In Your Wildest Dreams (28 page)

The dog whimpered, so she scratched behind his ears. "I know it blows, but this is the best we got tonight."

That's when she remembered the po'boy. She hadn't gone to the
Café Du
Monde for
beignets
today, or shared lunch with Jake as usual—in fact, she'd been sitting around wondering just where the hell he was when he'd come strolling into the courtyard with a brown paper bag in his hand. "Ate lunch out today,
'tite
fille,
but got you some."

"Thanks," she'd said softly, unable to meet his eyes when she took the bag. There was something different about
him
bringing
her
food—maybe running the errand every day made her feel like she was earning it, like it wasn't pure charity. Today
was
pure charity, but she'd taken it anyway. She had her pride, but sometimes hunger won out and her stomach had gotten too used to being filled since she'd met Jake.

"Why the frown? You like a nice roast beef po'boy, no? Got fries, too."

The food sounded so good that her stomach had nearly jumped for joy. "Thanks," she'd said again, less timidly this time. "A lot."

She'd shared the thick potato wedges with Scruff, scarfing them down quick, then ate half the sandwich and decided to save the rest for later. Now seemed like a good time for something that would cheer them both up, so she reached for her backpack and unwrapped what remained of the po'boy. She pinched off a bite of roast beef and gravy-soaked French bread for Scruff—who'd learned to be real patient once he'd understood she always shared— before taking a big bite herself.

A few minutes later, though, the food was gone and the rain still fell, and even when it didn't slant up under the gallery, her skin stayed just as clammy. She held out the wrapper to let Scruff lick it clean, then wadded it into a ball, wishing she'd been smart enough to bring a wind-breaker when she'd run away.

If I had it to do over again
...

Would she have stayed? Nope. It made her skin crawl just to think about it.

If I had it to do over again, I'd pack better.

And I'd find a way to get some money off that bastard.

When a door closed somewhere in the courtyard, she flinched, pulling her shoes up under her, trying to make herself as small as possible. Nobody had ever bothered her here, but she still liked being as invisible as she could, especially at night.

So it was all she could do not to panic when the shape of a man came jogging toward her across the courtyard, ducking under the overhang directly in front of her.

She only breathed again when she saw it was Jake.

" You tryin ' to scare the shit outta me ? "

He only laughed. "Always good to see you, too,
'tite
filler-She
swallowed sheepishly, sorry for biting his head off. "What do you want?"

'Thinkin' maybe you oughta come inside."

"Huh?"

He glanced toward the rain pouring a few feet away, then to the mattress she rested on. "Your bed's soaked. So are you."

She stayed quiet, searching for a reply and wondering if she looked nervous. She wasn't afraid of Jake that way anymore, she really wasn't. Still
...
old worries tightened her chest.

Finally, he sighed. "It's a dry place to sleep. You want it, take it. I'm goin' back in now."

Just as he started back out into the rain, she said, "Can I bring Scruff?"

He took a step back, dropping a disdainful gaze to the dog before finally rolling his eyes. "Fine. Follow me."

Looping her backpack over one shoulder, she gathered the dog in her arms and scuttled across the uneven brickwork behind Jake until they were under cover again, then followed him up the stairs she'd seen him come down so many times. She didn't put Scruff down, even though he weighed a ton, afraid he might do something to make Jake mad before she could get him inside.

She followed Jake into a living room with once-white walls that were now yellowed, the old linoleum on the floor scratched and torn. A sagging couch was strewn with newspaper, the beat-up laminate coffee table laden with a basket of laundry and an array of empty cans.

"But that mutt better not piss on the floor," he said, pointing to Scruff as she set him down, his claws tapping on the linoleum.

She took another look around. " 'Cause you take such nice care of the place?"

Jake just looked at her for a long, hard moment—then laughed. The rich sound of it reverberated through the space until he finally said,
"Mon Dieu,
you're a funny kid. I keep forgettin' that."

Feeling tighter inside now, she pointed to the broken-down couch. "This mine?"

He nodded. "Just shove the newspaper on the floor."

"Or I could put it in the garbage." A glance revealed it was from last week. "You
do
got a garbage can, don't ya?"

"Yes, I have a garbage can," he replied with a hint of sarcasm. "By the kitchen counter."

As she wadded the newspaper, her eyes stuck on a framed picture on the end table. A pretty white woman, dark brown wavy hair, tight freckling across her nose. Her arms were crossed, sunglasses pushed up over her head. Colored beads hung around her neck 'This your girlfriend?"

He stuck his head around the corner from the kitchen to look, his eyes clouding over a little. "No."

"Who then?" she asked as he disappeared back through the doorway. "My wife."

Whoa! "You're married?" She walked to the end of the couch and peered through the wide, arched opening to see him closing up a heaping garbage bag.

He glanced up at her briefly before looking back to his task. "Not anymore. She died."

It felt like all the blood drained into her feet. He wasn't old enough to have a wife who'd died. It explained
...
a
lot. "I'm sorry," she said softly.

He plunked the full bag against an ancient refrigerator, cans and bottles rattling inside, and still didn't look at her. "Don't gotta be sorry. Everybody dies sometime."

