If I didn’t take the shortcut home, I passed their house, and it was stunning like something out of a fairy-tale book. Manicured lawns, five-car garage, and gardens my dad would have loved.
But I didn’t think it was a fairy tale inside the massive stone house because the one time I’d seen Mr. Kane, he’d looked mean. I’d never heard anything about Killian’s mom or if his mom was even around.
Mr. Kane came into the school office at the beginning of the school year when I’d been filling out what supplies we needed for the infirmary.
He hadn’t hesitated or knocked on the principal’s door. He’d strode in, and I’d caught a glimpse of his face when he’d looked at Killian standing in front of Mr. Merck’s desk.
Hatred. It was all over his face—the sneer when his lip curled, the throbbing temples and disgust in his eyes as he’d glared at his son.
The door had then slammed shut.
Then shouting had vibrated through the office before the door opened and Mr. Kane had walked out.
Killian had been behind him, his face impassive as to whatever trouble he’d been in.
Mr. Kane’s piercing eyes had landed on me, probably because I’d been staring at him with a gaping mouth.
My stomach had flipped then plummeted into a cesspool of thick sludge. The hairs on the back of my neck had darted to attention and prickles of warning had tingled across my skin.
He reminded me of the devil, the monster in the closet, and the bogeyman under the bed all in one.
He was what nightmares were made of, and I’d known that because several nights after that, I woke to those hard eyes looking at Killian with such hatred.
“The job isn’t for you,” Killian said. “You’re going to get hurt. Don’t take it.”
I stiffened, pursing my lips together then tilted my chin up and flung around and said, “Well, I am.” I hadn’t really decided yet, but now it was a definite yes. He wasn’t telling me what I was scared of. He had no clue who I was. Before today he had never spoken to me.
His brow lifted with what I assumed was surprise at my firm retort, because I bet not many were stupid enough to snap at Killian.
There was a long pause, and I nearly turned and walked away thinking he wasn’t going to say anything when he said, “You won’t like it.”
I was so taking the job just for the fact that he said that. “You don’t know what I like,” I said over my shoulder.
“Sure, I do. You don’t like fighting, and trust me, you won’t like this,” he replied.
I stopped. I wasn’t sure how he knew that. Maybe because I’d never been to one of his fights when most of the students had. But again, how did he know if I had or hadn’t been to a fight of his.
I turned to face him. “Why do you care, anyway?”
He huffed. “You have the wrong impression. I don’t give a shit about you. I give a shit about you putting the rest of us in danger.”
Whoa, I knew Killian was pissed off, but he was also an ass. “Wow, you’re a jerk.”
He shrugged. “And a good reason for you to stay away.”
I slowly turned to face him again. “From you or the job?”
“Both.”
“What are you going to do? Challenge me to a fight at the river if I don’t listen to you?”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” he barked.
I was pissed and I rarely got pissed, but he pushed my buttons. “You know what, why don’t you worry about your stupid fight rather than what I do or don’t do.”
He stepped closer.
I backed up and my heart skipped a beat. But I raised my chin and refused to back down from him.
“Stupid fight? Do you think it’s such a stupid fight when it’s your mother buying drugs from him?”
I gasped.
I was aware of my mom’s drug habit, but she took prescription pills, and I thought she got them from a doctor. Still, fighting didn’t solve anything, and it wasn’t Killian’s responsibility; it was the police’s.
“Fighting won’t do anything.”
“Sure, it does. It makes me feel better,” he replied.
“When I get angry or upset I dance.” I danced before classes in the gym blaring my iPod. It was my favorite time of day.
“You dance when you’re mad?”
“Yeah.” Dancing was my passion and the movements filtered through me like raw emotions. Sometimes, when the music played and I was lost to the sounds through my dancing, tears trickled down my cheeks.
“How long have you danced, Savvy?”
My heart skipped a beat when he said my name. His Irish accent elongated the “a” so it sounded like “ah.”
“My dad signed me up for jazz class when I was five, and I’ve danced ever since.” I loved dancing, and I think some of that was because it was all I had left of him. He used to come watch all my recitals. I’d heard him and my mom argue about him spending money on classes for me, but no matter what, he made sure I had my dance classes. Then when I was ten, he was diagnosed with cancer, and within months he was gone.