Force Page 6

  "Yeah, I know," I answered as I unlocked the door to my apartment, surprised that a guy my age would even notice an old lady like that let alone say something pleasant about her.

  Inside the apartment I strode to the end of the room, set the paper bags on the kitchen counter and started putting stuff away.

  Force used the time to check the place out and went around noticing things, probably. I keep the place clean and neat but I hoped he didn't notice the walls hadn't been painted in at least ten years. The paint that probably started out as warm white was now a dismal shade of gray. I hoped he didn't notice the stain on the ceiling where Mad Mark had left the water running while he was being Mad Mark. Man, that guy was crazy. The entire population of Castle Block breathed a huge sigh of relief on the day he moved out.

  I guess "dingy" is the word that best describes the apartment I share with my dad. The living room is kinda long and narrow and changes into a kitchen at the far end. You're supposed to be able to fit a table somewhere in between but I've never figured out exactly how that's supposed to work. So I just eat at the counter. There's a window at the living room end and another smaller one at the kitchen end and there are three doors on the right wall; one belongs to the bathroom, one opens into my bedroom and the other one is for Darryl's room. The door to the corridor is on the opposite wall.

  "Do you live here alone?" Force asked from the other side of the room.

  "My dad shows up every now and again."

  "What about your mother?" he asked.

  "She left my dad seven years ago and moved to Chicago."

  "She left your dad?" he asked, studying the framed pictures on the wall. "Didn't she leave you too?"

  My gaze cut to his face. "Not really," I answered slowly. "I wasn't the problem. Darryl was."

  "But she's not here for you now," he pointed out.

  "It's not her fault," I answered, and slid the can of corn onto the shelf. "Darryl's kind of a deadbeat."

  "Deadbeat?"

  I waved my hand at the pictures on the wall. "He races cars for a living…if you haven't guessed. That means he doesn't make much money."

  "How much does he need to make?"

  I sent a wry look across the room. "Enough to keep my mom happy."

  "How much is that?" he asked persistently.

  "A lot."

  "What about you?" he asked quietly.

  I leaned over to put a bottle of cleanser away in the cupboard under the sink. "What do you mean?"

  "Do you miss your mother?"

  "I see her every Christmas," I explained with a dismissive wave of my hand. "Her boyfriend flies me out to Chicago."

  "Chicago," he mused. "That's east of here, right?"

  I tilted my head and watched his profile while I wondered about his question. He knew Chicago was east of Denver but he didn't recognize a sandwich and didn't know how to use a dishwasher. How did that work? "Do you want something to drink?" I called, hoping to distract him from noticing things and checking the fridge to make sure we had something to offer. I was in luck, finding a Coke hidden behind about a hundred cans of beer.

  "That would be nice," he answered, and sauntered over to the counter to claim one of the two barstools.

  So I pulled the can from the fridge and set it on the counter for him then started folding the paper bags.

  "Any brothers or sisters?" he asked with his elbows propped on the counter.

  "I have an older brother. But he doesn't live here. Chevy has a job in Greeley.

  "Chevy?" he murmured. "Like the actor, Chevy Chase?"

  "No," I answered, again wondering how he knew about some obscure old actor when he didn't know what a carwash was. "More like the Chevy truck."

  "I see," he answered, his gaze resting on the Coke I'd pulled from the fridge for him. In fact, he was still eyeing the can when I'd finished putting things away. Finally, he said, "Would you mind opening it for me?"

  Typical, I thought. This was exactly what I expected from a guy. He thought girls were made to do things for him. And not all of those things were as innocent as opening a can of Coke. But it started there and got worse. Cook my food. Wash my clothes. And have sex with me like ten times a day. There was no way I was falling into that mantrap. So, I gave him a stern look and said, "I'm not your maid."

  "I never said you were," he growled, and frowned at the can for a few seconds. Then he picked it up, stalked around the end of the counter, and put it back in the fridge.

  I started getting mad. "You're not serious!" I exclaimed. "You're not gonna drink it if I don't open it for you? You're that lazy?"

