The Reasons to Stay

Priss fingered the rough, dingy white cotton rectangle with its long, dangling ties. Her mother had owned it forever. When it began whispering memories, Priss lifted it off the peg and tossed it over her shoulder to silence it.

Hell, she was back in her mother’s world—why not use her old apron? Priss told herself she wasn’t being sentimental, just practical; she needed an apron anyway.

The alarm on her phone blatted “Reveille.” Time to get to work. She slipped the map and the money into her purse, and took the few steps to the living room.

Snatching up the half-full plastic bin, she walked out, locked the door to the past once more and slipped the key under the door.

* * *

ADAM STOOD IN front of his narcotics shelf taking inventory, when a woman’s voice screeched in his pocket. Dang it, Sin must’ve reprogrammed his phone again. He pulled it from his jacket pocket and answered. “Sin, this is not funny. I work with octogenarians and a Lady Gaga ringtone is going to give someone a heart attack.”

“That’s Eat Your Dead, by the way. Lady Gaga is pop.” She spit the word like it was spoiled meat. “Special cleanup on aisle four, boss,” she whispered, and hung up.

He craned his neck, but couldn’t see the aisle from where he stood. He slipped his phone back in his pocket, walked past the cash register, and unlocked the door that kept the drugs secure.

He saw the kid the minute he pulled the door closed behind him. A Hispanic boy with sloppy, too-big clothes stood at the magazine rack with the casual “I’m not doing anything” demeanor of a shoplifter. Sin was an expert at spotting them but this one was more obvious than most. The kid stopped leafing through a muscle-car magazine, shot a glance up the aisle, then slipped the magazine in the waistband of his saggy jeans.

Damn it, these kids never gave up. Where were their parents? He was tired of little delinquents pilfering his stock. It was time to set an example that would deter other kids. The twerp’s luck had just run out because Adam was flat sick of this. He tipped his chin at Joyce, the cashier—it was the signal to let the kid go.

He followed the boy and once the door closed behind them, Adam grabbed the thief’s shirt collar.

“Hey, lemme go!” The punk twisted to see who had a hold of him.

Adam tightened his grip. “Go? The only place you’re going is jail.” He retrieved his cell from his pocket and scrolled his contacts while the kid struggled.

“I didn’t do anything. What’re you—a pervert? Lemme go!”

The kid was stronger than Adam would have guessed. He had to twist the boy’s T-shirt collar around his fist. “Settle. You’ll only make it worse.”

“Help!” The kid pulled at his collar, frantic. “Somebody help—he’s trying to kidnap me!”

Tourists strolling by slowed, uncertain.

A little old lady in orange Bermuda shorts stopped and glared at him. “What are you doing with that child?”

Oh, hell.

* * *

PRISS GUNNED THE engine, running ten miles over the posted twenty-five in the downtown area, checking the rearview mirror for cop strobes. She’d meant to be home a half hour ago, but Floyd had shown up late for work. She couldn’t very well walk away from a bar full of patrons.

But damn, it was Nacho’s first day with her, and now she’d left him cooling his heels on the sidewalk.

Great way to make a kid feel secure, Hart.

That wasn’t the way she’d wanted to start.

Something about the knot of people gathered in front of the drugstore made her heart bang like Mona’s engine on a bad day. There was no reason to believe this had anything to do with Nacho, but her shit-meter redlined just the same. Her stomach muscles snapped taut, clicking into defense mode. When she squealed to a stop at the curb, heads swiveled in her direction. She shut off Mona and stood on the seat to see over the small crowd.

“Help me, somebody!” Nacho strained like a dog at the end of a leash, the collar of his T-shirt choking him. Her landlord stood behind him, his fist knotted in cotton, his face redder than Nacho’s, fiddling with a phone.

“You let him go!” Priss yelled, vaulting over the passenger-side door.

Bystanders backed away as she charged in like a Pamplona bull.

