He’d only seen his mom twice in the past six months. Whenever John Nelson sent her a telegram telling her to get her skinny ass home or he’d call Camp, here she came, roaring down the drive with a middle finger in attitude, making it clear how she felt about being summoned. Skinny-ass, his grandfather always called her. Sometimes, pretty bravely, even right to her face.
When he did, Celia’d get all red-cheeked, spit some vile name at John Nelson, and storm off. She’d end upcoming home at dawn, smelling like the alley behind Mr. McHenry’s grocery store the day before garbage pickup.
In the house, Kit’s bedroom light flicked off, the search over.
Not sure if he’d let Camp find him, because deep down, he knew who was looking, he located the brightest star in the sky, imagining how cool it would be to have arealmom. One you’d feel in-the-gut bad about dying diving off some fancy boat in her underwear. Like Mrs. Cunningham or that Donna Reed chick. He watchedNick at Nightwith John Nelson and, sure, those shows were kinda goofy, but theydidmake you wonder. Could life be better, without DVDs and satellite dishes and Nikes you pumped up? No divorces, no mixed-up families, no half-thises and step-thats did sound cool.
And less complicated.
Although Camp was only his half-brother—not full or anything—Kit didn’t feel any less because of it.
He loved Camp more than anyone in the world.
It was a gut-decision kind of thing, not something to ponder too much—more of his grandfather’s advice—because his brother disappointed him like all the rest.
In the distance, Camp called his name, and Kit let out a shaky sigh of relief.
So...hehadcome home.
Stomach starting to churn, Kit reached into his backpack, grabbed a lemon MoonPie and took a healthy bite. He mighta had it in him to hate his brother if he hadn’t been sure his mom had something to do with him leaving and not wanting to come back. Kit was sharp, and he’d heard a conversation or two he likely shouldn’t have. Besides, people who hated each other stood out like goats in a flock of sheep.
Kit swallowed, wishing he hadn’t guzzled the whole can of RC Cola.
Would Camp even recognize him? He’d grown about aninch since the last visit. Kit slid his tongue over his teeth, wincing. He’d gotten braces, too. Sniffling, he hurled the MoonPie to the ground. Couldn’t Camp have come back more often? At least for his mom’s lousy funeral? Flopping onto his back, he wiped tears from his eyes.
Blowing his nose on his sleeve, Kit decided to stay hidden until he got it together. Gentlemen, everyone knew, didn’t cry in public.
Maybe Camp would worry. But, heck, didn’t he deserve to?
Probably the first time his brother had thought about him in a long time.
chapter
three
Come As You Are–Nirvana
FONTANA
The urgent knocking joltedFontana awake, a lingering unease clinging to her like morning mist. As she stumbled to the door, she stubbed her toe against a chrome chair she’d picked up at a flea market last week. The vinyl seats needed reupholstering, but at five bucks apiece, she figured it was a fair trade.
“Coming,” she called, surprised she was even considering answering the door at eleven at night. Most in Promise didn’t bother locking theirs, but she always did. A habit she couldn’t break, thanks to her father. She glanced around for a weapon, freezing as a second round of pounding shook the door.
“Quinn? I apologize for the late hour, but I need to talk to you. It’s Campbell True.”
“Oh, shit.” Fontana stalled, her toes curling into the warped linoleum. She spared a brief glance at her attire: pink tank top, navy sweatpants. Angry at herself for considering her appearance, she grabbed a baseball cap from the kitchencounter and shoved her tangled mass of hair inside. Sliding the latch, she eased the door open.
Back to her, he stood at the edge of the narrow patio, his booted foot tracing a streak of black on the cement, his outstretched arm braced against the wrought iron railing. She smelled the peppery trace of his cologne, watched the cords in his shoulder flex when he dragged his hand free of his pocket. Without the shelter of a suit coat, the musculature of his build surprised her. Lithe arms, broad chest, lean hips. A runner, she would bet.
“Mr. True,” she said, focusing on a point beyond his left shoulder, “what are you doing here?”
Startled, he tilted his head, a shaft of moonlight catching him like a strike across the jaw. Stubble darkened his cheeks, fatigue dulled the skin under his eyes. Behind oblong silver frames, they glittered, beneath them, his lips tightened. Turning, he moved forward, uncaring or—please, let it be this—unaware of his effect on her.
“Where is he?”
She blinked. “Who?”
His hands clenched into fists at his sides. He had changed and wore all black like the damned devil. “Where, Quinn?”