  He spun on me, a dark look on his face. "I'm not lazy," he snarled.

  "Then why won't you open the damn can?"

  His jaw tightened and his lips pressed together so hard they almost disappeared. "Because I don't know how to!" he finally shouted.

  "Wh-what?" I stammered, incredulous. "What do you mean? You don't know how to open a can of pop? Were you…raised by wolves or something?"

  "Something like that," he growled, looking away then raising his voice. "You'd only have to show me once! I can learn."

  He had to be messing with me, right? But I decided to humor him for the time being. So I made him watch while I pulled the tab on the can and handed him the drink.

  Looking relieved, he took a long swig then spun around and spat it into the sink.

  I just stared at him.

  "There's something wrong with it," he muttered.

  "That's not even possible," I insisted, and grabbed the can from his hand. I took a swallow and handed it back to him. "It's fine."

  He looked at the can in his hand like it was a snake or something. "Is it…supposed to burn?" he asked.

  "What the heck? You've never tasted a carbonated drink before? Where the hell are you from?" I demanded.

  Chapter Five

  "I told you," Force gritted back in answer to my question. "I'm from England."

  "They have Coke in England," I insisted.

  So, his jaw got all hard again, a muscle pulsing just below his ear.

  "What part of England?" I challenged him.

  "The…distant part," he answered getting all sullen on me.

  "You mean one of those islands in the North Sea?"

  "A little more distant than that," he muttered with a scowl.

  "There's no way you could never have tasted a carbonated drink before!"

  "I've lived a…very sheltered life," he barked. "Anyway, I don't like the drink. I'll take water."

  "Fine," I muttered, pulling a glass from the cupboard and handing it to him.

  He looked at the sink, took a deep breath and reached for the tap, turning on the cold water and filling his glass. Then he leaned back against the counter and emptied the water down his throat.

  And for the next several seconds I watched his throat work as he swallowed, and wondered why I found it so sexy. Then I realized how ridiculous I was being. And how that kind of thinking would lead to the sort of life I was trying to avoid. What was my problem with this guy? Why did I find him so…irresistible?

  Getting annoyed with myself, I gave myself a shake and asked, "What have you been drinking since you got here?"

  "Mama gave me a cup and I filled it at the sink. Like here," he said, motioning toward the faucet.

  "And before that?" I asked sharply.

  "There's a shallow river not too far from here," he pointed out. "It was handy for drinking…and bathing."

  "Where the hell are you from?" I demanded again.

  He sighed and rolled his eyes, his shoulders slumping as much as they can on a guy that buff. "I told you. I'm from England."

  "I guess I probably shouldn't ask when's the last time you had a shower," I muttered.

  "Shower," he murmured, jumping on the chance to change the subject. "That's like a bath that pours down on you right?"

  "Like a dishwasher for people," I confirmed.

  "I could probably use a thorough washing," h
e said, rubbing two fingers along his jaw.

  "Let me show you the bathroom," I said, shaking my head and thinking the guy was impossible.

  So I showed him how the bathroom fixtures worked and left him in there with a clean white T-shirt and a new, unwrapped toothbrush I found in the cabinet below the sink. And while Force was having what was perhaps the first shower of his life, I sat down at the desk in my room and started my laptop. (I don't have a tablet because I haven't found a good working one in the thrift store yet, but I'm keeping my eyes open.)

  The first thing I did when I got online was a quick missing person search. Because—who knows—Mr. Handsomely Homeless could have hit his head and ended up with amnesia right? Maybe that's why certain things were missing from his memory. And maybe his family was frantic to find him. But no one on the list came close to fitting his description—young, sixteen to eighteen, golden blond, blue-gray eyes and unreasonably good looking.

  "Where are my weapons?" he asked, startling me as I was finishing up my search.

  I looked up and found him filling most of the doorway, dressed in the fresh clothes I'd laid out in the bathroom, his wet hair slicked away from his face except for a few long strands that hung over his eyes. Amazingly, he looked just as good wet as he did dry. Maybe better.