She grabbed Adam’s forearm and squeezed. The muscle, like braided wire, didn’t give. “What are you doing? Can’t you see you’re choking him?” When he ignored her, she gave up on the arm, and grabbed Nacho’s shoulders instead and looked him in the eyes. “Stop fighting. You’re making it worse.”

“You’ll want to stay out of this.” Adam’s dark eyes were cool. “He’s a shoplifter. I’m calling the cops.” He hit a button on the phone and raised it to his ear.

“You. Let. Him. Go.” The steely, blood-tipped threat in her voice almost frightened her.

Adam let go.

Instinctively, her arms went around the boy’s shoulders. “He’s my brother.”

Nacho struggled in her embrace, then froze. So did Adam.

He hit a button and slowly lowered the phone. “He’s what?”

She stuck out her chest and tightened her grip on Nacho’s shoulders. Righteously indignant was a strong offense. “He’s my brother. He wouldn’t steal.”

God, please, he wouldn’t do that, would he?

She had to know. Her eyes traveled down to Nacho. Chin stuck out, lips a tight thin line, eyebrows matching commas of anger over eyes that...were larcenous.

Shit.

There was no doubt in her mind. He’d done it. A flush of heat spread up from her chest. Sweat popped at her hairline, but then freeze-dried in the chill rolling off her landlord.

“Really.” He dropped his phone into his pocket, then lifted the hem of Nacho’s shirt. He pulled out a magazine with a souped-up hot rod on the cover, garish flames painted on the hood. “You undoubtedly have a receipt for this, then.”

Nacho studied his sneakers. Priss squirmed inside as if she were the guilty party.

Apparently—and thankfully—public shaming wasn’t entertaining because the crowd broke up, wandering away in ones and twos.

“Look.” Priss swallowed, having no idea of what she’d say next. This very morning she’d rescued the kid from Social Services. Now he was facing juvie.

Two government institutions in one day? That has to be some kind of record.

Arguments, pleas and downright supplications whirled through her mind. She tested and discarded each in nanoseconds.

Adam glared at Nacho. Then at her. She could almost see him connecting dots that would lead to the holes in her story.

This was going to take a delicate blend of the truth and every bit of the manipulation she’d learned on the street. She relaxed her face into her “waif” look and raised her rounded eyes. “Could I talk to you for a second? Alone?”

“I’m not taking my eye off him, and no matter what you say, I’m calling the cops.”

“I understand.” She dug her fingers in the hollows next to Nacho’s collarbone. “You. Wait here. If you move—”

He scrunched his shoulders and winced. “I won’t. I promise.”

Adam’s huff made it clear what he thought of a criminal’s promises.

“Just over here.” She walked five steps, until she stood under the drugstore’s green awning.

Adam followed, keeping a wary eye on Nacho.

“I’ll pay you for the magazine. And you can keep it.”

“That’s not the point.”

“I know it isn’t.” She lowered her voice to a whisper, so Adam would have to lean in to hear. “But I just got him out of a group home today. His mom died—our mom died—two weeks ago.” She set her face in grieving lines, and looked at him from under her lashes. Tears? No, better not push it. “Just this once, could you give him a break? He’s only ten, and he’s been in that group home since the day we buried our mom. That’s bound to have messed him up, you know?”

Adam shook his head. “I’m sorry for your loss. Really. But I’ve had a rash of petty thefts, and if it weren’t for Sin, he’d have gotten away with it. I have to make an example of him.”

She touched his forearm. “I’ll vouch for him. I’ll make him come in through the back door...”

He jerked his arm away as if she’d pinched it. “He is not living here.”

His distaste sparked tinder—the dried remnants of every slight that lay scattered in her memory. The behind-the-hand giggles, the “slut spawn” taunts, the smug smile of a blonde girl with a pig nose—they all caught fire in a whoosh.

Her hands fisted. “Oh, yes. He is.” It came out as the growled warning of a junkyard dog.

A muscle worked at the side of Adam’s jaw. When he leaned in, Priss was suddenly aware of his size. She felt the brush of his fury on her face. “Oh, no. He isn’t.”

“Read your lease. It bans pets, not kids.”

