Читать книгу Street Smart - Tara Quinn Taylor - Страница 11

By the time Carl took his break shortly after ten on Saturday night, Francesca had already reached her margarita limit.

A third night without sleeping pills. She had to get to bed before the buzz wore off.

“You aren’t leaving, are you?” he asked Francesca. She stood just after Rebecca, the young woman who’d been waiting tables all evening, had gone behind the bar to relieve him.

As had happened the night before, and the night before that, the place had been filled with young people earlier, mostly young women calling greetings to others who came in the door. But slowly the crowd had thinned to some guys shooting pool and throwing darts at one end of the room, with people at a few scattered tables here and there. For the past half hour, the door had only opened as someone left.

Autumn wasn’t coming.

“Yeah, I should get back.” It was light before six in the morning these days. She had an appointment with a phone booth.

Hands in the pockets of his jeans, Carl nodded. “You can’t spare another fifteen minutes to sit with me?” His dark eyes were warm, welcoming.

She’d refused the night before. But three shots of tequila weren’t going to wear off in fifteen minutes. And her room at the Lucky Seven was so…empty. “I guess I can.”

What am I doing? There was no place in her schedule for friends. And no life in her heart.

Still, when he asked if she’d like to share his tomato-and-basil pizza, she didn’t say no.

She shouldn’t have stayed. Sitting alone with Carl at a table in the comfortable back corner of his bar was very different from sharing casual hit-and-miss conversation as he worked. More intimate.

He wanted to know too much.

She’d almost prefer talking to her mother.

The information she offered him—that she was from Sacramento, that she was a photojournalist taking some time off, even that she was half Italian—wasn’t enough to satisfy him. He wanted to know why she wasn’t married, but that wasn’t up for discussion.

“Who’s your artist?” she asked, pointing to the wall across from them instead of answering his question. She’d noticed the watercolors the night before—various depictions of wine bottles with muted purple flower backgrounds. She’d described them to her mother when she’d called to tell Kay about the fairly positive identification of Autumn at Guido’s. She’d had a hard time convincing her to stay in Sacramento and let Francesca find out what they needed to know. Only the threat that Autumn was more likely to run again if she found out Kay was in town had ultimately worked. Francesca had hated using it.

“I don’t know the artist. Are you currently involved with anyone?”

He’d pushed the last piece of uneaten pizza aside, his forearms resting on the table as he peered at her.

“You don’t give up, do you?”

He grinned, spread his hands. “You’re a woman. I’m Italian.”

“Yeah, right.” Head bent, Francesca half smiled. “I’ve been watching you for two days, buster. And a womanizer you’re not.”

Sitting back, he narrowed his eyes. She hadn’t seen him look so serious before. “That’s true,” he told her quietly. “But you intrigue me, Francesca. You hide so much more than you show.”

Longing for her sunken mattress at the Lucky Seven, Francesca moved around some crumbs on the dark wooden table. “You’ve got an impressive imagination.”

“No, I’ve got an uncanny ability to read people.” If the words had carried even a hint of bravado, a hint of anything other than sincerity, she’d have had no problem getting up and walking out.

Instead, she sat there, unfocused and quietly panicking. She couldn’t like him. Didn’t want to feel anything.

She only wanted to find Autumn.

And her sister had been at Guido’s.

“I’m a little disappointed my friend didn’t show this weekend,” she said, working hard to concentrate through the fog of exhaustion she’d brought upon herself. “I was really looking forward to seeing her.”

“Did you call her?”

She shook her head. And then wished she hadn’t as the thickness inside her skull didn’t keep up with the movement. “I tried. There was no answer.”

“You think something happened to her?”

Holding her head perfectly still, Francesca shrugged. “She moves a lot. Not being able to reach her for weeks on end isn’t all that unusual.” An understatement if ever she’d heard one.

“Still,” he said, leaning on the table again, bringing his face with its kind brown eyes closer to hers. “She must be pretty special if you came all the way from Sacramento just to see her.”

“Like I said, I’m taking some time off, anyway, and hadn’t seen Vegas in more than twenty years. It sounded like fun.”

Or might have if fun wasn’t so far removed from what her life had become.

And then, because she couldn’t wait any longer, Francesca pulled out Autumn’s picture. “But you’re right, she is special,” she said. “See?” Instead of the photo with the pink hair and the lip ring, this was an age progression of Francesca’s favorite portrait of her sister. Autumn was one of those girls whose guileless beauty, even as a child, caused people to take a second look.

The lighting in the bar was more atmospheric than illuminating and Carl sat back, holding up the photo as he studied it.

