Dream a Little Dream (Chicago Stars, #4)(152)

She swiped at her damp eyes with the back of her hand, then took another bite. It was the most delicious hamburger she’d ever tasted. Globs of cheese stuck to the roof of her mouth, and the pickle made her saliva buds spurt. She spoke around a huge bite. “Why are you doing it?”


“Couldn’t think of anything else to occupy my time.”

She sucked a dab of ketchup from her finger. “Before you lost your mind, how did you make a living?”

“I was a hit man for the Mafia. Are you done crying yet?”

“I wasn’t crying! And I wish you were a hit man because, if I had the money, I’d hire you right this minute to knock yourself off.”

He tilted up the brim of his cap and regarded her levelly. “You just keep all that good, honest hatred coming at me, and we’ll get along fine.”

She ignored him and began eating the fries three at a time.

“So how’d you fall in with G. Dwayne?”

The question came out of nowhere—probably a diversion—but since he hadn’t given her any real information about himself, she wasn’t giving any in return. “I met him at a strip club where I was an exotic dancer.”

“I’ve seen your body, Rachel, and unless you had a lot more flesh on your bones then, you couldn’t buy chewing gum with what you’d earn as a stripper.”

She tried to be offended, but she didn’t have enough vanity left. “They don’t like to be called strippers. I know because one of them lived across the hall from me a few years ago. She used to go to a tanning salon every day before she performed.”

“You don’t say.”

“I’ll bet you think exotic dancers tan in the nude, but they don’t. They wear little thongs so they get really sharp white tan lines. She said it makes what they show off seem more forbidden.”

“Tell me that’s not admiration I hear in your voice.”

“She made a good living, Bonner.”

He snorted.

As her stomach began to fill, curiosity overcame her. “What did you used to do? Truth.”

He shrugged. “It’s no big secret. I was a vet.”

“A veterinarian?”

“That’s what I said, isn’t it?” The belligerence was back.

She realized she was curious about him. Kristy had lived in Salvation all her life, and she must know some of Gabe’s secrets. Rachel decided to ask her.

“You don’t seem like the type a televangelist would fall for.” He conducted his own bit of probing. “I’d have figured G. Dwayne would pick one of those pious church ladies.”

“I was the most pious of them all.” She didn’t let a trace of her bitterness show. “I met Dwayne when I was a volunteer at his crusade in Indianapolis. He swept me off my feet. Believe it or not, I used to be a romantic.”

“He was quite a bit older than you, wasn’t he?”

“Eighteen years. The perfect father figure for an orphan.”

He regarded her quizzically.

“I was raised by my grandmother on a farm in central Indiana. She was very devout. Her little rural church congregation had become her family, and they became mine, too. The religion was strict, but, unlike Dwayne’s, it was honest.”

“What happened to your parents?”

“My mother was a hippie; she didn’t know who my father was.”

“A hippie?”

“I was born on a commune in Oregon.”

“You’re kidding.”

“I stayed with her for the first couple of years, but she was into drugs, and when I was three, she OD’d. Luckily for me, I was sent to my grandmother’s.” She smiled. “Gram was a simple lady. She believed in God, the United States of America, apple pie made from scratch, and G. Dwayne Snopes. She was so happy when I married him.”

“She obviously didn’t know him well.”

“She thought he was a great man of God. Luckily, she died before she found out the truth.” With the food gone and her stomach so full it ached, she turned to the shake, picking up a thick chocolate curl on the end of her straw and raising it to her mouth. So far, she’d offered all the information and received nothing in return. “Tell me. How does it feel to be the black sheep of your family?”

“What makes you think I’m the black sheep?” He actually sounded annoyed.

“Your parents are leaders of the community, your younger brother is Mr. Perfect, and your older brother’s a multimillionaire jock. You, on the other hand, are a surly, bad-tempered, impoverished misfit who owns a broken-down drive-in and antagonizes small children.”

“Who told you I was impoverished?”

She found it interesting this was the only part of her description of him he seemed inclined to challenge. “This place. Your mode of transportation. Those slave wages you’re paying me. Maybe I’m missing something but I don’t see any signs of big money around here.”


“I pay you slave wages so you’ll quit, Rachel, not because I can’t afford more.”

“Oh.”

“And I like my pickup.”

“So you’re not poor?”

For a moment she didn’t think he’d answer. Finally, he said, “I’m not poor.”