The Slow Burn Page 7

  It’d take more in gas to drive to and from Bellevue than a few cards by her register would earn.

  “I have a full-time job and a baby, Macy,” I reminded her. “I’d need that to be worth my while to drive all the way out to Bellevue.”

  “All the way out to Bellevue” was maybe, at most, twenty miles.

  This was probably one of the reasons Macy got that look on her face a lot of people got when they looked at me after I hit Matlock radar and within weeks my son had been kidnapped.

  A look that was even worse than the look I’d catch Mom getting all those times she took us out, clean and dressed and groomed, but it wasn’t like you had to be a buyer at Bergdorf’s to know our clothes and shoes were cheap and our haircuts happened in our kitchen.

  Macy snatched up a piece of scrap and offered, “I’ll jot down her number. Give her a call. I told her how popular they are. Maybe she’ll make a large order.”

  I wondered how popular my cards actually were at Macy’s.

  Or if she told them that poor Adeline Forrester girl who worked at Matlock Mart and had her baby kidnapped right out of the daycare center had made them, and people bought them because they felt sorry for me.

  Right.

  So they did.

  And I made a buck fifty off some card I spent forty-five minutes on and they took it home and threw it in the trash or gave it to that cousin they didn’t know very much or like very well.

  That buck fifty paid for over a half a gallon of gas.

  Whatever.

  She handed me Carol’s number, I took it on a muttered, “Thanks,” then promised, “I’ll be in Monday with more cards.”

  “Thanks, Addie,” she replied. “Now give your little boy a snuggle for me.”

  “Will do, Macy.”

  I left, posthaste, mostly because I was in a foul mood, only had a half hour for lunch, of which probably twenty minutes was gone, and I needed to down the half-priced nearly expired salad I bought from the produce section and get back to my register.

  I headed down the sidewalk, hunched into my jacket that was over my highly unattractive burgundy smock, which had yellow stitching over the breast that said Matlock Mart, mentally inventorying the bits and pieces and paint and cardstock I had and wondering if it was enough to start an Etsy store as I hustled back to work.

  I’d crossed the street to the next block and was nearly to the store when I jerked to a halt after I heard barked at my side, “I said yo.”

  I turned to see Toby halting beside me.

  God, that beard.

  Perry could not grow much but scruff.

  He’d sell both his testicles to grow that thick, long beard.

  It was trimmed into a fantastic wedge, done perfectly.

  Hell, the sweeping mustache on its own was a thing of beauty.

  Perry might even give his guitar for facial hair that awe-inspiring.

  “So, what, now you’re ignoring me?” he asked, his question yanking me forcefully out of my beard trance.

  “Sorry?” I asked back.

  “Adeline, been callin’ your name since you left Macy’s.”

  Oh.

  I looked back at Macy’s, which was a block and a half away, a block and a half beyond that was where Gamble Garage stood.

  I looked again to Toby.

  “I didn’t hear you,” I told him.

  “Bullshit,” he muttered, glowering at me.

  Excuse me?

  “I didn’t hear you, Toby.”

  “You’re pissed at me,” he stated.

  “No, I’m not,” I denied.

  “And I’m shouting your name a half a dozen times, chasing you down the street, and you’re not pissed at me, you just didn’t hear me?”

  “Yes, like I said, I didn’t hear you.”

  “You were pissy when we hung up the other night.”

  “That was the other night.”

  “And you were pissy through your texts after we hung up the other night,” he reminded me.

  To tell the truth, I was also pissy right then, and getting pissier at his attitude.

  Except “pissy” wasn’t the word for it.

  “I’m not a big fan of the word pissy,” I shared.

  “Sorry, babe,” he said sarcastically. “Ticked. Irate. Fuming. In a snit.”

  “I don’t fume, Tobe. And I’ve never in my life been in a snit.”

  “You’re in a snit right now, Lollipop,” he pointed out.

