The Reasons to Stay (Harlequin Superromance) (8 page)

“Oh, then that explains it.” Smiling, she took a left into the parking lot.

They walked to the tall front doors of the building, through its columned portico. “We won’t be long. I already know the book I want. Then we’ll pick out a couple for you.”

“Uh-uh. I’m good.”

“Not according to the principal, you’re not.” She opened the door, and held it, inhaling the heady scent of books and freedom. Libraries had been her sanctuary growing up, a safe haven and a portal to worlds that were far more exotic than the poor side of Las Vegas. Programmed from an early age, her nerves settled.

She’d worked her way through the stacks, traveling everywhere: medieval castles, ranches, even other planets. And all for free. She inhaled. “You just haven’t found something to catch your interest yet. You will. Some of the best times I’ve ever had were reading books.”

He sighed again. “Just because you have no life, why do you have to take me down with you?”

When he rolled his eyes, she put a hand on the back of his neck and steered him inside. “You don’t know what you’re missing, but luckily you have me to show you the way.”

* * *

F
IFTEEN
MINUTES
BEFORE
opening, Adam scanned the store’s soda fountain. Priss sat at a table, nose in the
Widow’s Grove Telegraph
. He’d decided while shaving this morning that if he wanted to mitigate surprises in his life, he was going to have to stay close to Priss. At least that’s what he told himself in front of his bathroom mirror.

But standing here, feeling a tugging in his gut like the low-level pull of a magnet, he had to admit that his decision to stay close to Priss, to get to know her, was about more than self-preservation. He may not approve of her brother, her attitude or her rough edges, but he couldn’t deny his attraction. And it wasn’t just her trim dancer’s body, made even sexier by the fact that she seemed totally unaware of it. Lately his mind kept returning to her like an unchecked item on a to-do list. She was absolute chaos to his orderly life. So what was it about Priss that drew him to her?

Now that he finally quit avoiding and just asked the question, his mind spit out the answer. It was her
differentness. Yeah, but you can’t get much more “different” than Sin, and the reaction there is not the same at all.

Instead of carefully considering that revelation, he gave in to the tractor-beam pull. Crossing the floor, he slid into the chair opposite Priss.

The paper rattled when she turned the page. He cleared his throat. “It looks like they haven’t caught the guy yet.”

She peeked over the top of the paper. “What guy?”

Pointing to the front-page story, he said, “The guy who’s been breaking into houses around town the past three months.”

She closed the paper and glanced at the article. “Yeah, I read that. It’s weird that nothing is damaged or stolen, unless you count the food taken from the fridge.”

He crossed his legs and tried to look nonchalant. “I heard you took my mother for coffee.”

A wall fell, shuttering her expression. “I drove carefully, had her home in an hour and I didn’t corrupt her mind.”

She must really think him an ass. “Mom has lots of friends, but they’re older so they aren’t up to more than stopping by her apartment for a bit. I know she doesn’t get out as much as she’d like. Thank you.”

“Oh. I didn’t do it for you.” She flushed. “I mean, I was happy to do it. She’s a great lady and I enjoy her company.”

She looked like an innocent little girl when she blushed. He knew not to be deceived, but he appreciated it, regardless. “So, how’s your brother doing?”

“He hasn’t been in the store since that first day and he’s not bothering your mother.”

He spread his hands and shrugged. “I’m just trying to be nice.”

“Yeah, I see that.” She raised an eyebrow. “I’m trying to figure out why.”

He should have known she’d be suspicious. “Look, I came across a little...militant that day. I was pissed.”

“Well, I was a little over the top, too.” She shifted in her seat. “I swear I didn’t know he had that magazine—never imagined he’d do something like that.” Her lips twisted in a wince, as if the words hurt. “But I’m on it now. He won’t be a problem.”

He searched her intent green eyes. She meant it. “Has he always been a...challenge?”

“I wouldn’t know. I met him for the first time at my mother’s funeral.”

He uncrossed his legs and straightened. “How could you never have met your broth—”

“But we have an understanding, now.” She reached for her purse, put the strap over her shoulder, and lifted her chin. “We’ll make this work.”

“I’m sure you will.” He watched her fold the paper. Even her hands were different—long, elegant fingers with blunt-clipped nails. “Well, if he’s interested in softball, a new league will be starting up in the summer. I can get you the information, if you want.”

She flashed a smile. “Thanks. I’ll ask him.” She stood and walked away.

