her on the ass the way she flinched.
He stared at the tattoo on her arm, because if he didn’t he might be tempted to look at her ass, and, well, adult Kyle didn’t do such things.
Besides, she was acting a little strange this evening. Jumpy. Maybe Barry being out of jail was getting to her. He should probably make a point to be nice, and make her feel that she wasn’t alone. He still wasn’t too happy about Jacob’s bailing and leaving the responsibility to him, but Kyle wasn’t selfish enough to not be honorable.
Grace had made the first step in being friendly, offering him some of the dinner she was making. So he would try to follow suit. Even if they were very different, they did have to cohabit for the next month, and Kyle would really prefer a smooth, nonconfrontational thirty days.
And yes, he was counting down.
He collected two plates and silverware and set the table. What could they talk about over dinner? Jacob was about the only thing they had in common, and it seemed strange to discuss him when he wasn’t here.
There was art, of course, but he’d tried that before. She always wanted to discuss the impressionists and modernism. Most of what he knew about art stemmed from his reading on the Renaissance period or still lifes. He’d never been one for the fanciful. “What would you like to drink? I could open a bottle of wine.”
“Uh, I’ll just have milk.”
Milk. Well, a discussion of wine was officially off the table. It occurred to him that they could discuss their shared past. Growing up in Carvelle, high school, but Kyle had made the decision a long time ago not to talk about those things. Then he could pretend his childhood there had never happened. That he wasn’t Kyle Clark of the Rosedale Trailer Park, where his parents were quite famous for all the wrong reasons.
“You okay?”
He blinked, realized he was standing in front of the open refrigerator not doing anything. “Of course.” He pulled out the carton of milk and focused on pouring drinks and gathering napkins.
“Oh.”
He turned to see what she was commenting on, but she just stood there, pan in hand, staring at the table. Then she laughed.
Kyle frowned, looking at the table himself. What on earth was she laughing at? “What?” he demanded.
She shook her head and stepped over to the table. Still laughing, she put half the omelet, which now resembled scrambled eggs with stuff in it because she’d done it wrong, onto his plate, then the remainder on hers. “You’re just kinda weird, Kyle.”
Irritated and defensive, he locked his jaw tight. He would not lose his temper, or point out that if someone in this kitchen was weird, it was most certainly not him.
“Actually, weird is a bit harsh. Quirky, I guess.”
He stared. “I’m quirky?”
“You know, in a totally anal, rigid kind of way.” She slid into a seat, didn’t bother to put a napkin in her lap before lifting her fork.
“I see.”
“Kind of odd for a guy who grew up in a double-wide.” She shoveled in a bite of food, and though his stomach rumbled after his long, difficult run, he didn’t make a move for the table.
This was one of the many reasons that, despite her unfortunate circumstances, he hadn’t wanted Grace here. Of the very few people in his life who knew a little bit of his childhood, she was the only one who’d yet to take the hint that the topic wasn’t open for discussion and never would be.
“You give them too much credit. It was a single-wide.”
She blinked at him. “Wow. That’s the most I’ve heard you talk about the past since you left Carvelle.”
Irritated the comment had slipped out, Kyle scowled. “And it’s the very most you ever will.” He turned to the stairwell. He would go do some work. Work would calm him down. But before he could take another step, Grace’s voice interrupted him.
“Aren’t you going to eat?”
It was the last thing he wanted to do at the moment, but letting his irritation show only served to increase people’s curiosity. Kyle returned to the table, telling himself to make sure bland Kyle was in fine form tonight. “Yes, of course.”
As he droned on about foreign markets, boring even himself, Grace retrieved a pen and the pad of paper for grocery lists. She shoveled eggs into her mouth and scribbled intently until he was done with his monologue.
She pushed the paper across to him, and he was forced to look into her amused smile for a moment. She was like a tractor beam with that smile, all pretty, cheerful goodness. He could not let that get to him.
He looked down at the paper. It was a drawing, no, a caricature of him. She’d overemphasized his square jaw, drawn little money signs over his head, and in the background was a quick sketch of her with z’s filling a thought bubble above her head.
He didn’t want to smile, didn’t want to find it funny. Hell, it was funny, and the smile won over the impassive expression he’d been working so hard to keep.
“Is that a little glimpse of a sense of humor?” Grace feigned shock. Or maybe it wasn’t so much feigned as exaggerated. He wouldn’t be surprised if she was shocked.
“Don’t know what you’re talking about.” He lifted a bite of egg to his mouth, trying to tamp down the amusement, the...lightness Grace seemed to infuse the room with.
She was a temporary visitor. This wouldn’t become normal. He wouldn’t let her so effortlessly invade his carefully erected protections.
No smiles, no jokes, no long, alluring legs could make him forget who he was. What he was. His soul was empty, and there was no chance of his risking filling it again.
At least he kept telling himself that, even as he folded up the drawing and put it in his pocket.
* * *
THE VOICES WERE LOUD. So damn loud, but then they always were. Kyle heard the sounds of crashing glass mixed with screams. Darkness morphed into the tiny room of a trailer and screams formed words.
“You stupid slut. Did you think I wouldn’t find out? Who do you think you are, you whore?” A thud pounded against Kyle’s bedroom wall. He closed his eyes, turned his music louder.
“You and your two-inch dick have screwed every willing meth addict in this damn place.” More crashing glass. A scream.
“I’m going to kill you. This time I’m really going to kill you.”
Kyle swallowed down the bile that rose to his throat. How many times had he heard that? Too many to count, but the sound of angry footsteps heading toward where he knew Dad kept at least two guns, loaded, struck real fear through him.
He was sick and wobbly, but he pitched to the door and stepped into the hall. He saw his father, a big, thick tree trunk of a man, weaving this way and that, drunk or high or both. Kyle had seen him this way before, but not with-it enough to have murder in his expression. Until now.
