Stupid Boy
Page 42
Then, with a final sweep of his tongue, his lips over mine, he pulled back. His coffee eyes were shining, deep pools of liquid glass. “Hey there,” he said, smiling.
I smiled back. “Hey yourself.”
“You wanna sit?” he asked, inkling his head toward the sofa.
“Sure,” I answered, and Kane laced his fingers through mine and tugged. I couldn’t help the gasp of pain when his big hand squeezed my palm.
“What is it?” he asked, then looked at my hand. Turned it over. Then he grabbed my other hand and did the same. “Harper,” he said softly, and he gently ran his thumb gently over my blisters. He looked at me. “What did you do?”
Panic. Fear. “I um,” I hesitated. “I helped chop some firewood.” I gave a soft laugh. “Kind of a Belle family tradition.” I found his gaze, and it watched me closely. “We all take turns.”
Silently, he led me over to the sofa. A single candle in a mason jar sat on a big square coffee table, and the scent of maple and apples rose in the air. I sniffed, liking it. We sat down. He gathered my hands in his. “Next time wear gloves,” he said. “Do you want me to doctor them?”
I smiled. “They’re just blisters, Kane. I’ll be fine.” I sniffed the air, trying to push his attention away from my injured palms. “That candle smells so nice.”
“Olivia’s touch,” Kane said. “She’s good for my brother. Real good.”
I looked around. I’d been in the apartment a couple of times before. “I think the trophy count is doubled since the last time I was in here,” I noticed. “He really loves it.”
“Lives it and breathes it,” Kane answered. “Ever since we were kids.” He laughed lightly. “The first thing he ever said to me, when we met, was, Do you like baseball?”
I looked at him. “When you met?”
Kane’s eyes softened. “Yeah.” He drew back a little. “You didn’t know we were foster brothers?”
Fosta brothas. “I did, yes. Olivia told me. But I didn’t know how old you were when you met.” My mind whirled then, full of questions I had no right asking. Especially since I avoided my own. Somehow, I couldn’t help myself. “What happened to your parents?”
Kane studied me for a moment, those profound eyes searching mine. Seeking trust? Avoiding fear? I thought for a moment he wouldn’t answer me, and I regretted putting him on the spot. I’d have hated it. I’d have balked. Instead, he held my hand, stroked the top of my knuckles with his thumb. He looked down, then back at me, and I knew then he’d decided to trust me. I couldn’t decide if I cherished that, or despised myself for it.
“Are we still playing the question game?” he asked, surprising me. “I answer one, you answer one? The truth and only the truth?”
Slowly, I nodded. And prayed he asked the right things.
His gaze dropped to our hands again, and he breathed. “You know how some kids turn out exactly like their dad or mom?” He looked at me. “I vaguely remember my mom. She…left us. A long time ago, before I was five. But one thing I know for damn sure. I’m nothing like my father.”
The resentment in his voice shifted his features into something harsh, something much, much older. Something I wasn’t used to seeing in gentle Kane McCarthy. I waited for him to continue. Squeezed his hand, sank closer to him.
“My father was a drunk, evil bastard,” he continued. “The kind of scumbag who should’ve never fathered children.” He shook his head, wouldn’t look at me. “Any excuse he could find to beat me or my sister, he was all over it.”
My heart started slamming in my chest. “You have a sister?” I asked quietly.
His eyes sought mine. “Katy.”
I swallowed past the lump in my throat. “Do you get to see her very much?”
A soft sigh escaped Kane’s throat, and the smile he turned on me was sad, winsome, and vague. “As often as I can.”
“What about your father?” I dared ask. I couldn’t seem to help myself. I wanted to know more. All. Everything.
“Prison.” He breathed again, squeezed my hand. Another winsome smile. “Your turn. And I get to ask four to your four. Fair enough?”
I nodded, fearful. But fair was fair. “Yes.”
He half-turned, resting his back against the arm rest of the sofa. Outside, the light began to fade, and the candle burning on the coffee table flickered, making the shadows dance across Kane’s handsome face. “Are you an only child?”
“Yes.”
He nodded. “Where are your parents?”
“Dead, when I was eight. My grandmother raised me.”
I’d even offered that one up on my own. It seemed relatively harmless enough. Didn’t it?
“Why are you afraid of the dark?” he asked in that soft, buttery voice.
I glanced down, staring at our entwined hands. My breath caught in my throat, and I found the next breath even harder to draw. Kane’s knuckle tucked beneath my chin and lifted my gaze back to his. “What are you so afraid of, Harper?”
In the depths of his brown eyes I saw mine reflected there; wide, fearful, unsure. “What is it you’re hiding from everyone?” he asked quietly. His thumb grazed my jaw, my lips. “What’s behind all this broken beauty? Tell me.”
Demons are in the dark, that’s what. Blood. And they want to hurt me like they hurt my parents. Horrible noises that humans shouldn’t make. Footsteps, creaking boards, and smelly kitchen sponges. Dark rooms with locks on the outside and asylums for girls who have psychological problems. That’s what I’m afraid of. But I can’t tell you any of that.
