“Animals can be therapeutic, and I feel certain some of the area shelters would be willing to partner with us.” Mrs. Quinn almost seemed to be running through her idea in her mind, talking to herself more than to me.
I understood where she was going. There were programs between prisoners and dogs that were supposed to be good all the way around. Not that I knew much more than that.
“You can help us get things off the ground.”
I blanched, but Sam didn’t seem to notice, still dead to the world. “Me? Um—”
“We can discuss it later. Why don’t we start with you telling me what’s brought you here? Then we’ll get you two settled in.”
I swallowed a small sob because it had been a while since someone had showed me such kindness . . . without wanting something in return.
Chapter Five
Drew
“You are not to go into the resident’s living area unaccompanied.”
Then why are you showing me where it is?
Instead of being a smart-ass to the woman who seemed to hold my fate in her hands, I nodded. Mrs. Quinn gave me an extra-long stare. I wasn’t sure if she didn’t believe me or was waiting for me to voice my understanding. I stared back.
“Mr. Carter, I have to give people the benefit of the doubt to a point. It’s no different with you.” Obviously, I didn’t get as much of that benefit as Easton and Dad. She’d been all smiles with them and all business with me. As if I was a street punk. “Don’t mistake my kindness as an opportunity to take advantage. You don’t get three strikes.”
I flinched at the baseball reference. Angry that after all this time I still wasn’t over the past.
“Got it,” I said acidly.
She didn’t react to my mood. I wanted her to. I wanted someone else to feel as irritated as I did all the time. As childish as it was, I wanted her to pay for the low blow. For reminding me of the game I only wanted to forget.
I opened my mouth to do just that, but she stole the opportunity. “You’ll primarily be in the kitchen with Miss Nece.”
“I don’t know anything about cooking,” I said snidely.
Easton shot a warning look in my direction while Dad appeared as though he expected nothing less. Why were they still here?
“She’ll teach you what you need to know.” Mrs. Quinn walked away from the looming door to the resident’s area, heading back in the direction we’d come. “When she doesn’t need you any longer, find me. There’s plenty to keep you busy.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of,” I muttered under my breath.
Easton discreetly punched me in the shoulder. I stopped and scowled, but he nudged me forward. Mrs. Quinn was already a considerable distance ahead of us. For an old lady, she moved pretty fast.
We trudged through the quiet halls.
“Why are you still here? Don’t you have business to do?” I whisper-hissed.
“Because you need us.” Easton’s face remained stoic, even if the words were loaded.
“You mean you don’t trust me.”
“I don’t, but that has nothing to do with it.”
I shouldn’t have bothered with the question he seemed determined to dance around. As I stared straight ahead, the first rays of light peeked through the windows. I was no stranger to being up with the sun, but I’d expected it to be later. We’d only had the grand tour so far, and it felt as if I’d been there a week.
Loud singing over a muffled radio pierced the silence. “You Can’t Always Get What You Want” by The Rolling Stones grew clear when Mrs. Quinn pushed open the swinging door to the kitchen. A woman with her back to us was singing at the top of her lungs . . . and it wasn’t half bad.
“You tryin’ to sneak up on me, woman?” she asked without turning around.
“I’ve brought reinforcements,” Mrs. Quinn said, looking as though she was trying not to smile.
The heavyset lady spun and took in the three of us with a raised brow. “They better not mess up my kitchen.” She shook a wooden spoon right at me before she turned back around to whatever was on the stove and muttered something about “good-looking trouble.” Then she pointed at the wall where several aprons hung and resumed singing.
When none of us immediately moved, she said, “Make yourself useful or get out of my kitchen.”
I was the one who gave orders, not took them. No one so much as breathed, except the woman I assumed was Miss Nece, who continued on as if we weren’t even there, while they waited to see what I’d do.
This or jail. This or jail.
I still wasn’t completely convinced my family would send me to the slammer . . . until I looked at my father standing with his arms folded and his face like stone. He’d love to get rid of me.
I shrugged off my suit jacket, loosened my tie, and hung it on an empty hook next to a few pink aprons. I snagged one and tied it around my waist. “I’m yours to do with as you please, sugar.”
I flashed my best grin at the woman who was old enough to be my grandmother. Might as well attempt to win her over if we were going to have to work together. I could play nice when I wanted to.
“The next time you say sugar, you better be talkin’ ‘bout this.” She pointed at a fifty-pound bag of the white stuff. I stepped back. She looked like she might hit me with it no matter how heavy it was. “Now put on some gloves and plate those muffins real pretty-like.”
She motioned to a box of plastic gloves before I could ask where they were and then turned her icy look on my brother and father. Something about that made me like her.
“What can we—”
“See them glasses and plates? Start takin’ ’em out to the dining room,” she commanded.
Easton and Dad jumped right into action, grabbing as much as they could.
“I’ll show you where to stack them,” Mrs. Quinn said as she held the door for them.
The door was still swinging when Miss Nece turned all her attention back to me. “This is serious business. If you ain’t gonna take it as such, you can get out of my kitchen right now.”
I gestured down my body. “Doesn’t get more serious than a pink apron. I wouldn’t wear this for just anybody.”
