Loose Cannon

By Sidney Bell

“An edge-of-your-seat tale of suspense paired with a heart-stopping romance . . . Love blooms amid the gritty realism of Sidney Bell’s harrowing plot.” —Sarina Bowen, USA Today–bestselling author

Released after five years in the system for assault, streetwise Edgar-Allen Church is ready to leave the past behind and finally look to his future. In need of a place to crash, he’s leaning on Miller Quinn. A patient, solidly masculine pillar of strength and support, Miller has always been there for him—except in the one way Church has wanted the most.

With his staunchly conservative upbringing, Miller has been playing it straight his whole life. Now with Church so close again, it’s getting harder to keep his denial intact. As they fumble their way back to friendship after so many years apart, Miller struggles to find the courage to accept who he really is. What he has with Church could be more than desire—it could be love. But it could also mean trouble.

Church’s criminal connections are closing in on the both of them, and more than their hearts are at risk. This time, their very lives are on the line.

Don’t miss the next titles in Sidney Bell’s male/male romance series: Hard Line and Rough Trade.

“Bell writes a meaty romance that you can’t put down, and it’s a worthy addition to the M/M contemporary romance genre.” —RT Book Reviews (Top Pick)

“A friends-to-lovers tender romance, a suspenseful mystery . . . Sidney Bell pulls it all off and makes it appear effortless.” —Gay Book Reviews

• Language: English
• Publisher: Open Road Integrated Media
• Release date: Apr 3, 2017
• ISBN: 9781488020186

Sidney Bell

Sidney Bell lives in the drizzly Pacific Northwest with her amazingly supportive husband. She received an MFA in Creative Writing in 2010 and spends her free time playing violent video games, yelling at the television during hockey games, and supporting her local library by turning books in late. Visit her at www.sidneybell.com 

Book preview

Part One

Chapter One

2011

It felt good to hit.

After the day he’d had, or rather, after the week—oh, hell, after the life he’d had—it was a jolt of pure electric pleasure up his arm and down his spine to punch this bastard in the face. To watch as his cheeks rippled under the force of the blow.

The guy hadn’t gotten three hits in. Church was demolishing him.

For the first time since he took off (and don’t think about that, not yet, maybe not ever), he could feel his burden lightening. It’d been so long since he’d done anything but put one foot in front of the other that fighting back was sweet and heady, sex and candy.

He was a week and a half past his seventeenth birthday, he hadn’t eaten in two days, and he was going to be sleeping under a bridge tonight, but for now, this moment?

He was winning.

The guy staggered up, and Church only had to bump him to send him down again, a beached whale on the alley gravel.

The glee hadn’t begun to fade yet, but his anger had. The sky had been spitting rain since that morning, and his clothes were damp and heavy, cooling his temper further. He took a look around to figure out where he was. The neon sign of the twenty-four-hour liquor store blazed a couple blocks away. That was where the guy had started following Church to deliver a blistering tirade about Church’s personality and chances in life, just because he’d asked the dude to buy him some beer.

So they hadn’t gone far, which was a relief. When Church got pissed, his brain pretty much shut off. They could’ve swum to China, and he might not have noticed from beneath the adrenaline haze narrowing his vision.

Tired now, Church waited for the guy to get up. When he didn’t move, Church wandered closer, ready to kick in case it was a trick, and saw the blood spreading out in a pool beneath the guy’s head.

That was when Church knew he’d finally fucked up beyond fixing. He’d reached the end of the line, and this time there wouldn’t be anyone arguing that he was a mixed-up kid who had a shot if he could get away from his family. This was all on him, and he was fucked.

As if he could already feel their eyes and hands upon him, he hunched his shoulders. The pressure built, and all he could think was oh shit oh shit oh shit.

Blue, wet nighttime asphalt beneath his pounding sneakers. Murky water splashed and dampened his socks and pant legs. He left the main thoroughfare—which was empty at this time of night anyway—and entered a residential zone. The cramped old houses crouching along both sides of the road had dark windows and lawns marred by junked-up cars or mildewed children’s toys left out to rot.

Church was alone.

He made it about thirty more feet before he realized that if no one was chasing him, no one had seen.