  “Okay, maybe I am,” I retorted. “And that’s because you keep telling me I’m pissy when I’m not. I just need to get back to work and I have things on my mind.”

  More muttering when he said, “I’ll bet you have things on your mind.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” I asked.

  With no hesitation, he laid it out there.

  “Right, Adeline, you’re in a situation and you’re a Forrester Girl, which means you got too much pride to ask for help getting you out of that situation.”

  Excuse me?

  What was up his ass?

  “What do you know about Forrester Girls?” I snapped.

  “My brother’s marrying one.”

  “Yeah, and you met her seven months ago, and he’s living with her and sleeping with her, you are not. So Johnny knows her, you do not.”

  “And I’m standing here facing off with another one, the prideful one, the one who’s too fucking vain to reach out when she needs to reach out.”

  Uh . . .

  EXCUSE ME?

  What in the hell was up his ass?

  I shifted into his space, getting up on my toes to get in his face.

  “And you’ve known me for seven months, and I can assure you, Tobias Gamble, you do not know me enough to call me vain. Let me correct you, the last thing on this earth I am is vain.”

  He stood toe to toe with me, tipping that bearded chin down, which was all he had to do to lock eyes with me and get right in my face, which ticked me off (more), and shot back, “So, I learned what I learned on Wednesday night, and I don’t believe for a fuckin’ second it’s all good, just single mom shit, and I told Margot you were struggling and she pressed lookin’ after Brooklyn for you, and you would not lose your mind at me?”

  “Of course I’d lose my mind at you,” I hissed. “That would be totally out of line.”

  “And would it be totally out of line I shared with your own damned sister your shit was fucked, and she looked after you by lettin’ you live at her place or whatever Iz would do, and we both know Iz would do something to look after you?”

  My big sister had looked after me enough.

  My whole life, precisely.

  So strike that off my list of things I could do to get out of my bind. I wasn’t going to ask Izzy to do dick.

  “Yes, that would be totally freaking out of line too,” I clipped. “But just to be clear, that would be more out of line.”

  “So, what? You’re gonna tough it out? Eat cat food and screw your credit by goin’ late on bills while Brooks is cush in a daycare center people who work in the city use because they make big bill in the city and expect cush for their kids while they’re off making it?”

  “Yes.” My voice was rising.

  “And you’d do that stupid shit even if you got folks who’re happy to look out for you?”

  “That’s what mothers do,” I retorted.

  “That’s what you do,” he fired back.

  “You don’t know what it is to be a mother, Toby. I do, and I know what my mother did, and she did just that.”

  Now my voice was totally rising.

  “Yeah. I know. I heard. But Daphne didn’t have a choice. She didn’t have anyone she could turn to to help her look out for her and her girls. I didn’t know the woman. Never had the honor. Just heard stories. But my take, she’d be all in if someone had been there to give her babies better. Not you. Using your mom and her hardship as your shield to face the world alone and not give better to your kid, that be
tter bein’ lookin’ after you.”

  It was like he’d slapped me in the face.

  And I stepped away from him like he’d done just that.

  He bore down on me again anyway, taking away the minimal space I gained to demand, “How deep is your shit?”

  “That’s not your business.”

  “How deep is your shit, Adeline?” he pushed.

  I got up on my toes and screeched in his face, “That’s not your business!”

  “I was fuckin’ you, it’d be my business,” he growled.

  I blinked and fell back to flat footed.

  He didn’t appear to notice that either.

  “Christ, you know how much sleep I’ve had since hearin’ you’re broke at Christmas?”

  “No,” I whispered.

  “None, babe. Not a fuckin’ wink.”

  What?

  “How you gonna buy Brooks presents?” he asked.

  “I . . . I don’t know. I’ll figure it out.”

  “Right,” he snarled.

  “Toby—”

  “You can sell a hundred goddamn cards at Macy’s and that’s not gonna do dick for you,” he bit out.

  How did he know I was selling cards at Macy’s?

