I look him over. He’s always been protective, but this is on another level. “I’ll be fine. He’s not going to murder me.”
Not the best choice of words. They hang in the air between us.
“Don’t joke about shit like that,” he grumbles, his dark brows knit together. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
“You’ll never be without me,” I tell him. “I promise you that. I promised mom and dad that when I agreed to be the guardian. I’m never leaving you guys, got that?”
He sighs, running his hands down his face. Then he stares at the wallet. “How much money does he have in there?” he asks quietly.
“Why?” I ask suspiciously.
“Maybe he won’t miss it.”
My jaw nearly drops. “Are you suggesting we rob him?”
“Actually it was Callum’s suggestion.”
“What is wrong with you two? I’m helping someone and you’re suggesting I rob him while I’m at it?”
“We need the money.”
“Doesn’t mean we take money from someone else. And what the hell is wrong with that kid to suggest that? Didn’t our parents raise him better than that?”
Pike shrugs. “We’ll find out at the teacher meeting.”
“Everything okay?” comes Sverige’s deep voice as he turns the corner, staring at us openly.
“Fine,” I say quickly, glaring at Pike and his audacity before whirling around to hand Sverige his wallet. “Here you go. I was only holding onto it as collateral. In case you turned out to be a psychopath or something.”
He takes the wallet from me, our fingers brushing against each other for a second that seemed extra-long and drawn out in my head.
Yeesh.
“It’s all in there,” I tell him, nodding at it.
He holds it in his hands for a moment before he says, “I trust you” and slips it into his jacket pocket.
“We better go,” I say, eyeing Pike to step out of the way.
“Are you going to get changed or drive him in that robe?” Pike asks.
I sigh. “Hold on. Stay there. Pike, be nice.”
I turn and run into the room and pull on pajama pants and a sweater in seconds flat, returning to the hall to see them both where I left them, staring at each other awkwardly.
Pike looks at me. “Any idea where April is anyway?”
I shake my head with a groan. This isn’t the first time April hasn’t come home but even so, we’re going to have to find her soon. “Have you texted her?”
“Of course,” he says. “Called her too. No answer. And the messages are getting delivered.”
“She’s probably sleeping,” I say. And I hate that I think I know where.
I head down the stairs with the foreigner right behind me, his footsteps surprisingly light on the steps. Now that he’s up and about, not drugged, not naked, he moves with a regal kind of elegance. His body seems to glide effortlessly through the space in front of it with a kind of confidence I can only dream of.
I bet he’s a fantastic lay, the thought flits through my head. I don’t bat it away.
“Nice house,” he says as we head down the hall toward the kitchen. I glance at him over my shoulder to see him looking over the walls, the crooked paintings, the old photos in broken frames.
“It’s really not,” I tell him, hoping if we move fast enough past the kitchen no one will stop us.
No luck.
“Hey,” Callum practically yells at us as I pass by the kitchen and the foreigner decides to stop in the doorway and peer inside at the scene.
“Callum, be polite,” I warn, trying to glare at him over the guy’s massive frame and failing miserably, even on my tip toes.
The guy moves over so it’s the both of us in the doorway now and Callum, Thyme and Rosemary are sitting around the kitchen table with bowls of No Name Flakes of Corn. Callum is holding the container of sugar like a weapon, poised over the cereal and ready to let loose.
“What’s your name?” Callum asks him, ignoring me.
“It’s Mr. Sverige and I’m afraid we have to go,” I get in quickly. “Thyme, don’t let him put that sugar in his cereal, do you understand?” I place my hand gently on Sverige’s bicep. It’s hard. So hard. “It’s a trap. We should go.”
“A trap?” he asks, glancing down at me and there’s such intimate curiosity in his eyes that I suddenly feel hot under my skin, realizing the two of us are standing rather close to each other, and I’m touching him.
I have trouble swallowing, my eyes focused on his lips. “Yeah,” I say softly, knowing I should take my hand away.
