Flock (The Ravenhood Duet #1)(32)

“How did that feel?”

“It stung a lot worse than the watch.” Something close to satisfaction shines in his eyes before he gazes past me as the man drives his son away. In minutes, Selma is back behind her counter, pounding out tortillas with a smile on her face. I turn back to Sean and scrutinize him.

“Who in the hell are you?”

What twenty-five-year-old man does his friends’ laundry, genuinely cares about Selma’s cash flow problem and disabled grandson, hates money, hates time, has zero regard for status, and lives without a single worry for the future?

Alfred Sean Roberts.

That’s who.

It’s then I give myself permission to trust him a little more. But it’s also then that the budding feelings give me pause. He’s made it far too easy to like him. This man who bats away rules and boundaries, he may be dangerous for me. Sensing my fear, he leans in to kiss me for endless seconds. When he pulls away, I feel myself sinking further, more drawn in, and even more conflicted about it.

“Seriously, Sean, who are you?”

“I’m a man with clean laundry, and I’m starving. In the mood for Mexican?”

All I can do is nod.





SEAN GUIDES ME INTO THE dark bar by the hand, our bellies full after feasting on fajitas, our collective pockets lighter after tipping Selma profusely. Uneasy, I fidget behind him as I take in our new surroundings—neon lights of every color line the walls, the floor littered with overused cocktail tables. The only thing that looks new is a jukebox sitting in the far corner. The bar has the shape of a shoebox and smells a lot like a soured dish rag.

“’Sup, Eddie?” Sean greets the man behind the bar. Eddie looks to be in his early thirties and rough around his every edge. His eyes are the color of midnight and his size is intimidating to say the least. I can’t help but note the presence of a familiar tattoo on Eddie’s arm as he drapes a soiled towel over his shoulder.

“Hey, man,” he replies, eyeing me over Sean’s solid frame. “I can see what you’ve been up to.”

Sean gives him a lopsided grin. “This is Cecelia.”

I give him a little wave behind Sean’s bicep. “Hi.”

“What are you drinking?”

I grip Sean’s arm, hesitant. He knows I’m not of age. He runs his thumb over the back of my hand.

He’s got this.

Of course, he does.

“I’ll take a beer.” He turns to me. “You?”

“Jack and Coke.”

I damned near giggle when Sean’s brow lifts. I lean in. “I’ve always wanted to order one. The alternative is a martini, and I don’t think Eddie would make one of those.”

He grins. “You thought right.”

Sean pays for our drinks and leads us to a table on the far side of the bar closest to the jukebox. He pulls out the leftover stash of quarters from our laundry run and hands them to me. “Choose wisely, or Eddie will throw us out on our asses.”

I take the money and make a few selections before joining Sean at the table. He lifts my drink to me, and I thank him before taking a huge sip. My eyes widen as the whiskey latches to the back of my throat and I start to choke. Sean winces and turns back to Eddie, who raises a skeptical eyebrow.

Even with the burn threatening imminent death, I know I need to play this underage drinking thing off a lot better. With watering eyes, I clear my throat as Sean chuckles.

“First time drinking the hard stuff?”

“Piece of cake,” I say, as the warm liquid starts to filter through my veins.

He shakes his head, a rueful smile on his lips. “Where exactly did you grow up again? I’m thinking there’s a ville on the end of it.”

“Shut up. And you’re calling me small town? There’s like four stoplights in this one.”

“Twelve.”

“I told you I didn’t party much in school.”

“Or ever,” he jests.

“I just…” I sigh.

“Just what?”

“Well, my mom was a mess and lush enough for both of us. One of us had to be the grown-up.”

Sean’s hazels soften and I decide they’re far more green than brown. “Don’t get me wrong. I wouldn’t trade her for the world. She was a lot of fun.”

“Was?”

“Yeah. I learned how to drive when I was eight.”

He leans forward. “Come again?”

“That’s right. I had mad skills,” I boast, braving another drink of my whiskey with a splash of flat Coke.

“Sure you did.”

“We didn’t have a lot of money, so we made do. My mom was creative. She always found a way to make that extra twenty dollars a week work. One sunny Saturday, she had this brilliant idea to take me on an abandoned road and let me go nuts.” I smile, lost in the memory. “She put a phone book in the driver’s seat and just let me at it, for hours. She let me two-wheel our minivan. Then afterward, she would take us to this roadside barbecue shack that had the best tater tots with cheese. So, for a year or so that became our Saturday ritual. Me, my mom, a phone book, our minivan, and tater tots with cheese.”

Sean leans back in his seat, his beer halfway to his mouth. “I love that.”