He wanted to borrow money. No surprise there, but heads up. He might be contacting you or Brandi next. Take care, little sister. Write when you can.
Luke
Dad. Up for parole. That was nothing but trouble. Brianna’s stomach cinched up into an impossibly tight knot. How old did you have to be until your past stopped mattering? Until the wounds of your childhood stopping hurting?
She didn’t have any answers to that. She had stopped counting on her dad a long time ago, but his sins seemed to cling to her, part of the shadows, too. Those shadows dimmed the brightness, every last thought of Max and the hopes she had for her life.
It was a long time until the darkness thinned and the shadows eased. Only then could she sleep.
Chapter Four
“Heard you bombed out big-time with that classy woman Dobbs set you up with.” His little brother took a shot and the basketball swooshed through the net—a perfect two points. Marcus pumped his fist in the air. “All right! I’m up four points on you now, old man.”
“Watch who you’re calling old.” His growl was more bark than bite, but it was tradition between the two of them. “You got in a few lucky shots is all.”
“It’s not luck. It’s called skill.” Marcus hopped after the ball and tossed it into the court. The echoing ruckus from the other one-on-one games bounced around the cavernous downtown gym.
Max caught the ball, enjoying their good-natured banter. Hanging out with his bro was number one on his list of favorite activities. “It’s called false hope, because I’m going to make the next three baskets. Watch and learn.”
“Pathetic.” Marcus’s basketball shoes squeaked on the varnished floor as he tried blocking.
The kid was good, which was one reason why Max had given notice, packed his possessions and moved him from California to Montana. Not an easy transition for a man born and bred in the heart of the city, but worth it. He shot, he scored, and it was his turn to pump his fist. “You’re only ahead by one basket, hot shot.”
“I’m not worried.” He dribbled the ball like a pro, loping with his long stride toward the basket.
“You’d better be worried.” Max blocked, stealing the ball and dropping it through the net. “Who’s the king now?”
“The game’s not over, bro.” The kid grabbed the ball, dribbling, setting up a nice layup and the shrill note of a whistle cut through the boy’s concentration.
“Time to pack it up for the night,” the pastor, who oversaw the youth program, called above the noise. While groans and protests rang out, the gym full of teens stopped their games and began tossing their basketballs into the cans near the back door.
“Saved by the whistle.” Max tapped the ball, knocked it out of the kid’s grip and gave it a toss. It sailed into the end basket, neatly missing everyone, and into the bin. “Another two points for me.”
“Sad. I feel sorry for you. The only way you can beat me is to cheat.” Marcus winked, although he shook his head, feigning sympathy. “It only proves it. You’re washed up. Obsolete. It’s a wonder the police department doesn’t retire you. Can’t even beat a kid at basketball.”
“I’m pathetic, I know, but next week, watch out.” The kid was good. And if things kept going as they were, he would graduate high school at the top of his class with a college scholarship in hand. They walked to the bleachers, keeping the conversation up as they pulled sweatpants over their workout clothes. Zipping up jackets, they headed out the door into the surprisingly cold evening.
“Loser buys the pizza, so it’ll be your turn to treat. Again.” Marcus held out his hand to check the falling chunks of precipitation, for it was amazingly white. “Is that snow? Man, I can’t believe this place. I miss L.A.”
“Tell it to the weatherman.” Personally, he didn’t care if it snowed all year long. All that mattered was that Marcus was in a good environment, doing well in school and keeping his nose clean. He beeped the remote and his truck’s door locks snapped open.
“Hand over the keys, bro.” The kid’s palm shot out. “I won. I get to drive.”
“You played a good game, Marcus.” Max hadn’t grown up in a touchy-feely home but he handed over the keys, sure the boy would understand that the gesture was meant to be affectionate. “Don’t you chip my paint job, you hear?”
“Sweet.” Ignoring the warning, the kid loped toward the driver’s side. “I wish I had a rig.”
“That money in your account at the bank is for college. Not a truck. End of story.”
“Yeah, I know. I get it.”
Hiding a grin, Max hopped into the passenger seat and buckled in. He was glad he’d come with his brother tonight. Being busy kept his mind off of certain subjects—work and, more troubling, Brianna McKaslin. Ever since he’d stayed up most of the night after reading that newspaper article, she’d taken up residence in his head. Days had passed, and he couldn’t explain why. She didn’t belong there.
That didn’t stop him from remembering how she’d looked in the bakery. His first sight of her had been a mix of “wow” and “oh no.” She was too naive, too young, too perfect, too sweet for him. Her voice had been low and musical, a quiet melody that he wanted to hear again. He wasn’t a complicated man, and he knew what he felt was interest. She had the prettiest eyes he had ever seen.
“Hey, bro. Are you paying attention?” Marcus called out, sounding amused.
Max shook his head. “Sorry, I was off thinking.”
“For about four whole minutes.”
That was the truth. He glanced around, realizing they were already out of the snowy parking lot and on one of the main roads, where the traffic kept the streets wet, with only a slight layer of white up the center of the lanes.
“Look at that poor person.” Marcus nodded once, gesturing toward the upcoming block where a bike’s reflective taillight flashed amid the stubbornly falling snow. “Someone really needs a car. That can’t be pleasant. It’s freezing out there.”
“Freezing,” Max agreed, staring at the biker.
It was too dark to recognize anyone, much less from behind. The rider was diminutive, slender of shoulders and of frame, but it was hard to see much more than that. He spotted light reflected off the helmet, but that’s all the information he could gather. He moved in his seat and gave the shoulder harness a tug. It felt suddenly tight against his chest. Why did his heart stop beating? Why was he struggling for air? The last time he’d gotten the identical feeling, it had been watching Brianna McKaslin walk away from him.
Better planning, Bree told herself as she stopped for the red light. That’s all it would have taken, but oh no, she had been sure she could make the twenty-minute bike ride from the library on campus to the bookstore. She should have foreseen disaster. Planned for delays. For getting caught behind the bus. And snow, she added when a white flake caught on her eyelash.
Only six more blocks. She hated the shadows that seemed to hide all kinds of