No one would help.

He stopped, panting, and kicked the post of a bank of gray mailboxes hard enough that his toes sang. The need to get lost burned through his veins like heroin. Instead, he swallowed hard and walked up the sidewalk to the nearest house. He rang the bell until someone answered.

Call an ambulance, he told the wary old guy through the closed screen door.

Then Church sat down to wait.

2012

On his eighteenth birthday, Church was transferred from Roseburg Juvenile Detention Facility to Woodbury Residential Treatment Center, where he would serve the rest of his sentence. The sprawling campus hosted eleven cottages, a cafeteria and a school serving grades eight through twelve, in addition to offering online college credit to the older guys. The buildings were chipped redbrick, the sidewalks cracked, the walls so thick with their annual coats of paint that they might’ve been load-bearing even without their beams.

None of it—not the cramped rooms or mismatched furniture or the long, solemn lines of marching boys—bothered Church much. According to the brochure they’d given him, Woodbury was supposed to divert first-time juvenile offenders from serving time in prison, offering life skills and therapy to help at-risk youth forge new lives while still holding them accountable for their actions.

Sounded good to him. Church would talk about his feelings from dawn to dusk if it meant the last of razor wire and orange jumpsuits.

He’d been assigned to Monarch cottage, which housed behavioral cases ages fifteen and up. As the female staff member at the desk explained the schedule and rules, he studied the walls behind her: alarm boxes, shelves laden with boxes of blue nitrile gloves and thick binders with labels like Crisis Intervention Plans and Resident Treatment Plans. There was a padlocked bin marked Confiscated in the corner. A whiteboard listed various names alphabetically, with details printed beside them—status within the program, any health problems and any risks posed.

He found his own entry: Edgar-Allen Church, New Admission, None, Aggression.

He supposed that was fair.

When the staff lady was done, she sent him down a long hallway lined with bedrooms rather than cells. Getting a bedroom was improvement number gazillion over lockdown. Not as good as the lack of strip search (currently in first place) but better than finally being back in street clothes. There were alarms on the windows, he’d been told, but the doors didn’t lock.

He wasn’t an inmate any longer. He was a resident.

In the last bedroom on the left, he found two sets of bunk beds and a boy about his age sprawled on one, reading. He was handsome in an earnest, sensitive way, his face narrow, ears sticking out a little. He had a thick mop of light brown curls tumbling over his forehead almost to his strong jaw, and he wore a nervous smile as his blue eyes ran over Church.

Church wasn’t expecting to impress the kid. He wasn’t ugly, but he definitely had some things working against him that people had a hard time getting past. He was tall and lanky-skinny, with overgrown dark hair that stuck out all over, heavy black eyebrows—no unibrow, so maybe God didn’t hate him so much as strongly dislike him—and a big, honking Roman nose. Plus, he was half—Puerto Rican, which didn’t bother him any, but pissed off a lot of other folks for no damn good reason. A guy in school who’d wanted to kiss him had called him exotic once, though, so he had that shit going for him.

For the record, Church hadn’t kissed the jerk. Even at fifteen, he hadn’t been that hard up.

With a nod of greeting, Church claimed one of the naked mattresses and started putting on the sheets he’d been given.

Hello. I’m Tobias Benton, the other boy said, sitting up and straightening his collar.

Church.

Nice to meet you.

When he was done with the bed, Church sat, eyeing his new roommate. He’d learned in Roseburg that there was a wide variety of guys who got in trouble. Some were fuckups, some were stupid, some were mean, some were psychos. This one—Tobias—didn’t give off the usual tip-offs for any of the above, and he didn’t have that beaten-down manner that long-term victims gave off, either. His jeans and shirt fit well, his haircut was good, and his shoes were brand-name. He wasn’t a system kid. He looked like he should be on a sitcom, where problems came bite-sized and always got fixed by the end.

Guess we’d better get the important stuff out of the way if we’re gonna be living together, Church said. Do you snore?

I don’t think so. At least, my old roommates never complained.

Good. Me neither. You got any pet peeves?

Pet peeves?

As a roommate. If there’s something likely to set you off, better to mention it now, yeah?

