Price of a Kiss Page 3

  I’d call that progress.

  The weather had warmed considerably since I’d left my above-the-garage apartment that morning. But, wow, was Florida hot and muggy in August, or what? I was so tempted to pull my hair up into ponytail to catch a little breeze that my fingers actually ached with the urge to start gathering stray strands.

  Except the scar on the back of my neck was still pretty fresh—only four months old. Every time I checked a reflection of it in my hand mirror, the wound looked dark and ugly. So ponytails were completely out of the question. If too many people saw it and asked questions, I might get caught in one of my lies, and the truth would come out. That couldn’t happen. Ever. So I continued to hide it every day by wearing my hair down.

  It was almost four in the afternoon when I returned to my new home.

  Aunt Mads and Uncle Shaw had been amazing to let me stay there. I had been worried, what with Jeremy’s nasty death threat hanging over my head, that everyone would push me away as if I had the plague. I was dangerous to be around. But the Mercers had taken me in when I’d needed them the most. Plus I didn’t have to pay rent, a water bill, electric bill, or heating and air. Life—in that regard—was pretty spectacular.

  My book bag weighed down one shoulder as I trooped up the steps outside my aunt and uncle’s four-bay garage. When I reached the top landing, I had to swing the bag’s strap around so I could fish out my apartment key I had tucked away in the front pocket.

  Finding it exactly where I’d zipped it this morning, I pulled my key ring free, squinting as the brass surface glinted in the bright daylight, momentarily blinding me until I fit it into the lock and twisted the door open.

  As soon as I stepped inside, I jerked to a frozen halt.

  The newspaper I’d bought this weekend to search for a couple more part-time jobs was no longer sitting on the breakfast table, folded nice and neat where I’d left it this morning. The pages were opened and strewn across the floor while one sheet draped half off the table.

  Someone had been in my apartment.

  Fear paralyzed me in surreal waves. I’d trained for this, trained all summer with Eva and Aunt Mads at a self-defense class. And in none of my courses had the instructor said to stand frozen like a stupid nincompoop when the threat of danger arose.

  Finally, I shook my head, denying it. He couldn’t have found me. Not yet. He was still halfway across the country with no idea of who or where I was.

  Wasn’t he?

  I tried to back out of the apartment; I told myself to run. But my sparkly ballet flats wouldn’t budge. I just stood there, too terrified to move, or scream, or even think.

  Then the window-unit air conditioner kicked on. The sudden blast of frigid air caused the last bit of newspaper to soar off the table and flutter across the room until it floated down, adding to the already cluttered mess on the floor.

  A relieved sob screamed from my lungs as I covered my mouth and wilted against the doorframe.

  Not an intruder. It had only been the stupid, bleeping air conditioner. And, of course, the A/C hadn’t been running this morning when I’d left—it hadn’t been warm enough to kick on yet—so I wouldn’t have known it would blow the newspaper onto the floor.

  Whew.

  But seriously, talk about cardiac city.

  Limp from the sudden surge of blood through my veins and then the just-as-sudden liberation, I staggered into the apartment. After slamming the door, I locked and bolted it. Then I collapsed onto the couch in a drained, hot mess.

  I lay there ten seconds, trying to fight off the overdose of adrenaline in my system. But I felt eyes watching me from every corner, so I leapt to my feet and decided it wouldn’t hurt to run a quick check around the apartment to make sure no one was lurking about.

  After what I had survived, it was smart to stay paranoid.

  The newspaper scare left me rattled. Trying to do homework was an impossibility, so I spent some time writing in my notebook and signing my new name on a sheet of paper.

  Mom had instructed me to do this in an attempt to help me get used to it. “When I was newly married, I used my maiden name more than I didn’t for those first five years. It wasn’t until I had to start signing it all the time that I finally adjusted.”

  Well, I hadn’t gotten married as she had in order to get a new name, and I didn’t have five years to acclimate myself to being Reese Randall. Since I’d legally changed it to escape a psycho stalker ex-boyfriend, I needed to have my shit together a bit more immediately.

