Chapter Eight
Eight
Elsie
That was the darkness in his gaze. The turmoil that was brewing just below the surface.
He was hurting. I understood that. My parents had been ripped from me.
I’d not gotten a chance to tell them goodbye, or that I loved them, or that I was thankful to have them as my parents.
But I also hadn’t watched them suffer. I hadn’t endured standing by helplessly while their bodies were attacked.
He would get to say his goodbyes if the time came and his mother didn’t beat the disease.
But I wasn’t sure if that wasn’t more horrific.
Seeing her suffer and not being able to do anything to stop it would be a prolonged anguish.
He dropped his gaze back to the items he had pulled out of the fridge. “Would you like a sandwich?” he asked.
Not really.
“Would you like to be alone?” I wasn’t sure I wanted to be alone anymore though. Being around someone who was feeling the same ache inside while trying to manage life felt comforting. Not so lost or abandoned.
He lifted his gaze again. “I don’t think so.”
Did he feel that too? The relief almost easing slightly on the tight grip that seemed to have my chest at all times.
“Okay, then, yes, I’d like a sandwich. But you need bread,” I replied.
The corner of his lips quirked. “The pantry. I’ll get it.”
I watched him walk over to a door and open it, then disappear inside. Letting out a deep breath, I went to stand on the other side of the counter. He had gotten out a lot of items, but not any pickles.
“White, wheat, multigrain, croissants? What’s your poison?” he called out.
“White,” I replied. “Thank you.”
He emerged, carrying two brown bags in his hands. “I like white, too, but there was also sourdough. The bakery that Wilma gets it from makes killer sourdough.”
I wasn’t sure, but I thought Wilma may be the housekeeper/cook. I’d heard her mentioned at breakfast, but I had yet to see her. She was probably lost in one of the many rooms she had to clean.
He dropped both loaves onto the counter. “You need anything else? I think there is some ham in there if you don’t like turkey.”
“Um, do you have pickles?” I asked him.
“Probably five different kinds. What do you want?”
“Dill, please,” I replied. “The ones cut up in little round slices if you have those.”
He grinned, then opened the door to the fridge again and scanned the shelf before pulling out a jar. “Got ’em,” he said, setting it on the counter.
“Thanks.”
He handed me a knife. “I’ll let you slice your bread. Not sure how thin or thick you like it.”
I took it and the loaf he pushed toward me. While I took out the bread, my stomach rumbled a little. I’d barely eaten today, and suddenly, I was feeling hunger. Once I had my two slices, Forge held out his hand to take the knife back.
The cheese was in a fancy container, and I reached to take the lid off, then get two pieces. A fork appeared in front of me.
“For your pickle,” Forge said.
Oh, I didn’t need just one pickle. Twisting the lid off the jar, I stabbed several of them, then let the juice drip back inside before placing them on one slice of my bread.
The cheese was on the other. Needing a few more, I went back in to get another forkful.
I could feel Forge’s gaze on me as I began to line up the pickles until they covered the bread. My cheeks felt warm.
When I was finished, I finally glanced up at him. His brows were raised as he stared at my sandwich, then at me.
“You sure you got enough pickles on that incredibly weird sandwich?”
An unexpected giggle bubbled out of me. It was short though from sheer surprise that I’d laughed. I hadn’t been sure I would ever smile again.
“I like pickles.”
He chuckled this time. “No shit. I’m just glad you didn’t ask for mayo, or I’d have had to leave the room.”
Scrunching my nose, I shook my head. “Ew. No.”
He nodded. “We agree on something.”
Picking up my plate, I moved it down a little before pulling out a stool and having a seat.
“Drink preference? We have everything. You can check out the fridge and pantry if you aren’t sure.”
Standing back up, I went to get a drink. He didn’t have to serve me. I already knew I wanted a water.
“If you need something stronger, we’ve got just about every wine, whiskey, vodka, and cocktail shit, but I don’t know how to make one.”
“Water is good,” I told him.
“You sure? The whiskey is better.”
