"Don't you have a television?" he asked, eyeing the paperback doubtfully.
I was surprised he hadn't noticed it in the living room. "You know about television but you don't know how to open a can of pop? How does that work?"
He shrugged his wide shoulders.
I completed the online purchase and turned in my chair. "Yeah, we have a TV but we haven't paid the cable bill in a couple of months."
"Does that mean no television?"
"It means no television." I answered.
Sighing, he opened the book and squinted at it. "This looks really complicated."
I crossed the room in three steps and grabbed the book back from him, tossing it on my bed. "Maybe that's because it's upside down," I told him, disgusted. He couldn't read! The guy was all beef and no brains. I'm sorry, but they have public schools in England. There was no excuse for being illiterate. How could I respect a guy who couldn't even read?
He didn't seem the least bit ashamed or embarrassed. "Why don't you read it to me?" he suggested, smirking as he slouched in the chair.
"Why don't you learn to read?" I threw back at him.
"Alright," he answered, leaning forward and bracing his elbows on his knees. "Where do we start?"
Exasperated, I sighed. "The alphabet, I guess."
Finding a notepad and pencil in the drawer of my desk, I printed out the letters of the alphabet then knelt beside him and went over the sound each letter makes. I didn't really think he was serious about learning because he was like sixteen or seventeen. And if he hadn't learned to read by now, it had to be due to a complete lack of interest, right? But I gave him the pencil and pushed the notepad onto his knee and told him to write something.
"Like what?"
"Like anything you want."
"Alright," he said, frowning at the letters. "How do you make the word, Camie?"
I pointed to the letters and he copied them one by one until he had printed my name. "Now write your name," I suggested.
He answered by making some flowing lines on the paper.
"That's not right."
"T'is," he insisted, looking insulted again.
"No tisn't," I mocked him and grabbed the pencil.
He grabbed it back. "I know how to make my name," he said stonily.
"In what language?" I demanded.
"In my language," he answered.
"Well, don't you want to know how to write your name in everyday English?"
"Nay," he grunted. "I'd rather know how to make the word painintheass."
"That's four words," I pointed out. "And why do you want to spell that?"
"I have a feeling I'll be using it a lot," he answered with a growl.
Okay, I laughed even though I should have maybe been insulted. But it was pretty funny and I was surprised to find out he had a sense of humor. Wasn't expecting that. "Lesson's over," I told him and went back to my chair, grinning at him.
His gaze locked on my eyes. "Read to me," he said quietly.
"What?"
"Read to me. I like the sound of your voice."
At first, I snorted. But he just kept watching me with those dark-rimmed eyes so eventually I threw myself on the bed, pulled the pillow under my head and started reading. I don't know why. Maybe because he was so cute and arrogant. Or maybe I was just flattered that he liked the sound of my voice. So I started reading the book out loud to him. And you'd have thought he'd be grateful, right? Wrong. Because he scoffed every time I got to the romantic parts.
Annoyed, I slapped the book down on my patchwork quilt (another great find at the thrift store). "I take it you don't believe in love."
He snorted. "That's not a love story."
"No?"
"Nay."
"Well, what is it then?"
"It's just a silly romance written for young lasses who wouldn't know love if it bit them in the—"
That was insulting. I jumped from the bed and stalked across the room before he could finish. When I reached him, I slammed the paperback on his head a few times. He never flinched. He never tried to stop me. He just blinked a little each time the book crashed against his head. The rest of the time, he had his gaze locked on my eyes, watching me with a strange intensity.
Eventually, I got self conscious under his fierce gaze and backed off.
"You done?" he asked.
"For now," I answered.
"Good," he said, rolling up to his feet and launching himself across the room. Uh-huh, you heard me right. Moving faster than was even possible, he tackled me onto the bed.
Naturally, I fought back, kicking and clawing, but the fight was a short one. He grabbed my wrists and rolled on top of me, pinning me to the mattress, his eyes flashing with laughter. But there was a lot of heat underlying his amusement.
"You want to fight?" he growled, his lips moving about two inches from my mouth.
I struggled for a few more seconds. "Not so much anymore," I panted.
"Minx," he whispered. And for the next few seconds, the look he gave me belonged in an X-rated novel. And I thought for a moment he might actually kiss me. And I knew that if he did…I'd kiss him back.
Seriously.
You know the expression butterflies in the stomach? Yeah, that doesn't begin to describe what was happening just beneath my belly button. I had a whole lot more than butterflies going on. Try nuclear meltdown.
And it was SO frustrating because I didn't know of one good reason why I should feel that way about him. I couldn't figure out what the hell was going on. Was it only his looks? Was I that shallow? Was I falling for this guy based on nothing more than gold hair, gunmetal eyes (with dark rims) and wide shoulders? Why would I do that? I mean, there were plenty of nice looking guys at school. Several of them even liked me. Some of them liked me a lot. And they didn't have this ridiculous effect on me. What was it about Force?
