Rita
I do my best to keep pace with him, but Scar pushes all my buttons.
We jog through downtown, heading toward the river. “All right, questions time,” he says as the sun rises over the skyline.
He woke me up early. Three sharp knocks on my door. It scared the crap out of me-yanked me right from sleep-and I nearly rolled out of the unfamiliar bed.
Still getting used to my new situation.
When I finally crawled into the hallway, heart racing, in nothing but a pair of shorts and a practically see-through tank top, I stared at Scar, pretty sure the place was on fire.
No reasonable, rational human being would pound on someone’s door that early otherwise.
But he only stared at me with that intense glare of his. Like I was the one that woke him up or something. Eyes roaming down to my chest.
Only to find out that he woke me for a predawn jog. “I expect you dressed and ready in ten,” he said before storming off again.
The fucking prick.
Yet here I am, jogging away.
“Go ahead,” I say, so clearly struggling. He slows a touch, which kind of pisses me off and makes me feel weak, but god, I really need a break.
“Favorite movie.”
“Sandlot.”
“Favorite song.”
“Taylor Swift.” He gives me a look. I tilt my chin up, daring him to call me out for being a Swiftie. “All of them. Next.”
He sighs. “Favorite food.”
“Pizza. Mexican. All of it. Next.”
He laughs, shaking his head. “You can’t like all the food. There has to be something you don’t like.”
I consider that. “I was a vegetarian for like a year in college, but I got drunk with Cait one time and ate a plate of bacon at a diner at three in the morning. Quit being vegetarian after that. But I guess I don’t like mushrooms, although I’ll eat them if they’re in something.”
“Bacon made you go back to eating meat?”
“I know, it’s awful, but a true story.”
“I’m surprised, honestly, I expected you to have a food thing.”
I’m not sure what that’s supposed to mean and decide to let it go. “Let me guess. You’re a picky eater.”
“No, not particularly. I don’t like raw onions, but I’ll also eat them if they’re in a dish. I don’t like overcooked steak. I despise mild hot sauce. What’s the point of hot sauce if it’s not hot?”
I grin at him. “Great point. Might as well call it watery ketchup at that point.”
“Glad we agree on something.” He clears his throat. “Favorite TV show.”
“Parks and Recreation.”
“How old are you again?” he asks, eyebrows raising. “That show was on TV when I was in college.”
“I was a very advanced child.”
“God, don’t remind me about how young you are.”
“Don’t like that you’re married to a girl ten years your junior? What do they call that, robbing the cradle?”
His nose wrinkles with disgust. “If you start calling me daddy, I swear I’ll throw you in the water.”
“Oh, Daddy, don’t get mad at me.” I bat my eyelashes as a thrill runs down my spine. He’s staring at me like he wants to do something very filthy right now. Something that doesn’t involve tossing me into the river.
“Back to work,” he says, practically growling. “Where did you go to high school?”
I give him the basic rundown: two boring parents, born outside of Austin, moved to Dallas, went to a boring school, had boring friends, went to the University of Pennsylvania, parents moved to Florida, they turned into sex freaks (“You don’t take after them?” he asks, grinning, and I only give him a dirty look.), and here I am today. Drowning in debt, married to my boss.
“There’s something apt about them going to Florida to get into swinging,” he says pensively as our pace slows.
Thank god. I’m drenched in sweat. He keeps glancing at my legs and I think he likes the whole glistening-with-effort look, which I’ll keep in mind. “Right? It’s a weird state. Now it’s your turn. Start from the beginning.”
“My childhood isn’t very interesting. It’s like yours. Two boring parents. My father was a drunk, but not an abusive one, thankfully. My mother was a cold, distant woman, but she loved me. I was an only child.”
“Me too,” I say. “Ever wonder what life would’ve been like with a sibling?”
“Not really, no. I would’ve gotten even less attention. I already didn’t get much.” He tilts his head to the side. “Do you miss them? Your parents, I mean.”
“Sometimes,” I admit. “They’re selfish assholes though. Every time I think my mom’s coming around and finally starting to see just how fucked up she’s been, she disappoints me. I’m learning not to care.”
“That’s a shame,” he says softly. “That’s not the lesson you want to learn from your own family.”
I shrug, but don’t reply. Emotions swirl in me for some reason. I don’t know what I can say. My mother was a good mom growing up, but she clearly never wanted a kid and only married my dad because of me. Now they’re finding themselves together, which is great for them, but they’ve left me behind. It’s like I’m old enough to take care of myself, so now they don’t give a damn about me anymore. I clear my throat, straightening my spine. “Enough of my sad story. Your turn. Best friends?”
“Four of them.” He cocks his head at the look I give him. “Surprised?”
“Honestly, yes. You don’t strike me as the friend type.”
“I was part of a club in college. The Atlas Organization. We’re still very close.”
“Sounds like you sacrificed chickens to the dark lord Baal. What college?”
“Blackwoods.”
I whistle, eyebrows raising. “Impressive. How’d you manage that?”
“Luck. And good grades.”
“I went to dinky old University of Pennsylvania. That’s like scraps compared to Blackwoods.”
“We can’t all be geniuses, Rita.”
I nudge him with my elbow. He grins in return as a strange comradery forms between us. There are strange commonalities-single child, normal-seeming parents, but some trauma in our past. He seems more interested in learning about me, which suggests he’s got something to hide, or at least something he doesn’t want to talk about. It’s curious; I’m tempted to press him. I find myself in the awkward position of wanting to know every detail about my closed-lipped husband.