Calmly, Carefully, Completely (The Reed Brothers 3)

“I’m—” I start to say.

But Pete puts his arm around me and says, “I’m taking the liberty of speaking for her.”

I look up at him. “Don’t speak for me,” I say. I lift his arm from around my shoulders. “Did you get everything you need?” I ask.

“Not yet,” he says slowly. His eyes dance across my face. “Why don’t I go finish my shopping?” he asks. He raises an eyebrow at me in question. I nod. He tucks a lock of hair behind my ear before he leaves.

“Who the hell is that?” Chase barks. He watches Pete’s prideful swagger all the way down the aisle until he disappears from sight. Chase looks down at me.

I shrug. “He’s a friend.”

“Since when do you have friends like that?” he asks. He steps toward me, and I step back, until my back is against the shelves behind me. I don’t like to be cornered, but Chase has no way of knowing that. I skitter to the side so that I’m not hemmed in.

“Friends like what?” I ask. I know he’s referring to the tattoos. Pete walks by the end of the aisle and waves at us, and then he winks at me. A grin tugs at my lips. I shrug again. “He’s really very nice.”

“Where did you meet him?”

I can tell the truth or I can lie. But then I hear Pete one aisle over as he starts to sing the lyrics to Elvis Presley’s “Jailhouse Rock.” I grin. I can’t help it. “He’s helping out at the camp this week,” I say instead of the truth. Well, it’s sort of the truth.

“Where’s he from?” Chase asks.

“New York City,” I say.

Pete’s song changes from Elvis to AC/DC’s “Jailbreak.” I laugh out loud this time. I can’t help it.

“Your dad’s all right with you hanging out with him?”

My dad is covered in tattoos, too, but most of his are hidden by his clothing. “He likes Pete,” I say. “I do, too.” Chase puts one arm on the shelf behind me and leans toward my body. I dodge him again, and he looks crossly at me. “Don’t box me in,” I warn.

He holds up both hands like he’s surrendering to the cops. But he still looks curious. “So, about tomorrow,” he says.

“I can’t,” I blurt out.

I think I hear a quickly hissed, “Yes!” from the other side of the aisle, but I can’t be sure.

Chase touches my elbow, and it makes my skin crawl. I pull my elbow back. “Don’t touch me,” I say.

Suddenly, Pete’s striding down the aisle toward us. His expression is thunderous, and I step in front of him so that he has to run into me instead of pummeling Chase like I’m guessing he wants to do. I lay a hand on his chest. “You ready to go?” I ask.

He looks down at me, his eyes asking if I’m all right. His hand lands on my waist and slides around my back, pulling me flush against him. He’s testing me. And I don’t want to fight him. I admit it. Chase makes my skin crawl, and Pete makes my skin tingle. It’s not an altogether pleasant sensation, but only because I can’t control it. He holds me close, one hand on the center of my back, and the other full of breath mints and assorted sundries. He steps toward Chase, and Pete and I are so close together that I have to step backward when he steps forward.

I repeat my question. “You get everything?”

He finally looks down at me. “I got everything I need,” he says. His tone is polite but clear and soft as butter.

I clear my throat and turn Pete toward the front of the store so we can pay for the items he’s collected. “I’ll see you, Chase,” I call back. He waves at me. I feel bad because Chase seems confused. He’s pulling out his phone as we walk away, and I’m already expecting for my dad to hear from his dad. I don’t care. If my dad had a problem with Pete, he certainly wouldn’t have sent me out with him.

Pete steps up to the counter and lays his items beside the register. He pulls his wallet from his back pocket and opens it up. I see a couple of foil wrappers in with his cash. Heat creeps up my face. He pays, then closes his wallet and shoves it back into his back pocket. He takes the bag from the clerk and thanks her.

As we walk out the front door, he twines his fingers with mine. I look up at him, blinking away the brightness of the sun. “You really need to learn to behave yourself,” I say. But I can’t bite back a laugh. I just can’t. “‘Jailhouse Rock’? Seriously?”

He shrugs, but he’s grinning too. “It seemed appropriate.”

I bark out a laugh so loud that I cover my mouth in embarrassment. “It was so inappropriate,” I say.

He sobers and looks at me after we get in the truck. “Who’s that guy to you?” he asks.

“He’s a friend,” I say with a shrug. “That’s all.”

“Why didn’t you tell him where I’m from?” he asks. He’s waiting with bated breath, I think.

“I did.”

He shakes his head. “You know what I mean.”

“He asked where you’re from. I said New York City. What more did you want me to tell him?”

“The truth would be a good start,” he mumbles.

“Jail is a place you stayed for a while, Pete. It’s not where you’re from.”

He snorts.

“That would be like the boys saying they live at Cast-A-Way Farms after staying for a week.”

“That’s not entirely accurate.” He rocks his head back and forth as if he’s weighing my words. Then his eyes narrow. “You didn’t let him touch you.”