Found in Silence Read online

  Betsy beams. “Is it George?”

  I zip the last cooler shut, pretending not to listen. But I sneak a peek at Miles because, for some reason, I’m curious. I hadn’t pegged him as gay. Not that I care either way.

  And I swear the man blushes. “What? How? How do you even know?”

  “I heard it through the grapevine.”

  He drops his head, rubs the back of his neck, and chuckles. “Yeah, well. I’m not surprised.”

  “She’s thrilled. We’re all thrilled, actually.” Betsy reaches out and squeezes his arm, and for a moment her smile slips. She lowers her voice, but I can still make out her words as she leans in and whispers, “Sweetie, it’s time. ‘Kay?”

  Miles just nods, pulls out a tattered wallet, and plucks some bills from the sleeve. “Give that to Merv for me, will you? Tell him I’m sorry I missed his show tonight.”

  Betsy takes the bills and folds them before sliding them into her pocket. “Of course.” Then she turns to me and, before I can react, wraps me in a hug. Lord, this woman is touchy-feely. “Thanks for your help tonight.” She pulls back, holding me at arms-length for a beat before letting me go. “And don’t be a stranger, all right? We’d love to see more of you down here.”

  I can already see where this conversation is going. And I have no desire to further it. Instead I just give a noncommittal nod, grab the coolers, and smile. “Better get going so Casanova here can make it to his hot date on time.” Seeing how embarrassed Miles got when talking about his date with this George fellow, it’s the only thing I can think to say to annoy him.

  Miles glowers, his jaw set. If looks could kill, I’d be dead.

  Good. Just the reaction I was hoping for. Finally, finally something that ruffles his feathers. After all, I still owe the asshole for leaving me stuck in this disgusting hole for two whole hours.

  I heave the coolers off the table and turn, eager to put this foul place behind me. The phone in my back pocket has been buzzing almost nonstop for the last hour, and I know Victoria’s freaking out because I haven’t responded. We’re supposed to go on a double date tonight, and this whole rotten experience is going to make me late. I weave through the few volunteers busy with clean-up duties, refusing to make eye contact so I don’t get hooked into conversation. I made it through the last two hours avoiding lengthy chit chat, only giving short responses when spoken to and focusing instead on the task at hand. (And maybe, only every other minute or so, dreaming of ways to torture Miles.) These people are not my people, they’re not worth my time, and I’m never going to see them again, anyway.

  Walking outside is like walking into a sauna, and the humidity clings to my already sticky skin. I take a deep breath and immediately regret it; the stench of cheap take-out and car exhaust mixed with the nearby dumpsters nearly makes me gag. God, this part of town stinks.

  I take a few steps and stop, a cooler hanging heavy in each hand. Miles’s truck is nowhere to be seen, and for a split second I get this horrible feeling he’s going to make me walk back to his shop. I don’t know him well, but I wouldn’t put it past him. Watching me huff it blocks in this heat after serving pie to vagabonds would no doubt appeal to his juvenile sense of humor.

  But then he pushes by me, bumping into my shoulder hard as he passes, and moves toward a black car. It’s an old muscle car, and the only reason I know this is because a guy I used to date back in high school was obsessed with them. He drove an old Impala around; thought he was cool as shit. The thing was a rust bucket, and I refused to ride in it. This one actually looks new though – as new as an old car can look – all shiny and clean and not a spot of rust on it.

  Miles opens the trunk and waves me over. “Let’s go, Princess. I don’t have all night.” He smirks, the impish gleam back in his eyes. “Unless, of course, you want to walk.”

  I stroll over, keeping my steps slow and measured. Granted, I don’t have all night, either. I’m going to have to book it straight home and shower this entire afternoon off in order to be ready for Victoria and whatever blind date she has me set up with by seven. But I’m fine with being late if it means denying Miles the satisfaction of seeing me scurry like some obedient dog.

  Once the coolers are secured in the trunk, I climb into the passenger seat. The leather is surprisingly cool against the back of my thighs, and as I settle in I have to admit I’m shocked at how clean the interior is compared to his truck. The chrome accessories offset the black leather seats, and the skinny steering wheel has been polished so much it shines. The whole car shines, actually, and even smells new.