  I filled two pages and tried about fifty different signature styles. I’d just decided I could have heaps more fun signing the R in Reese than the boring ol’ T I’d had before, when my cell phone rang.

  The number that appeared on the screen wasn’t programmed into my address book. I was instantly cautious. But I’d applied for a few job openings on Saturday, so—keeping my voice low and hard to distinguish—I answered in the hopes someone was getting back to me about employment.

  And what do you know, someone was!

  My work-study at the college library only covered ten hours a week. That was barely latte money. With Mom and Dad paying my car payment and insurance, plus sending me a monthly gas allowance, I was okay there. It was food and everything else I had to worry about. And honestly, after my first grocery-shopping venture with E. this summer, I was scandalized by how much food actually cost. I was so never going to whine again over how my mom had never bought my favorite brand of cereal and OJ. Name brands were utterly overrated. Except when it came to clothes. Or shoes. Or bacon.

  Okay, okay, I loved all my name brands. Why, oh, why did they have to be so stinking expensive?

  To say the least, a ten-hour-a-week job at minimum wage didn’t sound as if it would cover my lavish preferences, especially like an emergency shopping spree or trip to a hair stylist, both of which Eva and I had done just last week. Hey, I couldn’t help it if my cousin was a spoiled rich girl who needed to part with her cash frequently or she might become physically ill, and she felt the need to drag me along to every boutique and shopping mall she patronized.

  I had to be a good, supportive friend and go with her, didn’t I?

  Well, I went with her anyway.

  So, yeah, I was thrilled to hear from Dawn Arnosta. A single mother with a twelve-year-old daughter, she had one full-time day job at a glass factory. But she also worked every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday evening as a waitress at an all-night café. With her last evening babysitter leaving for Gainesville to attend the University of Florida, that left a big fat opening…for me, I hoped.

  I got some good vibes off Mrs. Arnosta, and I know I impressed her with my credentials.

  “I know CPR and have first aid training, plus I used to babysit a special needs boy with autism when I was in high school. I also worked as a lifeguard back home at our city pool for one summer, so if you have a pool, I could totally handle that.”

  Oh, how I could handle that.

  Please, please, have a pool.

  She didn’t have a pool, but that was okay, because she said, “Well, you certainly sound more qualified than any of the other applicants we’ve had. Can you start Wednesday?”

  My heart thumped hard and happy in my chest. Fisting my hand, I mouthed the word, “Score!” while aloud, I remained much more professional. “Sure. Whenever you need me.”

  And so I had a second job for the semester. I was super psyched about it…until I actually arrived at the Arnosta house.

  CHAPTER THREE

  I showed up thirty-five minutes early on Wednesday. Dawn, as Mrs. Arnosta insisted I call her, asked me to arrive half an hour before my usual time because she needed to give me instructions before she left for work. I wasn’t sure how many instructions I needed for a twelve-year-old, but I guess I was about to find out.

  She lived less than ten minutes away from the Mercers, which would help a lot during the winter in case the weather got nasty and road conditions were—

  Wai
t. What was I saying? This was Florida. I was no longer in the Midwest. A nasty winter here was probably a bracing forty degrees with a slight breeze.

  Okay, so scratch that last part.

  The short drive would…help me save a lot on gas money. Yeah.

  The neighborhood was nice, with professionally tended lawns and huge, beautiful houses lining wide, well-paved streets. I began to get excited, thinking I’d get to chill on extra-long leather sofas and watch late-night shows on large-screen televisions while I snacked on gourmet popcorn after my ward went to sleep. But then I parked in front of the correct address, and my hopes crashed. Kaput. Suddenly, I remembered Dawn was a single mother who had to work a second job to support her family. No extra-long leather sofas for her. Or me.

  Her place was obviously owned by her neighbor to the right because the style of architecture plus the blue and white color schemes of both places matched. I deduced that her house must be an old guest cottage the owner had turned into a rental.

  Hooking the strap of my knock-off Prada purse over my shoulder, I locked my car and trudged up the sidewalk to the front door. Mr. Landlord to the right was a total ass. His own house was freshly painted, while the worn siding on his guest cottage had begun to peel in places, and the lawn sported brown patches of dead grass.

