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The car swerves a little and speeds by, spraying me with muddy water from yesterday’s rain.
Joy.
With a groan, I brush some of the muddy water off me and finally cross the damn street and enter, dripping, my brother-in-law’s garage.
“And what the hell happened to you?” he asks, straightening behind the open hood of a car, hands smudged with oil. His dark eyes narrow. “You look like roadkill.”
“That’s because a car almost ran me over,” I mutter.
“Hell, man. Come here. Let me see.”
Grumbling, I amble over, brushing my hands over my soaked jeans and jacket. “Said I’m fine.”
Yeah, I’m a five-year-old around Matt sometimes. His fault, when he acts like my fucking dad. Mostly, though, I like hanging around him, and most of the time he’s like my older brother, teaching me stuff, talking to me straight.
Hey, a man needs a break while living in a house populated solely by women. Of course now I don’t have that excuse anymore.
Matt says I don’t need an excuse to hang around the garage. We’re family now. I like that, too. My family rocks—my sisters and their guys, the kids, my mom and her boyfriend.
I’m perfectly fucking fine.
So why hasn’t my brain gotten the memo yet?
“You keep spacing out on me, and I’ll assume you fell and hit your head.” Matt’s dry, amused voice brings me back to the ground. “Did you?”
“No.”
“Good. Come on inside. I’ve got hot coffee. You look like you could use some.”
Gratefully, I follow him into the small office and accept a steaming cup of strong black coffee. I instantly spill some on my black DeathMoth T-shirt that Zane Madden, Matt’s brother-in-law from his previous marriage, sent me some time ago. His wife sings in that group.
Anyway, this is why it’s a good idea to wear black when you’re sleep-deprived and sex-deprived and girl-deprived, and generally deprived of all the good things in life.
Matt pours one for himself and props his hip against the desk, watching me intently. He’s a bear of a man, not too burly but strong with a dark beard and hair and piercing eyes. Or maybe he’ll always look that way to me. I was still a kid when I first laid eyes on him, only sixteen, and even though I’m as tall as him now, and probably just as wide in the shoulders, I still feel like I have to look up at him.
Literally. And figuratively.
“You were listening to music again and not paying attention to the road again, I’d bet my right nut on it,” he grumbles, sipping at his coffee. “Told you that’s fucking dangerous. What am I gonna tell my wife if you get flattened by a car outside my shop, huh?”
“Trying to guilt trip me by bringing Tati into the conversation.” I lift my brows. “Well played.”
He snorts. “But it never works on you, does it?”
I shake my head, though of course it does. Swallow some more coffee. I’d never want to worry my sisters. Then again, neither does he.
But he’s just fucking with me anyway.
It’s not like I have a death wish. I’m careful when I walk around. It wasn’t the music that distracted me but the sleepless night I had combined with the mystery that is Sophie, aka psycho girl, and I’m not about to tell him that, especially not when he’s looking at me like that.
Right on cue, he says, “Been sleeping okay?”
I groan. “Can I just have my coffee in peace, please?”
“I talked to Gigi,” he says shortly, without more preambles. “About your nightmares.”
Ah fuck. I put my mug down as heat races up my neck. “Did you, huh? And what did she say?”
“That you saw something as a kid. Went through some sort of trauma but don’t wanna talk about it.”