And after some deep soul-searching (that lasted about five seconds), I came up with a theory that might explain what was going on. Sorta. Let me put it this way. Suppose you were in Africa and you ran across this magnificent young lion—this freakin' king of beasts. And suppose you knew the fabulous creature was hungry or wounded or lost and alone. Or trapped in a cage on its way to some city zoo. Your heart would go out to it, right? Well, that's what happened to me when I found Force in that dumpster. My heart went out to him. And you know what? I hadn't seen it again since.
But he couldn't read, I reminded myself. He was probably seventeen and had never bothered to learn. That was like a total deal-breaker for me.
And while I was having this little epiphany, Force pulled back, like he realized what was gonna maybe happen any minute now and he didn't want to get in that deep. Like he didn't want to feel that way about a girl. Like he didn't want the butterflies (if guys even get those) or the nuclear meltdown or anything like that. And he didn't want to kiss me.
So he rolled away onto his back. And with his hands laced together on his chest, he studied the ceiling. Thoughtfully. And yeah, he looks really good when he gets that thoughtful look on his face.
I tilted onto my side so I could look down into his eyes. Man, those charcoal rims were killer. And those eyelashes. They were so thick. And darker than they should have been on a golden blond. "Minx?" I questioned him with a breathless grin.
"Aye," he growled. "Minx. M. I. N…
"X." I finished for him. "You've been paying attention."
"I always pay attention," he answered solemnly.
"So anyhow, you don't believe in romance," I giggled, wanting to run my fingers through the thick mass of his gold hair but holding back because of not wanting to restart the nuclear meltdown thing.
"Guys don't talk like that," he snorted, waving his hand at the book, which had fallen against the headboard. "Guys don't think like that."
"Oh?" I questioned him, still a little breathless. "How do they think?"
"Simple things," he answered. "Like when they see a nice lass, they think I gotta have
her."
"That's it?" I asked, hiding my disappointment with a smile.
His body language was pure arrogance as he rolled his shoulders. "Sorry."
"For how long?" I snickered.
"What do you mean?"
I couldn't help but think about Morris. "When a guy wants a girl, how long does he feel like he's gotta have her? Once? Twice?"
"For some," he admitted. "Once is enough…"
"No big surprise there," I snorted, rolling into a sitting position and throwing my legs over the side of the mattress.
"…and for others, forever isn't enough," he murmured from behind me.
I stood and turned and looked down at him. "Forever?" I snickered. "I can't believe you used the f-word. Nobody around here uses that word. Especially not guys. Especially not guys our age."
He watched me quietly. "I'm a little older than you," he said.
"You look about seventeen," I pointed out. "A year older than me."
"Maybe," he answered. "But I've had a lot of…life experience."
"So what has your experience taught you and what kind of guy are you?" I asked him, laughing. "The Once-or-Twice kinda guy or the Forever kind?"
"I guess it would depend on the lass," he answered quietly.
Okay. That was pretty noncommittal and I was going to say so but…
He cocked his head suddenly like he was listening. "Someone's coming," he said, and checked my face as he moved to his feet and stepped between me and the doorway. "Are you expecting anyone?"
"Um, not really," I answered. "But…it might be my dad." I listened too and heard the key in the lock. "Wait a minute," I tried to tell Force.
But he stepped out of the bedroom just as Darryl walked into the apartment.
I followed Force through the bedroom door, stuffing my loose shirttails into my jeans.
Darryl took one look at the tall blond standing in my bedroom door and started yelling. "Who's this?" he asked, dropping two bags of groceries on the threadbare carpet and stabbing a finger at Force, his voice rising with every word. "What's he doing here, Camie? And what's he doing in your bedroom?"
Which was really annoying. Because when you only drop in a few times a month, you don't have the right to ask your teenage daughter what she's been doing while you were out on the race car circuit. But before I could point that out, Force spoke up.
"I wasn't sleeping with your daughter," he said so matter-of-factly that Darryl must have been surprised. He sure looked surprised. As in, shocked-speechless.
But not for long.
"Believe me," he sniped back at Force. "I didn't think for one minute you two were actually sleeping."
I opened my mouth again, ready to rip into him for suggesting we were doing anything like that when it had all come off completely innocent but Force spoke up again.
"I wasn't doing that either," he said, slouching against the doorframe.
Darryl glared at him. "And you expect me to believe that?"
"Aye," he answered in a drawl. "Because if I had been, I'd be smiling right now…and so would your daughter."
"Oh my god," I shouted, completely forgetting about my father and focusing on the arrogant caveman who was holding up the doorframe. "You are insufferable."
Darryl eyes went really big. Like comically big. He looked at me then looked at Force again. "Okay," he said. "I believe you."
"You…do?" I exclaimed.
Darryl picked up the paper grocery bags and carried them to the kitchen counter. "Nobody has enough brass to lie like that. I figure he's gotta be telling the truth." He was even smiling a little as he started opening cupboards and putting things away.
"Camie," Force suggested evenly. "Shouldn't you help your father?"
I shot him a glare because he was clearly trying to score more points with my dad. But I stalked into the kitchen and took over while Darryl helped himself a beer. It was actually hard to stay mad when I saw what was in the bags. I usually survive on cheap canned stuff I can carry home easily. Darryl had gone "all out" with ten pounds of potatoes, fresh vegetables, a roast of beef and a whole chicken.