  I’d just leaped over a deep chasm a giant might consider a small crack in the sidewalk when the front door opened. A thirty-eight-year-old woman—if my internal age radar was reading her correctly—peered out at me. Willow slim, she’d tied her dark hair up into a perky ponytail.

  I know, I know. My own hair was bawling with jealousy to do the same. Someday, I swore, I’d get to wear my hair up again.

  Despite the youthful locks, her eyes looked tired and were double ringed with fatigue, while her shoulders stooped as if taking on the weight of the world. But she had a friendly smile, so I instantly liked her and felt bad for her in equal measures. She just looked so exhausted and worn down.

  “Reese?” she asked.

  I nodded and made my own guess. “Mrs. Arnosta?”

  “Oh, it’s just Dawn.” Hearing my address made her wince with a pained expression, but she stepped aside and opened the door wide to let me in.

  Her last name must give her fits or maybe memories of a bad spouse. This was the second time she’d asked me to use her first name…a little too forcefully.

  “Right.” I cringed. “Sorry.” I definitely wouldn’t make that mistake again.

  With a forgiving nod, she graciously ushered me into the house. For some reason, I instantly smelled sickness. I breathed it in deeply, reminded of one of my childhood friends from home who’d had a little brother with leukemia. There had always been this sterile scent of medicine in the air whenever I had visited. That same pharmaceutical bouquet hung heavy in Dawn’s front room, telling me someone living here was not one hundred percent healthy.

  Glancing at her, I checked her over, wondering if she was okay. Did she have cancer? That would definitely account for the weary, threadbare look about her.

  “Sarah’s back here,” she said, sending me an almost guilty glance before motioning me to follow as she started down a long, dark, narrow hall.

  As we approached the lighted room at the end, I heard a voice saying, “Hey, I know you wanted to go to that slumber party your classmates didn’t invite you to tonight, but don’t sweat it, okay. I bet you’re not missing anything fun at all. I mean, what kind of—”

  “Mason!” Dawn interrupted the speaker, sounding surprised as she entered the kitchen just ahead of me. “There you are. I didn’t realize you were still home. But since you’re here, the new evening sitter just arrived, and I’d like you to meet her.”

  Hearing that name, I stumbled and tripped over my own feet before bumping into the wall and jostling a hanging framed portrait of a young Mason.

  Yes, a young Mason, as in Hotness from Waterford County Community College, Mason Lowe.

  I gawked at the face in that photograph—though, aww, he’d even been a cutie patootie when he’d been missing his two front teeth—and suddenly, I didn’t want to enter the kitchen. Thinking quickly, I tried to concoct a plan to not exit the hallway. But honestly, there was no way to avoid it, unless I wanted to abandon this babysitting gig altogether. Which just seemed totally irresponsible and not at all like me.

  “Reese?” Dawn asked, her voice full of concern as she appeared in the opening of the hallway. “Are you okay?”

  No, not really. But I nodded and stepped into the room, smoothing down my shirt as I went, so I hopefully wouldn’t look like a total dork. But when my gaze latched onto a pair of familiar gray eyes, I experienced a mad case of word vomit. “I’m fine. Sorry about that. I’m just the queen of clumsy.” And a total dork.

  “Reese,” Dawn said again, this time with amusement in her eyes. “This is my son, Mason. He works most evenings at the Country Club, so you may or may not see him coming and going whenever you’re here. Mason, this is Reese Randall.”

  Mason gaped at me with the most horrified expression I think I’ve ever seen. A second later, he shook his head and cleared his throat before glancing away and distractedly mumbling, “Hey.”

  “H-hi,” I croaked.

  But what the hell? Hotness was Dawn Arnosta’s son? That couldn’t be. They didn’t have the same last name.

  Even though I knew this was all a big, awful coincidence, I felt tricked.

  With him decked out in his work uniform—a pale blue polo shirt with an oval logo for the Waterford County Country Club over his left pec and Khaki pants to match—I was suddenly reminded of what Eva had said about him being a gigolo.

