Outside, dead leaves blew across his windshield, twirling mini-tornadoes that disappeared from sight to scatter over the ground. He was parked in the far corner of the lot where the employee vehicles were, but his eyes were glued to the older SUV fifty yards ahead, right in front of unit thirty-three.
The Arizona plates told him they belonged to Delilah, and he swore, rubbing his temples as pain radiated along his skull. His jaw was clamped so goddamn tight, it was no surprise that his head hurt.
He wondered if she was alone or if his old man was with her. He scowled at the thought, pushed away some of that anger.
Shivering, Matt started the engine again, looking for some warmth, though his eyes never left the unit. Someone passed in front of the window and he froze, even though he knew he was hidden in the shadows. The curtains rustled a bit and then settled.
Matt exhaled and sank into his leather seats, considering his options. He knew there was nothing Delilah had to say that he cared to hear. Nothing at all. So why had he come? Was it curiosity? Or something else?
He hadn’t laid eyes on Delilah in nearly twenty years. Not since that last time. Not since he’d been as low as a man could get.
Anger burned through him—anger and a whole lot of other stuff. Stuff he thought he’d buried deep enough. Damn Delilah for bringing it all back.
He hit the steering wheel and swore. To think that she’d been to his home. Talked to Grace. Maybe said some things. Stirred the pot.
“Fuck it,” he muttered, killing the engine and reaching for the door handle. He knew Delilah. She was stubborn as hell and if she said she wasn’t going anywhere until she saw him, then she damn well wasn’t going anywhere.
Matt hiked up his collar and strode from his truck, his face as dark and stormy as the gray sky above him. Once he reached her SUV, he took a moment and got his emotions in check, and then pounded on the door.
The sound of the security chain had him tensing and when the door flew open, his world went silent. There was nothing but Matt and Delilah, and a whole lot of that stuff he wished was still buried.
It took some work, but he kept his cool. No point in giving her the satisfaction of knowing she could still press his buttons.
Delilah had aged and she’d not done it well. All the booze and drugs and smokes had finally taken their toll. It must kill her. A woman who’d traded on her looks for decades, finally cut down by something as inevitable as time. Maybe it should have given Matt some kind of satisfaction, but it didn’t. Aside from the initial anger, he had nothing.
She licked her lips, a practiced move he remembered well. “I’ve been waiting all day, Mattie. I’m sure you remember Delilah doesn’t like to wait.”
“Delilah still speaks in the third person. Some things never change.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Don’t be rude, Mattie.”
“It’s Matt.”
A small smile played around her glossy lips. “Well look at you,” she said softly. “All grown up and handsome and in control.” She paused. “Are you going to stand outside all night or are you coming in?”
He didn’t bother to hide his hostility. “Is he here?”
Delilah didn’t like to be dismissed and she was angry. The telltale tick near the corner of her mouth pulsated, and she tapped her toe aggressively.
“I’m assuming we’re talking about your father?”
“Who else?”
She moved aside. “We need to talk.”
Matt strode past her. The television was on—college sports—but there was no sound. A sweater was tossed onto the chair and a pair of boots lay in the middle of the room. He noted a small suitcase, a laptop, and nothing else.
“I’ve got five minutes,” he said, turning back to Delilah.
The fact that she looked shocked was comical. “I think after nearly twenty years, I deserve more than five minutes.”
He shook his head. “No. You don’t.” He looked her in the eye—made sure she saw he wasn’t playing games. “Why are you here?”
She smoothed her hair and walked to the small bar fridge. “Want a beer?”
“No.”
“You sure?” She grabbed one for herself and peeled back the tab. Leaning against the table, she raised the can into the air—a mock toast. “I bought your favorite. Bud.”