Laura Drake - The Reasons to Stay

* * *

ADAM STOOD IN front of his narcotics shelf taking inventory, when a woman’s voice screeched in his pocket. Dang it, Sin must’ve reprogrammed his phone again. He pulled it from his jacket pocket and answered. “Sin, this is not funny. I work with octogenarians and a Lady Gaga ringtone is going to give someone a heart attack.”

“That’s Eat Your Dead, by the way. Lady Gaga is pop.” She spit the word like it was spoiled meat. “Special cleanup on aisle four, boss,” she whispered, and hung up.

He craned his neck, but couldn’t see the aisle from where he stood. He slipped his phone back in his pocket, walked past the cash register, and unlocked the door that kept the drugs secure.

He saw the kid the minute he pulled the door closed behind him. A Hispanic boy with sloppy, too-big clothes stood at the magazine rack with the casual “I’m not doing anything” demeanor of a shoplifter. Sin was an expert at spotting them but this one was more obvious than most. The kid stopped leafing through a muscle-car magazine, shot a glance up the aisle, then slipped the magazine in the waistband of his saggy jeans.

Damn it, these kids never gave up. Where were their parents? He was tired of little delinquents pilfering his stock. It was time to set an example that would deter other kids. The twerp’s luck had just run out because Adam was flat sick of this. He tipped his chin at Joyce, the cashier—it was the signal to let the kid go.

He followed the boy and once the door closed behind them, Adam grabbed the thief’s shirt collar.

“Hey, lemme go!” The punk twisted to see who had a hold of him.

Adam tightened his grip. “Go? The only place you’re going is jail.” He retrieved his cell from his pocket and scrolled his contacts while the kid struggled.

“I didn’t do anything. What’re you—a pervert? Lemme go!”

The kid was stronger than Adam would have guessed. He had to twist the boy’s T-shirt collar around his fist. “Settle. You’ll only make it worse.”

“Help!” The kid pulled at his collar, frantic. “Somebody help—he’s trying to kidnap me!”

Tourists strolling by slowed, uncertain.

A little old lady in orange Bermuda shorts stopped and glared at him. “What are you doing with that child?”

Oh, hell.

* * *

PRISS GUNNED THE engine, running ten miles over the posted twenty-five in the downtown area, checking the rearview mirror for cop strobes. She’d meant to be home a half hour ago, but Floyd had shown up late for work. She couldn’t very well walk away from a bar full of patrons.

But damn, it was Nacho’s first day with her, and now she’d left him cooling his heels on the sidewalk.

Great way to make a kid feel secure, Hart.

That wasn’t the way she’d wanted to start.

Something about the knot of people gathered in front of the drugstore made her heart bang like Mona’s engine on a bad day. There was no reason to believe this had anything to do with Nacho, but her shit-meter redlined just the same. Her stomach muscles snapped taut, clicking into defense mode. When she squealed to a stop at the curb, heads swiveled in her direction. She shut off Mona and stood on the seat to see over the small crowd.

“Help me, somebody!” Nacho strained like a dog at the end of a leash, the collar of his T-shirt choking him. Her landlord stood behind him, his fist knotted in cotton, his face redder than Nacho’s, fiddling with a phone.

“You let him go!” Priss yelled, vaulting over the passenger-side door.

Bystanders backed away as she charged in like a Pamplona bull.

She grabbed Adam’s forearm and squeezed. The muscle, like braided wire, didn’t give. “What are you doing? Can’t you see you’re choking him?” When he ignored her, she gave up on the arm, and grabbed Nacho’s shoulders instead and looked him in the eyes. “Stop fighting. You’re making it worse.”

“You’ll want to stay out of this.” Adam’s dark eyes were cool. “He’s a shoplifter. I’m calling the cops.” He hit a button on the phone and raised it to his ear.

“You. Let. Him. Go.” The steely, blood-tipped threat in her voice almost frightened her.

Adam let go.

Instinctively, her arms went around the boy’s shoulders. “He’s my brother.”

Nacho struggled in her embrace, then froze. So did Adam.

He hit a button and slowly lowered the phone. “He’s what?”

She stuck out her chest and tightened her grip on Nacho’s shoulders. Righteously indignant was a strong offense. “He’s my brother. He wouldn’t steal.”

God, please, he wouldn’t do that, would he?

She had to know. Her eyes traveled down to Nacho. Chin stuck out, lips a tight thin line, eyebrows matching commas of anger over eyes that...were larcenous.

Shit.

There was no doubt in her mind. He’d done it. A flush of heat spread up from her chest. Sweat popped at her hairline, but then freeze-dried in the chill rolling off her landlord.

“Really.” He dropped his phone into his pocket, then lifted the hem of Nacho’s shirt. He pulled out a magazine with a souped-up hot rod on the cover, garish flames painted on the hood. “You undoubtedly have a receipt for this, then.”

Nacho studied his sneakers. Priss squirmed inside as if she were the guilty party.

Apparently—and thankfully—public shaming wasn’t entertaining because the crowd broke up, wandering away in ones and twos.

“Look.” Priss swallowed, having no idea of what she’d say next. This very morning she’d rescued the kid from Social Services. Now he was facing juvie.

Two government institutions in one day? That has to be some kind of record.

Arguments, pleas and downright supplications whirled through her mind. She tested and discarded each in nanoseconds.

Adam glared at Nacho. Then at her. She could almost see him connecting dots that would lead to the holes in her story.

This was going to take a delicate blend of the truth and every bit of the manipulation she’d learned on the street. She relaxed her face into her “waif” look and raised her rounded eyes. “Could I talk to you for a second? Alone?”

“I’m not taking my eye off him, and no matter what you say, I’m calling the cops.”

“I understand.” She dug her fingers in the hollows next to Nacho’s collarbone. “You. Wait here. If you move—”

He scrunched his shoulders and winced. “I won’t. I promise.”

Adam’s huff made it clear what he thought of a criminal’s promises.

“Just over here.” She walked five steps, until she stood under the drugstore’s green awning.

Adam followed, keeping a wary eye on Nacho.

“I’ll pay you for the magazine. And you can keep it.”

“That’s not the point.”

“I know it isn’t.” She lowered her voice to a whisper, so Adam would have to lean in to hear. “But I just got him out of a group home today. His mom died—our mom died—two weeks ago.” She set her face in grieving lines, and looked at him from under her lashes. Tears? No, better not push it. “Just this once, could you give him a break? He’s only ten, and he’s been in that group home since the day we buried our mom. That’s bound to have messed him up, you know?”

Adam shook his head. “I’m sorry for your loss. Really. But I’ve had a rash of petty thefts, and if it weren’t for Sin, he’d have gotten away with it. I have to make an example of him.”

She touched his forearm. “I’ll vouch for him. I’ll make him come in through the back door...”

He jerked his arm away as if she’d pinched it. “He is not living here.”

His distaste sparked tinder—the dried remnants of every slight that lay scattered in her memory. The behind-the-hand giggles, the “slut spawn” taunts, the smug smile of a blonde girl with a pig nose—they all caught fire in a whoosh.