“You sound so sure.”
“I am. Look how far you’ve come in the few weeks I’ve known you.”
She hummed, not really answering.
“What?”
“It’s true. I’ve…well, I’ve never made such strides like this.”
“You’ve never had a goal of graduation to spur you on until now.”
“And I didn’t have you.”
I wasn’t sure what to say to that. It totally rocked my world thinking I might be empowering her, giving her the strength to get out of that damned apartment. But what scared the shit out of me more was how much it made me want to be with her, as in touch her, smell her, kiss her. A streak of fire-hot blood pounded down my spine at the thought.
The totally inappropriate thought. It was that excitement, that energy, that caused trouble. People I cared about tended to get…hurt around me. Or dead.
“You don’t know how to take a compliment, do you?” she said.
I stepped to the brick wall and pressed my hand against it like I’d often done to the wooden door into her apartment. I didn’t trust compliments. They built me up, but Dad had always crushed me back down, even further. Often with his fist.
“Thanks, by the way, for the bag of candy corn I found on my doorstep yesterday.”
“Sure. There was a box there, too.”
“Yeah. They know to leave it on the floor.”
“Anything fun?”
“My monthly package from Mom and Dad. More candy corn,” she said with a laugh. “And…well…they send me stuff each month.”
“Care packages are fun.”
“Yeah. They’re in Germany right now working on opening…another business.”
“What kind of business? You said they have several companies to manage.”
“Nothing important. So, what do you do that you can afford the second half of the top floor of a five-star hotel?”
“That’s Mom’s department. I’m mooching off her.”
“You could never mooch. You’re way too sweet for that.”
Her voice sounded lower and more relaxed. “Are you sitting on the floor?”
“Yeah. I’m almost to the railing. Needed a break.”
“Says the runner who managed fifteen miles yesterday on the treadmill. I’d shoot myself from boredom.” I sat on the cold floor and propped myself against the railing. “My mom makes the dough, takes care of almost everything. I work and…take care of her.”
“Take care of her?”
I hated this part. I wasn’t sure how much I should tell her, but strangely, I wanted to confess everything. “She’s not agoraphobic, but she doesn’t leave the apartment much because…well…she works from home and just doesn’t like to be around people much.”
“What happened?”
“She was involved with someone, and he hurt her really bad—physically. She’s pretty shy and…unsure.” More like she’s not safe. Mom wasn’t shy at all, but Dad always seemed to track us down and make a play for her. Sick bastard was obsessed with her—with hurting her. Damn police couldn’t grab the slippery slime ball. Not even our relocation handler could track him.
I no longer had any faith in the legal system at this point.