Reaper's Fire
Page 13

Sighing, I slumped back in the swing, realizing she was right. I’d known it already, but somehow after the third glass of wine I’d been feeling more optimistic. But for better or worse, Carrie and I shared more than our love of fast cars. We had a deal—forged in the pain and humiliation of junior high—to always tell each other the truth, no matter how hard.
“Hey, it’s not a bad thing,” she said, nudging my shoulder. “Not like the guy’s a serious prospect anyway. Doesn’t seem to have a real job, mows lawns for his rent, and hangs out with a motorcycle gang. You can’t tell me you were picking out china patterns in your head, were you?”
“No, but I wouldn’t mind getting laid.”
“So let’s hit a club in Ellensburg this weekend,” she said. “Two can play this game, you know—pick up some cute college boy, teach him a thing or two. I swear, his future wife will thank you.”
I groaned.
“One time . . .”
Carrie burst out laughing. “Nothing ever dies in this town, babe. You’re a cougar on the prowl and we all know it! Why just the other day I warned a young man to get off the street before you caught him.”
Pushing off the swing I stood up, pointing my glass at her accusingly.
“It never would’ve happened if it wasn’t for you and Margarita.”
“I realize this. You don’t have to keep thanking me.”
The front door opened, and my dad looked out.
“Do you know where your mother is?” he asked. “I’m getting hungry. She should be fixing dinner by now.”
Carrie and I shared a look.
“I’ll get it going soon, Dad,” I told him. “But Mom’s not with us anymore, remember?”
Confusion crossed his face, followed by embarrassment as my heart clenched.
“Sorry, I wasn’t thinking.”
“I’ll get some chicken started—how does that sound?”
He didn’t answer, turning and shuffling back through the door.
“You’re going to have to do something before too much longer,” Carrie said softly. “It’s not safe for him to be here alone at the house.”
“Nothing’s happened,” I pointed out. “He gets confused, but it’s not like he sets fires or something.”
She just stared at me, and in that instant I regretted the zero-bullshit clause in our friendship.
“I’m gonna go light the grill,” I told her, sighing. “Are you staying for dinner?”
“No, but I’ll hang around for a while longer,” she said. “Darren doesn’t get off work for another hour.”
“You guys can eat with us if you like. It’s just grilled chicken and rice, but we’ve got plenty.”
“Let me text him and see,” she said, brightening. “I’m not in the mood to cook and the girls won’t be home until later. They grow up too damned fast, babe.”
I managed to hide my flinch, nodding and smiling. Darren had knocked Carrie up our senior year of high school, which wasn’t normally a good thing. It seemed to have worked out for them all right, though. The twins were a handful, but they were good kids.
Couldn’t believe they’d be eighteen in another year.
My little Tricia would still be a toddler. I grabbed my glass and chugged, willing away the thought. I’d cried enough for a lifetime already.
“Sounds good. Let’s go fire up the grill.”
• • •
Half an hour later I was in my happy place again, by sheer force of will. Force of will and wine, that was . . . Now I stood over the grill, basting chicken breasts and sipping my drink.
Back when I was a freshman, me and Dad built a covered porch off the kitchen so we could barbecue out there year-round. Mom was all about cooking outside because she hated scrubbing pans. I’d missed the freedom to cook outside in Seattle—Brandon thought a grill would make the deck look tacky. Just another reason to celebrate ditching his ass.
Back in the kitchen, I had Carrie putting finishing touches on the salad, and the rice was bubbling away—it wasn’t fancy, but it’d be good. Things should be ready right about the time Darren arrived. We’d even set the picnic table in the courtyard gazebo with a pretty blue-checkered cloth.
“Smells good.”
I looked up to find Cooper on the steps, leaning against the railing. He looked so pretty. I smiled big and nearly told him so, then remembered I was drunk and bit my tongue. (Literally bit it, which hurt like hell and made my eyes water. I’m sure he thought I was crazy. Fair enough.)
“Great job on the yard,” I told him after a few seconds of agonizing pain. “It’s a relief to have you helping out. How’s the apartment?”
“Hell of a lot better than the hotel,” he said. “Although I’m not much of a cook.”
He glanced at the grill, taking in the chicken. A small part of me wanted to ask if Talia was a good cook. The words were halfway to my mouth, but the single, tiny little chunk of my brain that was still sober managed to tackle them and wrestle them back to the ground before I made an ass of myself.
“I worked as a private chef for several years,” I told him. Suck it, brain. I can work my skills into a conversation without being obvious. “Then I started making the chocolates, and the business took off. Pretty soon I couldn’t keep up with both, so I cut my clients loose.”
“Impressive,” Cooper said.
“You want to join us?” I asked.
“Yes.”
I burst out laughing, because he said the word so fast and so fervently that there could be no question—Cooper wanted some of that chicken. Was this a bad idea? No reason you can’t be friendly with the guy, Miss Sober Brain informed me primly. You’ve got plenty of chaperones.
Nice.
“Okay. We’ll be serving up in about half an hour. Carrie’s hubby will be off work around six, then he’s heading over.”
“Carrie the one you were talkin’ with on the porch?”
“Yup,” I said, popping the “p” on the end. Then I took another deep swig of my wine. “She’s been my best friend since we were kids. My dad is here, too, so it’ll be five of us.”
“Sure you have enough to spare?” he asked. “I don’t want to impose.”