  I didn’t get to ask that.

  Toby kept at me.

  “Johnny’s loaded. Dave and Margot are not hurtin’, they’re retired, and they got nothin’ to do except keep their hearts and minds young. And newsflash, Addie, havin’ a baby around might help them do that. And seein’ as I’m equal owner of Gamble Garages, I’m fuckin’ loaded too. You’re surrounded by people who wanna look out for you and got the time and means to do it. And you’re sellin’ fuckin’ flower cards to save face.”

  They weren’t flower cards.

  Well, some of them were but I didn’t think that was what they were called.

  And I wasn’t doing it to save face.

  Was I?

  “They’re sweet cards,” I snapped.

  He tore his fingers through his hair, it was thick and there was lots of it, and if he didn’t slick it back with some kind of product, the front would probably fall to his chin.

  Though the back was clipped short at the neck, it was long enough and tapered as it went up, the curls started to form, which was tragically appealing considering it looked amazing but it was clear you could fist your fingers in it, and that didn’t bear contemplation.

  Especially not when I was having a public fight with him on the sidewalk in town wearing my kickass army-green bomber jacket over my stupid grocery store smock.

  God, I wished I was in some of my black stone-washed with one of the embroidered jackets I’d scored in a vintage shop in Nashville that weren’t exactly a song instead. Outside my cowboy boots, they were the most expensive items of apparel I’d ever purchased.

  But they were hot.

  Okay, so maybe I was minutely vain.

  “You’re losing weight,” he declared heatedly.

  “What?” I asked, taken off guard at his change of subject.

  “When’s the last time you ate?” he asked.

  Oh shit.

  He caught on like he was in my mind.

  “When, Addie?” he pressed.

  “Last night. But I’m not a breakfast kind of girl,” I retorted.

  This was a lie.

  I was a food kind of girl, in all its dizzying varieties.

  And he was right, I was losing weight.

  My kid was cute and pudgy.

  But I’d once had curves that were now angles.

  “And lunch?” he pushed.

  “I have a salad waiting for me. And if you’d stop delaying me, I could get to the break room and eat it.”

  “A salad,” he said like he’d say, “A sausage casing of shit.”

  “It’s healthy!” I yelled.

  “When’s the last time you had a decent meal?”

  “Who cares?”

  “Jesus, Adeline!” he exploded then tipped his beard into his neck to get back in my face and shouted, “I do!”

  “I’m eating, Toby!” I shouted back.

  “Not enough!” he bellowed.

  “I can take care of myself!” I shrieked.

  “Not good enough!” he roared.

  “How dare you!” I screeched so loud it was a wonder the shop windows around us didn’t implode.

  “You good with me and everyone who cares about you watching you waste away?” he asked cuttingly.

  “I’m not wasting away, Tobias, for God’s sake, stop being dramatic,” I snapped.

  His head jerked back.

  Then he stepped back.

  After that, he bit out, “Right.”

  His face had closed down, which concerned me far more than the fury that had been there but a moment before.

  “Toby—” I started conciliatorily.

  “Be at your house Sunday, noon. Put up your lights and drop the beer and wine but I’m out for dinner.”

  Oh God.

  That was not good.

  I took a step toward him. “Tobe—”

  He took a step back and I stopped talking.

  “Later, Addie.”

  And with that, he prowled back down the sidewalk toward the garage with that long-limbed, loose, male grace that was so beautiful to watch.

  “What just happened?” I whispered after him, rooted to the spot.

  I was fuckin’ you, it’d be my business.

  “Oh God, what just happened?” I repeated.

  Toby crossed the street to the next block and kept walking.

  I came to the realization I was standing on the sidewalk and looked across and just down toward Matlock Mart.

  A gaggle of people were busy carrying bags and pushing carts to the side parking lot in a way I knew, the instant before my head turned that direction, they’d been standing outside the doors of the store watching Toby and me.

