Folk Around and Find Out (Good Folk: Modern Folktales #2)(70)

Anyway.

Since I wasn’t allowed to purchase Kimmy ice cream, I’d purchased us both a bottle of water. The kid had been quiet the entire walk to the shop, while I’d purchased the waters, and when we’d selected a table. Quiet and surly and contemptuous.

Sonya was loving. Joshua was knowledgeable. Kimmy was bullheaded and unpleasant, and I didn’t mind one whit. It was like hanging out with a younger version of me, which meant I had a fair idea of how to talk to her without pissing her off even more.

Scratching my jaw, I maintained a conversational tone as I said, “Now, usually I’d try to make small talk, ask you about yourself, as that is what most folks expect. But you have the look of a person who was expecting to eat Italian leftovers for lunch, only to discover someone else beat you to it. I’m wondering if you’d prefer we just sit in silence. If so, you don’t even have to speak. Just nod.”

Her narrowed eyes widened slightly. “You’d sit in silence? If I wanted?”

“Absolutely. I like silence. Sometimes—actually, most times and with most people—it’s preferable.”

She cocked an eyebrow, her head tilting at the same time, openly inspecting me like she found my statement surprising. “How do you know my mother?”

Debating only for a split second, I settled on, “I was her boss for a bit.”

“Where? In Vegas?”

“No. Here.”

“You work at my school?” Kimmy asked with evident distaste.

“Nope. I own a—a—” I blinked. Suddenly, I felt like swallowing my tongue. The last thing I wanted to do was explain to a little girl what a strip club was, or what people did there, or why they did it.

Huh.

I’d never experienced shame or discomfort about my job or the nature of my business before right this minute. The discontent that had plagued me after my sets for the last two hen parties reared its ugly, irritating head. How disconcerting.

“You own a what?” she asked, leaning closer.

“I’m a business owner. Your momma did some bookkeeping for me.” There. That about covered it without revealing too much.

“What kind of business?” she pushed, clearly smelling blood in the water.

I couldn’t stop my stretching smile. “How about I tell you all about it when you’re older?”

Her intelligent eyes flickered between mine. “How old?”

“Thirty.”

Surprising me, she grinned, her earlier surliness forgotten. “Is it really bad?”

“No,” I hedged, scratching my neck. “It’s complicated.”

“If it’s not bad, why can’t you tell me?”

More conflicted than I’d ever remembered feeling, I asked, “How old are you?”

“Nine.” She shrugged. “But most folks think I’m older, like eleven or twelve. I skipped first grade and I’m tall.”

I studied her for a long moment, frowning. I had also skipped first grade. Interesting.

Finally, I said, “If it’s okay with your momma, I’ll tell you. But you should know, it’s something that might chip away at your childhood, make you grow up too fast, before you’re ready. I’d be taking something from you if I told you now rather than wait ’til you’re older. Do you want a shorter childhood? Or a longer one?”

She frowned at me thoughtfully. We stared at each other for a good while. I was impressed with how seriously she seemed to consider my words.

When I was a kid, I couldn’t wait to no longer be one, no longer helpless and controlled by my parents’ whims, ignored until I wasn’t. But if Kimmy had to take a minute and think about what she’d be losing if her childhood ended prematurely, then clearly her childhood had been much better than mine.

“A longer one,” she finally said, her gaze clearing.

I nodded once. “Then I’ll tell you when you’re older.”

Kimmy lifted her chin higher. “It probably has to do with war, right? My brother Joshua is always talking about that shit—sorry, that stuff—and I hate it. Gives me nightmares.”

Thinking about the comparison, I admitted, “It’s similar. It’s something adults do that doesn’t and shouldn’t make any sense to kids.”

“But you do it?”

“I do.”

“Why?” She sounded honestly curious.

“I want to ensure it’s done as safely and fairly as possible,” I said, which was the truth now, but hadn’t always been the only reason.

Pissing off and embarrassing my parents, getting under the skin of polite society, cementing my place as a social outcast—those were the main reasons I’d bought The Pony at the ripe age of twenty-one. But I didn’t think Charlotte would appreciate me detailing the nuances of the situation with her rebellious nine-year-old.

Kimmy’s face scrunched up. “You do something bad so it hurts as few people as possible? So it’s fair?”

“It’s not bad. But it’s not necessarily good either. Like I said, it’s complicated.”

Her lips twisted to the side. “It sounds bad.”

Despite myself, I laughed. “Well, I guess some folks think it’s bad, but I don’t. I wouldn’t do it if I thought it was.”