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And there it is; my third good thing.
Clay Butcher: number one.
His heir: number two.
Family: number three.
CHAPTERTHIRTY-ONE
fawn
He hasn’t saida word to me since we left Max and Cassidy’s house. He gazes at our joined hands in his lap, at his thumb as it trails over my knuckles so softly it’s barely a feather touching the wind.
He’s disappeared into his eyes, and my heart drops under the weight of all the truth set free today.
The energy in the car is thick, smothering me with his melancholy and regret. It’s not his fault. Or… did he suspect all along? I wonder whether he knew—deep down, whether he saw the signs that his mother used to abuse his younger brothers but just like with the little girl in the hospital, he didn’t ask questions.
The Cosa Nostra was infallible.
The Cosa Nostra was his moon.
And his mother is a part of that.
“Can I take you somewhere, Sir?” I turn my body to face his and pull our connected hands to my thighs. His arm is heavy and lifeless until he refocuses and lifts his gaze to meet mine.
“Hey,” I say softly, seeing him dark, consumed, lost within his own blue eyes. “Can I take you somewhere, Sir?” I lean towards him and touch his warm cheek; his jawline is coarse with the start of new hairs. As I hold his face, he closes his eyes and sighs roughly, forcing my heart to twist.
“It’s okay, Sir.”
Desperate to be closer, I twist to unbuckle my belt, needing to crawl onto his lap, hold him, and tell him it’s not his fault, he couldn’t have known, but he stops me by covering my hand with his.
“No.” He shakes his head once and lightly squeezes my fingers over the buckle. “Your belt stays on, sweet girl.”
I blink at him as he turns to face forward, the backs of my eyes burning. He is dealing with his thoughts in isolation.
“How far away is Stormy River Junction from here?” I ask.
“Twenty minutes or so, little deer,” he responds absently, but pulls our hands to his lap, authoritarian and dominant, and continues to stroke my skin with the pad of his thumb. That is it; his way of letting me in, and I can accept it. From a man like Clay Butcher, even the glimmer of vulnerabilities should be cherished, noticed, and appreciated.
I relax my hand in his. “Can I show you something? Can I take you somewhere, Sir?”
“Of course.”
* * *
Lookingthrough the clean tinted windows at the slums of Stormy River, it seems like a million years have passed since I lived in this neighbourhood.
Housing flats shadow the road on both sides. The lawns have stories to tell?—secrets in the blades. Like every patch, every dried circle of dirt and roots, tells of a party or a stripped vehicle or a tent from an evictee. The poverty and boredom echo, the grass never having time to recover.
That’s poverty.
Patches of grass.
“Here.” I point, and the vehicle pulls up beside a brown-brick block of flats with a dozen men—older than me but younger than Clay—sitting on the steps.
They rise to their feet, eyeing the sparkling Chrysler like a prize as we park. Behind us, our convoy lines the street, including one shiny red beauty—my car driven by mybutler/rat.
Clay steps out in that suave effortless confidence I adore. That everyone is drawn to, envious of, that speaks of danger and warning without the need to scream or demand it. It’s implicit. Infallible.