  “Shit,” I hissed, looked side to side, and when it was clear, jaywalked across the street.

  In the end, I had to down my salad so fast, I had indigestion for an hour.

  And most of the edges of the leaves were brown, so that probably didn’t help.

  I was fuckin’ you, it’d be my business, drove through my head, oh . . . I don’t know, about seven hundred times in the four hours left of my shift, so it was a wonder my drawer was only two dollars off.

  When my shift was over, I got my son, I went home, and I did the drill trying to think about the fact Iz and Johnny were looking after Brooks the next afternoon because I had a Saturday shift and the daycare was only open in the mornings on Saturdays. And there was a good chance that Iz and/or Johnny would have heard about that fight before tomorrow afternoon and I had to figure out how I was going to handle it if they had.

  I did not think about that.

  I thought about the fact I really had to talk out what had gone down with Toby and I could not call my sister. I could not call Deanna (mostly because I was scared of what she might say). I definitely couldn’t call Margot. I hadn’t really made any good friends in Matlock yet so there was no one there to hash stuff out with. And no one in Chattanooga knew who Toby was.

  So I was alone.

  And although Dapper Dan stuck close like he sensed I was uneasy, and I could tell him, he wouldn’t be much help and not just because he was canine and couldn’t speak English, but because it was dawning on me that Tobe had not gotten that dog for my infant son.

  He’d gotten that dog to protect me (and my infant son).

  At the end of the night, after I’d only made three cards when I needed to make about fifty, I lay in bed, stared at the dark ceiling and realized I knew three things.

  One, Deanna thought Toby was into me, and Deanna was rarely wrong.

  Two, no man cared that much about the state of play in the life of his brother’s fiancée’s sister. Tobe had confronted me pissed off, he’d admitted he hadn’t slept since he’d learned things were rough for me, and he lost his mind at the
thought I wasn’t eating.

  None of this said, “I’m mildly concerned about this woman who is a satellite feature in my life.”

  It said something entirely different.

  And three, by now, that fight had run through the small town of Matlock like wildfire.

  And my sister, her fiancé, Margot, Dave, Deanna and Charlie lived in that town.

  So, I had a feeling I was no longer just screwed financially, I was screwed in other ways besides.

  Because I’d lived in small towns, and I was me—the wild one, the hellion Forrester Girl—so I knew what gossip run amuck could mean.

  Further, and more importantly, there was indication for the first time in my life I might have a shot at getting something I desperately wanted.

  But that something was intricately woven into the fabric of my life as it stood at that time, and even if Toby was right and I didn’t take advantage of it as I could do, I needed it as it was, or all would be lost.

  So if I went after what I wanted and it went wrong, and that wrong filtered into Johnny and Izzy’s (and Margot and Dave’s) lives, the results could be catastrophic.

  And that terrified me.

  She’s Addie and I’m Toby

  Toby

  ON SATURDAY MORNING, Toby was standing beside his fridge downing a bottle of water when it happened.

  He’d gotten his run in and sweated out the beer and whisky he’d consumed at the local bar, On the Way Home (known as Home to townies) the night before.

  And he knew he should be happy he at least got to drink a little of the bitter of that fight with Addie out of his mouth and then sweat it out the next morning before it happened.

  He was actually surprised he didn’t get a visit at his barstool at Home last night.

  Seeing his screen on his phone, which was sitting on the island counter, light up and what it said when it did, he really didn’t want to take the call.

  But his father (not to mention Margot) taught him to deal with problems when they happened so you could lose the weight of them before that weight got too heavy and dragged you down.

  With that in mind, he put the water down, nabbed his phone and took the call.

  “Yo, Johnny.”

  “Are you fuckin’ kidding me with that shit?” his brother replied.

  Toby let out a long breath.

  “‘Yo, Johnny.’ That’s what you’ve got to say to me when the whole town’s talkin’ about you shouting in Addie’s face on the fuckin’ street yesterday?” his brother demanded.