I chuckle at that, mildly amused that a Broderick princess is even in my house. Doubt she even knows what reality is, let alone how the rest of the world lives around her.
“It’s a nice place,” she says.
There's those Broderick manners. “No it’s not. Yours is a nice place. This is just a place.”
She nods and looks at me, back going to lean on the armchair. “Do you have any pets?”
“Do I seem like a pet guy?”
“Not really, but it’s a farm so-”
“Care as much for animals as I do for cats. They’re food. No other point in them.” Her eyes go wide. “Never eaten cat. First time for everything, though.”
She seems taken aback by that, maybe questioning my manhood. Don’t care. “Wow. That's … okay.”
"Are you going to explain why you’re here any time soon?”
“Yes, okay then. I need to find Lewis. I have to,” she says solemnly, getting up to sit in the old armchair. “If I don't find him, then I can't get him to admit what he’s done, and my family will never believe me.” She shrugs the tattered blanket around her shoulders and looks at her tea, then back to the fire. “He shot my father in front of me, and he needs to pay.” Guess that makes sense. “I watched him do it. I watched the bullet hit my father, and then he ran, leaving me there to deal with the aftermath.”
“Could’ve just stayed. Told them the truth.”
Her face scowls, eyes coming full force at mine. “With blood on my hands, no one would believe me,” she snaps. “Not without my own evidence. And how would I get that while being locked up for murder?” She goes quiet for a second. “It all happened so fast, and now I’ve run, I can’t undo that. I’m guilty regardless, so I’ve got to be able to prove everything before I even try telling the truth.” I sip some beer and keep watching her attitude turn aggressive, wondering what that might mean to me. “I need you to understand that.”
“Me? Why?”
“Because ...” She looks back at the fire again, checks whatever mood she was about to get into, and huffs. “Because I need someone to believe me. I need help.” At least the tone’s quietened down. Can’t be doing with fucking hysterics. “I can’t do it on my own. He’s a big man, Noah. And he won’t come willingly when I do find him. I won’t have a gun to threaten like he did.”
“So it’s muscle you want.”
“Yes, in a way. Lewis has already killed people. He isn’t just going to walk into a police station because I ask him. And you’re …” she looks back at me, eyes taking a good look at my frame, my old shirt, the scruffed up black jeans and equally fucked up boots. “Well, you can handle yourself. As proved by the man you manhandled in Morocco.”
“Killed.”
She gawps. “You left him dead?” I take another drink. Said it once. Not saying it again. “But I thought you just …” She trails off, probably hoping I just suffocated the guy enough to make him pass out. Not my style. “Right. The man you killed then.”
I drink some more and watch her watching me. She’s turning skittish now. Not quite so fucking sure of herself. Don’t know why. I’m no different than I was when I was with her last. And I’m in no hurry to kill anyone else. Especially not her, considering I killed for her.
She eventually turns away rather than keep on trying to stay eye to eye with me. I smile at that, wondering why she’s backed off. She shouldn’t. It’s been a while since a woman stared me down. And she’s good to stare at, as proved by me continuing to look over her features flickering under the firelight.
“And if I was thinking about helping, what do you expect me to tell Landon?” I ask.
“I don’t know,” she murmurs, still gazing at flames. “Whatever you need to so he believes you. I’m sure you’re as good at lying as you are at searching.” I am. Don’t fucking like it, though.
I stand and walk to the kitchen for more beer, rubbing my stubble in thought. Help her over her brother? That could go all kinds of fucked up for me.
The indecision makes me flick the kettle on again, unsure why I’m even contemplating this shit. I should just call Landon now. Tell him I’ve got her and go lock her in the basement until he wants her back. That's the job.
“Noah?” I keep looking at the kettle, brain swinging between being a decent fucking human being and not giving one fuck like I normally would. “I just need to get him to the police. Or Landon. Or anyone so that my innocence can be confirmed and my family get justice.” Yeah. I guess she would need that. “And if you’re helping, we can search quicker, and then it will be all over and back to normal.” That's a panicked voice now. She’s probably worked out that sob stories don't usually mean anything to me, and this might not be going her way. “Please, Noah. Just this one thing and I’ll tell Landon I made you do it. You won’t get in trouble, I promise.”
I reach for the fridge, pull out another beer, and turn to look at her. She promises? What fucking playground are we in? Although, it does give me more thoughts of bike sheds a long time ago. “And what do I get out of it?”
“What?”
“What do I get out of helping you?” I take my time looking over curves and the slight quiver of her lips, wondering if this Broderick princess has ever done anything dirty or reckless in her life.
She folds her arms over her chest, catching up with my intentions. “Not that.”
“Not what?”
