“They probably offer an AARP discount at the shooting range.”
“I also don’t think you should be allowed to have a handicap parking permit and a gun permit.” I pull on my jacket.
“Now that’s not true and you know it. In fact, it’s just the opposite; people with disabilities can feel vulnerable and they definitely need a way to protect themselves.”
“Brilliant. Before long I’ll be writing prescriptions for handguns.”
“Well, if it bothers you, maybe you should write your senator about it.”
I give Trick the stink eye before he walks past me to the back door. He slips on his socks and black boots that are sitting by his suitcase. “You’re driving. I took a cab here from the airport.”
My heart swells at the thought of him coming to my place straight from the airport. If he weren’t still here, I’d blow up his phone with chat acronyms and Emojis.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Several photographers greet us with flashes and coy smiles while I back my car out the garage.
“What the hell?” Trick jerks his head away from their intrusive lenses just inches from my windows.
“Countdown to the polls. The campaigns are making their official shift from throwing sand at the playground to digging their opponent’s grave.”
“Why take our picture? What are we?”
I give Trick a sidelong glance. “Dirt.”
“Am I going to be an issue?”
I chuckle. “God, I hope so.”
“Why would you say that?” There’s an iciness to his words. “Are you using me to rebel? Slumming with the homeless guy?”
He’s taking the defensive like he did shortly after we met. I was ten percent angry and ninety percent turned on then, but now it flat out pisses me off that he would think that about me. I get he has trust issues, but I’d hoped by now they wouldn’t be with me.
“Thanks for the trust, but no, I’m not using you to rebel.” I sigh. “Rachel visited me the other day and basically told me to stop seeing you. She fears you have too many ‘skeletons’ in your closet that could destroy my father’s chance for re-election.”
Trick’s eyes stay focused on the road ahead.
“She also thinks you’re going to crush my heart and that you’re incapable of loving me.” I expect a response. I need a response, but he’s still a statue—no response, no emotion.
“So if you define rebelling as giving my father and his wife the proverbial finger by not allowing them to decide who I choose to love, then maybe I am a rebel. But if the issue here is you not trusting me, then maybe Rachel’s right. Maybe you’re going to crush my heart.”
Still nothing.
My heart knows him, of that much I am certain—my head, not so much. Trick would never hurt me on purpose, but broken is broken. This heart of mine won’t care how it happened; the pain will feel the same.
His door opens as I push my newly programmed button. I put my car in park but I don’t shut off the engine.
I will not be Darby the Doormat!
He reaches over, shutting off the car. I stare at him, waiting, because he’s going to have to give me a good reason to open my door. I fight the urge to melt into his hand as he caresses his palm against my cheek.
“I’d never forgive myself if I crushed your heart.” Releasing a slow breath, he closes his eyes for a moment. “I’m sorry for what I said. You might be the only person I completely trust … including myself.”
My lips pull into a sad smile as I cover his hand with mine and lean into his touch. “That’s what BFFs are for.”
That earns me a lip twitch, but I know he’s fighting the full-on smile.
“Come.” He gets out and so do I—because I want to, not because he told me.
He pushes the button to lower the door and then flips several other switches. I’d suspected this garage or warehouse space expanded farther than what I’ve ever been able to see with the limited lighting from the one set of fluorescents or the natural light from the large door. What I didn’t expect was the massive amount of stuff.
“What is all this? Is it yours?” There’s more than just the one covered automobile, four to be exact. At a quick glance I see three more motorcycles, a set of jet skis, stacks of boxes, and at the very back there are more covered objects that look like his artwork that had been upstairs.
“This…” he points to the partially covered black Audi SUV “…is Grady’s. But the rest is supposedly mine.” He shoves his hands into his pockets and watches me as I take slow steps deeper into the maze of everything.
“It’s from your missing past?”
“Yes.”
“Where was it?” I lift the edge of another car cover. It’s a lime green Lamborghini.