I smiled. Again.
“I don’t think I like whiskey,” I told him. I’d only tried it in Coke.
“Please, for the love of God, don’t tell Than or Ransom that. They’ll take it as their mission to change your mind.”
Why would they care?
“They’re big supporters of it then?”
“Their family owns a distillery. It’s in the Carvers’ blood to make whiskey. They’ve been doing it for generations. Back when it was bootlegging and illegal.”
That made sense. Mafias had been a thing back then. I’d thought they had gone away, but apparently not. They’d just evolved.
“Is that how they got involved in the Mafia?” I asked him.
He stilled, and his eyes shot back up to me from the sandwich he’d been focused on building. “What do you know?” His words weren’t harsh, but they weren’t warm and friendly.
Shit. Why hadn’t Calvin told me it was a secret?
“I, uh … I don’t. I mean, Calvin told me you were in the Southern Mafia. That was why I was safe here. I—he didn’t really know much else. He—he didn’t elaborate.” I swallowed nervously. “Was I not supposed to know?”
His shoulders eased, and he sighed. “I guess it’s fine. You’re living here. You might as well know. Just isn’t something that is shared. But you won’t be going anywhere to share it.”
“I won’t tell anyone!” I assured him. “Even when I’m gone. I … appreciate that I get to stay here. I wouldn’t do that.”
He smirked. “You can relax. Just don’t mention it to any of the others. Your knowing and all.”
He didn’t have to worry about that. I would never bring it up again.
“Hey! You’re making me a snack!” a male voice called out.
Looking over my shoulder, I saw the blond surfer-looking guy I’d met last night, but didn’t remember his name. I’d met a lot of them last night, and I hadn’t been in the frame of mind to let any of it stick.
“Yeah, right. Make your own fucking sandwich,” Forge replied.
The blond winked at me. “Hello, beautiful,” he drawled. “How’s this bunch treating you?”
He hadn’t been as flirty last night, although I caught him looking at me several times. Calvin had even whispered to me to just ignore him. He seemed friendlier than the others though.
“Good,” I replied, not sure how to respond to that question.
“I hope he at least made you a snack,” he said, making his way over to pull out the stool beside me and sit down.
“She made her own. Good thing because it’s fucking strange.”
My eyes shot over to Forge, who flashed me a teasing grin before picking up his sandwich and taking a bite. There it was again. The smile. I was smiling.
“Strange?” the blond asked and reached over to open it up and pick inside.
“Jesus, Gathe, get your grubby-ass hands off her food.”
Gathe. That’s right. I remembered it now. Gathe Bowen. And he had a brother that he lived with, but I couldn’t think of his name. I hadn’t met him yet.
“Pickles and cheese?” he asked, then chuckled. “I might try that.”
I shrugged. “It is the only sandwich I will eat. My mom …” I paused as a pang hit my chest at the mention of her. “She, uh …” Whew, that hurt. “She used to make me these for lunch every day. I didn’t like the school cafeteria food.”
My eyes shifted from Gathe to Forge. His gaze was locked on me, and there was understanding there. He got it. He knew it was hard to talk about. I hoped he never had to talk about his mother in past tense.
“My mom made my lunch, too, because the cafeteria meals weren’t enough. I ate both,” Forge told me.
“Yeah, well, my mom wasn’t one to pack lunches. I just got two lunch trays,” Gathe replied. “And most of the time, I was with Dad, and fuck knows his ass didn’t make us lunches.”
The ease came in slowly, but I could take a deep breath again. They were making it easier. Hearing them talk, not seeing pity in their gazes, it helped. I didn’t want that. It didn’t make the truth any better.
“Slide me the bread, pickles, and cheese,” Gathe told Forge.
Forge rolled his eyes, but he shoved the items his way.
“All right, beautiful, let’s try out your creation,” Gathe replied and opened the pickle jar.
I looked from it back up to Forge, who was eating and watching me. I thought I might possibly make a real friend here. Being around him was nice. That realization was one I hadn’t seen coming.