Page 74 of Necessary Cruelty

I relax against the uncomfortable metal bench. “Then I guess I am, too.”

“Vin Cortland doesn’t take the bus,” she scoffs.

“Vin Cortland doesn’t leave his fiancée by herself in a bad part of town to take the fucking bus.” I watch the dip of her throat as she swallows hard. I’d laugh if this weren’t so serious. The word fiancée scares me too, babe. “He also isn’t a huge fan of talking about himself in the third person.”

“Your car is here,” she argues.

“And if it gets vandalized or stolen, I’m taking the cost to replace it out of your allowance.”

Her eyebrows go up as her expression turns stormy. “My allowance?”

“Look, a bunch of things are going to change.” I turn toward her on the bench, careful not to touch her. She reminds me of a spooked horse that is moments from kicking me in the face. “Behind closed doors, this is a business relationship, but it has to look real to anyone watching. I need the marriage to stand up to any challenges in court, and I refuse to let myself be embarrassed where the whole town can see it happen.”

“Not embarrassing you is definitely on the top of my list of priorities,” she replies sarcastically. “What does that entail exactly?”

“Moving out of the house that is falling down around your ears, for one.”

Her lips thin into a frown. “And what about Grandpa?”

“There’s a senior care home on the east side of town that would be a good fit for him.” I hurry with the next point, trying to decide if she’ll slap me when she hears it. “Another item on the agenda will be buying enough new clothes that you can burn everything you currently own.”

Her eyes narrow, but the hand I expect to fly for my face doesn’t move. “You’re trying to Pretty Woman me. That’s a little gross.”

“Richard Gere hired a prostitute half his age, and he didn’t even offer to marry her until she decided to leave him. Give me a little more credit than that.”

I can tell from the expression on her face that she didn’t expect me to get the reference.

A musing note enters her voice. “I could spend a thousand dollars on t-shirts and jeans, just to spite you.”

She has no idea what Giselle’s monthly credit card bills look like, but I let her have the minor victory. “That’s tough, but fair. Go crazy.”

Without her, there won’t be any money at all. She can buy out an entire Nordstrom’s for all I give a fuck. And as much as I hate her wardrobe, everyone else’s reaction is what has me concerned. People in this town can be cruel, and marrying me will paint a target on her back bigger than Cortland Manor. As much as I’ve tortured her over the years, I feel perversely unwilling to allow her to be the butt of anybody else’s jokes.

Her sigh is one of unwilling agreement. “How much do you think it’s going to cost for Zion to be in this diversion program?”

“Doesn’t matter,” I reply with a shrug, because it really doesn’t. “We’ll pay whatever it takes. The hard part is going to be convincing him to go. That’s on you.”

“I was already planning to go see him tomorrow at the jail. It takes a few days before they allow visitors.”

“We can go together. No more taking the bus like a single mom working minimum wage.”

She cuts her eyes at me, but a small smile teases her lips. “You know one of those gave birth to me, right?”

“Nobody’s perfect. Let’s go.”

I only realize belatedly just how many times I said we over the course of our conversation and how natural it seemed. The two of us have temporarily aligned in our goals, I already know that. But I didn’t anticipate how easy it would be to wrap our priorities up together with a little bow.

Zaya is mine, which makes her problems the same as my problems.

Hopefully, she doesn’t go running for the hills when the tide inevitably turns in the other direction.

I hold out my hand to her with every expectation she’ll refuse to take it. To my surprise, she does and allows me to pull her to a standing position. I don’t let go of her hand as we head toward the parking lot, and she doesn’t yank it away. We hold hands all the way back to my car, which feels nicer than it should.

This feels like the start of something, even if I’m not sure what that might be.

I’m so used to holding a knife to her throat that I never thought it might feel good to stand at her back.

When I drive Zaya home in the afternoon, we don’t do much talking outside of the barest pleasantries. She is practically as quiet as she was before I gave her voice back. Her fingers fidget nervously with the frayed hem of her shirt, avoiding my gaze when I glance over her.

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