that far. Thought I'd let Sherm handle the naming.”

She looks at them again. “They're probably a Sheppard mix. They're going to get big.”

There's a shuffling on the stairs. I look up to see Sherm making his way sleepily down with his cast cradled to his chest. As he stumbles into the kitchen, the curious pup charges at him, crashing into his legs and making him stumble.

His eyes open wide and a smile lights up his sleepy face. “What . . . ?”

Lee looks at me, but I push off the counter. I head to the living room to give Sherm some space with his new puppies.

“These guys need someone to take care of them,” she says, cutting me a look. “
Rob
brought them home for you because he thought you were up for the job. What do you think?”

I hang my head in defeat, but when I lift my eyes, Sherm is looking at me . . . and there might be something other than fear in his gaze.

He kneels down, scoops the puppy into his arms. It squirms away and runs back to the box, crashing into its sibling. The nervous pup yelps and the other barks and runs out of the box, skidding full speed into the cabinets.

Sherm giggles, then moves to the box and kneels low to peer inside. “Why won't it come out?”

“He's scared,” Lee answers. “You know how it is, moving to a new place and not really knowing what's what yet.”

“We're keeping them?” Sherm asks.

Lee shoots me an annoyed glance. “As long as you understand that they're your responsibility. I'm not going to be feeding them and walking them and scooping their poop, Sherm. That's all on you.”

He slowly reaches into the box, runs a finger over one of the timid puppy's legs. “It's okay,” he tells him. “I'll show you around.”

He keeps petting the puppy's leg. After a minute the puppy uncoils from the corner of the box and shifts into Sherm's hand. After a little more coaxing he comes out of the box and rubs up against Sherm's body.

Lee looks at me with a hopeful smile.

A lump rises in my throat as I realize what I want most for Sherm. A normal life. Until now—exactly this second, watching Sherm—my perception of normal was being Chicago royalty and everything that entailed. But everything about that life is so fucking
ab
normal. Sitting on the kitchen floor with puppies in your lap is what normal nine-year-olds should be doing. Laughing when they lick your face. Not watching your pop shoot your dog or worrying when the next attempt on your life is coming.

But how the fuck can I give him that when my path has been set since I was born? I can't just change course.

Can I?

“Rob thought you might want to name them,” Lee says to Sherm.

He scoops the shy puppy up with his good arm. It settles into his chest as he thinks. I turn and climb the stairs two at a time, needing that shower. “Crash and Burn,” I hear him say as I disappear into the bathroom at the top.

Adri

Sherm's sister called Friday to say he wouldn't be in school. I was hoping he'd feel good enough over the weekend to come to school today, but it's almost morning recess and he's not here yet. I still haven't gotten a message that he's not coming, so I keep watching the parking lot for a blue Chevy Lumina. I've just finished the new math unit and am handing out the worksheet when I see it roll into an empty parking space.

“Take one and pass it down,” I say to the class. “We'll spend the twenty minutes before recess working on these, then go over them when . . .” But then Rob steps out of the car and I lose my train of thought. He slings Sherm's backpack over his shoulder, then moves to the passenger side and opens the door for him.

Snickers from the class pull me back to the room.

“Um . . . we'll go over the answers when you come back in,” I finish, handing out papers to the front row.

When Rob ushers Sherm into the room a minute later, I can't take my eyes off the cast on Sherm's left arm. The blue sling tugs at his neck, causing him to hunch over a little.

A lead weight sinks in my stomach. I can't believe I did this to him. As Sherm starts toward his seat in the back, I notice the bruise under Rob's left eye has faded since Thursday, now more blue than purple.

“Sherm,” I say, lowering my lashes, avoiding Big Brother's eyes at all costs . . . for a number of reasons, guilt being the primary one at the moment.

Sherm stops and looks at me, and I wave him toward my desk.

“Do you want to sit here?” I ask, gesturing to Jason's desk. “He won't be back this year.”

My gaze shifts to Rob of its own accord and he rakes his teeth over his lower lip. The gesture is so damn sexy I have to fight for my next breath.

I tear my eyes away from him. “So, what do you think?” I ask Sherm.

“Okay,” he says and clambers into the seat, one leg tucked under him and his left arm cradled to his stomach.

Rob sets Sherm's backpack down next to his desk, then leans in and asks in a low voice, “He's expelled?”

I nod. “He and his two friends.”

“I got new puppies,” Sherm says. “Can I bring them for show-and-tell?”

“Wow!” I say. “More than one?”

He nods vigorously. “Crash and Burn.”

I can't stop the laugh. “Okay, then. I'm sure we can work out a day for you to bring them.”

“Just let me know when,” Rob says, then turns for the door.

“Mr. Davidson?” I call on a desperate urge just as he's opening it.

He turns slowly and levels me in his heated gaze.

“If you could wait for about ten minutes until recess, I'd like to have a word.”

He holds me hypnotized by those intense eyes for what feels like forever. “I'll be outside,” he finally says.

I let out the breath I was holding as he slips through the door.

I spend the next ten minutes until the recess bell catching Sherm up on the math unit while the other students work on their handout. “I'll give you everything you missed Friday to take home. You have all the time you need to make it up, and if anything is confusing, bring it in and we'll talk about it, okay?”

He nods and slides out of his seat. Macie comes to his side and leads him out to recess.

I smooth my skirt and follow them. When I look toward the parking lot, Rob is leaning against the fender of his car, one fist deep in his jeans pocket and the other holding his phone to his ear. He pushes off the car and starts sauntering my way when he sees me.

