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So my dream of working for Curtis had never been an option when I'd been a kid, not if I’d wanted to keep the peace at home. I hadn't exactly been thrilled about being an employee of James Cunningham, but I’d wanted and needed the work, and the opportunity to do what I'd always wanted to do for a living—working with horses—had been too amazing to give up. I’d already dropped out of high school at that point, and I hadn’t been looking forward to the idea of working at any of the cattle ranches or accepting a job washing dishes at the single greasy diner in town. So working for James Cunningham had literally been the best I could do.
But I'd never known that Brooks was the reason I’d gotten the job in the first place. I didn't even know what to think of that little revelation.
I forced myself to look away from the marks on Brooks’s neck. Instead, I looked directly at him. That was something I’d learned in prison. If you didn’t look a man in the eye, it’d be that much easier for him to stab you in the back.
“Um, Uncle Curtis thought you might want this," Brooks said as he held up the plate with a big slice of apple pie on it. My stomach betrayed me and grumbled at the sight. I hadn't had much of an appetite for dinner, but I’d eaten anyway because I'd learned in prison that if you didn't eat, you went hungry. That habit had been hard to give up after ten years. But I was a glutton for sweets.
Even if the delivery boy looked more delicious than the pie.
I didn't move or react to Brooks's statement but instead of leaving, he stepped farther into the room. He looked around and took the plate over to my nightstand and set it down.
He moved like prey. His eyes shifted constantly back and forth between his destination and me. I wondered if that was his normal, or if it was because of what I’d done to him and he didn't trust me not to attack him again.
"It's good pie," Brooks said as he turned around to face me. He was almost as tall as me. He’d obviously had a growth spurt at some point. My guess was that he weighed about the same that I did. And, like me, it appeared to be mostly muscle. He’d changed his clothes at some point, and his hair looked freshly washed. It was also styled, so I could tell that the sides were shorn short while the top was a little bit longer. The clothes he’d put on looked much like what he’d been wearing when he’d arrived. The shirt was a different color, though. Bottom line, he looked way overdressed for an evening at home. I was still wearing my jeans, but I’d kicked off my boots and socks a while ago and I’d unbuttoned my shirt and discarded my hat so I could enjoy the cool breeze that was flowing through the room from the open balcony doors.
The longer the silence between us stretched, the more I kind of felt sorry for Brooks because he looked so nervous and anxious.
Which amazed me because hours earlier, he’d been threatening me, taking swings at me.
"I'm not going to do it again," I said to him as I considered that he probably was truly afraid of me. "Just don't…" I began to say, but then I fell silent.
"Don't what?” Brooks asked.
Don’t be afraid of me.
I kept the words shoved deep down in my belly and just shook my head. No way was I going to tell him the truth. We continued to stare at each other. I wondered why he wasn’t leaving. He was clearly uncomfortable, and I doubted, no, I knew I wasn't exactly being welcoming. And based on his earlier words, I knew he wasn't in any kind of mood to talk about what had happened the night of the fire.
Not that I would have told him anyway, even if I had been free to do so.
"Did you need something else?" I asked.
"I'm in the room next to yours," Brooks suddenly blurted out. His awkwardness was cute but somehow painful at the same time. Not because it bothered me, necessarily, but because I couldn’t help but wonder how hard he probably had to work to hide it in his world. From the car he was driving to the expensive clothes covering what had to be a gorgeous body, he clearly had money. That meant he probably had a good job. Or his father was supporting him. But with all I knew about James Cunningham, my guess was that whether he held the purse strings or not, he probably hadn’t given up his hold on his only son.
