He sat down again. “Yeah, well, you live with a career criminal. Thievery doesn’t faze us.”
“You’re a career criminal?”
He looked at her with confusion. “No, I meant my father. You know, with what he does in Chicago.” She didn’t know, and that struck him. “Shit, I figured . . . It doesn’t matter. Ask something different.”
Still confused, she pulled out something random. “How’d you get that scar on your side?”
“Christ, you’re not gonna take it easy on me, are you?” He ran his hand through his hair. “I got the scar when I was eight, bullet ripped through my side.”
Haven thought maybe he’d fallen or cut himself—but she didn’t think he would say he’d been shot.
“Like I said, we’re more alike than you think,” he continued. “I shed blood over shit that wasn’t my fault too.”
Could they really have things in common? “Why were you shot?”
He shook his head. “It’s my turn. Do you have any secret talents?”
“Well, I like to draw, but I don’t know if it’s a talent.”
“Will you draw something for me?”
She smiled. “You already asked your question.”
He waved her off. “Fine, your turn.”
“Why’d you get shot?”
“Can’t say, because I don’t really know,” he said. “Ask something else.”
She hesitated. “Well, why did you attack that boy at the game?”
“Because Nicholas deserved it. But knocking him down is nothing compared to what happened last time we saw each other.” He muttered something under his breath before continuing. “So will you draw a picture for me?”
“Maybe someday.”
“Someday? What does someday mean?”
“I’ll draw for you the same someday you let me clean your room,” she said. His mouth flew open like he was going to argue, so she cut him off by asking her next question. “What did you do to Nicholas before that was so bad?”
“Shot at his truck. The gas tank sparked. They accused me of attempted murder, but whatever. I honestly didn’t try to kill him.”
Haven was stunned he’d been so violent toward the boy when he’d seemed nice to her.
“What did he say that made you smile?” Carmine asked.
“He told me a joke about a deer.”
He rolled his eyes. “That doesn’t count as my question. Have you ever been kissed?”
She shook her head slowly, feeling inadequate. “That probably makes me seem immature . . .”
“Not at all. I shouldn’t have asked that one.” He nervously shifted around in his seat. “Hell, I haven’t either, technically speaking, since I don’t kiss on the lips.” He paused again. “And that probably makes me seem like an asshole, that I can have sex with them but not kiss.”
“How many girls were there?”
He dropped his head at her question. “A dozen and a half plus two or three, maybe.”
“So twenty or twenty-one?”