“I’ve seen her.” His words made her heart pound—and brought an unexpected and instant rush of tears. Francesca camouflaged them by bending down to her bag on the floor, rustling for her car keys. She clutched them as she slowly sat back up.

“In here?” she asked when she could trust herself.

He nodded. “I’m pretty sure.”

“Recently?”

He shook his head. “I don’t think so, or I’d remember better. But I know she’s been in. Seems to me she was here all the time a while back. Hanging out with a bunch of girls. And then she quit coming in.”

Damn. It was the first in a string of words that Francesca screamed silently. And, had she been in her room, would’ve said out loud.

“That’s the way it is with them,” Carl continued, his gaze on a couple who’d just approached the bar. “One by one they seem to drop out of sight.”

“What’s that about?” she asked, with no possible solutions of her own to offer. She frowned, wishing her head was clearer. That was it for margaritas. Period.

“I’m not sure.” He handed the picture back to her as they stood. His break was over, which no doubt explained his preoccupation. “They’re young and they’re female,” he said. “I figure it’s either the result of hurt feelings or finding a boyfriend. Girls that age seem to forget they ever had girlfriends when they find a steady guy. My job is just to provide a relatively safe place for them if they choose to come here.”

Didn’t paint a pretty picture of her sex, but remembering back to her own teen years, Francesca had to admit Carl was at least partially right.

So did that mean Autumn had a boyfriend? Hurt feelings? Or had her sister dropped out of sight for other reasons? Like needing to pay the rent?

According to the Vegas police, too many runaways ended up working the streets to stay alive. The city abounded in prostitution opportunities. The younger the prostitute, the better, as far as some johns were concerned.

“What do those girls do?” she asked Carl, afraid to hear the answer. They walked to the door together, and she liked how he felt beside her, strong, reassuring. As though no matter how bad his answer, it would still be okay.

An illusion in the town of illusions.

“I have no idea.” Not a great answer, but better than the one she’d feared.

“How do they all know one another?”

Standing in front of her at the door, blocking the bar from her view, he shrugged. “I’m not even sure they do know one another before they start hanging out here,” he said, his focus fully on her again. “I run a clean, safe place. Word about that kind of thing tends to spread in a town like this. Someone meets someone in line someplace and mentions coming here sometime….” His voice trailed off.

“You’re probably right,” she said, her hand on the door. Other than their initial handshake, he’d never touched her. But Francesca felt as though she’d been hugged. It had been a long time. “While I’m in town, would you mind if I hang out here a bit? See if I hear anything about my friend?”

Carl grinned. “I’d be happy to have you….”

Carl’s words had been more than acquiescence to her request. They’d contained a not-too-subtly-veiled invitation.

If she came back, she’d be encouraging him.

He was a nice guy. A man comfortable in his own skin. And gorgeous skin it was, too.

He brought comfort to a life bereft of human intimacy.

Out in the darkened parking lot, she slid into her car, a new weight added to emotions that were already overburdened.

The flicker of candle flames reflected in Melissa’s eyes, adding dimension to an evening already beyond the realm of everyday life. Sitting on a blanket in the Nevada desert, lighted votives along the edges of their little clearing, Luke knew a peace he’d hardly ever found in his life. A sense of well-being.

“A perfect moment.”

The surprise in Melissa’s eyes matched what he felt as he heard himself say the words out loud. Luke Everson wasn’t prone to fanciful thoughts. To anything that he couldn’t completely control.

“A perfect moment,” she repeated softly, her gaze, only inches from his own, alight with things he couldn’t describe—yet knew he recognized.

Leaning forward, he touched his lips to hers, lightly. Once. Twice. Passion flowed around them, between them, inside him. Yet passion wasn’t all….

“Luke?”

“Mmm-hmm?”

She pulled his hand onto her lap, cradling it between hers, smiling at him. A womanly smile that blended with the charged atmosphere.

“Can we talk about something?”

“Of course.” They’d been talking all night. About anything. Everything. She was a great conversationalist.

“I mean really talk.”

“Certainly.” Focusing on her serious expression, he banked all passion for now. “What’s up?”

“Well…” She looked down, giggled.

Giggled? Melissa didn’t giggle.

“I, uh…” Meeting his gaze, she was completely serious again. “I don’t quite know how to start.”

“I didn’t realize we had a problem communicating,” he said, frowning, curious about what Melissa would say. He wasn’t used to seeing her embarrassed.

But the news wasn’t bad. He could tell by looking at her.

“I want to adopt a little girl.”