Oh. I like my stuff really neat? Is that one? I’d appreciate it if you didn’t, um, move my things. Or touch them. It’s nothing about you, I promise. I’m just picky about where they go. What about you?

Don’t steal anything.

I wouldn’t. Tobias’s eyes widened. I mean, that’s not my issue.

All right. And now the delicate one. Are the bathrooms communal here?

Tobias’s brow creased for a second. It cleared at roughly the same time that his face flooded bright red. Ah, no. You can take care of that, um, in the shower.

Cool. Church relaxed a bit. He wasn’t a prude by any stretch, but one of the weirdest things about living in lockdown had been getting used to the nightly not-so-furtive sounds of near-strangers jerking off five feet away.

So what is your issue? Church asked. Unless you don’t like to talk about it.

Wayward, Tobias said, as if that explained everything. It did, sort of. It meant regular teenage hijinks taken to extremes, and it covered everything from drinking to joyriding to refusing to go to school. Church couldn’t imagine how this Beaver Cleaver-wannabe had ended up in a place like this. You?

Assault. Here from Roseburg.

Tobias chewed on his bottom lip. He wasn’t as tall as Church, maybe five-eleven, and though he was built sturdier and no doubt stronger, he lacked that sharp edge that meant he knew how to use it. That was worth more than all the muscle in the world.

I’m not gonna hurt you, Church said. Unless you start something.

Tobias took a deep breath. How do you feel about gay people? Is that—is that starting something?

Church blinked at him. "No. I mean, I’m gay, dude."

Oh. Tobias’s shoulders relaxed so fast Church was surprised he didn’t fall over. Oh, okay.

Do you think they put us in here together because of that? The whole keep-the-gay-away thing?

Nah. This is the only room with open beds.

Huh. Church fumbled with his entry paperwork. There’s a lot of crap here.

Tobias put his book aside and tentatively got up. I could help. If you want.

What’s this job-trade thing? Church picked up a pamphlet. On the cover was a staged photo of a happy teenager holding a cake. Tobias peered at it.

Oh, you have to pick a skill to learn. The idea is that when you finish your program you’ll have something to fall back on besides crime.

Church frowned. The options were limited: cooking, janitorial, auto maintenance, computers and carpentry.

Janitorial? Anybody really pick that?

Hardly.

Of course, that made Church think of his mother, who’d been a maid back in Puerto Rico before she’d moved to Colorado to attend college and ended up married to a man who’d found everything about her culture about as valuable as the dirt under his heel.

He grunted and waved the pamphlet as a distraction. Any suggestions?

Don’t pick computers, Tobias told him. All the computers are ancient, so unless you want to learn how to use AOL, it’s useless. If you go with cooking, you get to eat anything you make.

But Church’s eyes lingered on the carpentry option. For a moment he could smell wood stain and shavings and metal. He remembered the heaviness of the plane clutched tight in his fingers, remembered the feel of hands bigger than his own directing his movements as he scraped the tool across the oak board, strips curling up and dropping to the floor. Remembered Miller’s steady voice giving directions and later, the way he’d gently smoothed ointment on the blisters on Church’s palms. Church’s stomach tightened with an echo of the thrill he’d felt then, the way his skin had hummed, just from that simple touch.

It was gonna hurt every single day, but he checked the box for carpentry all the same, then rubbed at the dull ache in his chest with the heel of one hand. His calluses were long gone.

By nightfall, Church was exhausted. Tomorrow he had school and his first session with his therapist, neither of which he was looking forward to, but he had a couple of classes with Tobias, so it’d be manageable. Actually, after he took a shower and jerked off all by his lonesome, he headed back to his room feeling pretty damn good. He hadn’t been this relaxed in over a year, not since—No, he couldn’t. That brief memory earlier had been enough for one day. Church might be self-destructive, but he wasn’t a masochist.

Tobias was cool with leaving the window open, and once the lights were out, Church closed his eyes and breathed deeply. The air reeked of pine and hot summer earth and—more faintly—the nearby Dumpsters, and it might’ve been the best thing he’d ever smelled.

Hey, Church, Tobias whispered. Happy birthday.