She muttered something about Jesus and trouble, though I couldn’t understand the sentence. But I swore as I finished plating the tray of muffins I saw her smile.
Chapter Six
Sonya
“Should I be offended you’re the first male to see me naked in a while, and you’re trying to escape?”
Sam nudged the glass door to the shower. For some genius reason, I thought giving him a bath would be easier in the shower stall if we were both in it. His back half was shampooed, his face was wet, and he was putting up a fight I honestly wouldn’t have thought he had in him. Then again, he was a survivor.
And he was determined to get out of there.
I sat on the tiled floor and patted my thigh. He stopped nosing the door and looked at me warily.
“Have I done you wrong so far?” As if he could understand me, he cocked his head, considering. “We have to get this dirt off you.” I squeezed a little soap on my arm and rubbed it in. “See? I have to do it too. Then we can get something to eat.”
He cut his gaze back out the foggy glass.
“You’re going to run, aren’t you?” I sighed as he lifted his paw but stopped just short of pushing on the door.
He stared at me with those brown eyes that held so much expression. The dog seemed to be asking if it would make me happy if he let me do this horrible thing to him.
“It’ll make both of us happy,” I said as if this conversation was two-sided instead of one. “At least let me get the soap off you.”
He lay beside me and put his head on my lap. His eyes seemed to say “do your worst.” I hated to upset him, so I tried to be as gentle as I could.
“Temperature okay?”
He didn’t move, so I had to assume it was. For me, the water was a little on the cold side, but I didn’t
want to scald him. I massaged carefully as I worked soap into his fur and rinsed.
His eyelids closed, and he let out a soft snore. Guess the fight had worn him out. Still, I worked quickly to make the experience as painless as possible. I even serenaded him with “Hell on Heels” by The Pistol Annies.
The song was almost autobiographical. I belted out my favorite line about still using the poor guy’s credit card because I had the AMEX Jeffrey Paulson had given me eleven years ago. Every time a relationship ran its course, I picked a new hotel to stay in until I met my next mark. What was the point in keeping an apartment when I could always land in one much better than what I could afford? And if I had no home, it was that much harder to find me . . . if anyone bothered.
I was a virtual ghost.
It never ceased to surprise me when the credit card wasn’t declined. And every so often, a new one with an updated expiration date showed up at the front desk of whatever hotel I was staying in. Why Jeffrey did that, I’d never figured out. Maybe I’d left a good impression on him. Maybe he got some sort of personal satisfaction out of it. He’d always liked to take care of me. Guess this was his way of continuing to do that from a distance. In that case, once my eye healed, I was due to try out a suite at the Four Seasons courtesy of Jeffrey. I was sure he wouldn’t mind.
“They’re going to treat you like a prince there,” I said, but Sam didn’t move. Come to think of it, he was treated like a prince here too.
Once I’d finished bathing him, I didn’t have the heart to move him off my leg, so I stayed on the shower floor, using the handheld nozzle. Semi-warm water flowed over my head. I stretched to bump up the temperature a notch but couldn’t reach the tap. Instead, I grabbed the shampoo and shivered as I lathered it into my hair. This was going to be a quick shower.
As I washed the suds out of my thick curls, water blasted my face.
“Ow.” I jerked the hand with the nozzle away from my head and touched beneath my eye. It hurt like a bitch and was even more sore today than it was yesterday.
That coin had better be worth a ton. And Tamas better be glad I wasn’t the type to hold a grudge . . . not for too long anyway.
My stomach growled, and Sam lifted his head. “Sorry I woke you up, dude.”
I eased to my feet and stretched. I’d gotten stiff sitting on the hard floor. Sam stood too.
Quickly, I finished bathing and dried us both off. Every time I touched his skinny frame, I got pissed off all over again that he’d had to live like he had. Starving. Homeless. Maybe he’d never had a home.
I hadn’t had one in a while either. Not really.
“Ready to go find something to eat in this joint?” He wagged his tail. “Let’s see what kind of trouble we can get into.”
* * *
The dining room was mostly empty when we made it downstairs. A few groups were scattered around the tables, but they didn’t appear to be eating. Mrs. Quinn had mentioned something about breakfast at six a.m., but my brain had shut down at those words. Who got up at that ungodly hour?
Sam stayed plastered against my leg. When I moved, he moved. When I stopped, he stopped. I hadn’t been completely sure what to expect from him, but at least he hadn’t run off like a wild man at the scent of bacon.
“Hi.”
I jumped and put a hand over my heart at the woman who’d snuck up on me.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you,” she said quietly. “I’m Trish.”
I stood staring, annoyed that I’d missed her approach. I prided myself on sharp reflexes, except when it came to sucker punches. Besides, I wasn’t here to make friends.
“You must be new here because I’d remember your friend if he’d been around,” she rambled on. My stomach grumbled again. “If you’re hungry, there are some leftovers from breakfast. Let me show you.”
She took off before I could respond, and I found myself following her to a buffet covered from end to end with muffins, fruit, cereal . . . pretty much anything a person could want. There was even some bacon in a warming tray. Sam and I went straight for that.
