Chapter 4
Justice
We rode for hours, stopping once for a late lunch in Palm Desert. While Brody fiddled with the engine, struggling to cool it off, I called my parents to share how Marcus LeRoux is no longer our problem. Momma couldn’t stop praising God. When she did, Dad asked me how this blessing came about. Should I have told them God had nothing to do with it? That a member of a Scottish crime family did?
Once we’re cruising down the 91 freeway, shopping centers have fanned out on each side of the road. The 241 connector comes up. I nudge my chin. “Hey, that’s the freeway.”
“Och, yer busy-body friend didn’t tell ya?”
I fold my arms. “Tell me what?”
“Ya know wit, since she’s a fan of gossip, I’ll let the wee nugget tell ya wit happened. Everyone’s at my parents.”
Again, silence permeates the space between us. This time it’s not an aching, uncomfortable feeling surrounding me—just a pure desire for connection. Brody astonished me by sharing his four hobbies after the suicide PSA.
Could Chevelle have misjudged him? Could my writing him off have been premature? Could he be different? I twine my fingers together in my lap, craving someone else’s touch aside from my own.
Lawd, he’s a giant where it counts—hands and feet, chest, legs, whole body, confident demeanor. No, it’s not all physical, but all of him scares me. I struggle to contain such a dominating being in the tiny box my schema placed around him.
Again, I wonder, can Brody MacKenzie exceed my expectations? I murmur, “Thanks for—”
“It’s nothing.”
“Can we talk about something?”
“Ye turned from my music.”
I place my elbow onto the windowsill and lean my head on my fist, grumbling, “We don’t have a single thing in common.”
“Food?” he says after a few moments.
“Sure. Like a bunch of fatties.” I crack a smile. “Damn, I doubt you meant to be funny, Brody.”
“Ain’t nothing funny about those fat tits. All that sexy arse.”
“Oh, shut up. I’m only indulging you because I’m bored. My brain keeps screaming, ‘Are we there yet?’ Anyway, I’m not one of those does-my-ass-look-fat-in-this types. That’s a compliment. Now, let’s change the subject.”
“Why? We both like food. We both like yer curvy thighs and all yer other nice chunks—”
“There was plenty more where this came from,” I cut in, clutching a hunk of my hip. “I lost a . . . few pounds while sending money to Marcus.”
He licks his lips. “Prove it.”
I sag against the seat, locking my squirming fingers together. I have to get out of this damn car.
An amused twinkle dances in Brody’s eyes as he gestures toward my phone. Damn, I’d stopped scrolling on an image. It’s not the most flattering, and not because I was a cool twenty-two back then to my current size sixteen. I was sporting a jean romper. My hair? Now, that was another story. I’d been getting dressed. It was a rare occasion when Lance wasn’t manic about his musical genius. I wasn’t quite rocking a pompadour, but a flat-top, the back and sides in desperate need of a fade. Staring at the photo, I let my attention gravitate back to my deceased lover. Instantly, a skeleton sits between Brody and me.
After a beat, I hand the phone over. Emotions thread through me at the thought of Brody’s opinion. His façade never alters.
“Looked good to me.” Though he doesn’t elaborate, his tenor obliterates those skeletons, tossing Lance back into his coffin.
Sure, my breasts were pushed together. But I didn’t have my face on yet.
“Yer smile,” Brody says as if I usually lack self-esteem.
I’m drowning in Brody’s words. He looks me in the eye. The proper response is to goad him into returning his eyes to the road.
After a few swallows, the concrete crag lodged in my throat dissolves. He’s driving down the highway, those beguiling blue eyes still on me.