Church sighed into the darkness. Thanks.

* * *

Church had never had anything as normal as a best friend before. Fortunately, Tobias balanced this out, because he was so normal he was almost a parody of himself. He said things like ma’am and if you don’t mind, I’d appreciate it and I apologize, it wasn’t my intention to hurt your feelings.

That last one got him beat up a little, because guys who ended up in places like Woodbury didn’t get their feelings hurt. They didn’t have feelings, even. They were concentrated bloodlust and ego, packing race-car engines in their chests where their hearts should be.

Church could already tell that Tobias had the street smarts of a chicken crossing a road, but after a few rounds with Church’s fists, people knew to leave Tobias alone.

Of course, they were gunning for Church by then, but that was all right. Church could take it.

He still liked to hit, even if he felt stupider about it afterward than he used to. The fighting screwed up his program, and it wasn’t fun having to be on his guard anytime he stepped out of his room, but once the blood was flowing, he didn’t much mind.

But anyway, the whole point was that Tobias was a unicorn in human form. Featherlight and wincing, he’d touched Church’s bruised cheek after that first fight, and said for the millionth time he wished Church hadn’t gotten in trouble for him.

They deserved an ass-kicking, Church said.

We should feel sorry for them. Tobias handed him an ice pack. We can get away from them and go back to being happy. They’re stuck with themselves forever. That’s a long time to feel that hateful. It’s a pity, really.

Like, what was that, even?

Tobias’s favorite superhero was Superman, for crying out loud. No one liked Superman the best.

Jason Todd after he became the Red Hood. That was the way to go.

* * *

When he’d been in Woodbury for eight months, he and Tobias were in the great room (which wasn’t that great, since most of the furniture was built in the fifties and smelled like you’d expect), supposedly doing homework but actually talking about comic books, when the front door opened.

One of the intake staff walked in with a new kid at his heels, and Church broke off midsentence to stare. Obviously the kid was a boy, since Woodbury didn’t take girls, but his features were so delicate that at first Church was sure he was female. The broad shoulders and narrow hips registered at that point, and Church decided the kid was a boy after all. Probably the most gorgeous boy he’d ever seen, too. He had thick, tumbled golden waves that fell to his shoulders, a startling contrast to his flawless porcelain skin. His cheekbones were high and graceful, and his mouth was pink and pretty. Everything about him straddled that line between genders, and even though he was beautiful, it was an uncanny sort of beauty, almost disorienting, and Church sort of wanted to touch him and push him away at the same time.

Huh. Ghost is back again. Tobias gave Church a look. He’s not a bad guy, but watch your step around him, especially until he gets to know you. He’s got a rep for a reason.

Church doubted this, because Ghost didn’t look particularly tough. He wore tight black jeans, janky black boots with the laces untied, and a holey T-shirt that’d seen better days. He was too skinny by half. Then he glanced over, catching Church and Tobias watching him, and smiled slowly. His teeth were very white and seemed very sharp, and for all his beauty, he gave off an air of being half-rabid, like he’d be more than happy to strip flesh from bones. One of the staff members said something to him, and his expression became sweet once more before he turned back.

We’re the only room with open beds. Church wasn’t sure how he felt about having that tricky kid for a roommate.

He won’t bug you if you leave him alone. Tobias bit nervously on his thumbnail. But seriously, don’t start trouble.

Ghost didn’t come to dinner with the rest of them. He vanished with a staff member into the cottage office instead, which left everyone else free to gossip about him in the cafeteria. The guys who knew him took great pride in being able to pass stories along, which basically amounted to: no one fucked with Ghost.

He was what the staff called a chronic recidivist. He worked his program, spouted all the right words to get out, and then reoffended without thinking twice. Ghost had been in and out of Woodbury three times since he turned thirteen, and he was well liked because he was laid-back, drily amusing, and didn’t start shit. He was a hard one to get a rise out of apparently, but once he was risen, he was risen.

Like the time that—rumor went—someone tried to climb in bed with him in the middle of the night and Ghost punctured one of the dude’s testicles with a shiv made of a toothbrush handle, then tore the dude’s throat open with his teeth.

