“I’m all set,” he finally speaks, a small quirk at the corner of his lips, “but thank you.”
“You think you are.” She leans forward until I’m sure her poor neckline will rip open any minute now. “Ever had your dick sucked with Pop Rocks?”
Berkeley coughs into his fist, but I detect the smile he’s hiding. “Excuse me?”
“Pop Rocks,” she says with a smile wide enough to reveal a missing tooth near the back. “The candy. It’s one of those ‘kids, don’t try this at home’ kinda things. You need a professional for it.”
“Um, I don’t . . . use professionals,” he says. “So I wouldn’t know.”
She flicks a glance over at me and narrows her eyes. I narrow mine right back, a silent dare to mess with me. She rolls her eyes and stands with a flourish, making sure to run those gold-tipped talons over her body before walking across the room and sitting down beside another unsuspecting man.
“Well, well, well,” she drawls to him. “Ain’t you something?”
Berkeley makes a choked sound and I swing a glance back his way.
“What are you laughing at?” I ask, even though my lips are twitching, too.
“Pop Rocks,” he whispers, grinning. “Who knew?”
We’re both sitting on the bench, leaned back, our shoulders shaking in silent laughter. Humor crinkles the edges of those beautiful eyes, and I’m suddenly sad I’ll probably never see this man again. I know it’s crazy. We’ve only shared a few words in not much more than an hour, but I’m the kid so often trapped between worlds, split in two and finding my place. On rare occasion, you come across someone who just gets you, and you don’t have to figure out your place. Wherever you are is okay.
I think he could be a “wherever you are” person.
His laughter fades, too, and I don’t know how long we stare at one another, but the seconds stretch into a perfect tension. Not uncomfortable at all. It’s a just-right tautness that draws between us and sends fireflies over my tingling skin, lighting me up.
“Did your daddy know you were protesting today, Lennix?” Mr. Paul asks.
His pointed question shatters the tension and scatters the fireflies. Berkeley blinks, looks away, and folds his arms over his chest. Mr. Paul flicks a suspicious, avuncular glance between Berkeley T-shirt and me.
Wow. I think calling my elementary school teacher a cock blocker goes a little far since I’m barely flirting with this stranger, but still . . . did he have to bring up my “daddy?”
“Uh, he knew I was speaking today, yes, sir,” I reply.
Not exactly what he asked, and the look he gives me says he knows it.
“Will your father be upset that you protested?” Berkeley T-shirt asks.
“Probably.” I release a not-so-long-suffering sigh. “He’s super-protective since . . .” Since my mom disappeared.
She left like she had a dozen times before, off to a protest in Seattle, and then . . . nothing. And ever since, my father has tried to roll me in bubble wrap and cotton, but I’m not having it. He’s right. This world is not a safe place, but playing it safe all the time is not how I make that better.
“Sorry about your mom,” Berkeley says.
I glance up to find sympathy darkening his eyes to forest green. I’d forgotten he would have heard me talk about her today.
“Thanks.” I swallow the hurt and helplessness that lodge in my throat when I think about Mama. “Anyway, my father’s really protective now. This will probably get me grounded for weeks.”
Man. Way to sound like a twelve-year-old in front of the finest man you’ve ever encountered in real life.
“Grounded?” His dark eyebrows sky rocket. “Exactly how old is the Girl Who Chases Stars?”
Well, so much for the short-lived not-flirtation we’ve been enjoying. He’s probably like us. Someone behind bars who shouldn’t be. I seriously doubt he wants messing around with an underage girl to land him here for good.
Smart guy.
Resigned, I drag out the one word I know will shut this down. “Seventeen.”
3