Wow. What an unexpected thing. Coincidental. He and Melissa really did think alike.

“Say something.”

“I’m not sure what to say.” They could exchange names of adoption agencies.

Her brows drew together, her eyes filling with concern made sharper by the candlelight. “Are you mad?”

“Of course not! Why would I be mad?”

“It’ll be a major change.”

“Change is inevitable.” He’d known it was coming for them, eventually. If not before, it would happen when he got his son. He’d have a lot less time to spend with her then.

“Luke?” She moved closer, her legs resting on top of his. “You are mad, aren’t you?”

She was beautiful. It felt damn good to spend time with her like this. “No,” he said, looking into her eyes. “I’m not mad at all.”

“So, what do you think?”

“Girls are nice.” Sounded inane, but he meant it. Nice for a family. Or a single woman. Not for a single man to raise alone. A girl had needs that only a mother could meet. “Do you have an agency in mind?”

He thought about mentioning Colter, but considering the fees the agency charged—due to their specialty in successfully maneuvering hard-to-complete adoptions—he decided not to. He didn’t want to steer her wrong. Being a woman, Melissa wouldn’t have to spend that kind of money. From what he’d learned during his frustrating rounds of applications in the past couple of years, adopting a child appeared to be much easier for a single woman, rather than a single man.

“No, but I have a child in mind,” she said, a sweet smile, an excited smile, spreading over her face. “Jenny came into the system a couple of months ago for counseling. Yesterday her parents’ rights were severed, making her eligible for adoption, and the foster parents don’t want to adopt.”

“How old is she?”

“Three.” The enthusiasm the single word carried told its own story.

“It’s a great age.” Of course, these days, to Luke any age was a good age.

“So, you think I should pursue this?”

“Absolutely.”

“And you’ll be okay with it?”

Running a finger along her cheek, down to her neck, he moved aside a lock of hair that had fallen forward. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“We-ell…” She was frowning again. Holding his gaze but frowning. “It’s going to affect you, too,” she said slowly. “At least I hope it is.”

He caressed her neck slowly, just beneath her ear where she was most sensitive. “You’re worried that we aren’t going to have alone time.”

“Well, yeah…” The frown didn’t dissipate. If anything it grew. “But…Luke, I thought we were building something here.”

“I agree!” There was no reason to frown. “What we’ve built is great. The best I’ve ever had. I wasn’t speaking lightly when I said the moment was perfect. I haven’t had a lot of that in my life.”

She pulled away. Emotionally more than physically, although there was nothing tangible to show him that. “What we’ve built,” she repeated. “Not what we’re building? You think our relationship is…static? That we can’t build it any further?”

“What? You’re upset because I’m happy with where we are?”

The ground was hard beneath his butt.

“I’m upset because I thought we were on our way to something more.”

“And we are,” he told her. “We always are, every single day that we wake up alive.” It was hot. Especially with all the candles around them. Damned hot.

What kind of bullshit was he spouting?

How long would it take the Jag to cool down when he turned on the air? Halfway back to the city? Three-quarters of the way?

“I thought we were moving toward a lifetime together.”

There was wine left in the bottle. He couldn’t take it in the Jag like that. It might tip over. He’d split the cork. He hated to waste it, but he supposed he could pour it out. Get a snake drunk.

“I have every hope of knowing you for many years,” he said, even though he knew the reply had been too long in coming.

“Uh-huh, I’m beginning to understand what that means.” Her tone was different than anything he’d heard from her before.

She was packing up the remains of their picnic, putting the bread back in its plastic bag, wrapping up the cheese, throwing used napkins in a separate bag. They’d finished off the roasted-chicken-and-rice salad.

“Beginning to understand what?” he asked, arms resting lightly on raised knees. Ordinarily he’d be helping her clean up, but she seemed to want to do it all herself.

“That you have no intention of having this relationship go anywhere but where it is. Like to the altar, for instance.”

He grabbed the wine. Dumped it out. Then wished he hadn’t. He could’ve used some to pour down his throat. That feeling was coming again. The one where he felt as if he was stuffed in a tube, his arms and legs cramped against his body, a constricting tube sealed top and bottom.

It happened every time.

“I grew up an only child.” Those were more words he hadn’t meant to say. It was a testament to Melissa’s importance to him. “My father was a great guy—a hero to me not just while I was a kid but until the day he died.”

She was watching him, her expression open. And somehow, under the protection of the dark desert night, he spoke of things he’d never before put into words.

“And my mother…” Luke stopped as shame spread through him. “My mother was—is—needier than a newborn babe.”