“She thinks we’re going to say something embarrassing,” Thyme says, almost proudly. It’s enough to tear my eyes away from him and fix them on her, warning. My hand drops to my side.
“She’ll have an aneurysm,” Callum adds, and I know I have to get this guy out of here before my brother starts talking about the other words he learned.
“Come on,” I tell him, nodding down the hall.
“Okay, Miss America,” he says and I’m both flattered and confused by the nickname. “Very nice to meet you all,” he says to them in his polished voice. “I bid thee farewell.”
I give him an odd look at that one and as we continue down the hall I can hear Rosemary repeat to the others, mimicking his accent, “I bid thee farewell?”
“So, where are you from again?” I ask him as we head out to the minivan. I don’t think he ever told me.
“I thought you knew,” he says and stops in front of the van. “Is this your vehicle?”
I can’t tell if he’s being judgey or not, his damn poise and accent are making it difficult, as well as the fact that he said vehicle instead of car. “Yes, get in, your highness.”
His face goes white. He blinks at me. Is he having a seizure? The drugs kicking in again?
“Are you okay?” I ask.
He nods slowly, goes around to the side of the van and opens the passenger door.
“Why did you call me that?” he asks evenly as he sits down.
I shrug as I get in my seat and buckle up. “Because you looked like you were judging my ride, just as you were probably judging my house.”
“Your ride?” He frowns at me. “I would never do that. I wasn’t judging. I was interested in your house, that’s all. I like it. It’s charming. It’s got life.”
He’s so sincere I can’t help but believe him.
Good lord, he’s so gorgeous and yet so, so odd.
“Okay, good.” I sigh, turn the key and the van gives a bit of a cough and rumble before it purrs to life. “Sorry. I get defensive sometimes.”
He presses his lips together, frowning. Those eyes of his skirt over every inch of my face, studying me. My stomach does a backflip. I can’t remember the last time a man–hell, anyone–looked at me this way. “You know, it was really nice of you to do what you did,” he finally says.
“No worries. I guess I felt guilty for seeing you, uh, vulnerable and stuff,” I tell him as I bring the van onto the road, not comfortable with all this sincerity.
Out of the corner of my eye I catch a small smile on his mouth. “I didn’t mind at all.”
Nor should you, I think to myself, trying not to smile in return. “Anyway, so what are you doing here in ol’ Tehachapi? It’s not exactly the forefront of culture and civilization.”
He licks his lips, just enough that I see the tip of his pink tongue, then turns his attention out the window. “I was just passing through when my car broke down on the highway. About thirty minutes east of here. Middle of the desert. That was a day.”
“What’s wrong with it? You know my brother works as a mechanic, he could help you out. You know, if you need it.”
“We’ll see. I’ve been trying to fix it myself for the last few days,” he says with a shrug. “I think I need a new carburetor.”
“You can fix cars too?”
“What? I don’t look like I can?”
Well, no. Not with his elegant mannerisms, the way he holds himself, the fit of his clothes. It looks like he pays people to do everything for him and yet there’s not an arrogant thing about him. A bit of cockiness from the way he bites his lip, a confidence that comes in knowing he looks like a god, but arrogance, no.
I end up shrugging. “I don’t know, I don’t know a thing about cars to be honest.”
“Well I do,” he says, almost defensively. “Been working on cars ever since I was a child, helping, uh, my father’s friends with them. The problem with this car is it’s an old car, a mustang, 1965. Those parts take time, yes. Might be here for a bit longer.”
Is it crazy that I’m relieved that he’s staying in this town for longer? It is crazy.
“Don’t you have somewhere you need to be? Where were you headed?”
“Los Angeles,” he says. “And no, I have nowhere I need to be. I’m…on vacation. For another week. Then I fly out of Los Angeles and back to Stockholm.”
“Stockholm? So you’re Swedish!” I knew it.
“Is that a surprise, Miss America?” he says, adjusting his seat to give his long legs more room. “You’ve been calling me Mr. Sweden this whole time.”