I smiled back. “Hey yourself.”
“You wanna sit?” he asked, inkling his head toward the sofa.
“Sure,” I answered, and Kane laced his fingers through mine and tugged. I couldn’t help the gasp of pain when his big hand squeezed my palm.
“What is it?” he asked, then looked at my hand. Turned it over. Then he grabbed my other hand and did the same. “Harper,” he said softly, and he gently ran his thumb gently over my blisters. He looked at me. “What did you do?”
Panic. Fear. “I um,” I hesitated. “I helped chop some firewood.” I gave a soft laugh. “Kind of a Belle family tradition.” I found his gaze, and it watched me closely. “We all take turns.”
Silently, he led me over to the sofa. A single candle in a mason jar sat on a big square coffee table, and the scent of maple and apples rose in the air. I sniffed, liking it. We sat down. He gathered my hands in his. “Next time wear gloves,” he said. “Do you want me to doctor them?”
I smiled. “They’re just blisters, Kane. I’ll be fine.” I sniffed the air, trying to push his attention away from my injured palms. “That candle smells so nice.”
“Olivia’s touch,” Kane said. “She’s good for my brother. Real good.”
I looked around. I’d been in the apartment a couple of times before. “I think the trophy count is doubled since the last time I was in here,” I noticed. “He really loves it.”
“Lives it and breathes it,” Kane answered. “Ever since we were kids.” He laughed lightly. “The first thing he ever said to me, when we met, was, Do you like baseball?”
I looked at him. “When you met?”
Kane’s eyes softened. “Yeah.” He drew back a little. “You didn’t know we were foster brothers?”
Fosta brothas. “I did, yes. Olivia told me. But I didn’t know how old you were when you met.” My mind whirled then, full of questions I had no right asking. Especially since I avoided my own. Somehow, I couldn’t help myself. “What happened to your parents?”
Kane studied me for a moment, those profound eyes searching mine. Seeking trust? Avoiding fear? I thought for a moment he wouldn’t answer me, and I regretted putting him on the spot. I’d have hated it. I’d have balked. Instead, he held my hand, stroked the top of my knuckles with his thumb. He looked down, then back at me, and I knew then he’d decided to trust me. I couldn’t decide if I cherished that, or despised myself for it.
“Are we still playing the question game?” he asked, surprising me. “I answer one, you answer one? The truth and only the truth?”
Slowly, I nodded. And prayed he asked the right things.
His gaze dropped to our hands again, and he breathed. “You know how some kids turn out exactly like their dad or mom?” He looked at me. “I vaguely remember my mom. She…left us. A long time ago, before I was five. But one thing I know for damn sure. I’m nothing like my father.”
The resentment in his voice shifted his features into something harsh, something much, much older. Something I wasn’t used to seeing in gentle Kane McCarthy. I waited for him to continue. Squeezed his hand, sank closer to him.
“My father was a drunk, evil bastard,” he continued. “The kind of scumbag who should’ve never fathered children.” He shook his head, wouldn’t look at me. “Any excuse he could find to beat me or my sister, he was all over it.”
My heart started slamming in my chest. “You have a sister?” I asked quietly.
His eyes sought mine. “Katy.”
I swallowed past the lump in my throat. “Do you get to see her very much?”
A soft sigh escaped Kane’s throat, and the smile he turned on me was sad, winsome, and vague. “As often as I can.”
“What about your father?” I dared ask. I couldn’t seem to help myself. I wanted to know more. All. Everything.
“Prison.” He breathed again, squeezed my hand. Another winsome smile. “Your turn. And I get to ask four to your four. Fair enough?”
I nodded, fearful. But fair was fair. “Yes.”
He half-turned, resting his back against the arm rest of the sofa. Outside, the light began to fade, and the candle burning on the coffee table flickered, making the shadows dance across Kane’s handsome face. “Are you an only child?”
“Yes.”
He nodded. “Where are your parents?”
“Dead, when I was eight. My grandmother raised me.”
I’d even offered that one up on my own. It seemed relatively harmless enough. Didn’t it?
“Why are you afraid of the dark?” he asked in that soft, buttery voice.
I glanced down, staring at our entwined hands. My breath caught in my throat, and I found the next breath even harder to draw. Kane’s knuckle tucked beneath my chin and lifted my gaze back to his. “What are you so afraid of, Harper?”
In the depths of his brown eyes I saw mine reflected there; wide, fearful, unsure. “What is it you’re hiding from everyone?” he asked quietly. His thumb grazed my jaw, my lips. “What’s behind all this broken beauty? Tell me.”
Demons are in the dark, that’s what. Blood. And they want to hurt me like they hurt my parents. Horrible noises that humans shouldn’t make. Footsteps, creaking boards, and smelly kitchen sponges. Dark rooms with locks on the outside and asylums for girls who have psychological problems. That’s what I’m afraid of. But I can’t tell you any of that.
