“You stole…” I frown, then shake my head. “No. He’s been missing since we were kids. You were way too young to be the one who stole him.”
He scoffs. “I assure you, Madilyn. I was a resourceful child. If I wanted to steal him, I could have.” He pats the couch beside him. “Having said that… no, it wasn’t me. I’m simply the person who is holding onto him for this year.”
“So, you…” I wander to the couch and try to ignore the pain my jeans create as they scrape my knees. “I don’t get it.”
“You remember that poor, pitiful, perpetually pregnant aunt I just told you about?”
I sit on the very edge of the couch and nod.
“It was her. She’s a thieving wench, and now we all have to help cover her crimes. It was all fun and games until she got the kids involved. Now I’m an accessory to a crime. Brooke had him last year. Mac, the year before, and Smalls, the year before that. Basically, we’re all going to prison. If I was a cynical man, I’d wonder if Aunt Britt did it on purpose. She’s trying to get us all locked up, because, I assure you, she may have stolen the stupid thing, but she has never had it in her home.”
He stops. His eyes widen. “Holy shit, she’s setting us up to go to prison for life.”
Finally, I’m able to laugh. And because I’m brave, I pat his knee. “Even if you’re caught, I doubt you’ll be sentenced to life for the theft of a statue. Unless, of course, it was Rocky’s statue from Philly. Pretty sure he’s a national treasure and protected under some law. But for the ice cream man?” I sip my water and consider. “I don’t know. Five to seven years, with a chance of parole after four?”
“That doesn’t sound so bad.”
He begins poking through a small first aid kit, selecting alcohol wipes and a large bottle of disinfectant. His eyes remain hidden in shadow, since his hat is pulled low, but it’s like he realizes that after a moment. He squints as he works, moves to get more light, then finally, he tosses his hat to the coffee table and goes back to work with clearer eyesight.
“Do you want ibuprofen or something?” he asks.
He looks up when I don’t answer, busy staring at his bloodied hands, the bottle of disinfectant, and focusing on how much that’s going to hurt.
“Hey?” He fingers the brim of my hat and lifts it a little higher. “Did you get a knock to the head tonight?”
I shake my head.
He lifts a brow. “No?”
“I didn’t hurt my head. And no, I don’t need ibuprofen. But thanks.”
He nods to an overflowing pile of laundry stacked in the corner as he goes to work setting out his things. Gauze. Tape. Disinfecting cream. “See that pair of sweats on the top of the pile?” He lifts his chin in that direction, like I’m completely blind and need his help. “Black, with purple logos?”
Nodding, I set my glass of water on the table and stand.
“Can you get them for me?”
“Sure.”
I move around the table, step over a child’s toy, and slow to peek at a little notebook laid out on the floor. It’s open, and a sparkle pen sits in the fold.
“Don’t read that,” he murmurs, bringing my eyes back to his. He grins. “She doesn’t like people reading her first drafts.”
“First drafts?” Despite his orders, I look back to the notepad. “What?”
“My niece writes books.” He tears open an alcohol wipe and slams it to his bleeding knuckles without remorse. He lets out a hiss, scrunches his eyes closed to fight the pain, and through his teeth, he grits out, “She trusts me not to read her first drafts. So for me to retain that trust, I’m gonna have to insist you also don’t read.”
I move to the pile of laundry and snag the sweats as ordered, then I dart back to the couch. “Stop.” I toss the pants into his lap, and snatch his hand before he makes it worse. “Have you no tact? Jesus, Bry. With the number of fights you’ve been in, I’d expect you to do this with a little more finesse.”
He watches as I pull his hand onto my leg. As I spread his fingers wide and lay his hand out flat. Then, because I’m an idiot, my heart skips when he closes his fingers around my thigh.
He makes me feel tiny. Weak. But not afraid.
Swallowing my nerves, I draw in a long breath, let it out again, and reach for the antiseptic and a cotton wipe. “So, your niece, who is, what? Six years–”
“She’s seven,” he grunts as I work over his split skin. “She’ll be eight in a little while.”
“So this seven-year-old writes books? Just like that? So easily?”
He shrugs. “I doubt it’s easy. But sure, she writes. She’s penned a bunch of them, and my sister helps her illustrate and publish them.”
“Wow.” I can’t help the way my brows lift with surprise. “I’m impressed. So your niece leaves her notepad laid out like that, and you simply… don’t look?”
“Nope.” He hisses when I squirt a little cream onto his knuckle. “She asked me not to. I promised I wouldn’t. That’s that.”
“You’re not even curious?” My eyes flick back to the book on the floor. “I’m dying of curiosity over here, and you’re telling me you walk around her notes all the damn time and never look?”
He shrugs. “She always reads it to me when she’s done. So it’s not like I never see. I just don’t look until she’s comfortable enough to show me.”
“That’s…” I consider him. “Honorable.”
He scoffs and looks down into my eyes. “Surprised?”
I look back to his hand, but I nod too. Because it’s truth. “In my family, the Kincaids are not spoken of highly. It’s not fair, I get that now. But I was raised on the foundations of disliking those Kincaids.” I smile. “That’s how they say it. Those Kincaids.”
He scowls and works hard on relaxing his hand when it tenses around my thigh. “What did my family ever do to yours? From the moment I met Jackson, he’s been a pain in my ass. He set out to annoy me as often as he could, but no one ever explained why.”
“You have no clue, do you?” I laugh and continue to clean his hand. “You’re oblivious?”
“I often am.” He chuckles. “I don’t go out of my way to learn other people’s business. I can’t say I give your family much thought, except when y’all piss me off.”
“Which, lately, seems to be pretty damn often.”
All he does is scoff in answer.
“My family is old money, right? Old, pre-Civil-War money. We’re what you’d call ‘real’ money,” I explain.
“And my family?”
I grit my teeth. “You’re known as trailer trash that happened to get lucky and fall into money.”
Instead of the anger I expect, he only throws his head back and laughs. “Ouch!”
“It gets worse,” I continue. “Because your money could have come from a lucky lottery ticket, or a lucky discovery of gold. It could have come from an insurance claim. Or maybe someone married the right person, and that’s how it came to be.”