She just nodded, even though he wasn't watching, and took a seat on the couch. Scruff jumped up beside her and she shoved him back to the floor, knowing Jake wouldn't want wet doggy paws on his couch, no matter how saggy it was.

Good thing too, because he came back in just then and sat down at the opposite end. Scruff stood at her feet, tongue lolling over one side of his open mouth, and she pressed on his furry back until he melted toward the floor to he across the toes of her tennis shoes.

"I'm thinkin' maybe me and you need to talk," Jake said. He stretched one muscular arm across the back of the couch, the sleeve of his dark blue T-shirt stretching taut on his forearm.

She lifted her gaze. "What you wanna talk about?"

"Where'd you run away from, Shondra?"

The use of her name stunned her—he'd never called her by it before. But she still stayed quiet.

"Here in the city, somewhere outside town, somewhere different altogether?"

When she finally spoke, her voice came out meek. "I ain't sayin'." "Why?"

She took a deep breath, let it back out. " 'Cause you'll try to make me go back there, and I ain't goin'."

"What was so bad for you to run away?"

"Told you. Just couldn't deal."

He tilted his head. "What's that mean?"

Her stomach clenched, just like always when she thought about why she'd left. She'd tried to tell before. Tried to tell Grandma Maisy once. And tried to tell her best friend, Donya, at a sleepover. But each time, her throat seemed to close in on itself.

Despite all this, though
...
to her surprise she found herself slowly beginning to tell
Jake.
Maybe just to see if she could. "My father left a couple years back."

Jake's brown eyes narrowed. "That's rough."

She instantly went defensive, maybe because his reply sounded so
clichéd.
"What would you know about it bein' rough?"

"My dad left my mom and me, too. When I was twelve."

Her ire died, her stomach settling a little. "Oh. I was fourteen when mine took off." She looked away, down at her knees, before lifting her gaze again. "You miss him?"

"I missed the hell out of him. Kept thinkin' he'd come back—for years."

"Did he ever?"

He hesitated, then shook his head. "Nope. Still gone."

She swallowed and tried not to let it kill her hope that her father would come back. Not that she'd know, of course, not being at home anymore. She'd never thought about that before—about having no way to know if he ever came home himself.

"Anyway," she went on, "my mama hooked up with some white dude." She flinched slightly at her own words and added, "No offense."

He cast a soft smile. "None taken."

"They can't get married 'cause Daddy ain't been gone long enough, but he lives with us, same as if everything we got is
his
more than it's
ours.
He thinks he's all that, and he's always ..." She glanced down, stomach churning again. "He's always
...
botherin' me."

"Botherin' you how?"

The heat of the obvious answer suffused her face, making her look away, back to her blue jeans. She reached out to fiddle with the hole just above her right knee, pulling lightly at the thick, frayed thread.

She hadn't actually gotten much more out than she had with her grandma and Donya, but she somehow knew he heard her; he understood.

"I'm sorry," he said, his deep voice more comforting than she'd ever heard it before. "I won't make you tell me any more."

"It's cool," she lied with a shrug, even though she still played with the threads of denim, running her fingers over them again and again. "It's just
...
whack, you know?"

"I know," he said. But he thought she was putting it lightly. His stomach was tied in knots and he only wished she'd tell him where the guy lived, so he could go rip him a new asshole. Maybe the mother, too. Peter, Paul, and Mary. No wonder she'd been so nervous around him in the beginning.

And damn, she was . . . what? Sixteen? He'd never have guessed her a day over fourteen and was glad he hadn't known as it would've made him even more hesitant to have anything to do with her, let alone invite her into his apartment.
Merde,
if anyone found out about this, he'd look like the kind of guy Shondra's mom had hooked up with.

To break the awkward moment, he said, "You want somethin' to eat?"

She nodded enthusiastically, and as he pushed up from the couch, he pretended he didn't see her wiping a tear away as she bent over to the scroungy dog.

He headed into the kitchen and checked the fridge. Beer, margarine, ketchup, and the last of a fruit salad Tony had forced on him a week ago. Turning to open an overhead cabinet, he found a box of Rice-A-Roni and some Pop-Tarts.

"You keep a well-stocked kitchen, don't ya?" she asked from behind.

He turned on her with a sarcastic smile before leaning back against the counter to cross his arms. "How about pizza?" It was late—he'd gotten home from Sophia's just a little while ago—but he hadn't eaten dinner, so it sounded good to him, too.

Her eyes lit up. "For real? You mean it?"

He'd had no idea pizza would excite her so much. "Yeah, sure."

"Can we get extra cheese?"

"Whatever you want."

She looked down at the dog, now sitting at their feet, staring up at them. "Hear that, Scruff? We're havin' pizza!"

He thought about saying the dog was
not
eating their pizza, but hell—let the mutt eat. Still, he arched one eyebrow. "Just don't let him make a mess with it."

She glanced around the kitchen. "Because you keep—"

"I know, I know—such a nice place. You're a smartass, you know."

She smiled. "Yeah. But you like me."

"Tony might have a lead on Raven," Jake had said to her over the phone a few hours ago. "I'm meetin' him at a bar on Bourbon at midnight, after work—place called LaVeau's. Thought you might want to join us."