Joint Forces
Page 11Even now he went dry-mouthed at the thought of her honey-golden skin with a charm necklace between two perfect breasts.
He tried to swallow. Failed.
Damn, damn, damn! He loved Shelby, so why was he drooling over someone he didn't even like? Teenage hormones so sucked.
One look down Miranda's dress two weeks ago and before he knew it, he'd been on his way out the door to run an errand for her. Just a food delivery for a special client—even though they didn't normally deliver squat.
Sucker.
He didn't know why Miranda had sent along so much money with the food delivery, but the fluky look he'd gotten at a stack of hundreds left him with zero doubts.
The reason couldn't be good.
He'd reported it to his boss, only to be told he must have misunderstood. Or maybe it was all innocent, but thanks anyhow, kid, and he would definitely talk to her. And, oh by the way, if rumors started, damaging business, Chris and his family would be sued and he sure would hate for that to happen and were they on the same page here now, pal?
God. Chris chunked another plate into the dishwasher. He'd clammed up faster than his father that day.
His parents would totally wig out if they knew. His dad was rigid on the honesty thing, and Mom went ballistic if he got so much as a detention for being tardy twice in a semester. Geez. Sometimes he wondered if it might be easier to forget about meeting their expectations.
But his mom was pregnant. And his dad was a freaking zombie since Rubistan.
So he would hang tough. Not be a wuss. And try like crazy to tell himself his mom's hit-and-run accident in his car was totally a coincidence.
Chris stacked the last of the dishes and flung aside the rag. Only a few more minutes and then home free for one more day. Maybe Miranda would transfer to another college and take her flashing boobs and smile somewhere else.
At least he knew better than to let himself be sucked in by her again. Jesus, like a nineteen-year-old hot chick would really be interested in him anyhow. But those raging hormones zapped IQ points.
The doors swished again. No Miranda—thank God. No busboy, either. This time his boss raced in, loosening his tie, a laid-back dude in his thirties with only two employee mottos: Don't make waves, and treat his wife and little girl like royalty.
The boss man, Kurt Haugen, definitely always sided with the chicks. "I have to leave now before I'm any later getting home. Don't forget to lock up behind you."
"I won't, Mr. Haugen."
"Thanks, kid, and make sure Miranda and the other waitresses get in their cars safe and sound. Okay? Wouldn't want anything to happen to them."
Chris stood taller. Okay, so the guy pampered women. Bet he wouldn't get a baby-sitter Bo to stay overnight when a guy was already sixteen. "Sure. No problem, Mr. Haugen."
Of course, now he had to wait around for Miranda, but he could just sit in the car and watch until she left. Yeah. That would work. Doors locked. Eyes on her face, which was more respectful anyhow. Not to mention safer.
"I really need to haul ass, pal. I missed my daughter's gymnastics competition this afternoon. Engine went out on the shrimp trawler, which had me on the phone all day tracking down repair parts. And damn but I hated missing the little princess turn her back flips. Wife's probably pissed, too. Hey, how about pass me one of those chocolate pecan pies. Maybe if I walk into the room leading with that, it'll soften her up. And a candy bar for the princess. What do you think, pal?"
Swinging open the refrigerator, Chris stretched to get the pie off the top rack. "I think chicks dig chocolate."
"Sure." Adults could be so lame.
Mr. Haugen snagged two candy bars from the cooking station, Heath Bars for the specialty pies. He tucked one in his sports jacket and tossed the other to Chris. "Chocolate. For the special chick in your life."
Chris snagged the candy bar midair and tucked it into his droopy shirt pocket. "Yeah, whatever. I'll make sure everyone gets out of here fine."
A half hour later, he stood in the front parking lot, locking the door, taking his time until Miranda revved her engine, the last of the crowd to go.
Finally, Miranda spewed gravel on her way out of the lot. He exhaled long. Off the hook. Alone, just him and waves pounding the dock, sailboat lines snapping and pinging.
He rounded the corner to where he'd parked– away from the shoreline and saltwater so his dad wouldn't blow a gasket about rust.
And pulled up short. A lone street lamp backlit a person sitting on the trunk of his mother's car. Shelby.
She perched cross-legged, flip-flops off and beside her as if she'd gotten comfortable for a long wait. She hugged her knees to her chest, her jet-black hair lifting in the wind.
Damn. How could he have ever even looked at Miranda?
He tried not to think about the chocolate bar in his pocket. "You shouldn't be out here alone. It's not safe."
She turned at his voice, then rested her chin on her knees without answering. Did chicks practice this silent-treatment stuff to confuse guys? He didn't have much practice on how to handle it since the women in his family weren't ever afraid to speak their minds.
He strode closer, faster, until he could see her clearly. Ah man, her eyes stared back, all red and swollen, puffy from crying. He tried to think of something to say and only came up with, "Want a Heath Bar? Mom says chocolate cures everything."
Her bottom lip quivered.
Way to go, hotshot. "Okay, no chocolate."
Foot on the bumper, he propelled himself up to sit on the trunk beside her. Maybe quiet was good after all, kinda like his dad did. When his dad clammed up, Mom usually spilled her guts. Then a guy didn't have to guess what was going on and risk botching it by actually getting involved in the discussion.
