Unbeautiful
Page 24

I throw a chip into the center of the table, scowling at him. He flashes me a grin in return.
For the next hour or so, I focus on the game the best I can while teaching Emery the basics of gambling. She catches on pretty quickly and starts winning hands on her own. She even takes the shots, but I cut her off at number three before she can get trashed.
“You’re really cutting her off?” Violet asks with a questioning look. “Man, you must really want to—”
I point a finger at her and mouth, “Don’t even go there.”
Emery arches her brows, intrigued, but I’m not about to explain to her the rest of what Violet was going to say, because it’ll make me look like the horny bastard that I am. Glancing at the clock, I notice the time is veering toward ten. In about a half an hour, I’m going to have to head out to the bar. I hate the thought of bailing out on this relaxing night and entering a world that sends my stomach churning.
I want to spend a bit more time with Emery before I go, at least to give her back the papers.
Lacing my fingers through hers, I rise to my feet and pull her up with me.
“I have to take off to work in a little bit,” I sign to her. “But I want to give you those papers back.”
Swiftly nodding, she winds around the chair and follows me as I steer her out of the kitchen area and toward my room at the end of the hallway.
“Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do!” Luke calls out, and Violet cackles, something she only does when she’s drunk.
Shaking my head, I shove open the door and let Emery step through. Then I walk in behind her and close the door.
“Sorry about that.” I nod my head at the door. “They just think they’re funny.”
“It’s fine,” she says, seeming confused, like she might not even understand what Luke meant by his unsubtle innuendo. She walks around my small bedroom, glancing at the mattress and clothes on the floor, the few posters on the wall, and the record player and box of albums on the floor.
She peers over her shoulder at me. “You like music?”
I shrug as I wander over to the dresser. “It’s okay. It can sometimes get really quiet around here, so I like to crank it on and create some kind of noise.”
She crouches down in front of the box and starts rummaging through the albums, reading over the titles. I retrieve her papers out of my dresser drawer then sit down on the carpet beside her and stretch out my legs.
I place the torn pieces of paper on the floor then lean forward to sign to her. “The older albums my dad gave me when I first came home, but the new ones I collected from the concerts I’ve been to.”
She glances over her shoulder, and her eyes briefly trace the scars on my throat. “When you first came home?”
“I grew up in foster homes until I was about sixteen, and then... But, anyway, I didn’t start living with my dad again until I was eighteen.” Please don’t let her ask about where I was during the two year gap or where the scars came from. As sheltered as she is, I don’t think she could handle the truth very well.
“How come… I mean, would it be rude if I asked why you were in a foster home if you have a dad?”
“It’s not rude if you ask. You already kind of know my dad can be asshole, right?” I ask, and she nods. “Well, that’s why. He was an asshole who didn’t want a kid.”
“What about your mom?”
“Another asshole who didn’t want a kid. Although, I haven’t see her since she gave me up.”
She sucks in a huge breath and frees it. “Ryler, I—”
I place my finger over her mouth, shushing her, and withdraw my hand from her lips. “You don’t need to say you’re sorry. Everything’s good now. I mean, look where I am now—sitting in my own little palace with what I’m pretty sure might be the most beautiful girl in the world.” I flash her a grin. Even though everything isn’t good now, at least in the broader picture it seems so.
She’s unamused by my joke. Maybe even be a little upset.
“Hey, I’m sorry if I said something wrong,” I quickly apologize. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”
“No, it’s fine.” A frown etches into her face. Then she turns around and pulls out one of my Taking Back Sunday albums and skims the song list on the back. “Do you ever wonder if there’s more to people than just their looks?” She keeps her head tipped down and her concentration on the album.
I can’t answer her until she looks at me, so I reach forward and tuck my finger under her chin, turning her head toward me. “Of course there’s more to people than just look. Why would you ask that?”
She shrugs. “For most of my life, everyone’s talked about how beautiful I am, as if that’s all I am. I want to be more than just my looks.”
“You are, Emery. I can tell.”
“You barely know me. How can you possibly know that?”
“I know that you like to write passionately, which is why you tossed out those papers. You like to run. You’re starting school. You get flustered when you get flirted with. You’ve been sheltered for most of your life, but you clearly don’t want to be. That right there means your more than just looks.”
She eyes me over with skepticism. “How do you know I don’t want to be sheltered anymore?”
Grinning at her, I gesture around the room. “You’re here, aren’t you?”