Page 17

DIESEL

I ’m exhausted and sick of dealing with people.

I don’t bother flipping on any lights, instead heading straight for the kitchen for some leftover pizza and a beer.

Symphony and Marietta can sit out in the truck for all I care. I’ll drive them back when Merrick gives the all-clear.

The bright white of the fridge bulb erases the dark as I grab a bottle of Fireman’s Four and the cardboard box.

I open the metal cap in the crook of my elbow and don’t bother to heat up the pizza. The chair to the kitchen table squeals as my boot scoots it back. I drop onto it, taking my first swig before I hear the front door open.

Quicker than I thought they’d come in.

I plunk down the bottle and lift the lid to the pizza. It’s the All-Pig from Torillo’s. Ham, pepperoni, sausage, and bacon.

I shove the tip of a hefty slice into my mouth, waiting for one of the girls to appear.

It takes a minute. It’s dark inside, only a hall light leaking into the living room and kitchen.

I can tell from the step that it’s Symphony, and she’s alone. I never thought I’d know a woman from the sound of her walk, but here we are.

She pauses in the kitchen doorway. “Skulking in the dark?”

I shrug, then realize she probably couldn’t see it. “You can turn on the light.”

She feels around the wall for a moment, then the room floods brightly. “Cold pizza and beer. You are a true bachelor.” She sits in a chair opposite me.

I push the pizza box toward her.

She examines it. “I’m not one to turn down a cold slice. It’s better the second day, don’t you think?”

When her mouth opens to slip the corner between those lips I already know pretty well, my dick twitches. Unfinished business, it reminds me.

“Where’s your friend?”

She keeps her gaze on the food. “Sleeping off her shots in the cab of your truck. Is that your truck?”

“Merrick’s.”

“He doesn’t ride a motorcycle like you?”

“He does. We had to haul some product today.”

She chews thoughtfully for a moment. The bob of her throat when she swallows makes my dick jolt to half mast. Fuck me, this woman has my goddamn cock in a twist.

“That seems practical,” she says. “It’s a hell of a drive to the bar.”

“Not much to rent out here that isn’t a hellhole or a meth lab.”

“Ah. Okay. I’m not up on Florida real estate.” She eats the rest of the slice, even the crust. Watching that last piece pop in her mouth has me mesmerized, like a cat with a metronome. I’ve forgotten to eat mine.

She pushes the box my way. “Not bad, this Torillo’s place.”

I shake myself free of the daze. I’m acting like I’ve never seen a woman before. “Friend of mine. Bar regular.”

“Surprised he doesn’t cut a deal for you to sell his pizza by the slice. Lots of bars have arrangements like that.”

It’s a good idea, actually. “Haven’t run it by him.”

She reaches for my beer and takes a swig.

I force myself to eat another bite and act normal, but there is nothing ordinary about my reaction to this woman. What the hell is it?

Her sass? There’s attitude in spades at the Leaky Skull. Her looks? She’s gorgeous. Bound to be part of it.

But maybe it’s because she’s not like the usual woman I’m around. She’s got the fun parts of them, sure, but there’s a lot more to her. Graduate school, for one. Ambition. Plans. That’s pretty rare in my neck of the woods.

The rest of us are stomping through life. Eat. Sleep. Work. Bills. I’m lucky I own something. And I have my brother. But I don’t think about anything beyond each day’s tasks, keeping the stock up, babysitting riffraff.

She has a dreamy look about her, a softness to the sass, that tells me she thinks about things. The future. The world. Something beyond getting by.

“What are you studying exactly? What’s political science all about?”

She seems taken aback by the question. “Lots of things. Political structure. Government, how it works. Today’s issues and the past. Right now, I’m studying totalitarian regimes. Imperialism mainly.”

“What do you aim to do with this information?”

“Work at the capitol, maybe. Or inside the judiciary. I could clerk, move into certain types of law.”

“But what do you want to actually do ?”

This question gets her. She picks up my beer and takes another swallow before answering.

“I guess I want to be like Hamilton.”

“From the musical?” I’ve watched maybe half of it.

“Not the person. More like the place. I want to be in the room where it happens. Where real things happen. Things that matter. Not as the face of it. But the wheels that make it turn.”

