The Revenge Pact (Kings of Football, #1)(25)

Tingles ghost over my skin and into my scalp. Wait for Anastasia.

“No reason.”

He chews on his lip. “Huh.”

I stick my hands into my pockets as my uneasiness rises. At least next fall, if I come back, neither of them will be at Braxton. I’ll be here. Alone.

“Thanks for letting me vent. And Harper… Nothing has ever happened between us. I want you to know that. She’s offered, yeah, plenty of times, but I haven’t done anything wrong.”

“So you say” slips out.

He narrows his eyes, his lids lowering. “Ana is the one I love, River. She’s the one for me. I’ll figure out my parents.”

I keep my face completely blank.

She. Does. Not. Exist.

I force a smile. “Right.”





7





“You smell like grease and French fries,” I say to myself as I climb out of my white Honda Civic. “With a dash of beer.”

Grabbing the bags off of the passenger seat, I walk to the alley between my building and the next one, a rambling old factory where they make shoes. My apartment complex is old, built in the fifties, but well-maintained with a clean manicured lawn. The area isn’t the best, but it’s near campus. And it’s cheap.

Steam rises and floats in the air from the exhaust vent in the basement. Thank goodness for that old furnace. An old striped blanket is pitched over the vent between two milk crates, making a tent of sorts. Two legs stick out.

A small brown dog, a mutt, sits near the feet and glances up at me as I approach. His tail wags. He’s old, bits of gray in his fur. Sweet little Oscar.

“Hey, handsome.” I break off half of a hamburger patty, toss it down, and he sniffs then pounces on it. “I brought dog food, but you need a treat.”

“Who’s there?” June peeks out of her tent. “Oh. You.” She folds the top over so she can see me better. Her eyes glint from the streetlights. “You’re like a roach. Can’t get rid of you.”

“Were you expecting anyone else?”

“Holding out hope for Bruce Willis.”

“Hmmm. Have you seen The Sixth Sense? Very tense. A psychological thriller. ‘I see dead people,’” I quote in a breathy voice like the kid in the movie.

I tug my coat around me in the cold night then find a piece of an old box near the dumpster and drag it over to where she is. Setting it down, I plop down on it. My back leans against the building.

“Nah, I don’t do scary. Die Hard, now that’s his best,” she replies. “If you could kindly bring him with you next time, I’d appreciate it.”

“I’ll call his agent first thing tomorrow. How’s it going?”

She eases out farther and throws me a wary glance. She’s in her sixties, I think, has a small pixie face, brown eyes, and wears an Atlanta Falcons beanie on her head. Her pale face is surprisingly clean, and I wonder if she has a place where she washes up. Maybe a gas station?

There’s a heavy coat and a fuzzy blanket around her shoulders, and she tugs them closer. “Cut the small talk. What you got?” she asks.

I grin widely and hand over the first bag, a baked potato and fried chicken from the bar. It’s not the healthiest meal, but she won’t eat salads. I’ve tried. I hand over two bottles of water and a container of Gatorade I grabbed at the gas station. “There are chips, some baby wipes, dog food, and a few candy bars in the bag. Snickers and Heath.”

“I hate Heath bars.”

I laugh. I can’t help it. She reminds me of the cantankerous grandmother I never had. “I can see you from my den window, you know. You devoured the last one.”

“You imagined that. And stop spying on me. Weirdo.” She props the takeout box in her lap and eats the food slowly, almost delicately. She’s not starving, that’s clear. She isn’t an alcoholic or a druggie either. I’ve looked for the signs, bloodshot eyes and shakes. Her voice is always clear and steady, her thoughts sharp.

I gaze up at the stars. I don’t know June’s story or why she’s here, but my protective instincts are high. My heart squeezes every time I see her here.

I find the Orion constellation, see his belt then the hazy glow of the Milky Way behind him. I glance back at her. “It’s going to get down to forty tonight and the wind is cold. The shelter is ten minutes from here. Just saying,” I murmur casually.

She glares at me, and I glare right back. I’m used to her little dirty looks. There’s no menace in them. Maybe confusion at my nightly appearances.

Perhaps relief.

Is she lonely?

“No shelters.” Her voice is husky and gravelly with a slight Southern accent. She’s from the area, I suspect. “I hate crowds. Plus, they come in while you’re sleeping and put tracking devices in your ears. They won’t let Oscar in, and it’s not that cold. I grew up playing outside all the time. We didn’t come home until we wanted to.”

I start at the tidbit of personal information she’s given me.

She swallows down a bite. “Don’t get excited. I don’t want you in my business.”

“Too late. You can’t get rid of me.”

“Maybe I’ll move to another apartment building.”

“You better not. I sort of like you.”