He sniffed, stretching his nose toward the scent. I opened the lid, and he put his paws on the edge of the table. If Trish minded, she didn’t say anything. I grabbed a piece of thick bacon and dropped it into Sam’s open mouth. He smacked a couple of times and swallowed it practically whole.
“That’s good, huh?”
He panted at me, those big paws doing a tap dance on the edge of the table. I gave him another piece, which he gulped down.
I turned my attention to—what was her name again? Oh well, it didn’t matter. “Last night, Mrs. Quinn had some sort of stew with rice for him.”
“We’ve got some of that in the kitchen,” she said. “I’ll go warm some up while you make yourself a plate.” Her smile was kind and completely undeserved, but I did as she said and piled a plate with everything that looked good.
I picked an empty table and sat. Sam put his head on my lap and looked up at me with those eyes. “You know exactly what you’re doing, don’t you?”
I fed him a grape and laughed as he struggled to eat it. He chomped until he finally got it down, then he put his head right back in my lap.
My laughter abruptly halted as a trio of gods stopped at a table across the room. I felt them before I even saw them. Judging by the attention they’d garnered from everyone else, I wasn’t the only one.
I was a sucker for a man in a suit . . . or maybe I suckered a lot of men in suits. Either way, I couldn’t stop staring.
The distinguished gentleman who was the oldest—and if I was a betting woman, which I was—I’d guess was the other two’s father. They had a similar build—tall, broad shoulders, bronzed skin . . . striking. The three dripped of power, but it was different than Tamas, who was powerful enough in his own right.
These men commanded it naturally; Tamas begged for it. Not necessarily with words, but with his general demeanor. These three men owned it.
“Here’s breakfast.”
I barely heard Trish, my eyes locked on the one who looked like he was lost. He had the body of an athlete, dark brown hair with natural honey highlights, and filled out his suit like it was made for him. Well, minus the jacket and tie. And he was all kinds of pissed off, as if he’d sucked on the world’s most sour lemon, until Mrs. Quinn, who was at his side, spoke to him. That sourpuss look smoothed into pleasantness as he easily engaged the woman. He was an imposter, just like me. What was he hiding from?
“Trish, are men allowed here?”
Her gaze followed mine, a little knowing smirk on her lips. “They can volunteer. I bet you anything he’s with the crew Vivian Elliott brings around.”
“They all look like that?” I raised a brow suspiciously.
“Exactly.”
“How often do they come by?”
“One of them makes an appearance at least once a week.”
“Isn’t having men around sort of intimidating? I mean, they aren’t on my list of favorites right now,” I muttered, protesting a little too much.
“We can’t stay in a bubble. One day, we’ll be back out there.” She waved at the door. “We have to be able to handle ourselves.”
“I don’t need any practice at handling the real world,” I returned dryly.
“Sometimes, we have to learn how not to let the real world handle us.” I wasn’t sure exactly what she meant by that, my gaze drifting around the room as the person who stuck out like a sore thumb walked around. “I have to run, but I’ll see you at dinner.”
“Uh-huh,” I said, my interest three tables away.
I didn’t like this guy. I felt defensive of the women here, not that I thought he’d hurt any of them. Just that he didn’t want to be here. I could see it, though it might not have been obvious to anyone else. How noble of me to want to protect this place from someone here without the best of intentions. So it was fine for me to be here, but not someone else with an agenda? When had I become a hypocrite? Ye
t another adjective to add to my repertoire of personal descriptions.
Maybe I didn’t like someone else on my turf. I hadn’t really figured out what I wanted from this place other than somewhere nice to stay and some good food. I had this itchy feeling as if I had to make a decision now because of this guy’s presence, when before his arrival, I’d had the luxury of time to figure shit out.
I propped my hands underneath my chin and observed. All the signs were there. Expensive tailor-made clothes, not off the rack. Air of authority, my-shit-don’t-stink kind of attitude. Gold watch. I’d put money on it being a Breitling. He had that certain something wealthy men had that I never could quite describe. It was an aura of confidence. They didn’t take no for an answer; therefore, they always got what they wanted. If we were in an uptown bar, this guy would be my target. He was perfect, and it might be interesting. He had an edge about him that said he was off-limits and maybe a challenge. I was up for one.
Tamas punching me in the face might have been worth it, because he may have just handed me my next mark.
Chapter Seven
Drew
This might be worse than prison.
I had no expectations for what I’d be doing at Paths of Purpose, but once I arrived with my father and brother—my wardens, in essence—we’d gotten straight down to business. Mrs. Quinn was worse than a high school principal. She’d obviously had time to prepare for my sentence.
“We have to go,” Easton said, buttoning his suit jacket.
“Fine with me,” I said, not bothering to put my own coat back on.
He placed a hand on my shoulder. “Not you. Dad and me.”
I scowled, knowing it was too good to be true. We’d been at it all day. Cooking. Taking out the trash. Scrubbing toilets. Vacuuming. I was used to long hours, but this was disgusting and exhausting. It was the sort of work I’d never touched, having always had someone to do it for me. Yet here I was.
Thick As Thieves: An Enemies-To-Lovers Romance (Paths To Love Book 5) Page 3