So yeah, everyone liked Ghost, but no one fucked with him.

* * *

The first thing Church noticed about Ghost?

Ghost was weird.

When unsupervised with the other boys, he was sarcastic and watchful and hard-eyed. In group therapy he was thoughtful and sincere about mastering his issues—which Church never fully got a grasp on. When he was with staff, he was sweet and well behaved, and when he was with Church and Tobias in their shared bedroom, he was irreverent and sly and downright devious.

The second thing he noticed about Ghost?

None of those early observations mattered, because it was all an act.

In fact, even months later, there were only two things about Ghost that Church thought were real.

For one, Ghost had admitted that he was as likely to have men drag him behind Dumpsters to beat the crap out of him for looking like a girl as he was to have men drag him behind Dumpsters for sex. In case of the first, Ghost never went anywhere without at least one blade, and in case of the second, he never went anywhere without condoms.

It’s the duality of man, Ghost told Church one day in that deep, rich voice that was the only blatantly masculine thing about him besides his dick. Love in one hand, death in the other, although I’m hard-pressed to say which is which.

Very wise, Church replied, not knowing what the hell the duality of man meant.

It’s my wisdom that got me here, Churchy. Ghost folded his hands across his chest like a statue of a priest or something. I’m the patron saint of prostitutes.

Three guesses what got Ghost sent to Woodbury.

The other real thing was the nightmares. Ghost had them more often than not, and Church got in the habit of keeping clean, balled-up socks by his bed so when Ghost started making those helpless whimpers in his sleep, Church had something convenient to throw. After Ghost sprang upright, Church would say, Okay? and Ghost would flip him off, and they’d both go back to sleep.

Church was pretty sure Ghost didn’t consider them friends.

Church did, though.

* * *

Since there was as much manipulation pumping through Ghost’s veins as blood, he showed Church all the shortcuts that convinced the staff that you were learning how to be a superb human being. Tobias, on the other hand, knew how to milk the system for real opportunity, and after a while, Church wasn’t sure how much of his virtuous behavior was an act designed to get him out, and how much was actual progress.

Ghost was in and out of Woodbury three more times over the next three years. In between visits he’d occasionally send postcards scrawled with dirty limericks or little pornographic sketches that Church was shocked made it through the postal system.

When Tobias left, though, it was for good, and if it weren’t for the twice-weekly letters that arrived like clockwork, Church might’ve ended up backsliding.

But it was enough to know he hadn’t been forgotten.

2016

Present Day

Funny that he could spend almost four years at Woodbury without suffocating, and now, barely a week from release, he was having a hard time breathing.

What do you mean you’re in L.A.? he asked.

U2’s playing, Nick said over the phone. He sounded contrite at least, not that it was gonna help. My brother insisted.

Church’s knuckles whitened as his fingers clamped down on the privacy partition between the pay phones. Next to his pinky finger was an anatomically improbable sketch of a penis in magic marker. Underneath was written DIC. Every single time Church had used this phone, he’d wanted to track down the artist to ask if he’d been interrupted before he could finish or if he simply couldn’t spell.

He took a deep breath and counted to ten, thinking about the possible consequences of losing his cool, all the things that Ghost would say if he were still at Woodbury. It was habit now when he got angry: one robot coming up.

It was probably a DIC move to be pissed at a guy for caving to a dying brother’s desire to see some stupid band, but this sure screwed Church over. October was only a day old and it was already shaping up to be as crappy as September had been.

Now that he had finished his program here at Woodbury, Church was supposed to be ready for reintegration into the community. That meant parole meetings and outreach and support and a host of individualized requirements to prove that he was holding up his end of the bargain.

One of which was that he wasn’t allowed to live alone yet. He could leave, but only if he had someone to stay with who would be a grounding influence.

Tobias was living at home while he was in college to save money, so he wasn’t an option. Church hadn’t even bothered asking if Ghost counted. In fact, other than Nick, who used to be a staff member at Woodbury and now occasionally lent his couch to the odd graduate, Church didn’t know any grounding influences.

Well, except for him.

I’m sorry, Church, Nick said. I can try to make some calls for you, but I doubt I’ll find anything anytime soon.