  Miles hops into the driver’s seat and turns the key, the engine starting with a roar and a rumble. After securing his seatbelt, he looks over at me and wrinkles his nose. “Try not to touch anything, ’kay?” He nods at my shirt, and when I follow his gaze I see splotches of pie filling crusted over the thin material. The smile that spreads across his face is anything but sweet. “You’re kind of a mess.”

  Before I can blast him with a crude, detailed description on what his sorry ass looked like a mere two hours ago, he throws the car into reverse. I’m flung back in my seat, gravity sucking the air back in my chest and holding it there for a beat, two, three. The tires squeal against the burning pavement as he peels out of the parking lot, the grumble of the engine so loud I can feel the reverberation in my chest, my stomach. I squeeze my eyes shut and try to count to ten, but only get to two before I explode.

  “You are such an asshole.”

  Miles works the clutch and glances over at me. “And you,” he says, mimicking my voice, “are such a bitch.”

  I want to slap him. I really, really want to slap him. Right across his stupid, smug face. My fingers curl, the sharp tips of my newly manicured nails biting into my flesh. I’m riled up, and I rarely get riled up. Or, if I do, I can at least control it. Push it down, so far down it eventually fades away. Out of side and out of mind. But now? It feels like I’m going to burst right out of my skin – pop like a bloody, fleshy balloon. Gross, I know. But the image of all that gore splattering over Miles and his prized car does make me feel a little bit better.

  I open my mouth to retaliate, but before I can get a word out Miles twists the radio dial and more mullet rock floods the car, effectively cutting me off. It’s loud, so loud my ears throb. I cross my arms and slump back in my seat. Fine. If this is how he wants to play it, fine. I’m just going to sit here, be the bigger person, and ignore him.

  By the time we pull up to his shop, I’m feeling a bit more like me. Cold, disengaged, untouchable. We don’t speak as Miles pulls the coolers from the trunk and settles them in the cargo haul of my Rover. I remain distant, keeping my face neutral as tosses me the keys.

  His is expression is equally as impassive as he slaps an envelope in my hand. “I don’t have time to take care of this now. I’m fine with a check in the mail.”

  “Fine.” I stick the bill in my purse, eager to be on my way. I’ve got shit to do and, because of this guy, I’m going to be late.

  Miles heads back to his car as I round mine, pressing my palm into the tire and testing the pressure. It’s firm, and I sigh with relief. Relief of an unease I didn’t even realize I was feeling. I hate being dependent on other people – which is weird considering my living situation, I know. And, for two short hours this afternoon, my immediate future rested in the hands of an incorrigible mechanic.

  Who is now pulling up next to me in his car.

  Miles slows to a stop, rolls down his window, and peers up at me. His arm is resting casually on the door, and with his white T-shirt and old car he reminds me a bit of James Dean. A very uncool James Dean, of course. He shakes his head and chuckles.

  I look down my nose at him, cross my arms. “What?”

  “You, ah…” He pauses, like a thought just occurred to him. Laughing, his teeth bright against his tanned skin, he shakes his head. “You know what? Never mind.” He turns back toward the road and revs the engine. “It’s been real, Jenny.”<
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  And on that note, he punches the gas and drives away. Dirt and gravel kick up from his tires, biting into my shins and literally leaving me in a cloud of dust.

  I don’t even care. This afternoon – this horrendous, awful afternoon – is over, and all I want to do is relax at Ike’s, a champagne cocktail in one hand and a hot man wrapped around my finger on the other.

  As I open my door and move to climb into my SUV, a beat-up truck rolls by, loud country music blaring from the cab. The driver slows down enough to honk and hoot an obnoxious cat call as he passes.

  I flip him off, jump in, and slam the door. As I start the engine and prepare to back out of my spot, I look in the rearview mirror and freeze.

  I’m still wearing the goddamn hairnet.

  And then I realize why Miles was laughing.

  I pull the white net off, my hair tumbling down over my sticky shoulders, and slam the Rover into reverse. The tires squeal as I turn the wheel and peel out of the parking lot.

  Fuck Miles.

