Chapter Two
Eliana
Nerves were normal. Healthy, even. That’s what I told myself while I stood in front of my mirror, smoothing down the sleeves of the colorful sweater I’d chosen for my interview for the fourth time.
It was one of my favorites because it was comfortable, cheerful, and not too serious.
Jeans, sneakers, hair up in a loose bun.
The perfect outfit that said I took myself and my job seriously, but not too seriously.
Still, despite knowing I was perfect for the role, my stomach did backflips.
I woke up before sunrise to prepare for the interview and did a light stretch to clear my mind.
The still quiet inside my apartment and the deliberate motions of stretching were just what I needed to get rid of some of the anxiety before it got the better of me.
I wanted this job more than I let myself acknowledge until this morning.
This interview was more than a paycheck, it was an opportunity to do something that mattered while I worked on my dissertation.
I was passionate about the topic, using art therapy to treat selective mutism, and my mentor Dr. Denise Saunders thought this job would be the perfect fit to unofficially put my theory into practice.
I would hopefully get to do some good while I tested, refined, and connected with my charge.
If I got the job with the Kerris family, it would be a nice distraction from researching, writing, and spending time alone.
So, let’s get this job. You can do it.
The mantra went through my head as I stepped from my little sedan and looked up at the three-bedroom ranch house tucked behind a pale blue fence on a quiet street.
I’d arrived ten minutes early for the nine o’clock interview.
Just enough time to straighten my clothes, calm my racing heart, and go over my answers before meeting the family.
I grabbed my bag of goodies, took a deep breath, and let it out as I walked the stone steps to the front door. I knocked twice and waited.
I didn’t have to wait long before the door swung open and there he was.
The person who answered—who I assumed was Mr. Kerris—was a mountain of a man, carved from concrete.
He was tall, broad, and tattooed, radiating something that felt dangerous.
His dark hair wasn’t in any discernible style and his eyes bored into me with the intensity of a man who took nothing lightly.
The faint scar that trailed from his left temple to his jaw only enhanced the sense of danger.
And curiosity.
But that scowl? It was intimidating as hell.
“You’re late,” he muttered instead of offering a polite, professional greeting.
I glanced down at my phone before shoving it into my back pocket. “The interview was scheduled for nine, so I’m actually early.”
He crossed his arms, and the muscles stretched out of the fabric of his black t-shirt.
“I changed it to eight forty-five. If you can’t follow simple instructions this won’t work.
” His jaw was clenched tight, his expression deadly serious but there was just the tiniest hint of vulnerability in those eyes that almost made me want to forget that he was being an ass.
Almost. I snapped my mouth shut to lockdown the smartass comment on the tip of my lips. “Then I apologize for the miscommunication. We should be clearer about that going forward. If we go forward.” I smiled, sticking out my hand. “Let’s start over, I’m Eliana Moreno.”
He stared at my hand like it was a foreign object, before finally taking it. His grip was firm, too firm, and brief. “Sledge.”
What the hell kind of name was Sledge? I didn’t know and I didn’t ask. He looked like he could knock down a wall with one solid swing. “Come in,” he said in a flat tone as he stepped back.
I stepped inside, ignoring the fresh, woody scent that wafted from his still damp skin in favor of taking in the details.
A large leather jacket hung beside a small pink jacket right beside the door.
The house itself was clean and far too masculine for a place that contained a little girl.
The furniture was neat, but the place was…
incredibly utilitarian and lacking any signs of personal details.
There was a large pink and purple bin in the corner overflowing with toys.
“Homey,” I said, more to myself than the quiet giant who led me into the living room.
He grunted in response and that was all.
That’s when my gaze landed on the one personal touch in the whole damn room, a photo of Mr. Kerris—Sledge and a bunch of other men with small kids perched on their shoulders.
The photo was adorable, big, tattooed men wearing huge smiles while they were on daddy duty, but it was the finer details that gave me pause.
The leather vests. The patches. The uniformity of it all.
Sledge was a biker.
My gut tightened at the idea that I’d be working for a criminal. A gangster no different than the men who’d killed my brother. They were rough and tough, lawless and violent, acting without any regard for the innocent people who just tried to survive in this world.