Adam sat, watching her go, surprised by his interest and dazzled by her smile.

But there was wild in that smile, too. And he didn’t do wild.
He slid his chair back, stood, walked to the drug counter and back to his to-do list.

* * *

T
HAT
NIGHT
P
RISS
sat on the couch, bare feet tucked under her, reading. She glanced up every so often to the kitchen table, where Nacho was supposed to be reading, but was mostly just sighing and fidgeting. “Dude. Read.”

She’d just gotten back to the castaways’ island when tap-tap-tapping intruded—Nacho’s heel against the rung of the chair. She put the book down. “Maybe it’ll help you get into the story if you read it out loud to me.”

“No.” He ruffled the pages with one hand.

“Yes.”

He put his fists to his temples and stared down at the book.

“Nacho—”

He slammed the book shut. “This is so freaking lame. Who gives a crap about some Baggins dude? This guy writes like in another language.”

Maybe
The Hobbit
wasn’t a good place to start. She’d fallen into the Middle Earth at Nacho’s age, but it might be too advanced for his reading level. She stood and walked to the small pile of library books on the counter. “Oh, here’s one I know you’ll like.”

“I don’t want to read. I don’t
like
to read.”

Now he was getting whiny. But if she could find
one
book to spark his interest it could change his whole opinion of reading. She ran her hand along the spine of the hardcover she held and bit back a retort. “Did you ever see
Harry Potter?
”

He glared at her. “How many movies did you go to when you were growing up?”

Of course he hadn’t. There was never money for extras in Cora’s house. “But it’s been on TV.”

He sat, a perfect poster child of sullen. “Yeah, like we had cable.” He pulled his hand away from his face, palm up. “Hellllooo—rabbit ears?”

“Oh, right.” She forced cheeriness in her voice. “That’s good, then, you’re in for a treat.”
God, I sound like a detergent commercial
.

When she tried to put the book in his hands, he sat on them.

She struggled to tamp down the irritation rising up cords in her neck, setting her teeth on edge. Instead of grinding them, she used them to bite her tongue.
You vowed to be understanding and attentive, remember?
All the things her mother hadn’t been.

She took a deep breath. Then another. When she was calm enough that her voice wouldn’t break glass, she said, “Okay, then I’ll read to you.”

He sat up. “What, do you think I’m a baby?”

She managed to keep from saying the obvious. Making him madder wouldn’t help. “Of course you’re not. But I loved being read to. When you don’t have to worry about the words, you can make up a story picture in your head. And as you get better at reading on your own, you’ll eventually be able to do both at the same time.” She stepped to the couch, and patted the arm. “Come, sit. Get comfortable. You’re going to love this book. I just know it.”

“If I
haveta
.” He walked over and plopped down on the couch, leaning his back against the cushioned arm. “But if you
ever
tell my homies you’re reading me bedtime stories...”

“Hey, no one will hear it from me.” Holding a smile in, she sat on the other end of the couch, pulled down the throw from the back, and spread it over Nacho’s feet where they lay next to hers in the middle.

He wasn’t as badass as he tried to appear. In fact, he was pretty adorable, with those dark eyes, long lashes and widow’s peak. All he needed was some understanding and a little patience. Hopefully this gang-thing was only a phase.

“Okay, be ready to meet a guy who’s got it pretty tough. His name is Harry, and he’s
way
cool.” She opened the book. “Mr. and Mrs. Dursley, of number four, Privet Drive were proud to say that they were perfectly normal, thank you very much...”

* * *

N
ACHO
REACHED
DOWN
to undo the clip on his backpack. “A guy I know stole these from a paint shop.” He upended the pack, spilling colorful spray cans into the weeds.

“Aw, sweet!” Diego said.

“Shut up, fool.” Joe scanned the abandoned field behind the warehouse. “You want to get caught?”

When the shoplifting initiation failed, they’d chosen to tag this warehouse. It wasn’t far from school, and it sat off by itself at the end of a quiet street. Nacho picked up the orange, yellow and black cans. “You guys do your thing. I’ll be around the side.”

Joe’s eyes widened. “If someone comes down the road or looks from the parking lot, they’re gonna see you.”

Nacho took a deep breath, happy to see it made his chest pump up. “Yeah, that’s not gonna happen. I’m fast. You guys hurry up. I’ll see you in a few.”