“Huh?”
“Korkort Sverige,” he says.
“Isn’t that your name?”
He breaks into a grin, a movie star smile that shows off perfect white teeth, making him look simultaneously younger and even more handsome. My body is reacting to this faster than my brain can, my breath catching in my throat, my heart thumps harder in my chest.
“Sverige means Sweden in Swedish,” he says. “Korkort means driver’s license. I’m afraid you’ve been calling me Mr. Swedish driver’s license.”
I burst out laughing. “You’re kidding me.”
“I’m not,” he says. “I quite enjoy it.”
“So what is your name?”
“It’s…,” he pauses, “Johan. Johan Andersson.”
Just like it said on his license, I just thought that was where he lived or something. He’s also pronouncing the “J” like a “Y.”
“Well don’t I look like the horse’s ass,” I remark.
He frowns quizzically. “You have a very nice ass. Not at all like a horse.”
I’m laughing again. “I can’t tell if you’re joking or not.”
“I would never joke about a nice ass,” he says, straight-faced though his eyes have a mischievous slant. “Miss America.”
“You can stop calling me that now.”
“Let me think about it. What is your real name?”
“Maggie. Maggie McPherson.”
“Is that so?”
He extends his hand to me. I stare at it in surprise for a moment before I take my hand off the wheel and give him mine. My hand is so damn tiny in his and when he envelopes it with his strong, warm fingers, it practically disappears. “It’s an honor to meet you, Maggie McPherson.”
“It’s nice to meet you, Johan Andersson. Though I must admit, I got used to calling you Korkort Sverige.”
“You can call me anything you want,” he says.
And, oh, dear god, is he flirting with me? Maybe. I feel like he’s holding onto my hand for longer than he maybe should, even though I also want him to never let go.
As if he senses this, he lets go of my hand and brings it back to his lap, looking almost chagrined as he stares out the window at the town as it passes us by.
I’m about to ask what kind of business he’s in when a text on my phone beeps in. I quickly glance at it. It’s Pike. Says: Still no sign of her.
Meaning April.
“What is it?” Sverige–sorry, Johan–says, watching me.
My jaw feels like it’s been clamped together. I wiggle it open and try to give him a smile. “My sister. April. She’s fourteen and she didn’t come home last night.”
“Fuck,” he swears, his accent seeming to thicken as he does so. “That can’t be good.”
“She’s done this before,” I tell him, just so he doesn’t suggest we go to the police or something. “Once she was at a girlfriend’s house after partying all night, or so she says. I’ve always thought differently though.”
He looks at me expectantly. “Does she have a boyfriend?”
I nod. “Yes,” I say grimly. “And he’s the biggest douchebag on the planet. In fact, he lives just over there.” I nod up ahead at a long dusty road that leads into the hills.
I was planning on dropping off the Swede and then cruising past the dickhead’s house on the way back home, hoping to find April but suddenly I’ve flipped on my indicator and I’m making a turn.
This is either going to be a good idea or a very, very bad one.
Chapter Five
Maggie
“Are we paying him a visit?” the Swede asks, brows raised as I bring the van on the bumpy road that might lead toward April.
I should feel bad that I’m not only delaying dropping off this guy but now I’m somehow involving him in my problems, but I guess I just feel safer with him in the van. April’s supposed boyfriend, a guy that everyone calls Tito, isn’t a tall guy, but he’s big and he’s vicious. He’s one 40 oz. away from getting a face tattoo.
“I just want to see if she’s there,” I tell him. “Won’t take a second.”
A few beats pass, and I can tell he’s mulling something over. Finally, he asks, his voice lower, “What do your parents think about all of this?”
I stiffen. This question. This fucking question.
And of course, he means no harm by it. No one ever does.
And yet this question always rips me apart at the seams.