Don’t judge, I reminded myself. You don’t know him. You don’t know this world.
His voice snapped me out of thoughts and my doubts. “Zoya doesn’t need to be head -shrinked.”
I whirled around to face him. “Head-shrinked? That’s not a thing.”
Sledge arched a brow. “Pretty sure it is.”
I shook my head and sighed at the seemingly ever-present scowl he seemed to prefer. “I’m here to help her, not label her or whatever else you’re afraid of.”
“I’m not afraid of a damn thing,” he said, his voice low and rough like gravel.
Sure, big guy. I bit back a smile. “Okay, then. Good to know. I’m not here to shrink anyone’s head. Just help. That’s all.”
He grunted. Which I decided was probably his grumpy version of ‘fine’.
“So what exactly do you need from me?” I asked.
“Zoya’s latest babysitter fell and broke her leg and wrist. She’s gonna be out for a while.”
I nodded. “I’m sorry to hear that. How old is Zoya?” I was more interested in the little girl than the circumstances that brought me here. Dr. Saunders had told me some of the details, as much as she professionally could.
“Seven.”
“And she doesn’t speak?”
His eyes narrowed slightly as if he thought I was judging him. “She’s a smart girl, just… shit…” he paused. “She didn’t have the best start in life. I want to make everything right.”
I caught the protectiveness in his tone. It softened something inside me. “Lack of speech doesn’t necessarily mean that a child has a learning disability,” I said. I meant it, I probably knew better than most about the effects childhood trauma could have.
Sledge didn’t respond to any of that, he just crossed his arms again. “You’d be taking care of her during the day while I’m working. Dinner at six. Bed at eight. No exceptions.”
“Okay.” It seemed very regimented for someone who obviously felt he’d lost control at some point, but I kept that to myself.
He must have seen the expression on my face, because he added, “She needs routine, her early life was lacking in it.”
I thought back to the case file I’d been given. There really wasn’t much at all in it. Only that Zoya had been seen by numerous speech therapists, but none of them had managed to make a breakthrough with the little girl,
“Does she attend school?” I asked.
There was another suspicious look. “It didn’t work out. The last therapist we saw said it was making her anxiety worse. We’re gonna try again in the fall. She sometimes talks to me, but not to strangers.” His tone was defensive.
“Sometimes a traumatized child feels safer in the home environment,” I said.
He studied me for a long minute. If I wasn’t mistaken, I was sure he flinched when I said ‘traumatized’. But he ignored my words and just muttered, “You see anything suspicious, you tell me immediately.”
My brow furrowed. “Suspicious like what?”
“Anything,” he said. “You’ll know.”
I almost laughed. There was something militaristic in his bearing. He clearly cared for his daughter, but it sounded like he ran his home like a bootcamp. “Got it. Report anything suspicious. Anything else?”
His jaw ticked but he gave a short nod. “Don’t snoop through my shit and don’t discipline Zoya. That’s my job. Yours is to keep her safe during the day and maybe teach her some shit. Your resume said you’re into school, right?”
“Child development and psychology, yes. I am not a teacher.” It was a common mistake, one I wouldn’t quibble on except for his bad attitude.
He waved a massive hand in the air. “You understand the rules?”
I folded my arms over my chest, nodding slowly. “Yeah, I understand. I have a few rules too.”
He blinked, his brows shooting up into his hairline. “You have rules?” The question came out so incredulous it was hard not to be offended.
“I do.” I met his gaze head on. “You treat me with respect, and you don’t yell at Zoya in front of me, for any reason. Let me do my job without micromanaging as long as Zoya is safe. And if you want me to report suspicious activity, you need to define what that means more clearly.”
One dark brow arched and maybe it was just me, but I was pretty sure his eyes grew darker. “You’ve got a mouth on you.”
“That’s what my mami tells me. I’m here to help Zoya, Mr. Kerris, so anything that will help me get to know her and your concerns is essential. It’s not just me being nosy.”
Something flickered in his eyes, possibly amusement or maybe annoyance, but his lips twitched, just enough to notice but it was gone before I could confirm.
“Okay, let’s meet Zoya,” he said finally, like he was issuing a challenge. “See how you get along.” I knew a challenge when I heard one.
Challenge accepted.