Oh. “That’s a big deal.”

“It can be for the right person in the right position.” She scoots the beer toward me.

“It’s what all of us have in common. Me, Bailey, Jenna, Marietta.

We want to know the truth of things, not because somebody makes a meme about it or ranted on a video or even reported on it in the media.

Because we were there. We saw it with our own eyes. Heard the testimony. Read the record.”

“But seeing it isn’t affecting it.”

“It is if you help the staff draft the bill. If you make sure it’s got the right appropriations, the proper budget, that it is championed by the right people.”

“And you want to do that? For just anything?”

“I have my issues. All four of us do. When you’re bombarded by things that need fixing, you have to choose the battles you’re going to suit up for.”

“And yours are?”

She shrugs. “Still deciding. Bailey is all about ethical business practices, a healthy workplace, and safety. Jenna wants to take on the national parks, climate change, and public lands.”

“But you have no idea?”

“Family court, probably. Foster care. Child abuse. Breaking poverty cycles. But I’m not sure.”

That’s heavy. I give her some space to say more, but when she doesn’t, I ask, “Why those?”

She peels the corner of the label off the beer. “I’ve seen some things. Dealt with some things.”

Heat rises in me. I lean closer. “Did somebody hurt you?” I’m ready to get out of here. Get in my truck. Kick some motherfucking ass.

“I spent five years in the foster system,” she says. “Nothing too terrible. But my sister.” She frowns. “We got separated. She was older. I went to a family. She went to a group home.”

“But she’s an adult now. Where is she?”

“Tennessee, last I heard. She’s … broken. She’s … an addict.”

“Fuck. I’m sorry.”

“Me, too. By the time I aged out, she was long gone. I hadn’t seen her in years.”

“But you found her?”

“I did. In a small-town lockup. But I couldn’t get her out. I didn’t have bail money. I didn’t have anything.”

“Where were your parents?”

She blows out a breath. “Mom took off when we were little. Dad was an alcoholic.”

“Did he hurt you?” I nearly stand again.

“No, no, but he got too many DUIs, and they took us away after the third. A good thing. He might have killed us at some point.”

“And he didn’t fight for you?”

“No, he signed away his rights immediately.”

“And your mother?”

“They didn’t find her.”

“Other family?”

“Sure. We went a few months with my dad’s mom, but she was old and sick, and when my sister acted out, she couldn’t keep us.”

“No aunts or uncles?”

“One set who didn’t want us and another set that were in another state, but child services couldn’t seem to get their act together to get us sent to them. That’s something I would focus on if I went that direction. Cross-state kinship placements. It’s too hard right now. It needs to be easier.”

My feelings about her evolve with every revelation. “But you went to college.”

“Yeah. Foster care gets you some scholarships, and your entrance essays can make a grown man weep.” She smiles ruefully. “As long as I could get good grades and figure out how to keep scholarship money coming in, I could get my degree.”

“I don’t have one.”

“That’s all right. You’ve got street smarts.”

“I bet you do, too.”

“Some. My foster parents were pretty straitlaced middle class. They helped me get the scholarships. I probably wouldn’t have made it to college if I had stayed with Dad.”

“So, you didn’t have the horror story of foster families?”

“No. The horror was the situation that got me there. But the fosters, they were all right. Do-gooders, you know?”

“But they didn’t adopt you.”

She sits back. “No. I was on my own when I aged out.”

I’m not sure why I’m so riled over Symphony’s past. Every worst-case scenario wanders into the Leaky Skull on the regular.

But I don’t want that for her. I want things to be easy.

She pulls the label the rest of the way off the beer bottle.

“You know what that means, right?” I say.

She presses the damp label to the table. “What?”

“When someone strips the label off a bottle, it means they are sexually frustrated.”

She wheezes a laugh. “Who decided that?”

“Hell if I know. I’ve been hearing it since I was a kid.”

“I’ve never heard it.”

I shrug. “What do you say? Is it true?”

She glances over her shoulder. “Probably. But Marietta is outside.”

“She can wander into the house. My bedroom has a lock.”

Her gaze holds mine.

She’s going to make me wait for her answer.