Page 51 of Overkill

“Burger and fries sound good? How about a double from Farm Table?” Greg named one of the biggest farm-to-table style restaurants, complete with a slaughterhouse on the property where they raised grass-fed cows, over in Middlebrook. Pricey. “Bacon? You like pickles? Curly fries or sweet potatoes?”

Marc looked at me through the rearview mirror, as if asking for permission to say yes. My mouth opened and closed. I nodded to him, but Greg noticed it first.

“They both deliver, so why not?” Greg reached over and placed a hand on my thigh, giving it a squeeze. “I’m in the mood for Thai and burgers. Might as well get both. You strike me as a sushi kind of gal, though.”

Marc snorted. “Yeah, she loves sushi. Always used to get those fancy Phoenix Rolls from the Kabuki place in Albany.”

My eyes widened in surprise, “You remember that?”

We hadn’t gone in almost seven years. I was newly eighteen. They were practically still babies. It was my birthday dinner. I remembered, because that night, when Miriam and Marc had gone to bed, Luke whispered how much I reminded him of my mother. He got drunk and wept that I was abandoning him by going to college. That I belonged at home. With him.

I packed my things in the middle of the night and slept in my truck for two months because the dorms didn’t open until that fall.

“Yeah,” Marc said with a shrug and a voice laced with bitterness. “You disappeared right after.”

I turned back, hands between my thighs.

“Albany’s a bit far for delivery, sweetheart, but maybe Mr. Ken’s Sushi in Middlebrook has something.” He was acting like getting shot one day, then being run over by a douche bag brand of a car were just run-of-the-mill occurrences! Like I was . “You like tempura?”

“I’m not hungry.” I’d already tallied the cost of everything—plus time, plus delivery fees—in my head. We couldn’t’ afford it.

“Yes, you are.”

“No! I’m not,” I snapped. We couldn’t afford this!

If he paid for everything…I didn’t have any idea how I would ever repay him.

Unless…was he that kind of man? The kind that would expect something? No. I was sure of it. Right?

“Marc, you never answered. What kind of fries do you like?” Greg was tapping his thumb on the steering wheel.

It felt like Greg had just swerved the entire conversation. He wasn’t going to take no for an answer, and the more he talked about it, the harder it would be for me to stop him.

I wanted to hate him for it, but…with all the pain in my body, the swirl of emotions that mixed inside my overwhelmed heart, and everything else…it was so nice to just have someone take charge. Someone was taking care of things. Someone was taking the mental load for once, and I was

Like he’d twirled me around as if he were a masterful ballroom dancer, turning me exactly where he wanted me to go.

They talked about fries and pickles and onions, and Greg had everyone’s order in his head by the time he parked my car in our driveway, the unlit house silhouetted by the blanket of stars from the early autumn evening.

Marcus and Miriam got out of the truck and sauntered up the steps, careful to miss the one creaky floorboard that was getting a bit hazardous as they went into the house and turned on all the downstairs lights.

Greg’s phone was in his hand, thumb over the dial button with the number of the Thai place already prepped.

“Come on, let’s get you inside.” Greg stepped out without looking at me, phone to his ear as he opened my door, reached over my lap, and clicked off my seatbelt. As he held out his hand for me to take, I felt his warmth through my clothes.

It seemed like second nature to him. Like he’d done this a thousand times. Or perhaps he had done it a thousand times—with someone else.

I knew nothing about this man. I didn’t even know if he had a wife or kids. Though he probably didn’t, because he lived in a barn loft and I’d never seen kids. Surely, he would have said something…right?

He was already placing Miriam’s order when he shut the passenger door, lightly placing his hand on the small of my back as we walked up the porch steps.

Greg hung up and almost fell flat on his face; his foot caught the board that had come undone, one side of it flipping on its hinges, held only by two rusted nails.

“Damn!” he yelled with a grunt as he righted himself. “That’s a hazard!”

He stared at the now out-of-place plank as if it had personally insulted him.

“Yeah, well…the hazards in this house are so numerous, they’re not even a flaw. They’re a feature.”