  Holy crap, she hadn’t been lying about the Country Club thing; what if she hadn’t been lying about—

  My eyes grew round. And his narrowed as he stared back, his lips tightening as if he could read my mind.

  “…Mason just started taking classes at the community college this semester too,” Dawn was telling me. “Maybe you two will see each other there.”

  “Yeah,” I murmured, half out of it as I smiled tightly at the mother before turning back to the son. “I…I think I might’ve seen you around campus already.”

  “You dumped a bag full of books on my feet before my calculus class on Monday,” he reminded me dryly.

  “Right,” I agreed slowly before trilling out a guilty little laugh. “That was you, wasn’t it? Yeah, sorry about that…again.”

  His stare was borderline hostile, telling me I didn’t impress him in the least. But it still held a powerful punch.

  Whenever he’d glanced at Eva on that first day of classes, it was as if he’d stared straight through her. With me, it was the complete opposite.

  He saw me. He just didn’t approve of what he saw, for some unknown reason.

  “Oh, so you two have already met, then.” Dawn seemed pleased to learn this. “That’s great.”

  I sent her a horrified glance to let her know she was crazy. Mason and I had certainly never “met” before. But she was too busy pointing to something he was blocking with his body like some kind of protective papa bear.

  “I guess that leaves one introduction. Reese, this is Sarah.” Taking Mason’s elbow, Dawn manually dragged his resisting body aside to reveal the little girl sitting in a wheelchair behind him.

  Yeah, I said wheelchair. Sarah, the twelve-year-old I was supposed to babysit, sat in a wheelchair.

  This, I had not expected.

  Trying not to show my shock, I clasped my hands together and gave the girl such a huge smile it stretched my lips to unbelievable proportions. “Hi, Sarah. I’m so happy to meet you,” I said aloud when internally, I screamed, Oh, my God. Oh, my God. Why didn’t Dawn mention this in the phone interview?

  In response, Sarah flailed her head and arms, limbs and neck spasms floundering her out of control as her torso went limp and floppy. A low, garbled sound, like a sick cow on drugs, moaned its way from her throat.

  I’m not to
o sure, but I think she said, “Hello.”

  I freaked.

  How the hell was I supposed to watch a special needs child in a wheelchair? I wasn’t trained for this. Artie, the autistic boy I’d watched once or twice two years ago, had had such a mild case that sometimes I’d forgotten he was different at all. But there would be no forgetting it with Sarah. I didn’t know the first thing about…well, whatever it was she had.

  “Sarah, this is Reese.” Dawn crouched next to her and set her hand gently on the girl’s shoulder. “She’s going to stay with you in the evenings now that Ashley’s gone.”

  I smiled encouragingly at Sarah, hoping she understood I was a good guy, hoping she understood anything.

  Sarah moaned out another inarticulate sound that didn’t give my hope a lot of room to breathe.

  Damn it. Why had Dawn kept this a secret?

  Mason stiffened. Don’t ask me how I knew that, but I felt a blast of angry chill attack me from his direction, so I glanced over. He glared with so much pent-up anger I actually shrank back. But the meaning in his glower was clear. If I did anything to hurt his little sister, he would make me regret it.

  I was tempted to hold my thumbs up in a message-received signal but restrained myself. Bad timing and all that.

  “Sarah has CP,” Dawn told me.

  “Oh.” I nodded as if I knew what that meant and unconsciously turned Mason’s way with a questioning wrinkle in my brows.

  “That’s short for cerebral palsy,” he said, his voice damn near a challenge, daring me to run screaming from the house.

  Except I wasn’t really the running and screaming type.

  Again, I nodded as if I totally understood and had no problem with it. Really, though, what the hell was cerebral palsy? I’d heard the term plenty of times but had no idea what it actually entailed.

  “It’s a muscle disorder,” Dawn answered my unspoken question. “Sarah was born premature, and it injured the motor part of her brain, affecting the muscles in her entire body, from her limbs to trunk to even her tongue and eye muscles. It takes an extreme effort for her just to talk, or chew, or even blink.”