He left his friends fighting over the remaining colors and walked around to the side of the warehouse. They’d decided what each would tag, and even practiced drawing the designs so they’d be faster today. Diego was painting a Beretta, with smoke coming out of the barrel. Joe was printing their gang name,
Widow Makers,
as if the gun was firing it.

This is gonna be legendary.
No one could know it was them, of course, but Nacho couldn’t wait to hear kids talk about this at school.

He set down the other colors and came up holding only the black can. When Priss’s angry death-ray glare floated through his head, something uneasy squirmed in his chest. She’d be flaming pissed if she knew. He rubbed his breastbone with his fist.

“She’ll never know.” He shook the can, scanning his canvas.

CHAPTER SEVEN

“Y
EAH
,
BUT
G
ARCIA
has like seventy-five strikeouts, Barney,” Priss said as she wiped down the bar while glancing at the game on the TV. The usual suspects lined the other side of the bar. “And he’s got a thirty slugging percentage, which is pretty danged good for a pitcher, you gotta admit.”

“Ah, the A’s suck hind tit.” He took a sip of his beer.

She squinted at the grizzled old man. Hair stuck out everywhere—including his ears. “Why are you such a die-hard Tigers fan? Did you used to live in Detroit?”

He puckered his lips and looked into his glass like it held straight lemon juice. “No. I just like them. Is that okay with you?” He slid off the bar stool, hiked his too-big pants, and strode for the bathroom.

Priss watched him go. “What’d I say wrong?”

Porter coughed into his fist. “His grandson is a backup shortstop for the Tigers.”

“Wow, that’s amazing. He must be so proud. I’m surprised he never mentioned it.”

Ian shot a glance over his shoulder, then said in his soft burr, “Barney’s ex-wife turned his kids against him. He’s never even met his grandson.”

Porter said, “But don’t bring it up. Barn’s real sensitive about it.”

“I bet.” Priss imagined the old guy sitting in a shabby apartment at night without even the distraction of a TV to keep his regrets at bay. It seemed she and Nacho weren’t the only mutts in town, sniffing around the trash cans of polite society.

Her boob vibrated.

She pulled her phone from her bra. She didn’t recognize the number, but hit the button anyway. “This is Priss.”

“This is Officer Armijo, of the Widow’s Grove Police Department. Is this Priscilla Hart?”

“It is.” Her heart banged a beat like the drum solo in
Wipeout.
The clock next to the TV read four. Nacho was supposed to be home by now.
Please don’t let it be about Nacho—

“Ignacio Hart gave me your number. He is one of three boys we apprehended for defacing private property.”

A depth charge of acid exploded in her stomach.
Shit.
She scrabbled for the pad and pen in the pocket of her apron. “Where is he?” She scribbled the address.

“Ma’am, if you can be here in ten minutes or so, we’ll wait, cite him and release him into your custody. Otherwise, you’ll have to collect him from the station.”

“I’ll be there in just a few minutes.” She hit End. Her fingers fumbled as she dropped the phone back into her bra.

You can’t leave. Floyd’s not due here for another half hour.

You can’t stay—they’ll take Nacho to jail!

“What’s wrong?” Barney was back on his stool, his caterpillar eyebrows near his hairline.

“I’ve got an emergency. I have to go.” She scanned the bar. Thank God the lunch rush was over. Only a few tourists sat at tables, sipping margaritas. Floyd lived in Pismo Beach, a half hour away—he may have already left his house, but there was no way he was getting here in the next five minutes.

She couldn’t just run out and leave an open cash drawer. But she couldn’t shove all the customers out and lock up, either. Panic sizzled across her spine and popped along her nerves. Her mind skittered down dead-end corridors like a rat in a maze.

The door to the kitchen opened and Gaby’s bent form shuffled out, her hands full of a basket of chips and a bowl of salsa.

Priss ducked under the waitress station and jogged over to her. “Gaby. I need your help.”

The old lady looked at Priss as if she’d broken out of a locked ward. “Really.”

“I have an emergency. I have to go—like right now. If you’d just man the bar for a half hour till Floyd—”

“Floyd would be pissed. Sounds like you have a problem.” She shuffled by.

Priss grabbed her forearm. “Look, I’m begging you. This is really important. Please?”

The old bat stared lasers at Priss’s hand until she let go.

“Seriously. I’ll pay you.”

Her head jerked up, her greedy little eyes bright. “How much?”

