The Things She Says

“Friend of yours?” he asked as VJ approached his table.

VJ was giving him a wide berth, something he normally appreciated, but not today and not with her. There’d been an easiness between them earlier, as if they’d been friends for a long time, before she got uptight about his connection to Kyla. Friends were hard to come by in Hollywood, especially for someone who cultivated a reputation for being driven and moody. He lost little sleep over it. Different story with VJ, who made the idea of being so disconnected unappealing.

“Yeah, practically since birth. That’s Pamela Sue. She’s only here to ogle you.”

He laughed. “I’m not used to such honesty. I like it. What does VJ stand for?” he asked and propped his chin on a palm, letting his gaze roam over her expressive face. Women were manipulative and scheming where he came from. This one was different.

“Victoria Jane. It’s too fancy for these parts, so folks mostly call me VJ.”

VJ fit her—it was short, sassy and unusual. “Most? But not all?”

“Perceptive, aren’t you? My mom didn’t. But she’s been gone now almost a year.”

Ouch. The pain flickering through her eyes drilled right through him, leaving a gaping hole. Before thinking it through, he reached out and gently enfolded her hand in his.

“I’m sorry,” he said. After the ill-fated exchange of harsh words with his father sixteen years ago, Kris had walked away from a guaranteed position at Demetrious Shipping, the Demetrious fortune and Greece entirely. His relationship with his mom had been one of the casualties, and phone calls weren’t the same. But he couldn’t imagine a world where even a call wasn’t possible. “That must’ve been tough. Must still be.”

“Are you trying to make me cry?” She swallowed hard.

Dishes clinked and clacked from the kitchen and the noise split the air.

“Pearl’s subtle way of telling me to get my butt to work.” VJ rolled wet, shiny eyes. “Honestly, she should pick up your check. This place hasn’t seen such a big crowd since Old Man Smith’s funeral.”

While he’d been distracted, locals had packed the place. Most of the tables were now full of nuclear families, worn-out men in crusty boots or acne-faced teenagers.

“So you’re saying I’m at least as popular as a dead man?” It shouldn’t have been funny, but the corners of his mouth twitched none the less.

Soberly, she pulled her hand from his and stood. Her natural friendliness had returned and then vanished. He missed it.

“Well, I have to work.” She eased away, her expression blank. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Demetrious. I wish you and Ms. Monroe all the happiness in the world with your upcoming marriage.”

He scowled. “Kyla and I aren’t engaged.”

Yet. It didn’t improve his mood to hear rumors of the impending engagement had already surfaced, courtesy of Kyla, no doubt.

Why was this still bothering him? He’d agreed to give Kyla a ring. The deal was done if he wanted to make Visions of Black. He entertained no romantic illusions about love or marriage. Marriage based on a business agreement had a better chance of succeeding than one based on anything else. Of course, he was never going to marry anyone, least of all Kyla, whom he hadn’t even seen in a couple of months, not since she’d called off their relationship in a fit of tears and theatrical moaning. At which point she’d likely jumped right back into bed with Guy Hansen.

“Oh. Well, then, have a nice life instead.” VJ smiled and bounced to the kitchen.

At least he’d been able to improve her mood.

Later that night, VJ grinned as she walked up the listing steps to the house, jumped the broken one and cracked the screen door silently.

Kris and Kyla Monroe weren’t engaged.

Oh, it made no difference in the grand scheme of things, but she couldn’t stop smiling regardless. He was compassionate, sinfully hot and a little more available than she’d assumed.

Was there anything wrong with him? If so, she didn’t want to know. For now, he was her fantasy, with no faults and no bad habits.

It was fun to imagine Kris returning for her someday, top down on the Ferrari and a handful of red roses. And it was slightly depressing since it would never happen in a million years. He was on his way to Dallas and that would be that.

She tiptoed into the hallway and froze when a board creaked. Dang it, she never missed that one.

“Girl, is that you?” Daddy’s slurred voice shot out from the living room.

She winced. Angry drunk tonight. What had happened this time to set him off?

Her stomach plummeted. The part. She’d forgotten all about the part for Gus’s truck, and it was still sitting in the cab of Daddy’s truck. Her head had been full of Kristian Demetrious, with no room for anything else.

She put some starch in her spine and walked into the living room. Her father slumped in the same armchair where he had taken residence earlier in the afternoon. His eyes were bloodshot, swollen.

“Lookee here.” Daddy took a swig of beer and backhanded his mouth with his knuckles. “Finally decided to prance your butt home, didja?”

He looked bad. They’d all dealt with Mama’s death in their own way, but Daddy wasn’t dealing with it at all, falling farther into a downward, drunken spiral every day.

“I’m sorry about the part, Daddy. I got to town late,” she hedged. “I had to go straight to work.”

“Gus needs his truck. You get over there and fix it now,” he commanded, then downed the rest of his beer and belched. He set the empty can on the closest table without looking.

It teetered on the edge, and then fell to the floor with a clank. Beer dribbled onto the hardwood floor, creating another mess to clean up.

“It’s late. Bobby Junior can fix it in the morning.” Along with everything else since he was running the garage in their father’s stead.

Guilt panged her breastbone. Bobby Junior had a wife and three kids he never saw. What else did she have to do? Lie in bed and dream about a Greek god who was speeding away toward a life that did not, and never would, include her?

Daddy bobbled the TV remote into his paw. “I told you to do it. Ungrateful hussy. Bring me another beer, would ya?”

Her head snapped up and anger swept the guilt aside. “Daddy, you’re drunk and you need to go to bed, so I’ll forgive you for calling me that.”

“Don’t you raise your voice to me, missy!” He weaved to his feet and shook the remote. “And don’t you pass judgment down your prissy little nose, either. I ain’t drunk. I’m hungry because you ran off and forgot about cooking me dinner. Your job is here.”

“Sorry, Daddy. I don’t mean to be disrespectful.” She bit her lip and pushed on. “But I’m moving to Dallas soon, like I’ve been telling you for months. You and the boys have to figure out how to do things for yourselves.”

Jenny Porter’s cousin was buying a condo and had offered to rent the extra bedroom to VJ, but it wasn’t built yet and wouldn’t be until September. Fall couldn’t get here fast enough.

Daddy shook his head. “The Good Lord put women on this earth to cook, clean and have a man’s babies. You can do that right here in Little Crooked Creek.”

“I’m not staying here to enable you to drink yourself into the grave.” Her dry eyes burned. “I’m tired. I’m sorry about Gus’s truck and for forgetting your dinner. But I’m done here.” She turned and took a step toward her room.

Daddy’s fingernails bit into her upper arm as he spun her and yanked until her face was inches from his. “Don’t you turn your back on me, girl.” Alcohol-laced breath gushed from his mouth and turned her stomach with its stench. “You’ll quit your job and forget about running off to live in that devil’s den.”

He emphasized each word with a shake that rattled her entire body. Tears sprang up as he squeezed the forming bruises. For the first time since her mother’s death, she was genuinely afraid of her father and what he might do. Mama had always been the referee. Her lone defender and supporter in a household of males. VJ didn’t have her mother’s patience or her saintly ability to overlook Daddy’s faults.

If she could escape to her room, she could grab some clothes and dash over to Pamela Sue’s house.

“Thought you were pretty smart hiding all that money under the bed in your unmentionables box,” he said.

It took her a second. “You were snooping in my room?”