Besides, sitting with Shelby, the ocean breeze puffing by, he could smell her. Be close to her. Why rush ending that? He stared up at the inky sky dotted with stars and just breathed salty air and Shelby.
She shifted beside him, slid her flip-flops back on. "You probably need to get home."
"Nah, my folks know I'm working." He would take the ass-ripping from his dad for being late. Time alone with Shelby was rare since Shelby and Murdoch were so tight.
Or were they?
Another tear glistened in the corner of her eye. From a breakup? He couldn't stop the hope.
Which made him feel like a disloyal scumbag. "Where's Murdoch?"
Okay, not breaking up. "Bummer. Tough luck him being gone right now. You don't have too many weekends left before the moving truck pulls out. Then college."
"Uh-huh."
She chewed off her glitter lip gloss while more waves crashed. He waited and reminded himself he was her friend. Murdoch's friend. And friends didn't take advantage. He was cool with them as a couple.
"I think I'm pregnant."
Her simple sentence hung there and man it hurt. Bad. He wasn't okay with crap.
He'd known in his head that Shelby and Murdoch were probably doing it. They'd been dating for about two years, after all. But it wasn't something he let himself think about too much because it would drive him kinda crazy.
Not much choice but to think about it now. "Are you sure?"
"No." She swiped hair from her face. "Just, uh, late. Scared. I needed to talk to somebody before I totally lost it in front of my folks."
Honor forced him to say, "Shouldn't you be talking to Murdoch about this instead of me?"
She didn't answer, just kept brushing hair out of her face while wind streaked it right back again.
"It is, uh, his, right?"
She jerked toward him, shock, anger, hurt all glittering in her eye like the sparkles in her lip gloss. "God, yes. What kind of person do you think I am?" She started inching down the hood. "I shouldn't have even come here. This isn't your problem, anyway."
"Hold on." He gripped her arm to stop her from sliding off to leave. "Chill. It's just weird that you're talking to me first. But I'm totally cool with it."
The fight crumpled out of her spine. Tears flooded, dripped over. What kind of guy would he be if he didn't comfort her? No big deal. A friend thing. He patted her back. Safe. Still friend stuff.
A really soft curvy friend.
He clenched his jaw tight. Ditch the thoughts, dude. Remember the mess with Miranda. Shelby's current mess. Hell, his parents' mess.
Couldn't anybody besides him keep their pants zipped?
Shelby sniffed, pressed the heels of her hands to her eyes.
It s not like we were stupid or anything. We were always careful used condoms."
That was so much more information than he needed. "Uh-huh."
"But no kind of birth control is a hundred percent, you know?"
"We haven't even been doing it all that long."
So she'd held out against John Murdoch. Marginal balm for an aching ego. "Oh, um…"
"John wanted me to be sure."
Hell. Now he couldn't even hate the guy. "You must be really important to him."
A small smile broke through for the first time. "That's what he says." Her smile drooped. "But he's already pissed at me because I won't go to the same college as him, and now he's going to use this to make me do things his way. I'm just a senior in high school. I don't want to get married yet."
Married? "Whoa. Hold on. Why worry until you know for sure? No need to get all fired up and mad at him." Way to go, sap. Help the guy. Except in this case, helping Murdoch meant helping Shelby. "Why don't you get one of those home tests?"
"They're not a hundred percent for sure."
"It's a place to start."
"Maybe I don't want to know for sure." She snapped a hair band on her wrist, then again and again. "God, my dad's going to be so disappointed in me. I don't know how I'm going to face him."
"What about your mom? Can you go to her place for the weekend, talk to her first?"
Shelby snorted, yanking the band off her wrist and twisting her hair back. "She'll either totally freak out and just call my dad to handle it, or pretend everything's fine and offer to take me shopping at the mall."
"Maybe you could go to your stepmom."
"Julia's cool," Shelby conceded, giving her hair a final twist in the band. "But she'll tell Dad, because that's the way they are together. Tight, you know?"
"Hmm," he grunted, because he didn't know. His parents weren't that way, never had been, and it pissed him off that no amount of extra "alone time" together seemed to make any difference. "What do you want to do?"
"I want to scream. I want to cry." Her hands dropped from her silky black hair into her lap. "I want somebody to hug me and tell me it's gonna be okay."
"Well, I can help you out with half of that."
Chris wrapped his arms around her, tucked her under his chin and let her cry. Finally, he was holding Shelby Dawson against his chest– and he couldn't do a damn thing but comfort her while she crushed his Heath Bar.
J.T. creaked back in the office chair in his den, rubbed his hand along his stiff neck, stared at his computer screen offering nada, zip, zilch in the way of info. Damn it, that bumper sticker on the back of the hit-and-run van had to mean something, red circle with a black triangle inside. If only he could identify the damn thing and trace it.
The walls of the small paneled room started to close in on him. He needed progress. Action. Anything to shake the freaking inactivity. ns class="adsbygoogle" style="display:block" data-ad-client="ca-pub-7451196230453695" data-ad-slot="9930101810" data-ad-format="auto" data-full-width-responsive="true">