Total pages in book: 58
Estimated words: 56257 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 281(@200wpm)___ 225(@250wpm)___ 188(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 56257 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 281(@200wpm)___ 225(@250wpm)___ 188(@300wpm)
He opens the passenger door, hands me the coat, then stands in the rain. Maybe he doesn’t want to get my car wet, but it’ll just mean getting his rental wet anyway. Or perhaps he doesn’t want to be close to me. I wonder if I should offer to sit in the backseat. I’m used to that flat stare, but it doesn’t mean it feels good.
I quickly wriggle into the coat and then awkwardly climb from the car. He shuts the passenger-side door and walks ahead of me, opening the passenger-side door to the rental. I’m tempted to brush my hand across his stomach as I slip by, but then the specter of Mom flashes in time with the next lightning strike.
I let out a pathetic wail when it suddenly strikes again. “Sorry,” I mumble, hurrying into the car.
He walks around to the driver’s side, his silhouette huge in the headlights. Dropping into the seat beside me, he says, “You don’t have to be. I get it.”
He starts the car and drives. It takes me a moment to realize what he means. I’m on edge, waiting for the next strike to jolt through me and make me feel dorky. So young. I probably seem like a silly kid to him.
He’s probably talking about the night my mom died. It was stormy, the lightning crashing just like this, but it wasn’t the lightning. It was the fact that her warm smile would never touch me again.
“It’s nothing to do with that,” I snap.
Rust keeps staring straight ahead, his dark hair wet. It gives him a wild look, even wilder than in his cage fights. He doesn’t say anything. He has this weird effect on me. As a kid, I used to think of him as magic. Then that got all tangled with the Mom, sin, and morally correct stuff, confusing me even more. It’s like his silence is begging me to speak.
“It’s just scary, that’s all. Lots of people are scared of thunder.”
Silently, staring into the dark, he skillfully guides the car across the wet road.
“That’s like saying everybody scared of snakes must’ve had a snakebite and a tragedy on the same day or something.”
“We’re not talking about snakebites, and we’re not talking about everybody. We’re talking about you,” he says sternly.
This is more than I’ve gotten out of him in God knows how long, but it’s not like I’ve ever tried. Is that what I’m doing now, trying? When I know it can only end in disaster?
“I was there,” he goes on, with something almost passionate in his tone, husky. A shiver dances down my spine and warms my blood. “I remember how devastated you were. Every time the thunder hit, it was like she was dying all over again.”
I can’t help it. Tears start pouring the second the emotion of his words slams into me. A sob escapes me as I remember it: the drive, the noise, like the world was crashing down. He’s right.
“Mary…” He stops at the side of the road. “I didn’t mean to make you cry. Sometimes I forget…”
He doesn’t finish it, but he doesn’t need to. “How oversensitive people can be?”
“Not oversensitive,” he says. “I didn’t mean to make you cry.”
“You’re right.” I manage to stop myself, rubbing the tears from my cheeks. “I haven’t thought about it like that in years.”
“Apparently, I’m a therapist.”
It’s so deadpan I’m not sure if he’s making a joke. He doesn’t do that often. Then I see the subtle curve at the edge of his mouth. The sadness melts away. Nothing else matters. I’ve dreamed of him smiling at me so many times, noticing me, and now it’s like nothing else exists—just us and the rain and the warmth.
“You’d be a good therapist,” I tell him. “You’re a good listener.”
“Nah, Mary,” he replies. “That’s only with Brad and you. Mostly, I can’t stand people, and most people can’t stand me. I’m fine with that.”
“People love you,” I say.
He starts the engine again, relieved my crying fit is over. “Always act with dignity and self-respect when in front of others, even family.” I hear Mom lecturing, wagging her finger at the camera, making me seem like a sinner for experiencing emotion, but she had a point. She wanted the best for me. She loved me. Right?
“People love Rust the cage fighter,” he says. “They love my accomplishments, and I’ll always be grateful for that. If I were me, a big moody bastard, living a normal life, people would be sick of me, and I wouldn’t give a damn.”
“Would you live in the mountains or something?”
His lip curves again, a sight that makes me sparkle as he focuses on the road. “If it means getting away from people, I’ll do whatever it takes. Why do you think I fly private?”
“Okay, Mr. Brag,” I say.