Beneath the Scars (Masters of the Shadowlands #13)(97)

“How could we not help after I saw what they were eating?” She turned to Josie. “The homeless shelter is one of Holt’s pet projects. Everyone at the fire station has been dragged there to help with upgrading the building.”

A homeless shelter? Josie glanced at Holt.

“It’s a good place.” His mouth tightened. “Living on the streets is…Well, sometimes people simply need a hand to get back on their feet.”

Living on the streets. Those months had been the most terrifying, hopeless time of her life. Looking down, Josie swirled the wine in her glass. As she took a big swallow, she realized Holt’s gaze was on her.

A waiter appeared and leaned down to whisper, “Georgina, the chef requests a word.”

“Well, shoot. I didn’t even get to hear how you two met.” With a tiny pout, Georgina rose. “Josie, it was lovely to meet you. Holt, don’t be a stranger.”

Josie watched her sail away. “She’s amazing.”

“Yeah, she is. And under the southern charm is one sharp businesswoman. Clancy adores her.” Holt leaned forward to take Josie’s hand. “Why do I get the impression you were homeless for a while?”

Her mouth went dry. “It was a long time ago.”

He rubbed the back of her hand with his thumb. “Guess that means we have something else in common, hmm?”

She stared at him. Not even the thin scar could detract from his gorgeous chiseled features. He wore the tailored black suit with the easy grace of someone who was to the manor born. “You were never homeless.”

A corner of his mouth tipped up. “I’ll share if you will.”

“No.” Talking about that time was something she never did.

He waited, the bastard.

She was dying to know why he’d been living on the streets. Stalling, she took another swallow of wine. No, Josie. His past wasn’t important. She didn’t need to know.

Dammit. “You first.”

He turned her hand over and gave her a formal handshake. “We have a deal.”

Leaning back, he drank his coffee. “My mother died of a brain tumor. A couple of years later—I was a bit older than Carson—my father was killed in a car accident, leaving a choice of foster care or my aunt. She took me in but her new boyfriend turned out to be a drug dealer. A violent, abusive drug dealer. He decided I’d make the perfect drug runner.”

Josie stared and tried to imagine Carson being used to deliver drugs. “Your aunt let him?”

“She protested, and he beat the crap out of us both.” Holt shook his head. “I’d been pretty sheltered, and the guy scared me to death. Between him and his customers, I got to be really fast on my feet.”

“Oh my God.”

“Unfortunately, he and his buyers noticed how fucking pretty I was.” With a rueful smile, Holt ran a finger down his unscarred cheek. “The bastard tried to pimp me out. That’s when my aunt and I stole his car and ran.”

“Oh, thank God.” Heart thudding hard, Josie took Holt’s hand in both of hers.

He lifted her hands and kissed them. “That reaction there is why I love you,” he said softly.

Oh. To hear him say that… Her voice came out husky. “Were you all right once you got away?”

“We lived in shelters until she found a job doing janitorial work. Tough work. But not long after that, my mom’s agent saw me and—”

“Agent?” Josie interrupted.

“Mom was a model until she got sick. Her agent had adored her and hated what’d happened to me. So he found me jobs—catalogs, magazines, ads, commercials. We needed the money, especially when Aunt Rita’s health started to fail.”

How much loss could one child endure? Her heart ached for him. His voice was light, but the bottom line was he went to work when he was Carson’s age. “I bet being a good-looking boy didn’t help any in the shelters.”

He gave a huff of agreement. “Some places were better than others…as you probably know.” His thumb rubbed over the back of her hand. “Your turn, pet. Why’d you end up on the streets?”

“I grew up in a tiny Texas town. Mama took off when I was thirteen—ran away with a trucker. Pa was strict, being as he was a rancher and pillar of the church, and he turned bitter cold after Mama left. When I told him I was pregnant, he gave me an hour to get my stuff and all my whore’s belongings—and told me never to return.”

“But…” A muscle hardened in Holt’s cheek. “You were sixteen.”

“Yep.” Her smile felt crooked. “A few months before, when I started an after-school job, he’d given me one of the ranch clunkers so I could drive to town. So, when I left, I had a vehicle and the money I’d saved up from working after school.”

“I bet you drove from Texas to Florida, positive your good buddy Everett would help. The asshole.”

A bubble of laughter rose at Holt’s disdain. “You guessed it. Thus, I landed on the streets. It’s tough to make enough money to survive, and shelters sure are scary. However, the staff at one place was amazing. They helped me find work and cheap housing.”

He nodded. “They do try.”

“Is that why you help out? Because you know what the streets are like?”