underneath it.”
Brandon smeared a line of antibiotic cream over both scrapes, the one on Matt’s cheek and the other along his ribcage. Then he cut strips of medical tape to go over the gauze. “Where’s the rest of your stash?”
Matthew gave him a sulky glance.
“I’m not going to ask you again.”
“My room,” Matt said, which probably meant the cellar, the kitchen, or maybe the shed where he kept his skateboards.
“This ends now,” Brandon told him. “You hear me? I got enough shit to deal with.”
Brandon finished taping up his brother’s wounds and then mussed his hair to show that he loved him. It had been three years since Mom died and about that long since Matthew’s dad, Monroe, went upstate to Huntsville for beating a cop. That was when Brandon’s freewheeling ways had ground to a halt. Now he had more to worry about than keeping the lights on or getting laid. He had to think about Matthew.
But goddamn he missed the old days and his life on the open road. He dreamed about them sometimes, that feeling of utter freedom. Yet Brandon couldn’t have lived with himself if Matthew had been sent to foster care. Not after what he himself had been through. His experience with foster care had made him what he was—tougher, sure, but with wounds that would probably never heal.
And if Brandon didn’t get his hands on some money soon, that’s exactly where his brother was headed.
“That girl you brought home was super pissed off,” Matthew told him with that tone he had when he didn’t approve of something Brandon was doing.
“How do you know?”
“She wrote ‘Thanks for nothing, asshole’ on your bathroom mirror. In lipstick. Looks like you’ve got another fan.”
* * * *
When April walked through the offices of Raymond County Child Protective Services, she was quaking inside. Her nerves were electric wires that had been stripped of their protective coating. She waved to the people she had to wave to, but then made a beeline for her office. It was safe in there, especially with the door closed. She didn’t even turn on the lights. Instead, she went straight to her desk chair and collapsed.
This was better. Surely work would save her from having to think about her own shortcomings as a person and as a caseworker. How she’d let a chance encounter with Brandon McBride go so badly off the rails.
How she couldn’t stop thinking about him.
Reaching into her purse, April brought out a Thermos full of coffee. She’d brewed it at home so she wouldn’t have to go to the kitchen. The kitchen was bad. It was full of people she absolutely didn’t want to talk to right now. By this point, they probably knew she’d argued with a client in public. And had gotten drunk, also in public.
Oh, and that she’d agreed to go out with Ryan.
Cuervo, being what it was, probably had a four-point news bulletin out about it, complete with photos. Sheriff Murphy and April Roby: when’s the wedding?
Her hand holding the flimsy Thermos cup shook a little. She steadied it and took a sip. Now she was back to dreading the next time she saw Ryan, which made her—again!—feel like a horrible person. Because more self-loathing was exactly what she needed right now.
A knock at the door made April practically jump out of her seat.
Joanna stuck her head inside, and then, clearly worried about April sitting alone in a dark office, waddled to the chair in front of April’s desk.
“What’s up, honey?” she said. “Do you have a headache?”
“No, it’s not that.” Actually, April did have a headache, probably from that shameful alcoholic bender she’d gone on last night. Her mother, Priscilla, would have been appalled. But of all the people she couldn’t hide from, besides her mother, who had X-ray vision and could actually see every bad thing you did as far back as infancy, Joanna was the one woman April couldn’t lie to. She had too much respect for her—and also like Priscilla—Joanna had that wise-all-seeing gaze that made a person feel as though fibbing was a mortal sin.
“That case you gave me,” April said. “I’m really making a mess of it.”
Joanna leaned over and turned on a desk lamp. “Sorry, but I have to see that sweet face of yours when we talk. Now, why don’t you tell me what’s going on?”
April cleared her throat. “I went on that home visit like you told me,” she forced herself to explain. “Matthew swore at me, and the older brother, Brandon, made it very clear that Matthew’s education wasn’t a priority.”
“You’ve had worse,” Joanna said. “Remember that custody case over near Banderas? The father threw things at you.”
April remembered. He’d been furious with her for “spying” on him and lobbed a portable lawn sprinkler in her general direction.
“I ran into Brandon McBride last night.” April gulped more coffee and then set the cup inside the circle of light from the desk lamp. “Tessa’s bachelorette party. You know. At the Double Aces.” Why did she feel disreputable even admitting she’d been there? The Double Aces wasn’t a rough place, just a friendly neighborhood bar.
Joanna rubbed her tummy, which looked as though she’d smuggled a world globe under her smock. “Go on.”
“He harassed me,” April said.
“Matthew?”
“No, Brandon.” Just saying his name felt like a painful confession. “He made crass personal observations about…me. I’m not sure I handled it as professionally as I would have liked.”
Joanna regarded her thoughtfully. “And?”
April swallowed hard. No way was she admitting to being a virgin, so she settled on something less embarrassing. “They were sexual remarks. I should have left, but I didn’t. I fought with him. Then I threatened him with a court order because I was angry.”
“Harassment is a serious issue. Of course we should go after him with a court order, if that’s what you want.”
That stripped-wire feeling was back along with a sense of utter confusion. “I don’t know, Joanna. Honestly. I have no idea what’s best here.”
“We could have popcorn,” Joanna suggested, her face brightening. “Don’t you feel like popcorn? I always think better when there are snacks.”
April hesitated. The last thing she wanted right now was to be around a bunch of coworkers with galloping PMS pounding on the vending machine.
Without waiting for an answer, Joanna herded her to the kitchen with its beige walls and beige linoleum and beige refrigerator that had weeks-old lunches inside with people’s names on them. Someone had tried to liven the place up with a potted plant, but even that was looking limp and defeated.
April found a box of microwave popcorn, tore off the cellophane wrapper, and put the bag in the microwave. Soon the kitchen filled with the smells of buttered popcorn and the sound of kernels