“Yeah, just getting him settled,” he says into the phone as he reaches me. “Tell Danni I'll be there as soon as I can.” He disconnects, shoving his phone in his pocket, then stands there staring at me.

I clear my throat and push the door wider. “What happened to your eye?”

“Ran into the door.”

He says it with no expression whatsoever, and I have no idea if it's the truth. Usually I'm pretty good at telling if people are lying. I'm dying to ask who Danni is and what that call was about, but I force myself to focus on the issue at hand. “I wanted to talk about Sherm.”

His gaze drills into mine for a second longer before he takes my invitation and steps into the room. I close the door behind us before moving to my desk, but he stays near the exit.

“Again, I'm so sorry about what happened with those other boys. I can't help but feel responsible, and I wanted you to know how truly awful I feel.”

He digs his fists deeper into his pockets, as if trying to restrain himself. “He told Lee he thinks he broke one boy's nose.”

I tip my head at him. “He did.”

He nods slowly, his expression some odd combination of pride and condemnation.

“Why didn't he tell
you
that?”

“What do you mean?” he says, visibly stiffening.

“I mean, you said he told Lee. Does he talk to you? Because, honestly, I've never seen him utter a single word to you.” I do a pretty good job of keeping the nerves out of my voice.

Anger flares in his eyes, but he can't hide the pain that's obviously the fuel for that anger. “He's still adjusting.”

“It's been a month and a half. He's opening up here at school, making friends, talking to people. He talks to your sister. So why is he struggling to open up to you, specifically?”

“What happens in our family is none of your business,” he growls through a tight jaw.

I wrangle up every ounce of courage I have. “Why is your father in jail?”

“Did Sherm tell you that?”

“He did. He said he went away to jail, but he didn't know why. You told me he was dead.”

Rob steps closer, his fists tight at his sides. “I want you to leave him alone. You have no right to grill him about things that don't concern you.”

“I didn't grill him,” I say, trying to keep the defensiveness out of my tone, because I did, a little.

His expression turns cynical. “So he just told you that, out of the blue.”

“He talks to me, Rob. I sit and listen and he talks. He trusts me.”

His face pales slightly. “What else has he told you?”

“That he misses his house and his old friends. That he wishes he could have brought his Legos when you left home.”

“And . . . ?” he says, taking a step closer, holding me in his paralyzing gaze.

It takes me a second to find my train of thought. “He says the part he likes most about Port St. Mary is the sharks and that he can swim in the ocean, but he wishes the road near your house was paved so he could skateboard.”

He tips his head at me. “Nothing else about . . . me?”

I take a deep breath and hold it for a second, trying to decide how hard to push. “I know something scared him badly, and I think it might have something to do with you.”

“You think I hurt my brother?” he asks, circling closer, like a panther stalking his prey.

I stand my ground. “No. I don't think you hurt him. But I think something you did scared him.”

“Why would you think that? What, exactly, did he say?”

“It's more what he doesn't say. He tells me what Lee made for breakfast, or that Grant and Ulie fought over what to watch on TV, but anytime I mention your name, he stops talking. I think, whatever happened, you told him not to speak of it. He's scared to say anything either
to
you or
about
you.”

He stalks closer and stops just a foot away. He looks like he's holding on to control by a thread, and it occurs to me I probably should have done this outside in the open, with witnesses. “So, Sherlock, what do you deduce this terrible thing is?”

I shake my head, refusing to be intimidated. “I don't know, but whatever it is, I think it scared the crap out of
both
of you.”

He goes still, his eyes narrowing just a trace. “There isn't much that scares me anymore.” His voice is deadly calm.

I hold his gaze. “Which means it must have been truly horrible. You're traumatized, just like Sherm. It just manifests differently with you. Whereas Sherm withdraws into himself and internalizes his fear, you're always on the attack. You never let your guard down and you see a threat in everyone. You barely talk, and when you do, you manage to give nothing away. No one can break through the armor you've constructed around yourself. Even Sherm. It's classic post-traumatic stress disorder.”

“Not Sherlock,” he says, arching an eyebrow at me and rubbing his chin. “Freud.”

“I minored in psychology . . . and . . . I think you and Sherm both need to get some help.”

He leans in, his jaw flexing, his intense gaze less angry now and more hungry. “So, you think there's a cure for what ails me, doc?”

I want to have this conversation. I want to figure out how to help Sherm. But I can't deny the tingle in my belly at the sudden change in his demeanor.

“If you could find a therapist you're comfortable talking to . . . maybe a family therapist who could work with you and Sherm . . . I think it would really help him.”

He steps closer, toe-to-toe with me now, and all of a sudden the gates are down. The depth I saw in his eyes the day Sherm got hurt is back, and everything he's feeling is swirling to the surface. “So, you don't want to know all my darkest secrets? You don't want me to open up and spill my guts so you can save me?”

It almost sounds like a plea rather than a question, as if he
wants
to tell me everything.

And the answer is yes. I want to know in the worst way what this beautiful man's demons are. “I'd be happy to listen if you'd be comfortable talking to me.”

It comes out breathier than I'd hoped and he notices. His eyes spark and some expression that I would say is desire if I didn't know better flashes over his face. He makes me feel like he'd eat me whole if he could. I don't remember anyone ever looking at me quite like that before.

“What is it, exactly, that you think you can do?” he asks, low and calm, which is nothing like what I see happening in his eyes.

“I want to help you and Sherm both. I want you to stop feeling like you're all alone. I want to find a way to—”

He's on me so fast I don't even realize what's happening until he has me pinned against my desk. There's the initial jolt of fear, charging my bloodstream with raw adrenaline, but it's replaced an instant later by an explosion of heat in my core when his mouth closes over mine.