  I’m angry. And I’m angry that I’m angry. Because I shouldn’t give a shit what Miles Wright thinks of me. He’s someone I’ll never see again. Ever. His trashy, dirty, blue-collar path will never, for as long as I live, cross mine.

  But as I exit onto the highway and head for home, a weird feeling slips through my stomach, rises into my chest. It feels like butterflies. Butterflies flapping their wings so fast the frantic fluttering causes my breath to catch.

  Because if I know anything to be true, it’s that Life has a funny way of kicking you when you’re already down.

  In the ten years we were together, Julian never hit me. Aside from the night I told him I was pregnant, he never laid a hand on me. In fact, after that night, he never touched me again.

  Which hurt in an entirely different way.

  He treated my pregnancy like a disease. Like I was filthy and contagious, and he needed to stay as far away from me as possible to avoid contamination. The only time he’d even come near me was when we were in public together, like at art shows or charity functions – events where his fans expected to see his adoring wife by his side. They oohed and ahhed as my belly grew bigger and bigger. The handsome artist and his beautiful wife… Oh, what a gorgeous baby it would be!

  I’d hear the whispers. Put up with strangers’ hands on my stomach, the ones hoping to feel some sort of fluttering beat from the great Julian Kinraid’s child.

  Will he be an artist like his father? Will she be as beautiful as her mother?

  Their musings swirled around me like a cyclone, reminding me how much of my life this child was ripping away by its very existence.

  I wanted to tell them all to fuck off.

  It was my husband’s hands I wanted on my stomach. It was my husband’s words of assurance I needed to hear. As the weight piled on and my feet and ankles began to swell, I longed for his touch, his attention.

  I begged for Julian. I pleaded with a god I didn’t even believe in to bring him back to me.

  But all I got was silence. All I ever got was silence.

  Braden has small hands. Small hands with short, stubby fingers.

  In my experience, that also means he has a short, stubby –

  “Jen!”

  Victoria snaps her fingers in front of my face, sharp bony clicks that set my teeth on edge. She knows I hate it, and that’s exactly why she does it. A best friend isn’t much of a best friend if she doesn’t know how to get on your nerves, right?

  At least, that’s always been my experience.

  Once she has my attention, she pauses. Makes me wait, as if I’m salivating to hear what she has to say.

  I’m not.

  So, I meet her gaze, take a lazy sip of my drink, and set my glass down. She knows the pecking order here. I don’t know why she insists on testing it. But it’s a childish game she tends to play when she’s drunk and her inhibitions are lowered. Unfortunately for her, it always makes her look like a needy, attention-seeking bimbo.

  Once she has the attention of the table – which consists of the two of us and our dates – she curls her lips. To an outsider, it would appear like she’s smiling. But I know Victoria, and she doesn’t smile. She attacks.

  And I know why she’s attacking. Her date, Trevor, has been giving me fuck-me eyes all night. Hasn’t even been trying to hide it. And it’s pissing her off.

  Of course, I look fantastic. You’d never guess I spent the latter part of the afternoon slumming it in a soup kitchen. My red, wrap-around top is so dangerously low cut it dips down well below my breasts. The material is silk and hangs just loose enough to keep the look classy rather than slutty. A rectangle pendant hangs on a gold chain and rests between my cleavage, and I know it’s having the desired effect because it’s what pervert Trevor has been staring at for most of the evening.

  Granted, it’s all wasted in a dump like this – a dive bar the guys insisted we stop in for a few drinks before moving on to Ike’s. Bill’s or Barnie’s or Bert’s or something. Now, two hours later, we’re still here.

  I relax my expression and try to appear bored while I wait for whatever assault she’s about to throw. I’m rarely caught with my guard down, so her strikes never usually hit their intended target. (Aside from the shit that went down with Clark screwing a stripper, that is. Bitch hit the nail on the head with that one.) I trail my fingers along my glass, the condensation from my Jack and Coke pearling on the cool surface. Trevor seems hypnotized by the movement, his eyes straying from Victoria to my fingers. He’s practically drooling, and I can’t help the small smile that slips to the surface. Not that Trevor is my type – he’s in pharmaceutical sales and way too much of a sweet talking sleazeball for my taste – but a win is a win. Everything is a competition, after all.