The spasm in his hands told her just when he realized he’d been had. His eyes narrowed to slits. “You lied to me!”

“You never asked.”

“It never occurred to me to ask a young woman—”

“Well, that’s not my fault.” When the storm in his eyes worsened, tornado sirens went off in her mind. She’d pushed too far. Her deep, cleansing breath doused the last flickering flames of her anger. “Look. This is not going to be a problem. I’m home from the bar a half hour after he gets home from school, and—”

“The bar?”

“My job. I’m a bartender at Bar None.”

Fists clenched, he looked up to the inside of the awning. Priss knew it was a prayer on his part, asking for strength.

“You have a problem with how I earn your rent money, dude?” She tightened the muscles of her chest and core, attempting to smother the anger flare-up that she couldn’t afford. The battle wouldn’t matter if she lost the war.

He took a step back, eyes narrowed. “Yes, I have many problems actually. You told me you were in customer service.”

Ouch. A rare attack of conscience slipped like a shiv between her ribs. “A bartender is a customer service job.”

He crossed his arms over his chest.

“Look, I promise you that my brother is not going to be a problem.” She crooked a finger at Nacho who, in spite of his casual perusal of the street, was listening to every word.

He walked over to Priss immediately.

She pointed a finger at Adam. “You tell this man that you’re sorry. And that this is never going to happen again.”

Maybe the kid did have some survival instinct, because he looked up at the pissed-off pharmacist with tears in his eyes. “I’m really sorry, sir. It won’t happen again.”

“Damned right it won’t. I may not be able to evict you but I’m going to be watching.” He studied Nacho as if he were a small, venomous snake. “The only reason I’m not having you arrested is because you just lost your mother.” He shot a glance at Priss, and then back. “But you are not allowed in my store. Understood?”

“Yes, sir.” Nacho’s voice shook.

Is this an act? He was either very good or very sorry. Priss intended to find out which, as soon as she got him upstairs.

“I am not happy about this. But it appears I have no choice.” Adam turned to look down on her. “For the moment.” He turned on his heel, strode to the door, pulled it open, and with one backward glare, walked in.

Priss felt a wasp-sting of regret for having misled him. But she hadn’t had a choice; the county had put her back against the wall.

Screw it. He didn’t matter. Nacho did.

She took a firm hold of his upper arm and pulled. “You and me, dude. We need to talk.” She led him around the building to the back entrance. The entrance she’d been relegated to as a kid. The one she’d worked her ass off to avoid since.

Until today.

CHAPTER FIVE

YOU ARE NOT GOING TO YELL. In spite of the anger singing in her veins, Priss managed to close the apartment door gently.

Nacho crossed to the window that looked down on Hollister. “This is cool.”

The setting sun highlighted the soft planes of his face, reminding her that he was still a boy. One who had just lost his old life, such as it was. And she planned to show him that life could be better than he’d known so far—after she killed him. “What the hell were you thinking? Do you know how close you just came to going to juvie?”

He walked past the kitchen, to the bedroom. “Where do I sleep?”

“The big couch in the living room opens to a bed.”

“Okay.” His voice echoed from the bathroom.

“Get your butt out here. We’re not done.”

He slouched back in the room, and leaned against the doorjamb, thumbs in his low-rider jeans pockets. She pointed to the table for two between the kitchen and the living area. He walked over, sat and crossed his arms over his chest.

Priss took a deep breath and tamped down the urge to throttle him. “I’m going to ignore the fact that you disregarded my instruction to wait outside the pharmacy until I got there.” She took a deep breath. Kinder and gentler. “But explain to me what possessed you to try to shoplift in this store, of all places? Don’t you have any sense of self-preservation?”

He pursed his lips so hard his bottom lip jutted out.

“Why did you do it?” She could play this game. She crossed her arms and waited.

He lasted about thirty seconds. “You’re not my mother.”

“True thing. Because if I had a kid, he’d know better than to pull a bonehead stunt like this. Why did you do it?”

“I don’t have to tell you.” He moved, just a bit in the seat.

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