"I already have aching joints," she admitted, voice quiet. "I train a lot," she added, pulling the tops off of each container.
"What kind of training?" I asked, figuring if she was in the mood to talk, I was going to get as much as I could out of her, because I had a feeling this mood of hers would be fleeting.
"A little bit of everything. Krav Maga. LINE. Systema. Jujutsu."
"Kinda hot that you could probably kick my ass," I admitted. "How long have you been training?"
"About eight years."
"Do you do the Xena shit like Ferryn does?" I asked, reaching for my fancy Hamburger Helper type meal.
"No. That's all on her. I just train for self-defense. And exercise. But I'm not like Ferryn."
"She's your adoptive cousin, right?"
"Yeah. Her uncle, Cash, is the vice president of the MC here in town. And Cash married Lo, who runs Hailstorm. They adopted me."
"So you two grew up together?" I asked, noticing the way she stiffened at the question, letting me know we were getting close to touchy territory.
"No," she answered, avoiding eye-contact. "I wasn't taken in by Lo and Cash until I was sixteen. And then Ferryn left home. We never really connected until she came back."
Those were some interesting turns of phrases.
Lo and Cash took her in.
And Ferryn left home.
I wasn't an expert, but I felt those distinctions said something. It, at the least, implied that Chris wasn't your typical system kid.
Had she been a runaway? Had Lo and Cash found her, brought her in off the street, then just kept her on as a daughter?
And, as far as I could tell, Chris and Ferryn were pretty much the same age. So Ferryn didn't leave home. She ran away. At sixteen. Why?
What the hell had these two young girls been up to in their late teens? What had happened to make Ferryn so cold and violent? What had happened to Chris to make her so fearful and distrustful, so obsessed with her comfort zone, so anal about everything being just so?
I had no idea.
But I wanted to know.
And, what's more, I wanted Chris to tell me.
In a town like Navesink Bank, that information could likely be found pretty easily. And for a very small cost. But it felt unexpectedly wrong to go behind her back like that. What's more, I wanted to earn her trust enough to have her open up to me.
It wasn't like me at all.
But I had never been the sort to fight himself on shit. I wanted to get to know the beautiful woman with sad eyes? That was what I was going to do.
Without analyzing the fuck out of it.
I had a feeling she would do more than enough of that for the both of us.
Chapter Five
Chris
"Finch, it is two in the morning," I grumbled into my phone, staring off into the perfect darkness of my room as I had been for the past hour and a half.
"And yet you sound fully awake. Were you waiting for me to call? I can read you a bedtime story if you want. But in this one, the princess will save herself, and then her man will service her properly for all her hard work defending her kingdom."
"Finch..." I was trying for stern and disapproving, but I could have sworn I heard humor in my voice.
It was a week and a half since we had picked out furniture for his new place. A week and a half since we stood in the middle of the furniture store arguing over cushion colors.
I mean, really, who wanted a lime green sofa?
Finch, that was who.
Though, a part of me was seriously wondering if he had picked the color just because he knew it would get a rise out of me after I had insisted the gray or the light brown would be best in matters of practicality. A gray or brown couch would wear much more gently than a lime green one. It was illogical to go for something crazy. Especially with a larger investment, like a couch, that would be around for years.
Eventually, he had declared to the salesperson that he would be getting the lime green couch, but that it was very important that he get both gray and brown throw pillows to go on it because 'that's what the lady wants.'
I was pretty sure half of the reason I was having trouble sleeping at night was knowing there was a lime green sofa in his living room right then, as we spoke, with mismatching brown and gray throw pillows on it.
And that nice, sleek, real wood rustic coffee table we'd picked out? I just bet he never used the coasters I had picked out for him. There were probably beer rings on it.
In the week and a half since the six-hour marathon event that had been picking out his minimalistic furniture for his small space, Finch had managed to con me into seeing him on three separate occasions, and called or texted every single day.
Under the guise of work.
But I was pretty sure the man hadn't made a lick of progress on procuring any of the items he claimed he needed to print his fake money.
And he certainly did not need to see or speak to me to do any of the things he needed to do to get his business up and running again.
I should have been telling him exactly that each time he called or texted.
The fact that I never did seemed implied that I wanted to interact with him, didn't it?
It wasn't so crazy.
I spoke to and enjoyed the company of men in my life. Men at Hailstorm. People in Ferryn's and my extended family.
Never, though, a man who I wasn'trequired to be in close contact with.
I didn't need to interact with Finch. We had our agreement.
So picking up over and over meant something.
I wasn't entirely sure what yet.
All I knew was, on a crummy day, hearing his voice, with his lighthearted charm and loaded arsenal of cute--or even outlandish--pet names, never ceased to improve my mood.
"I had a nightmare," I admitted, surprising myself.
I talked about the nightmares. But only to those who would truly understand them. Ferryn. My therapist. An aunt of mine who had been through something equally horrific when she had been young. Even then, rarely did I bring them up anymore.
It felt like overkill to keep bringing them up. It would be like saying my hair was blonde over and over. Anyone who knew me knew that. Just like everyone who knew me knew I got nightmares. There was no reason to mention it.
But Finch was new to me. And Finch hadn't heard my nightmare stories a thousand times before. It was unexpectedly cathartic to be able to say those words to him, to admit that little part of myself to him.
"A nightmare or a memory?" he asked.
See, that was the thing about Finch.
If you spent a little time with him, you would think he was just light and casual, someone laid-back, someone slow to anger and quick to toss a compliment or tease you.
You wouldn't think there was anything deeper. Because he didn't want you to. Why--I wasn't sure. But I had spent enough time with him now to understand there was more underneath all that superficial charm.
He was smart.
And observant.
He was uncommonly wise for someone still somewhat young, for someone who'd insisted on picking up a retro Alf t-shirt he'd seen as we walked past the clothing shop on our way to the furniture store.
He caught you off-guard at times because of all the top layer stuff that made it easy to forget there were a complex layers underneath.
"Memories," I admitted, turning on the bed to face the wall, pulling my knees up to my chest to try to ease the clenching discomfort in my belly at that admission.