By the time the last officer leaves, I’m wishing for a nice fat juicy crow to shove in my piehole.
“So, I thought that went well.”
I can’t even look at him. “Milo, I—”
“No.”
“I—”
“No. You don’t get to say anything.” He steps in front of me where I’m perched uncomfortably on the edge of a kitchen chair. “I just spent the last forty-five minutes trying to convince a police officer that I wasn’t, in fact, molesting my niece and that her mother was fully aware that she is staying at my house. Do you have any idea what that feels like?”
I don’t even attempt a defense. “No. I can’t say that I do.” And despite my desperate wish to not look at him, my eyes snap to his face like a magnet. If an expression had the power to slice down to your veins, Milo’s would have me bleeding out in seconds. But I’ve wounded him even more deeply than that. His skin is sallow, and bags have formed under his eyes in record time. There’s no life to his eyes, which is a crying shame because Milo has the most beautiful eyes I’ve ever seen.
“No, you don’t.” His gaze drops to the floor. “Now, I don’t know what brought you to darken my doorstep this morning, and honestly, I don’t give a rat’s ass. But it’s time for you to go.”
The chair squeaking on the linoleum floor is exceedingly loud as I push to standing. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what else to say.” I can’t bear to watch him anymore, so I turn to go.
“Please, don’t say anything. Trouble has a habit of hurrying close when you open your mouth.”
Ouch. I try not to wince.
But he’s not wrong. I make extra effort to tread as quietly as possible across his floor and through his entryway. I latch the storm door with a gentle pull and keep walking until I’m back out on the sidewalk with the bright sun in my eyes and still no place to stay.
There are more than enough negatives in my situation to dwell on, but my mind can’t let go of the hurt Milo didn’t have the energy to even try to hide. God, I’m an asshole.
Chapter Six
MILO
That woman is like a panther—beautiful to look at, but she won’t hesitate to claw out your insides and eat them for breakfast if the spirit moves her. It’s beyond me how I let the memory of her temper mellow over the past decade to a degree that only conjured words like “feisty” or “spirited” instead of the much more accurate “completely bat-shit crazy.”
“So, let me get this straight.” Felicity leans on the deck railing next to me. “You guys used to hang out when you were teenagers?”
“Hang out is a bit much. We met a few times, that’s all.” There’s no way I’m getting into this with her. I shift on the wood rail, snagging the front of my shirt on a splinter. Damn. One more thing to add to the list.
She raises a skeptical brow at me. “Uh, I’m guessing it takes more than running into each other a couple times to ruin her life.”
I’m not even going there. Drama queens, the both of them. “Are you going to tell me what she was doing here in the first place? How in the hell does she even know you?”
“She didn’t tell you?”
My frown says everything I need to say.
“Right. Um, well, funny story.” She avoids my eyes and focuses on the beach instead.
“Well, I can’t wait to hear this.” I’m not keen on admitting to anyone, least of all myself, that when I saw Jill in my doorway, for a split second I had myself convinced she’d come all this way searching for me. Thankfully, my mind hadn’t had time to take that any further before she started in on the insults and I got my head back on straight.
Felicity drops her forehead to the rail.
“Hey, watch for splinters.” I wedge my hand between her skin and the wood.
She lifts her head again and rests her eyes on my hand. “Do they hurt?”
There’s no need to ask what she’s talking about. “Naw.” I dismiss her concern with the lie and draw my hand back to flex it. “Not anymore.” I won’t tell her about the incessant buzzing of my confused nerve endings or the night pains my scars still give me—it won’t change it and it’ll only make her feel bad. “Now, are you going to tell me what Jill Holloway was doing in our house, or am I gonna have to dangle you by your ankles over this railing?”
“God.” She shakes her head and cringes. “I had it all worked out until the two of you went at each other like two hipsters fighting over the last bottle of kombucha.”
“I didn’t want it to end like this,” My voice is solemn as I bend down to grab her ankles. She sidesteps me with a laugh.
“Fine. I’ll tell you, you big jerk.”
I lean back and give her a nod to prod her along.
“So, you know how I’m trying to get tuition money?” She doesn’t wait for me to answer because neither one of us is stupid last I checked. “Well, I thought a good way to bring in some extra cash for you would be to rent out the guest room while I’m gone.” She grimaces and eyes me warily.
I let this information sink in for a moment. “Let’s see if I have this right. You’re so desperate to not have me paying for your tuition that you attempted to have someone pay me to let them sleep in your room?”
“The guest room.”
“Your room.”
“Whatever. The point is it’s going to be sitting there empty for three months, and we can pay for like a third of my expenses by letting someone—Jill—use it. Combine that with the money I already saved, and you’ll only be out of pocket a small amount before I can pay you back the rest.”
“I already paid it. You know this.” I cross my arms over my chest and do my best to stay calm. I don’t even bother getting into the fact that there’s no way someone like Jill Holloway would slum it in a place like this.
“Yeah, and you can’t afford it any more than I can.”
Here we go again. “Shows what you know, Liss. I start working for Bran next week.” Now, where the hell did I pull that lie from?
“Fixing cars?” She’s got that just-smelled-a-dead-animal expression again.
It’s like I don’t even know her today. “And what’s so wrong with fixing cars?”
She cocks out a hip and mimics my crossed arms. “Nothing—for people who actually know how to fix them.”
“Oh, aren’t you just hilarious.”
“You know what I mean.”
Unfortunately, I do. I’m no slouch, but I wouldn’t be doing Bran any favors by joining his team. Overhauling a boat engine is no problem, but I haven’t worked on anything newer than a 1990 Mercury outboard, much less a modern automobile engine.
“Can we just forget about this? Tuition is paid, I’m not broke, you’re going to school in a couple weeks, and your room will be here for you when you get back. Got it?” I brush past her, done with this conversation and afraid I’ll get mad at her. I know she meant well, but I am not the kind of person who’d tolerate a stranger living in my house, much less someone who already hates me.