  "Where are my weapons?" he asked again, bringing me back to reality with a jolt and reminding me of his main reason for being there.

  Slipping from my chair, I pulled his things from the closet and tossed them on the bed.

  He looked relieved to be reunited with his stuff and immediately started trimming his belt so that it fit inside the belt loops on his jeans. Then he slid his knife into place and looked for somewhere to park his butt in the cluttered room. I moved a stack of clothes and pointed to the chair where I do most of my reading. It's this old brown sixties thing I found at a yard sale upholstered with a thick sculpted material they don't even make anymore. It was a prize find, though. I could probably sell it for a hundred dollars or more. But I like it too much to give it up.

  Force sprawled out in the chair and laid his sheathed sword across his open knees.

  I watched him from the corner of my eye, wondering how he could do that and look so hot. If I sat in a chair that way, I'd just look sloppy or maybe like I was on drugs. "Okay, give me some names," I suggested when I got to the networking site.

  "You mean the names of my brothers?" he rumbled in his amazing accent.

  "That's right," I answered, trying to keep my eyes to myself, or at least on the screen.

  "Defiance," he said. "And Courage."

  "Defiance," I teased him. "What kind of name is Defiance?"

  "Same kind as Force," he answered. "It's the sort of name that tells you something about the person. All of the old names are like that. But their meaning has faded over time."

  I knew what he was trying to say. I knew the name Roy, for instance, once meant king or king-like. "What about a last name?" I asked.

  He answered with a word I'd never heard before in my life; it had at least seven syllables.

  "Can you spell that?" I asked.

  "I don't think a last name is going to be very helpful," he hedged.

  "Well, we might not need it since Defiance and Courage are such unusual names," I decided. But, as you might expect, there was no one on the site with those names. "Anything else?" I asked.

  "I have several cousins," he offered.

  "Give me names," I told him.

  "Victor," he suggested.

  "Victor's too common without a last name," I pointed out.

  "Reason, Chaos, Valor, Dare, Havoc."

  "That's what I get for asking," I muttered. "Those are strange names. Where did you say you were from?" I asked with a heavy dose of sarcasm.

  "England," he answered on a huff of annoyance.

  So I tried all the names he'd given me but didn't find anything useful. Just a guy in Portland who called himself Chaos.

  "Is this your cousin?" I asked and motioned him over to check out the picture of a teenage boy with dyed black hair, thick eyeliner and red lipstick.

  "Nay," he murmured after he sauntered over and peered at the screen.

  I turned in my chair and looked up at him. "Well, maybe we could place an ad in the personal section of the local newspaper. It's not a great idea because no one our age actually reads the paper. But other than that, I don't know what to try next."

  "Alright," he sighed, his expression resigned as his gaze drifted through the bedroom door. "I guess if there's nothing more we can do, I'd better get going."

  "Yeah," I agreed. "Darryl will freak if he comes home and finds a guy in my bedroom."

  Nodding, he headed from the room with his knife on his belt and his sword on his back, looking like some kind of modern-day Rider of Rohan. He stopped when he reached the other side of the living room, his big hand wrapped around the door handle as he turned and frowned, like he wanted to say something more complicated than good-bye. "Thank you," he finally said.

  All that for a simple thank you! I couldn't help but smile. And I couldn't help giving him a hard time. I cupped my hand against my ear. "What did you say?"

  "You heard me," he growled. "I said thank you."

  "I bet those are two words you don't use very often," I snickered.

  "I don't often need them," he shot back, bristling a little before his expression lightened up again. "But thank you for trying to find my family. And for getting me that job."

  "You're welcome," I told him sincerely, hiding the fact that I felt a little sad because we were saying goodbye and he had his stuff and I might never see him again…unless I wanted to stalk him at the restaurant.

  Which I didn't. Nope. Not me. Not at all.

  He opened the door and glanced down the shadowed corridor.

  This was it, then. This was goodbye. I took a deep breath and let it out. Then opened my big mouth because I just couldn't help myself. "When will I see you again?"