Forget it. Thanks anyway. Sorry about your brother.

Church hung up and stood there for a long minute, hand still resting on the black plastic receiver. He wasn’t thinking so much as giving himself time to adjust to what he would have to do. Behind him, from the line, came a couple of grumbles.

Fuck off, Church said over his shoulder.

Ricky Jimenez, fourteen-year-old gang member and all-around shit-starter, called, "You talking to me, esé?"

Yeah, Menudo, do something about it, Church replied, but it was halfhearted and Jimenez snickered. He knew Church wasn’t gonna do jack when he was so close to getting out.

Assuming he could find a damn couch to sleep on.

Piss or get off the pot, Church, one of the staff members said, and that was an order he couldn’t get around, so he lifted the receiver again, ignoring Jimenez’s groan at another delay.

His fingers dialed without hesitation. It’d been years since he’d called this number, but it’d be in his brain until the day he died. It was engraved on his bones by this point. In his whole life, it was the only number he’d ever had in his pocket that he’d known, without a doubt, he could call for help and wouldn’t be slapped down.

Of course, that’d been before Church fucked up.

His throat felt about the size of a drinking straw as the phone rang. He wasn’t sure what to hope for. An answer? Voice mail? An automated message from an operator explaining that the cell phone he was trying to reach had been dropped into a toilet because the owner would rather buy a new one than talk to Church?

But there was a soft click, and then there was that voice.

Painfully familiar. Warm as ever. It went through him like a knife through warm butter. Church squeezed his eyes closed.

It’s Church, he said, forcing the words out. He sounded rough and stiff and pretty much like an asshole. I’m in a bit of jam. I, uh, wouldn’t ask, but. But there’s no one else. He didn’t say that last bit, because that was a little more pathetic than he wanted to be today. Besides, it wasn’t like it was a secret.

And Miller Quinn, whose kindness Church had repaid with humiliation and violence and nearly five years’ worth of silence, said, What do you need?

Chapter Two

When Miller came out of the office, Shelby was lying in wait like a trap-door spider. He didn’t jump, because his sister was not only horrible, but predictable.

It was him calling, wasn’t it? she asked.

Yes. Although part of Miller still didn’t believe it. He curled his shaking hands into loose fists so she wouldn’t see.

Thought so. The first thing out of your mouth was ‘What do you need?’ And as soon as you answered the phone, your face started doing that thing it does, of course. You’re such an idiot.

That thing it does, he repeated.

The tense thing. You know, that constipated look that you get whenever you know there’s going to be conflict that you can’t get away from. She peered at him. Yup. That’s the one.

Miller tried to relax his jaw muscles. I do not look constipated.

Well, not anymore, she said reasonably. You’re not making the face.

Right. Miller went around her and headed for the front of the store. It wasn’t quite eleven, and the Saturday-morning rush at Quinn’s Contracting Supply had ended. Other than Em working the counter and a couple of renovators looking at drawer pulls in the cabinetry section, the place was empty, as close to tolerable as it ever got, too heavily air-conditioned and smelling of cut wood and clean metal.

What’s he want this time? she asked. A kidney?

Shel. Come on.

Oh, am I being too mean to the juvenile offender who took advantage of you?

He did not—

I could break that damn punk’s jaw, she said, and Miller stopped short, pivoting to stare at her. She was pretty in that mom way that said she didn’t have time for a better haircut, and she had the same square, blocky build that Miller did. Her hands were tucked in the pockets of the ugly red aprons they all wore over their jeans and T-shirts, despite the fact that most everybody who came in here knew who they were. The aprons were a tradition, and traditions were the lifeblood of the Quinn family, even when they made no sense. Her chin was set at that familiar, defiant angle that meant she wasn’t sorry a whit, no matter what the effect of her words might be.

"Shel. He was a kid."

"He left bruises on you, Miller, Shelby bit out. After everything you did for him, he used his fists on you, and now he’s calling for another favor after half a decade of ignoring you? Fuck him."

Your daughter’s going to hear you if you don’t keep your voice down, Miller said under his breath.