“Twenty-five bucks.”

“Don’t waste my time.” She walked to the table in the corner and set down the chips and salsa.

It was going to take at least five minutes to get to the address the officer had given her. Priss felt the time ticking by in her pounding heartbeat. She blocked Gaby’s retreat to the kitchen, “Fifty.”

The crone paused. “I can’t fix nothing fancy. I can open a beer.”

Relief flooded Priss, liquefying her knees. “Thank you, Gaby, I—”

“Pay me now.” She put out a hand.

Priss reached into her apron pocket, hoping she had that much on her. “Jesus, do you really think I wouldn’t pay up?”
Hurry. Hurry.

“I wouldn’t trust you with a bag of garbage.”

Priss pulled out bills and counted them. Forty-five. Gaby’s tight lips and crossed arms told her not to even bother asking. She spun to the patrons at the bar. “Can someone lend me a five?” She took the step to the bar. “Please?” She hated that word. Hated the weakness it implied. But she had no choice.

Porter held out his hand to Barney and Ian. “Come on, ante up, men.”

Ian handed over a few singles. Barney took an old-fashioned rubber change purse from his pocket and sorted through it with a finger.

Priss felt a pinch in her chest at asking this poor old man for money, even as her head screamed,
hurry!

Barney contributed two quarters.

Porter added the remainder and handed over the bills and change to her cupped palm.

“You guys are the best. I owe you. Big time.” And she hated that, too.

She turned, slapped the bills in Gaby’s palm, and poured the change on top. “Even if you are a greedy old bat, I’m grateful.” And she was mostly grateful that the old woman didn’t stall any longer, counting it.

Priss trotted to the back door. “Tell Floyd I’m sorry. I’ll call him.”

* * *

T
HE
W
IDOW
M
AKERS
stood in the parking lot of the Bekins warehouse, waiting for their parents. Two cops stood by their squad car, talking to the warehouse manager.

Nacho glanced at Joe. “Come on, homie, be cool.”

“You don’t know, man,” Joe sniffed once more and took a deep breath. “My uncle is gonna kick my
ass
. For real.”

A pale-faced Diego dug stones out of the dirt with the toe of his shoe.

Nacho glanced down the road, not sure he’d be happy to see the beater convertible. He’d be sprung from the cops, but then he’d have to face his pissed-off half sister. He’d stayed chilly when the cops busted them but now his hard-ass act was melting like an Otter Pop in August. He swallowed a thick wad in his throat.

She might send him back to the kid warehouse.

Screw that. I’ll just run away.

But it was one thing to say it; another to do it. He had no money. Nobody would believe he was old enough to work—even if he could escape this shitty burg.

So I’ll find somewhere safe to sleep and eat out of Dumpsters behind McDonald’s.

He’d come up with lots of possible hideouts, lying awake at night in the group home: the bushes behind the school, the dried-up stream that ran under the freeway overpass. But now that he might really have to use them, they seemed pretty lame. More like dreams he made up so he’d feel better.

Besides, the cops would find him eventually and send him back to the kid warehouse.

God, he couldn’t
wait
until he was old enough to be in control of his own life. But he couldn’t make time go fast enough. That dream was years off.

In the meantime, Priss had good food, a nice place, and he even kinda liked her reading to him. Plus, that Potter dude was pretty cool; he’d hate to miss what happened next.

The big black Caddy turned into the parking lot. Feeling like he was facing a firing squad, Nacho set his face muscles into the tough-guy look he’d practiced in the mirror a zillion times. He shoved his shaking hands in his armpits.

Priss got out of the car and walked over to talk to the cops. One of them pulled out a pad and started scribbling while she talked. She put her hands out and looked like she was arguing, but not loud. Not pissed, like she’d been with that Adam dude. She tipped her head and smiled up at the cop, but he kept writing.

They’re not taking us to jail?
He spoke quiet, out of the corner of his mouth. “They’re just giving us a ticket!”

His friends didn’t look like that made much difference. Hell, the news didn’t make him relax much, either. His sister was scarier than the cops.

Priss took the ticket from the cop, said something to the warehouse manager, and they walked down the side of the building together.

Nacho heard the guy say, “I doubt the owner would agree, but it’s pretty good.” They stopped by Nacho’s creation.

Bekins
was in bold black letters that leaned back like the word was going fast. Yellow-tipped orange flames streamed from every letter. He’d just gotten the
B
of the next word done when the law showed up.