  His huge shoulders rolled in an offhand shrug, like he couldn't care less…which was a little disheartening. But no one's ever accused me of being timid.

  "How about I meet you at Mama's after your shift tomorrow?"

  "Alright," he answered with a noncommittal nod, frowning at me like he was trying to decide if he even wanted to do this. "If you like. But come earlier. Mama said I'd be getting off at eight o'clock."

  "That's even better," I told him. "We could take a booth in the back and have dinner together."

  "If that's what you want," he agreed, again without the slightest apparent interest.

  "Where will you spend the night?" I asked as he stepped into the corridor.

  He shrugged again. "It's a warm evening."

  "Let me get you a jacket," I suggested, ready to run back to my bedroom where I had a stack of coats on the floor.

  "Not necessary," he cut in before I could get started. "My vest keeps me warm."

  "It…didn't look that warm," I said, thinking it was sleeveless so how warm could it be?

  "It is," he insisted. "Don't bother yourself with the jacket. I won't wear it."

  "Well, be careful out there," I told him. "Denver's a pretty safe town but there are a few bad neighborhoods. And there are a few mean people."

  He snorted. Arrogantly. "I doubt there's anyone out there I couldn't handle."

  "You might have trouble if they're carrying," I pointed out.

  "Carrying?"

  Honestly, he was so naïve sometimes. "Guns," I said.

  His eyebrows moved slowly upward and his expression turned thoughtful as he watched me. I got the feeling he wanted to ask about guns, but if he had questions he shelved them.

  "You know what a gun looks like, don't you?"

  "I know what it sounds like," he answered tentatively.

  So, I tried to describe a gun to him (not that I was an expert or anything). "Most of the guns you'll see in the city fit in your hand with a trigger for the finger and a small barrel for
the bullet. They're made of heavy metal. But you probably won't see one."

  "If I do, I have my sword and my knife," he rumbled as he turned and sauntered away.

  "Yeah, that won't work against a gun," I muttered, thinking he wouldn't hear me.

  "We'll see," he threw back over his shoulder.

  "Where are you gonna stash your stuff when you go to work tomorrow?" I called out.

  "I'll find a place for now," he answered. "And maybe one day I'll be able to get a nice place like yours."

  I found it amusing that he thought my apartment was nice. Made me wonder what sort of place he'd had in England. It couldn't have been anything special. "Not on what Mama's paying you," I muttered softly.

  "I heard that," he called back in a low, rough laugh.

  I watched his back as he sauntered down the dark corridor toward the stairs, wondering what his face looked like when he laughed like that and hoping he'd turn around so I could see. But he didn't. And as I stepped back into the apartment, I tried to imagine him with a smile on his face. A real smile. Or a grin. But I just couldn't conjure it up.

  But I was pretty sure I'd like his smile as much as I liked the rest of him.

  The next evening, I met Force in Mama's kitchen as he was finishing his shift. I had dressed nice but nothing fancy. Just skinny jeans and a black shirt over a white tank. I was going for a classy-casual look that said, "I didn't get dressed up for you. I just look this nice all the time."

  "Just a minute," he said when he saw me, waving me off before I could reach him on the other side of the counter. "I want to get these pans finished for Ming."

  "No rush," I told him, even though I was starving. "I'll wait in the restaurant. I'll be in the last booth."

  In the restaurant, I made a right and walked past the table seating to the booth in the back where I could see the entire restaurant (and could see Force when he came out of the kitchen). Mama had recently remodeled with peach and white and just enough black to add a touch of elegance. The quaint paper lanterns strung around the top of the walls were the finishing touch. They added a nostalgic holiday atmosphere, making the place feel like a hometown Chinese restaurant even though it was in the middle of the city.

  But my attention was pretty much fixed on the hallway in the middle of the restaurant. Because that was the where I was gonna see Force when he finished in the kitchen. And not too much later, he stepped into the room. The paper lanterns threw soft splashes of color on his face as he moved toward me, making him look like some sort of exotic cat moving through the shadowed jungle as he stalked his prey.