Shelby rolled her eyes. "Yeah, like she’s never heard the F word before. Like she’s never used the F word before—she’s fifteen, not five. And don’t try to wriggle out of this. I don’t want that jerk anywhere near here. He can rot on a street corner for all I care."

It was Miller’s fault that Shelby was so vitriolic about the whole thing with Church. After all, he’d never told her what happened that night, so she didn’t know that Miller had deserved those punches. Not that she’d agree if she’d known. Miller could set fire to his hair and she’d be pissed at the lighter company. But even now, he couldn’t bring himself to explain. He was too ashamed of his behavior. The very thought had his gut in knots.

You’re making the face again, she said. What is it?

Nothing. Miller turned to go. Well, he tried to—she caught his arm at the elbow with a grip like a lobster. She studied his expression with narrowed eyes.

What does he want?

A couch to sleep on.

Her mouth flattened. And you said yes.

He needs help. Miller looked away and went for a tiny fib. It’s just until he can find another place. In six months, he added silently.

"Why are you doing this? I’m bewildered, Miller. You’re so damn dug into your routine that I have to give you two days’ notice for dinner at my house even though you eat with us almost every week, but a three-minute conversation with that bastard has you ready to drop everything."

That two days’ notice is so I can try to find something better to do, he said, in a last, desperate stab at changing the subject. One of these days, with any luck, I’m going to be too busy.

Like you’re too busy to call Grover back? Or you’re too busy to date? Or do you mean you’ll be too busy with all of the many friends you go out with?

Wow, he managed. That was not the change in subject he’d been going for. Don’t hold back on my account.

She didn’t soften. His sister had rebar where everyone else had been born with a spine. She was so strong, in fact, that she was incapable of comprehending weakness, let alone handling it in her little brother.

And yet, she went on, for him, you throw the doors wide open. Why is that, do you think?

He really wanted to get out of here before Shelby said something that pissed him off. He might end up yelling, and he hated that. I don’t know. When she raised her eyebrows, he shrugged, feeling helpless. I don’t.

Do you even know why you let him glom on to you in the first place?

He had it rough at home and he needed a safe place. And I liked him. He was a good kid.

She harrumphed.

"He was. You thought so too, before everything went to hell. He... Miller rubbed a hand over the back of his neck. He made me laugh."

That’s why God made comedy clubs. Shelby sighed. "If you’d start dating again, you could meet a girl who makes you laugh without also punching you in the face, and then finding an idiot sixteen-year-old to tell you jokes wouldn’t be such a life changer."

He decided to ignore the whole dating thing, because that was a thornier issue than he was up to dealing with right now, and instead touched her arm. Please? I’ve got to put my mind at ease where he’s concerned. Don’t make me fight you on it.

You wouldn’t have to if you’d do what I want, she retorted, only half joking.

I need to do this, he said. The way I left things with him drives me crazy. Can we be all right? Please?

Maybe. She bared her teeth at him, but it was sullen rather than mean, and then wrapped him in a hug. But only if you call Grover back. You’re sending him mixed messages and it’s freaking him out. At this rate he’ll be offering to put out to keep our interest, and it’s going to crush him when I tell him we only want him for his financial prowess. So today, right? You’ll call him—

Jesus. Miller disentangled himself, but she grabbed his hand before he could escape. He yanked but it did him zero good. He’d have to hurt her to get away, and he could never, ever do that. He wouldn’t mind poking her with a sharp stick sometimes, though. I told you I would.

The property isn’t going to be available forever. We have to move on it soon if we’re going to do this.

I know.

A second store is good. It means more money. It means you’ll have more freedom to make changes, too. You’re always complaining that nothing changes around here—well, if we expand, you can stock all those ugly paint colors that I hate.

"I know."

She gritted her teeth. You’re being an asshole.

He knew that too, but didn’t admit it, because then she’d ask why. She wanted reasons for why he was dragging his heels on the expansion plans, and the truth was that he didn’t have any. No good ones, anyway. He didn’t have anything beyond I really, really don’t want to.

This is going to be good for me and Em, Shelby said. She propped her hands on her hips like a superhero about to crush scumbags beneath her red rubber