Something to Die For by Kaye Blue

Twenty

Angel

“Where is it?”Lucas asked once we’d put the compound several miles behind us.

“Where’s what?” I blinked, trying to catch up with his question.

“Your mother’s house?”

“Oh. Down 74 about twenty miles.”

What he was asking should have been obvious, but then again, was anything obvious anymore?

Like that kiss… What it meant.

I should have been thinking about the fact that I was out of that awful compound, that Lucas was still alive, but all I could think about was that kiss.

How soft it was, how needy.

How perfect.

Not a word I would think of to describe him, and not one I should use for anything between us.

But it was.

I told myself that was only because of the situation we were in, that everything was heightened.

That I couldn’t trust my reactions.

But despite those words, wise as they were, I knew it was more than that, knew that his kiss meant something, though I refused to allow myself to think about what.

Still, the thought didn’t recede, and though I tried to resist, I gave in, had no choice but to ask the question that had filled my mind.

“What was that?” I blurted.

The cab of the truck had been quiet, the highway around us eerily so.

This area was pretty sparsely populated, but by this time of morning, the main highway should have been filled with people on their daily commutes.

But it wasn’t.

Probably wouldn’t ever be again.

“What was what?” he asked.

I’d been looking out the window but turned to look at him, taking in his profile, strong jaw, the dark stubble on a cheek, lips that weren’t exactly full but were the only bit of softness in his otherwise chiseled face.

“Don’t play stupid, Mr. Crowe. It doesn’t suit you,” I said.

“We’re back to Mr. Crowe?”

“Answer the question,” I said, my voice lowering.

He kept his eyes on the road but then glanced at me for a moment and then quickly looked away.

“I’m not sorry,” he said.

“I didn’t ask if you were sorry. I asked you what that was.”

He shrugged, trying—and failing—to look nonchalant.

“I’ve been in prison for damn near seven years. I didn’t get out on bail after I was arrested, so more like eight, really. Eight years since I touched a woman, had one touch me, except stitch me up. Realized I could have died without ever touching one again. You were there, so it was convenient.”

I suspected he had added the last to insult me, but, crazy as it was, I wasn’t.

Not really.

I didn’t tell him that, didn’t say anything, but the warmth I felt spreading in the pit of my stomach said it all.

“But you hate people like me. Black people,” I clarified.

He shrugged. “It might look that way, and maybe I did once, but I don’t hate people like you, black people,” he said, mimicking me, “any more than I hate everyone else.”

“Is that your way of saying you’re reformed?”

He scoffed. “No. It’s my way of saying that years give a man time to think. The people I might have hated before didn’t put me in prison, and the people I might have hated before are the ones who got me out.”

“Oh-kay,” I said, not sure what else to say.

“Not eloquent enough for you, Angel?”

“Don’t be a smartass. I’m just trying to figure out what’s going on.”

“You and me both,” he breathed, sounding sincere.

I knew in the grand scheme of things, in the face of all that was confronting us, it didn’t matter.

But most of all, I knew I was glad he was with me.

Didn’t try to analyze that, knew I probably wouldn’t find a satisfactory explanation.

So I wouldn’t do like I always did, poke, prod, try to make myself understand.

It would just have to be.

“Turn off up here,” I said about fifteen minutes later.

He did as I said, and I looked at the land, the familiar calm coming over me.

My family had owned this land for a hundred years, and even though parcels had been sold off here and there, some taken by the state to build the highway, the twenty-acre homestead, the heart of the property as far as I was concerned, had always been ours.

“The house is up there,” I said.

Lucas was looking around, as was I.

Everything seemed in place, or mostly so.

I noticed the garden hadn’t been weeded, but I saw my mother’s car parked out front, looked over to the shed where she had put my father’s truck and the rest of his belongings, saw that it was still locked.

Lucas parked, and I got out of the car, practically sprinting toward the front door.

“Angel,” Lucas called, his voice low and urgent, but I ignored him, so relieved to be home, so anxious to see my mother.

Usually, she would have greeted me at the door, but there was no warm greeting, only a door that looked ominous in way it never had before.

Racing up the three wide stairs, I pulled open the screen and grabbed the doorknob, surprised that the door was partially open.

“Mama?”