The Harder You Fall. Gena Showalter
then, we’re definitely going.” Harlow nudged Jessie Kay with an elbow. “Right?”
A free meal? “Sure. Count me in.”
West motioned to the door with a clipped wave and she thought—hoped—he would put his hand on the small of her back to usher her forward. But as they walked to the parking lot, he maintained a steady distance between them. Of course, Jase decided to drive Brook Lynn’s car and Beck decided to drive Harlow’s, the two couples entering their respective vehicles and leaving Jessie Kay and West standing outside. Alone.
Wasn’t awkward at all.
He opened the passenger door for her. “Get in.”
Shocked by the gentlemanly gesture but not the bossy command, she slid inside the vehicle. And instantly regretted it. The air smelled like him, pure seduction and sweet caramel. Trembling, she buckled up and peered out the window, refusing to give in to the urge to watch his big hands molest the steering wheel.
“By the way,” he muttered, “you still owe me a sandwich.”
“It’s your word against mine.” Going for casual, she said, “So where are we headed?”
“A hamburger dive I’ve loved since I was a kid.”
“Wait. Hold everything. You were once a kid?” She gave a mock gasp, hand fluttering over her heart. “I’m sorry, but I demand proof.”
“Too bad. There’s none available.”
Please. “Surely there are pictures.”
“No.”
“Well, why the heck not? Did you destroy them? I bet you destroyed them. Didn’t think you looked handsome enough?”
Without any inflection of emotion, he said, “Actually, no one cared enough to take any.”
No. No, she refused to believe it. If he was potent now despite the shadows haunting his eyes and the tension that always radiated from him, he must have melted hearts as a child.
When she glanced over at him, however, her confidence withered. He kept his attention on the road, his posture stiff and his knuckles bleached of color. Just then, he was a man who’d revealed more than he liked.
He’d just told the truth, hadn’t he?
Wow. His own parents, however long he’d been with them—not to mention all those foster parents—hadn’t spared a few seconds out of their busy days to immortalize a moment of his childhood? How gut-wrenching. Wrong on every level.
Sadness for the little boy he’d been washed over her. “I’m sorry,” she said softly. “Even if you’d looked like you were born downwind of an outhouse, I would have snapped a thousand photos of you. And then used those photos to blackmail you later, but my reasons are inconsequential.”
“Thank you?” He changed lanes to pass a minivan. “But it’s not like I have a monopoly on crappy childhoods.”
“In this car you do. I had a great one.”
“You sure about that? You were what, around thirteen when your dad died in an explosion at work? You were only seventeen when your mom drowned and your uncle showed up to save the day only to leave with the insurance money.”
She blinked over at him. The entire town knew her history—well, they thought they knew—so it wasn’t a big surprise West had the basic info. He was just the first person to ever state the facts so plainly. “I was a teenager in both instances, not a child. Big difference.”
“Not really. Pain is pain.”
“And don’t go thinking you know everything about me, either,” she added as if he hadn’t spoken. “There’s more to both stories. A lot more.”
“Do tell.”
And share her deepest, darkest secrets with the man who thought she’d been scraped off the bottom of a shoe? “No, thanks.” She had enough trouble with her past without adding his commentary.
Even now, she thought of her mom falling...because of me...her mom screaming, begging for help...because of me...and she wanted to bawl like a baby who’d lost her favorite blankie, hug Brook Lynn, apologize forever and, and, and—
As the panic attack knocked at the door of her mind, she forced her thoughts to fast-forward to her mother’s funeral, when she’d basically self-imploded. She’d gotten drunk for the very first time and given her virginity to the skeevy boy who lived down the street. The one who’d thought he was God’s gift to the entire town. The one who’d told all his friends she was easy.
From that point on, she had been.
She’d given no consideration to Brook Lynn’s care because she’d counted on Uncle Kurt to take care of everything. He’d promised. Only, like West had said, Kurt fled soon after collecting the insurance check. By then, Jessie Kay had been such a hot mess, the fifteen-year-old Brook Lynn had to pick up the slack, getting a job delivering papers, collecting donations from Strawberry Valley Community Church and doing everything within her power to keep two teenage girls together, fed, clothed and sheltered and, and, and—
Can’t breathe. Need to breathe.
A warm hand squeezed her knee, giving her the jolt necessary to focus on something other than the past.
“Jessie Kay?” The gentleness of West’s voice shocked her more than his touch.
Inhale, good. Exhale, better. “I’m fine. Really.” Or she would be. As soon as she reached her sister. Brook Lynn had a way of making everything A-okay.
“You sure about that?”
Convince, move on. She offered the brightest smile she could manage. “Are you okay? You actually seem concerned about my well-being.”
He yanked his hand away from her. “I don’t know if you’ve heard the rumors, but my heart is made of stone. Of course I’m not concerned.”
She remembered the look he’d given her during the soccer game and decided his heart wasn’t made of stone but of fire.
Not that she’d share her observation. But maybe she could get him to admit it.
“You were right. About my childhood. It was absolutely tragic.” Offering an exaggerated frown, she traced a fingertip down both of her checks to mimic tears. “You should feel sorry for me and be super nice to me from now on.”
He suddenly looked as if he was fighting a smile. “You know, upon further reflection, I’m certain my childhood was far worse than yours. You should feel sorry for me and do everything I tell you.”
Well, well. “Color me intrigued. What’s the first thing you’d tell me to do?”
He glanced at her, proving her theory: he burned.
“I’d want you—”
She shivered and—
“—to tell me more about your childhood.”
Withered in her seat. “What do you want to know?”
“What did you want to be when you grew up?”
Polite interest? Or was he actually curious? “You’ll laugh.”
“Maybe. Probably.”
Had to respect his honesty. “Mostly I wanted to be that crazy cat lady.”
He choked on a breath. “An old woman who wears rollers and a robe, and has a hundred cats prowling through her house?”
“Exactly. I wanted a cat but Dad was allergic. Once a month Mom drove me to the shelter where I got to pet a roomful of strays. The employees used to joke about that crazy cat lady who came in every few weeks to adopt a new one. I was so jealous of her.”
“That is...” He frowned. “Ridiculously