Taking her sweet ass time, she picks up her mug, inhales the scent coming from the steam, and gingerly takes a sip. I track the way her pink tongue darts out and chases a trail along her upper lip, cleaning off the steamed milk left behind. My mouth waters for my own taste—something I don’t really like admitting to myself.
“What was your deal Monday?” she demands, rather than coming out with what’s really bothering her. “You were…different.”
I can only imagine what Sully’s broody ass did or said. He’s so fucking resentful of Bryant that he probably whined like a bitch to her.
“Not everyone is sunshine and roses all the time like you, Laundry,” I deadpan. “You’re goals as fuck, though.”
“You’re such an asshole.” She scowls at me. “Why did I think coming here with you would be a good idea?”
So much for wooing the girl.
“Fine,” I concede, letting out a sharp exhale of resignation. “I was tired. I get crabby when I’m stressed and tired.”
It’s the truth…about Sully. When we were kids, he required a nap or he was the absolute worst. I’m pretty sure we went through like sixteen nannies during our first few years of life because of him.
“You have a Bronco too,” she says. “Why do you have two cars?”
“That piece of shit—” I bite off my words and scrub my palm over my face. “My car was getting detailed so I borrowed my neighbor’s lame-ass car. Any other questions, Detective?”
She turns from me and reaches for her bag. What the fuck. She’s going to leave. Because I can’t be a chill guy for three seconds. My dickish ways are going to ruin this long before Sully’s whiny ways do.
“Hey,” I grit out, gripping her wrist to keep her from standing. “Look at me.”
Of course the salty, spoiled girl doesn’t. I cup her cheek and guide her head until she’s facing me. Her features pinch and she winces. Like I hurt her. Frowning, I run my thumb along her cheekbone. She does it again. Cringes as though it’s painful.
“That’s why you’re all dolled up today?” I demand. “Covering a bruise?”
Her blue eyes sparkle with a variety of emotions, none of which I can pin down and figure out. “Dolled up? That sounds so sexist. Like putting on makeup is—”
“Your feminist rant can wait. Tell me how you got that bruise.”
“I can’t.”
“Someone did this to you?”
“It was…nothing.”
“It was obviously something,” I spit back at her. “Let me guess. You ran into a door.”
“Fuck off, Ford!”
Her efforts to leave are futile. Not with my tight grasp on her arm, locking her in place beside me. She’s my temporary prisoner until I decide to free her. My dick jolts.
Not the time, prick.
I gently stroke her cheek as I peer into her blazing blues. There’s a lot that goes on inside Landry’s head. I wish I had access to her mind, so I could pick it all apart and discover what makes her tick. What upsets her. What excites her.
So I can exploit it, of course.
“It better have been a wall, Laundry.” I brush my lips along the bruise. “Because if I find out it was a person, things will go very, very badly for them.”
Her breath hitches and she stills. “You’re not my boyfriend, Chevy.”
“Yet.” I pull back and wink at her. “Not your boyfriend yet.”
Heavily painted eyelashes flutter in front of me as she rolls her eyes. I don’t miss the smile she’s desperately trying to hide. The salty girl is sweet in the center.
Which makes me wonder why the fuck anyone would hurt her. Her non-answer is the only answer I need. Someone gave this bruise to her and she’s too afraid to say anything. This is surprising considering her last name and financial status.
She’s eighteen.
If it were her father, she could just leave. So who then? Friend or boyfriend? A different family member? Ty?
I have a hard time believing Ty Constantine would hit his date on their first dinner together. My gut points to the father, but I’m missing some pieces in this story—a story she’s clearly dead-set on evading.
“Can we please talk about something else?” she croaks out. “Anything else. Please.”
Sliding my hand from her wrist, I slip down to her hand, linking our fingers together. Her entire body relaxes, the tension from our conversation melting away.
And like the good wannabe boyfriend I am, I let it slide. We spend the entire class period keeping things light and discussing great restaurants, movies, and a whole lot of other shit. Not once do we circle back to the bruise on her face. But, I haven’t forgotten about it. The second she excuses herself to go to the bathroom, I grab my phone and text my brothers.
Me: Find out who the fuck hit Landry.
Probably not the best idea involving Scout on this shit, but I want answers—answers Landry seems to be avoiding at all costs.
My job is to stick my nose into every corner of her business. To make a mess of her life, too, but it seems she’s doing a damn fine job all on her own.
Chapter Twelve
Sully
Della does the sign again—the one I clearly don’t know. Her eyes gleam with mischief and an antagonizing grin turns her cute, girlish expression into something far more sinister.
I swear, this kid is the devil.
Ignoring her taunting, I pull out my phone and go on a hunt for insults in ASL. Not so surprisingly—because that’s how our world is—I find a whole bunch of links with information and a YouTube video. It takes about five minutes until I learn she called me a dummy.
“Dummy?” I say, mimicking the sign back to her.
Her smile is victorious, and she nods. Then she signs, You.
I learn how to sign the word brat and make sure to say it too, enunciating so she doesn’t misunderstand. Once again, I swear I got the most difficult job of the three of us. Sparrow gets to pretend to be a college student and Scout does whatever it is that Scout does.
Meanwhile, I’m over here having to learn a goddamn new language.
And babysit a monster.
Said monster beams at me and points toward something flashing by. Then she signs, cat.
If Della is the devil, then Heathen is her mascot. They’re both rotten to the core. And my dumb ass somehow got roped into bringing this damn cat with me every time now because the cat is good for the children.
For fuck’s sake.
“Focus, kid,” I grind out. “You’re supposed to be learning.”
She giggles and shakes her head before giving me that sign again. This time I know what it means. Dummy.
“You’re an asshole, you know that right?” I mumble under my breath.
Della’s nose scrunches, confusion dancing over her features. It’s a reminder why I’m here. To try and improve her lipreading skills. I really suck at this job. It’s only a matter of time before this kid tattles to her daddy that I don’t know what the hell I’m doing.
And that’s only one part of this dumb job. I’m still supposed to somehow creep around and find information for Bryant. I don’t know what he expects me to do. Sneak into the dude’s office and peek at files? Good luck with that shit. No one is getting in there unless he allows it. Spy on his conversations? Pick locked doors to see what skeletons are hiding? I’m conveniently avoiding this whole super sleuth aspect. It’s not like Bryant will ever really know for sure.