The Probability of Violet and Luke(34)

“Holy hell, it’s hot here,” she remarks, reaching to get her sunglasses out of her purse.

“It gets way worse in the summer,” I tell her as I turn off the road onto a side road lined with stucco houses that look the same, yards flourishing with green grass, neighbors outside chatting and smiling, the perfect neighborhood.

“I’m so confused,” Violet says as she slips on her sunglasses and takes in the surroundings. “Why are we in the burbs?”

“My uncle lives here,” I explain, pulling in front of the two-story house at the end of the street of the cul-de-sac. I put the truck in park, then push the brake on before turning off the engine and putting the keys into my pocket.

“This is so weird,” Violet says with a pucker at her brow. “And not what I was expecting.”

I open the door to get out. “This is his normal side of life, well kind of. I’m guessing it won’t be that way when we get inside.”

Hesitantly, she gets out of the truck and follows me up the driveway, glancing around at the flowerbed beside the pathway, the polished landscaping, all covering up what’s behind the front door.

“Welcome home?” She looks even more puzzled as she reads the mat in front of the door. She lifts her sunglasses slightly and gives me a suspicious look. “You know, I’m starting to not buy into this—”

The door swings open and someone lets out a quick chuckle. “Holy shit,” my Uncle Cole says from in the doorway. He’s wearing a t-shirt, black cargo shorts, and no shoes. He looks similar to my dad only he’s in his thirties, ten years younger than my dad, and he’s more rougher with tattoos, gauges in his ears and shaggy hair. “I thought you’d get here a hell of a lot later when you called to say you were on the road.”

“We were already halfway here,” I explain apologetically. “Sorry I forgot to mention that.”

“You don’t need to apologize,” he says, his gaze flickering in Violet’s direction. “I never did like how little we saw of you anyway, thanks to that crazy ass mother of yours keeping you away.”

A ripple of anger shoots up my back, not toward him, but toward the mention of my mother. But Violet winces too, so I shove the feeling down and rush to sidetrack the conversation.

“This is Violet by the way,” I say nodding my head at her. “Violet, this is my Uncle Cole.”

“Is this your girlfriend?” he questions with an arch of his brows as he slants against the doorframe with his arms folded across his cheat. The last time he met me, I’d made it pretty clear how I felt about women and that I’d never actually had one as a girlfriend, only f*cked them. So showing up with Violet is confusing him. Plus, he’s not the most trusting person to strangers, considering what he does for a living.

“Just a friend,” Violet tells him, being very blasé about the whole thing. That stings, even though I already knew it was true. “And his partner in crime.”

He seems amused by her, which I don’t blame him for—she can be very charming when she wants to be. With a faint smile, Cole stands up straight and sticks out his fist. “Well, it’s a pleasure Violet, aka Luke’s partner in crime.”

“Likewise.” She pounds fists with him, then my uncle steps aside and motions for us to come inside. It’s cooler on the inside—thank God—the fans going, air conditioning blasting and circulating the cigarette smoke lacing the air. The curtains are all drawn shut too, so hardly any sunlight can get in. There’s some music playing in the kitchen and I can hear some voices, which means he has company. And probably not the family kind.

“I have some people over,” Cole tells us as he leads the way through the foyer and into the kitchen, kicking a bag to the side that’s blocking the doorway. “And my son’s staying with me for a while. You remember Ryler, right?”

I nod, but honestly I don’t really remember him that well. I think I met the guy once when I was staying here and all I can recollect is that he’s around my age (my uncle knocked up a girl when he was sixteen and pretty much bailed on his family until recently—guess it’s a family thing) and that he doesn’t speak. The details why he’s mute where never divulge clearly, other than there was some kind of incident when he was about eight.

“He turned into one hell of a card player,” my uncle comments, all proud papa, as we step into the small kitchen area filled with smoke from the four guys sitting around the table, puffing on cigarettes. The sound of chips clinking together, the taste of nicotine in the air, the alcohol in the cups, the intensity surrounding the table gets my pulse soaring like an drug addict eyeing crack.