"What did you do?" I asked him. "Rob a bank?"
He dropped into the barstool on the other side of the counter and grinned back at me.
"What?" I asked, staring back at him.
"I think I have a sponsor lined up," he answered.
"Really?" I breathed. "I mean, really?" A sponsor would be huge. It would mean a steady income. A good steady income. "Are you serious?"
"I think so," he answered, his smile a combination of damn-right-I-have-a-sponsor and I-think-so-but-don't-want-to-get-my-hopes-up.
"That would be huge, Dad! Really huge."
"I know," he murmured with a cautious smile in his eyes.
"So you race cars," Force started tentatively, joining him at the counter on the second barstool.
"I race a Camaro," Darryl corrected him.
"And…uh…how big is the engine?" Force asked.
Darryl eyed him suspiciously. "Do you know anything about cars?"
"Not much," he admitted. "Only what I've heard on Top Gear."
"The British series? Well, that's a start," Darryl grunted and launched off into a long-ass description of his Camaro and how powerful it was and how fast it could go and all the changes he'd made to the body and engine. How he'd painted it white because his last name is White and essentially boring us to death (even though Force didn't seem all that bored) with all the racecar driving details that I'd heard all my life.
"Nice guy," Force said as I walked him down the stairs an hour later.
"Yeah, that's what my mother thought," I muttered.
"Your mother," he murmured. "Did it never occur to you that maybe your mother has got it wrong?"
"Uh. No. Her boyfriend buys me a first class ticket to Chicago every Christmas. Then Mom takes me shopping at some of the best stores in the city."
"So, you see her once a year?"
"That's right."
"So, she's willing to spend money on you but not time. Which would you rather have?"
Time, I thought. But I didn't say that. Instead, I said, "It's not like my father spends much time with me!"
He lifted a hand and flung it toward the stairs. "That's because he's out there, trying to make a living for you."
"That's crap," I exclaimed, starting to lose my temper. "He's out there doing exactly what he wants to do. Like he's always done. Racing cars like he's eighteen and doesn't have any responsibilities in life. Like he doesn't have a family to tie him down. He could have gone to work for a supply company, delivering tools around Denver!"
"And give up his dream for something better?"
"What about me? What about my dreams? I want to go to college one day."
"Maybe he's trying to do the same thing. Get you to college. Maybe with this sponsor thing, he'll be able to help you do that."
Yeah, right, I thought. And if you believe that, I have a bridge you might be interested in…
And then I said something mean. I don't know why I said it. I'm not normally a mean person. I think maybe it was because Force kept arguing when he should have let it go. And maybe because he seemed to think that a guy's dreams were more important than the dreams of his wife. Or the dreams of his daughter. "That's not gonna happen," I snorted. "The only thing my father ever gave me is my name."
"You know that's not true," he said quietly. "You know your father loves you. You said your mother left your dad. But she left you too, Camie."
"G'nite," I said abruptly, and spun on my heel, angry at myself and angry at him…and starting to question the things I'd believed for the last seven years. Had I made my father a monster to justify my mother's departure from my life? Was it really my father's fault? Was my mother to blame too? Were they maybe equal partners in this thing?
Why did I care? Why did I care what Force thought? The guy couldn't even read. Why was I falling for the wrong guy? I was smarter than that. I had prom
ised myself this wouldn't happen to me. I walked into the apartment and slammed the door behind me.
Darryl's eyebrows shot up. "Lover's quarrel?"
"We're not lovers," I snapped. "We're barely friends."
"Too bad," Darryl murmured, and lifted his bottle to his mouth. "I like him."
"Join the club," I muttered beneath my breath.
"What?"
"He likes you too," I growled.
But I decided then-and-there that this thing I had for Force had to stop. I was determined NOT to like him. From here-on-in, we could be friends but that was it.
Chapter Seven
Darryl was still there when I woke (which was surprising) but he didn't stay much longer than it took to drink two cups of coffee. During our short visit he asked me about softball but I doubt he remembered any of my answers.
"Can you make it to my game tonight?" I asked.
As per usual, he would have loved to be there but…
There's always a "but" with my dad.
"How are you for money?" he asked, as he was getting ready to leave.
And that's always a hard question to answer, because I'm never sure if he's gonna offer me some cash…or if he's gonna ask for a loan. So I tend to give him vague answers like, "I'm good."
Then he was on his way to Ohio for two weeks.
And I was on my own, trying not to think about Force.
Of course, it helped that I had a softball game that afternoon. That turned out to be a useful distraction.
I was in at catcher and we were at the top of the 3rd before Leo showed up but I was glad to see him. He has the best whistle in the world and we managed to win the game (no thanks to me).
After the game, Leo gave me a lift home. There are no ball fields downtown so I take a bus to get out to the games. But I can usually count on him for a ride home.
"You were a little off tonight," Leo pointed out.
"What do you mean?" I asked, knowing damn well exactly what he meant.
"You should have had that girl out on second."
He was right. I didn't see the steal coming and hadn't reacted fast enough to get the ball out there in time. Their short stop went on to score. "I did okay at bat," I muttered.
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