“They’re dead,” I tell him bluntly. No use softening the blow. The more you soften it, the more they’ll treat you with kid gloves, like you’re some fragile snowflake moments from melting. Sometimes I am, but not today.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” he says.
And that’s all he says.
His voice carries weight and gravity to it, that shows he understands and if he doesn’t understand, he at least cares enough to try. But the simplicity of his response is freeing. I don’t have to explain a thing.
We drive in silence for a few minutes, my brain jumping from one thing to the next. What I’m going to do when I find the house, if I’m going to get out and knock on the door, if I’m just going to park outside and wait and see. What I’ll say to April? Will I be quiet and stern, dripping with the disappointment that my father was so good at doling out? Or will I yell and scream, like my mother might have when she lost her temper?
Then it’s focusing on him, this gorgeous specimen of a man who is in my car and filling the space with his quiet energy and his inquisitive eyes and his strong, capable presence. I shouldn’t feel this comfortable with someone I don’t really know, and yet I am.
Or maybe comfortable isn’t the right word. I’m not exactly relaxed by him. My pulse is racing, my cheeks feel hot, my skin is dancing like electricity is flowing through the air. There’s tension between us, maybe something that exists only in my head, but it exists all the same. I haven’t felt a push-pull with anyone in…well, ever. Not like this.
You’re a sad, sad girl, I tell myself. This guy is not only passing through, on vacation, but he’s way out of your league and way too good for you.
Fuck. The truth hurts.
For a moment there I forgot who I was.
I slow the car down in front of the house without even realizing I’m doing it.
Tito’s house is blue, faded from the sun, two stories high and nestled in a crop of dead pines. Five junk cars and an old station wagon litter the driveway, along with piles of garbage bags. Broken glass twinkles in the overgrown weeds that flank the gravel path to the house.
“This is it?” the Swede whispers as I park the car across the street. I can’t bring myself to think of him as Johan, somehow it doesn’t fit. “Doesn’t seem like the right place to raise children.”
I give him a s
our smile. “He’s nineteen. Lives here with a bunch of other losers.”
“Isn’t that illegal? Your sister is fourteen, yes?”
“Yeah. It’s illegal if…I don’t want to think about it.” I sigh, closing my eyes for a moment because there is a well of emotions inside me that are bubbling up and I know I’m about to unload on him. I shouldn’t. I really shouldn’t. This guy just wants to go back to the hotel, back to his car, back to his country.
And yet…
“Honestly, I just don’t know what to do anymore,” I tell him, shaking my head and then it all spills out. “And I feel like so much of it is my fault. The moment I was done high school and I saved up enough to leave this shithole, I was out of here. I just left, and I didn’t look back. For those years I was in New York…I was in New York, by the way, studying at NYU, I just kind of forgot where I came from. I was a bad sister. A bad daughter.”
Oh shit. Am I going to cry? I look up at the roof of the van and blink back any tears. “I didn’t check in with the family much, not as much as I should have, I was just so immersed with living this new life, trying to be the person I always dreamed I could be. I had no idea what was going on at home. The wedge between April and I grew stronger. I stopped knowing who she was, knowing the person she was growing into. Then, then my parents died, and I was back here, and I was thrust into the middle of this…this family that was mine and wasn’t mine at the same time. And we’re hurting, you know? We’re all hurting and we’re sad and we’re picking up the pieces and yet we’re also drifting even further apart. Now I look at April and I don’t just see my sister, I see a stranger. And she hates me.”
I take a moment to catch my breath, my heart is racing even faster than before. There’s silence in the van except for the sound of the engine ticking. I sneak a glance at the Swede.
He’s watching me with this quiet intensity in his eyes and sympathy etched in his brow. “It sounds like you’re doing the best you can,” he says and though his voice is soft, it emits a low, deep rumble I feel in my bones. “You shouldn’t be so hard on yourself.”
He might be right. But if I’m not hard on myself then how will I ever get better? Be better? I have to be hard on myself in order to grow. I’m in charge of this family now and to fail is…not an option.