“Well, let the owner know that I’m going to pay whatever it costs to clean it off,” Priss growled like a pit bull with a toothache. “And I’m taking it out of Nacho’s hide.”

All the air went out of him. Maybe it would have been better if the cops had taken him to jail.

I am dead meat.

* * *

O
N
THE
DRIVE
home the only sound was the rumble of Mona’s engine and the wind.

Inside Priss’s head, it was much noisier.

I am going to kill him.
Outrage boiled in her chest, expanding to fill her already filled spaces.
Damned kid.

But you’re not ten years old with a father in prison.

That excuse only works once. He burned that one with the shoplifting stunt.

She wanted to look at him—wanted to know what his face would tell her. Was he worried? Pissed? But the tendons held her neck lockjaw-tight and staring straight ahead, eyes on the road. Besides, what Nacho felt didn’t matter. Not this time.

Pressure built in her skull, then radiated out with a shiver to fill everything inside. When the anger had nowhere else to go, it pushed down into her bones. It made them shake.
I’m giving him what I wanted from a mother. I’m trying to make the kid feel safe and wanted. Then he pulls this shit.

She opened her mouth to vent some pressure, but then closed it. This wasn’t a conversation for driving; she’d wreck the car for sure. Her skin felt taut, bulging with the seething mass of outrage beneath it.

He promised he wasn’t going to break any more laws. Little bastard lied to me.

She braked and pulled into the broad alley behind the shops. The smell of hot garbage from the Dumpsters swirled behind the windshield. She halted in one of the oil-stained spaces behind Hollister Drugs. Nacho pulled the door handle before she could throw the car in Park.

“Stop.”
At her hissed warning, he froze in his seat.

She shut off the engine and slid over until the rigid muscles of her back brushed the door. Nacho wore a “don’t give a shit” mask. At least she hoped it was a facade because, if that really was his attitude, he was going to be very, very sorry.

“So, this criminal thing with you, it must be genetic, huh?” Sarcasm dripped like blood from her razor-wire words.

He glared through the windshield at the brick wall. “Don’t you talk about my dad. You don’t know shit about me, or him.”

“I know you’re heading down the road to meet him in prison.”

He spun, red fury staining his face. “You don’t care!” Saliva flew from his mouth. “You said it the first day I met you!”

The lid blew off the mountain of her temper. “You ungrateful little shit. I dumped a boyfriend and a respectable life in Colorado to come here and bail out your raggedy little ass.”

His voice rose full volume, to match hers. “You don’t want me! You’re just some brown-noser goody-goody who gets off on people thinking you’re all holy.”

“How can you say that!” Beneath her skin, she was on fire. The flames roared. Any flimsy control she possessed went up in a whoosh. “That is not true! Do-gooders almost took me down when I was a kid. I was trying to save—”

“You never asked if I
wanted
your help! I don’t need you. I don’t need anybody!” He snatched the door handle and was out of the car faster than she’d have thought possible.

“Don’t you
dare
walk away.” She got her legs under her, stood on the seat and vaulted over the door.

Nacho stomped around the back of the car, anger rolling off him like the heat off the asphalt.

She stepped in front of him. “We had an agreement! I told you I’d stick by you. And you promised no more law-breaking!”

If looks could slice, she’d be bleeding.

What the hell, she
was
bleeding.

He crossed his arms and spit, “I never said anything! You assumed I agreed.” A ray of triumph lit his eyes. “Hey, you did the same with that Adam guy, when you didn’t tell him I was moving in. Worked for you.”

Her hands spasmed when she realized she’d been had. She fisted them to keep from grabbing him by the shirt and shaking him. Instead, she stabbed a finger at the building. “Get your
ass
upstairs.
Now
.”

He stepped around her, making sure no part of them touched. Once by, he ran for the metal back door. He flung it open and it slammed against the wall with a hollow boom like summer thunder. Then he was gone.

Not caring that the hot metal seared her palms, Priss sagged against the car, suddenly empty to the deepest pit of her guts. Anger was gone. The firestorm had burned through everything inside. Ashes of the anger danced in black spots across her vision. She focused on breathing in. And out.

She’d learned long ago not to trust anyone, figuring if she didn’t expect anything of anyone, she couldn’t be let down. If this kid could hurt her—and he had hurt her—it was because she’d let him inside her, under her skin.