Page 8 of Cain
She licks her lips. “Well… actually…” She looks at Paula.
My sister straightens. “Kyle says…”
Deputy Kyle Brewer works for the Marion County Sheriff’s Office and is Paula’s boyfriend.
“She worked for a nightclub there,” Paula continues.
Nightclub? I didn’t see that on her application.
“Anyway,” Melody interjects, “She worked for some guy called Jamie Da Silva. She stole money from him and then disappeared. Apparently, this Jamie guy was her boyfriend. He talked to Kyle.”
My heart is hammering so hard, it’s not funny.
I’m a grown man—eight years older than Faith—and I’ll admit that age gap has stirred up more than a little guilt. I’ve never done well with younger women; most of the time, they come off as shallow to me. Hell, my sister and her friend Melody drive me up the wall with their endless chatter about makeup, clothes, and whatever else they think passes for conversation.
Faith is different. She reads when she’s on break. She’s bright and cheerful. She doesn’t care about how she looks. She…steals?
“Look, we know she stayed the night with you.” Paula puts a hand on my shoulder. “So…”
“So what?”
She did stay the night with me, and it had been a terrific night. The sex. The conversation. The…affection had been mind-blowing.
Speaking of mind blowing, Cain, last night’s fuck just stole ten thousand dollars from you.
“Cain, this is who she is.” Melody flutters her eyelashes, sympathy pouring out of her eyes.
Once upon a time, a long time ago, well, about three years ago, we had a thing for a short time. Since then, Melody has made it clear to me she’d like us to get back together. I made it clear that isn’t going to happen. I was polite about it, but the sex was abysmal because Melody is one of those women who wants the man to do all the work and doesn’t understand sex is a team sport with two participants. She’s also unable to have a conversation that doesn’t evolve from a fashion influencer’s point of view.
“What are you reading?” I ask Faith when she’s sitting outside on one of the benches in the back of Ripley’s during her break with a book.
She glances up, sunlight catching the gold flecks in her eyes. She holds the paperback up for me to see.
The Master and Margarita.
I didn’t expect that. “Bulgakov. That’s not exactly light reading.”
She smiles. “Why do you think I want to read something light?”
Because you’re twenty-two and look like a Latin pin-up model. Those misogynistic assholes—of which I’m not one—don’t expect you to have brains. Feeling chagrined, I ask, “What do you like about it?”
“You’ve read the book?” she asks suspiciously.
I laugh. “Yeah, smarty pants, I have.”
Faith smiles. “I like the chaos of it. The way it blurs the line between reality and madness. Plus, the devil shows up in Moscow with a talking cat. What’s not to love?”
Charmed, I settle onto the bench beside her. “I read it in college. It twisted my brain.”
“What did you study?”
“Business. At the University of Oregon.” I knew she hadn’t studied past high school. It had been on her resume, which is why I didn’t expect to see her reading freaking Bulgakov.
“I didn’t…you know…go to college. But stories”—she taps the book—“they’re an escape. You can disappear into a whole new world without ever moving.”
“These days people read on Kindle, you’re still doing the old-fashioned thing,” I teased.
She looks at me sheepishly. “I’d love to have a Kindle…maybe soon. But for now, I have a library card. First thing I signed up for after my lease.”
