smiled. “Maybe I like wallflowers.”
“April working a case for you or something?”
Now she was just messing around, trying to get more than he would give. On a flare of irritation, he said, “Do you know where she lives or are we just going to sit here all night asking questions?”
Her dark eyes widened. “Impatient much? April lives on Tilden and Decatur. White house with a porch. It’s on the corner so you can’t miss it.”
Brandon went outside, climbed on his bike, turned the ignition switch and the fuel tap, teased open the choke, and then gave the throttle two full twists. The Harley growled to life. There were two other motorcycles next to his, but he didn’t recognize them. His crowd tended to show up later than this.
He took off, wondering where Tilden Street was. All he saw was a fancy movie theater called the Regal, a water tower on stilts, and a storefront that had the words Sweet Dreams: Home of the UFO Cake in fancy gold letters.
People in Cuervo were even weirder than he thought.
Exiting Main Street, he headed toward what looked like a residential area. It didn’t take him long to find April’s house.
When he saw it, everything about her made sense. Not the baggy skirt and low heels, because nothing made sense about that. But just a look at where she’d come from told him who she was.
The house was pure Texas. It looked like the kind of place that had Halloween decorations in October and a twinkling tree in the window come Christmas. It was the house he had always longed for when he was a kid—before he realized that dreams were for other people, not for him.
He pulled up to the curb and killed the engine. As he started up the walkway, Brandon sensed that his presence here was scaring the locals, but that didn’t stop him from staring back. Across the street, a pair of beady eyes peered at him between half-closed curtains. The nosy old broad actually had a phone in her hand.
He stepped onto April’s porch. There were hand-painted coffee cans with flowers in them, a rocking chair with a pink cushion, and a porch swing that creaked. He cupped his hand against the front window and looked inside. An old piano with sheet music. A braided rag rug like his grandma used to make. Real oak furniture that had probably been in the family for generations.
The house was a travel brochure about April.
He felt as though he had no business being here, that he was dirty somehow and full of darkness. In a house with dainty flowers and pink chair cushions, Brandon could never feel at home.
“What are you doing here?”
Brandon spun around. April stood on the walkway staring up at him with an expression of sheer panic. Over her shoulder he could see the woman glaring at him, phone in hand, which was when he guessed what had happened.
“That old battle-axe call you?” he asked.
April wanted nothing more than to run. Those innocent blue eyes of hers told him things. And damn if he didn’t want to chase her. Despite his best intentions, he couldn’t help but wonder what might happen if he relieved her of that pesky virginity and showed her what life was really all about.
“You can’t be here,” she sputtered. “Mrs. Felps is calling the police.”
She was practically panting with fright, which made Brandon realize that he would have to try harder to calm her.
“I’m not going to hurt you, April,” he said seriously. “I just want to talk about Matthew.”
“You should have come to my office,” she insisted. “It’s two minutes from here.”
“I don’t do offices.” He sat on the top step, leaned his elbows on his knees and looked up at her. She was wearing the same dorky outfit she always wore, which was probably the only reason a beautiful woman like her was still a virgin.
“You can sit,” he said. “I promise not to bite.”
Not yet anyway.
“I’m waiting for the police to arrive,” she said.
The police weren’t coming. Brandon knew that. At least not until April gave Hagatha over there the signal, which was why the old bat kept hovering in the window.
“Like I said, I’m not here to hurt you.” Brandon ran one hand over his stubbly jaw and realized he’d forgotten to shave. Because he wanted to see her sputter, he said, “We could talk inside if that would make you feel better.”
She looked so incensed, it was everything he could do not to laugh. “Whatever awful thing you came to say, you say it here. I don’t let strange men inside my house.”
April clearly let no men inside her house. Maybe not even the mall cop. Brandon tried to get a game plan together in his head, but he was enjoying just sitting here on her nice clean porch, watching her Ivory-soap skin turn every shade of pink.
“I thought we could talk about my brother,” he said. “You might have some ideas about how to get the kid to school.”
April blinked. The wariness in her eyes receded a little, but she still wasn’t there yet. “He’s your responsibility, Mr. McBride. You figure it out.”
“Please don’t feed me the company bullshit. I came here ready to lay it all out for you. The least you can do is help.”
He watched her take a deep breath before remembering that the Big Bad Wolf probably shouldn’t be staring at Red Riding Hood’s chest too intently.
“All right,” she said. “I’ll sit. We’ll talk. But the minute you go off topic, I’m calling—”
“The cops. I know.” He tried smiling, but figured it was better to be completely bullshit-free with her.
“Matt’s a good kid,” he began as she sat nervously on the step beside him. “He’s got a mouth on him, but hey, at least he’s talking. When our mom died, he didn’t say a word for six months.”
He could tell that surprised her. “It’s called ASR,” she said. “Acute Stress Reaction. But it usually only happens in cases of acute trauma.”
April’s neighbor had come outside and was pretending to water her plants. She had on Tweety Bird house slippers and must have been mad as hell that she couldn’t hear a word they were saying.
Matthew had been through agonizing trauma—things that Brandon didn’t even know about because he hadn’t been around. Too busy riding bikes, chasing tail, getting into trouble. At the time, he’d had no idea Matthew was a daily witness to brutal fights between Celia, their mother, and that wife-beating asshole Monroe. Even now Brandon tried not to think about it because when he did, his stomach tightened with guilt.
He wasn’t about to tell April that.
She was supposed to represent everything he hated: the law, the state, the crap that had sent him to foster care in the first place. Even the fact that she was a social worker should have made him hate her.
But April smelled like vanilla.