  Everything.

  Victoria’s eyes dart between us, her lips pursed. Her platinum locks look mussed, like they always do after she’s had a few drinks and can’t keep her hands out of her hair. Running her fingers through it is her way of flirting, and she’s had to work overtime with Trevor tonight. “So,” she says, baring her teeth, “is Emilia home with your parents?”

  I recognize this play and, sad to say, am a little disappointed. Bringing up Emilia is a tactic she uses when we meet new men. Men who may be turned off by a woman with a five-year old kid. I take another drink, run my tongue over my lower lip before I answer. “No. She’s with a sitter. My parents are in Des Moines celebrating Senator Pirog and his wife’s anniversary, actually.”

  Boring Braden, who is blonde and bland and the total opposite of his cousin, perks up. “Senator John Pirog?”

  I nod, and Victoria scowls. “John and his wife are great friends of the family. My parents have known them for years.” I shrug like it’s no big deal. “In fact, Shirley’s like a second mother to me.”

  Victoria leans forward, forearms on the table and bony shoulders practically touching her ears. Her green tank top has a wet spot near her boob and a few flakes of mascara dot the skin beneath her eyes. “Why aren’t you there then? Hmm? Celebrating with them?”

  Because Trevor wouldn’t go out with you tonight unless you found a date for his boring, chubby cousin and you begged me to come.

  She’s reaching, which sort of makes me feel sorry for her. It’s obvious Trevor has very little interest in her, at least when I’m around, and she’s desperate to regain the upper hand. Victoria doesn’t have the best luck with men. Not that she isn’t pretty, with her heart-shaped face, golden tan, and trim figure. But it’s in a fake, plastic way. I think the only person she ever truly wanted was my brother, and now he’s marrying someone else.

  “It was a last-minute engagement,” I say, smiling to show I’m not thrown by her curveball. “I didn’t have time to rearrange my schedule.”

  She throws her head back and laughs. When she meets my eyes again, there’s victory. “What schedule, Jen? The one where you shop all day? Or the one where you lay around your parents’ pool and flirt with the
gardener?” She shakes her head and lifts her glass. I notice the red polish on one of her nails is chipped. “My schedule,” she mimics, taking a sip. “Sweetie, you’re cute.”

  Braden chuckles. “Where can I get a job like that?” Trevor just winks at me and returns his attention to my cleavage, like I’m a piece of meat.

  My insides boil. Like she should talk. Victoria shows up at her mother’s bridal boutique as a consultant three to four times a month, tops. “Actually, I have a job interview tomorrow.” The lie flies out of my mouth before I can stop it.

  Victoria about spits out her drink. “Wh-… I mean, wow. That’s great!” she gushes. Her enthusiasm sounds forced, mechanical. She hasn’t mastered false flattery the way I have. “I didn’t even know you were looking. What’s the job?”

  My mind races to come up with something. Usually I don’t have a problem; lies tend to slip from my tongue easier than the truth. But now, I feel flustered. Like I did earlier with Miles.

  Just thinking about him makes my blood boil even more. Fortunately, my ex-husband taught me all about using anger to my advantage, and when the falsehood drips from my lips, I almost believe it myself. “It’s more of a consult than an interview, really.” I flip my hair over my shoulder and lean forward a bit, pushing my cleavage together and giving Trevor a better glimpse of what he’s been drooling over the last two hours. I’m being a borderline tease, I admit. But I’ve got the upper hand back, so I’m feeling feisty. “I’m meeting with a company that’s recently changed hands and desperately needs a new look.”

  Braden stares at me, a new appreciation in his gaze. Apparently Boring Braden prefers brains over beauty. “Ah, so you’re an advertising consultant. Where did you study?”

  Study is a loose term for what I did in college. “I studied in Chicago. The School at the Art Institute. Graduated with a Bachelor of Fine Arts, with an emphasis in studio.”

  Trevor licks his lips. “Artists,” he says, drawing the word out. His voice sounds husky, like he’s working his way to orgasm. “You’re a wild bunch, aren’t you?” He leans back in his chair and rubs his chin, cocks his head. “Uninhibited, am I right?”