“Needy how?” Her words were like whispers of wind, encouraging him, without judgment, to continue.

“There’ve been various diagnoses over the years—pretty much every time a new professional was consulted—and the new medications or treatments that accompanied them. My father tried everything, from the purely scientific to the holistic, and even saw a medical intuitive for a while. But the upshot is that she suffers from several different anxiety disorders that, taken together, cripple her. The experts are pretty solid on panic and obsessive-compulsive disorders, plus agoraphobia, which comes from severe social-anxiety disorder. All I know is that emotionally she’s about as stable as a rotted-out, three-legged wooden chair.”

“That’s pretty unstable.” Melissa moved closer. She didn’t touch him, almost as though she sensed that doing so would be too much for him. With that feeling there, invading him, her touch wouldn’t be helpful.

It was over between them. He knew it. Just as he knew that he owed her this explanation. Something he’d given none of the other women he’d dated.

“She should have been hospitalized—or at least could’ve been, very easily—but my father would have no part of that. My whole life I watched him give first consideration to her emotional health in every decision he had to make. He tolerated her clinging, her dependency on him. From canceled trips, missed parties, to having to uninvite friends he’d asked over, my father just took it all in stride with a cheeriness that never seemed to falter.”

The man was unbelievable. Everything Luke was not.

“Why?”

“He loved her.” He’d never gotten why that meant his father had to be a prisoner. “He said her condition was part of who she was and he accepted that. He got her the best help money could buy. And the rest, he just…accepted.”

“Must’ve been hard for you, growing up with that.”

Yeah. It had been. Until sometimes he’d wondered if he was going to join his mother in her inability to handle life.

But he’d made it through. He just wished he could have done it the way his father had, with heroism intact.

“I resented the hell out of her.”

“I’m not surprised.”

He glanced at her, read the understanding in her eyes. With raised brows he asked a silent question he’d never voice.

“It’s a natural reaction, Luke. You’d have to be pretty much inhuman not to resent her. It sounds like her illness robbed you of a good deal of your childhood.”

“I had to step in when my father’s promotions required some business travel and late-night meetings. My plans were always subject to cancellation based on her mental state.”

That was why—about two minutes after his father’s retirement—Luke had joined the marines for the sole purpose of getting out of Las Vegas as fast as he could.

“Like I said, you’d have to be inhuman not to resent that.”

“My father didn’t.”

“Your father was an adult when he took on that responsibility. He’d already had his formative years. Had a chance to be formed into a man.”

Luke grinned at her, though he didn’t feel at all lighthearted. “You sound like a juvenile counselor.”

“I am one.” She played along with his pitiful attempt to introduce a little levity into an evening gone to hell. “So…I’m fairly certain there’s a reason you chose to tell me all of this now.” She sat with crossed legs, her hands resting behind her.

“I was in the marines during my twenties and when I dated, it was with some vague idea of escaping my childhood, my family, by marrying and starting a family of my own. On terms I could live with.”

Raising her knees, she rested her arms on them.

“And every single time I developed an intimate relationship with a woman, I’d start to feel trapped.” There, the truth was out. Hurting her was hell. Worse than hell.

He met her gaze, braced for whatever anger she might send his way. Although he hadn’t meant to mislead her, he’d obviously done so, and he’d take the full blame. A little smile tilted her lips.

“How could you expect anything else?” she asked. “You were trapping yourself. Trying to control things that aren’t meant to be controlled. Trying to fit life and love into a box into which it couldn’t possibly fit.”

She was good. He’d give her that. He also trusted her. “How so?”

“You were going about the whole process for the wrong reasons with the wrong goal in mind. There was no possible way for your heart to find peace.”

He was sure she was right. But what, exactly, was she trying to tell him? What should he do? What should he have done differently?

“Dating—marriage—isn’t supposed to be an escape,” she said softly. “And love can’t be forced. From what you describe, you were looking at each woman you dated, not for who she was, but as a means of escaping your mother. You wanted escape, but what you were attempting to do would only have trapped you further. In a loveless marriage you didn’t really want.”

Maybe.

“You know what gave your father the ability to remain cheerful despite the stress of coping with your mother’s situation?”

He shook his head. Lord knew he’d tried. Sober. Drunk. Sick. Healthy. He’d tried. He’d tried figuring it out while floating in the sky all by himself after he’d jumped out of a plane at twenty thousand feet. He’d tried praying. He’d even gone to a psychic once.

“It was love.” Melissa’s whisper pierced the warm night. “All you have to do is fall in love.”