apartment picking up laundry. He wasn't sure where the burst of energy had come from, but it was good timing, since he'd run out of clean clothes.
He hated laundry. He couldn't seem to load clothes into a washer or fold towels from a dryer without images of Becky filling his head. She'd always taken care of their clothes with a merry little smile on her face, like she knew some secret about laundry that no one else did.
So he'd been almost thankful for the distraction the homeless kid had provided. Shondra. Daylight had revealed she was pretty, with long, wavy hair and smooth brown skin. No wonder she'd thought he'd wanted to get in her pants, then gotten so nervous again today. His gut pinched wondering how many men she'd already had to fear at thirteen or fourteen.
Despite himself, he was glad he hadn't let her stay on the streets. She wasn't exactly oj^the streets now, but at least he'd given her a safer place to sleep than most homeless kids had. He was glad he'd fed her, too.
He couldn't start going all soft, though. Girl would go and get herself hurt or worse, and then there he'd be, feeling it. The loss, the regret—the sense that he hadn't done enough and should have known better than to even try in the first place. Wasn't gonna happen.
Behind him, someone slapped the bar impatiently. "Bartender, give me a White Russian."
He turned to find Alan Cummings, a sharply handsome investment hotshot who he'd come to think of as a real asshole. For one thing, the guy had probably heard fifty people call Jake by name, but he stuck with "bartender," giving it enough of an inflection to make it clear he thought he was better.
"Sure," Jake said, hoping his tone conveyed his similar disregard for the man.
He poured the drink, finishing with the splash of milk that gave it color, and took Cummings's money. He didn't leave a tip.
"Hey Jakey," said Misti, a brunette raspberry daiquiri, as she sashayed up to the bar in a dress cut nearly to her navel.
Jake put on his workplace smile, but almost thought he preferred "bartender." Misti was giggly, silly, too youthful for the setting, and the very sight of her tonight, for some reason, made his gut wrench with disgust for Sophia's third floor. "Let me guess. Raspberry daiquiri?"
She raised her eyebrows cartoonishly. "How'd you know?"
Because people are predictable. He'd learned that at the police academy and had since discovered how true it was. People liked patterns, especially in high-tension situations. They liked to reach for the familiar to give them some sense of control. "Just lucky," he said.
She tilted her head. "You know, I like when a bartender knows what I want to drink, or when a waitress remembers what I like to eat." Clearly a delightful new thought in her young mind.
You like it because it makes you feel you belong somewhere. Like somebody gives a shit about you in some way.
He was tempted to explain that to her, but didn't. Because he didn't care. Didn't care how young she was, or how foolish.
You 're all just drinks to me. He thought of saying that, too, to remind himself as much as her. But he bit his tongue, kept on with the smile, and said, "You have a good night, okay?" He even added a wink for good measure as he pushed down the useless thoughts clouding his head.
With that, silly Misti eased down from the stool with her drink and disappeared into the lush surroundings, which had grown crowded without his realizing. He glanced at a little clock behind the bar. Ten-thirty on the dot.
As if on cue, one of the red curtains at the door was drawn back to admit a blond vision in black lace. Long legs, high breasts, creamy skin—this woman had the whole package. That's when he narrowed his gaze and realized who it was.
Stephanie Grant.
His chest clenched with a combination of desire and anger.
Damn it, she'd come back. After he'd warned her how dangerous it was. He'd thought she'd seemed adequately off balance by the time they'd parted
He hated laundry. He couldn't seem to load clothes into a washer or fold towels from a dryer without images of Becky filling his head. She'd always taken care of their clothes with a merry little smile on her face, like she knew some secret about laundry that no one else did.
So he'd been almost thankful for the distraction the homeless kid had provided. Shondra. Daylight had revealed she was pretty, with long, wavy hair and smooth brown skin. No wonder she'd thought he'd wanted to get in her pants, then gotten so nervous again today. His gut pinched wondering how many men she'd already had to fear at thirteen or fourteen.
Despite himself, he was glad he hadn't let her stay on the streets. She wasn't exactly oj^the streets now, but at least he'd given her a safer place to sleep than most homeless kids had. He was glad he'd fed her, too.
He couldn't start going all soft, though. Girl would go and get herself hurt or worse, and then there he'd be, feeling it. The loss, the regret—the sense that he hadn't done enough and should have known better than to even try in the first place. Wasn't gonna happen.
Behind him, someone slapped the bar impatiently. "Bartender, give me a White Russian."
He turned to find Alan Cummings, a sharply handsome investment hotshot who he'd come to think of as a real asshole. For one thing, the guy had probably heard fifty people call Jake by name, but he stuck with "bartender," giving it enough of an inflection to make it clear he thought he was better.
"Sure," Jake said, hoping his tone conveyed his similar disregard for the man.
He poured the drink, finishing with the splash of milk that gave it color, and took Cummings's money. He didn't leave a tip.
"Hey Jakey," said Misti, a brunette raspberry daiquiri, as she sashayed up to the bar in a dress cut nearly to her navel.
Jake put on his workplace smile, but almost thought he preferred "bartender." Misti was giggly, silly, too youthful for the setting, and the very sight of her tonight, for some reason, made his gut wrench with disgust for Sophia's third floor. "Let me guess. Raspberry daiquiri?"
She raised her eyebrows cartoonishly. "How'd you know?"
Because people are predictable. He'd learned that at the police academy and had since discovered how true it was. People liked patterns, especially in high-tension situations. They liked to reach for the familiar to give them some sense of control. "Just lucky," he said.
She tilted her head. "You know, I like when a bartender knows what I want to drink, or when a waitress remembers what I like to eat." Clearly a delightful new thought in her young mind.
You like it because it makes you feel you belong somewhere. Like somebody gives a shit about you in some way.
He was tempted to explain that to her, but didn't. Because he didn't care. Didn't care how young she was, or how foolish.
You 're all just drinks to me. He thought of saying that, too, to remind himself as much as her. But he bit his tongue, kept on with the smile, and said, "You have a good night, okay?" He even added a wink for good measure as he pushed down the useless thoughts clouding his head.
With that, silly Misti eased down from the stool with her drink and disappeared into the lush surroundings, which had grown crowded without his realizing. He glanced at a little clock behind the bar. Ten-thirty on the dot.
As if on cue, one of the red curtains at the door was drawn back to admit a blond vision in black lace. Long legs, high breasts, creamy skin—this woman had the whole package. That's when he narrowed his gaze and realized who it was.
Stephanie Grant.
His chest clenched with a combination of desire and anger.
Damn it, she'd come back. After he'd warned her how dangerous it was. He'd thought she'd seemed adequately off balance by the time they'd parted
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