Razed (Barnes Brothers #2)(65)

She managed to get halfway through the design before he came to stand in front of her. “He hasn’t bugged you about doing any shots for him, has he?”

She didn’t let the tension overtake her body.

It had been years. She shouldn’t worry about it so much.

It wasn’t that big a deal and she was a different person now, she knew that.

The uneasiness she felt was just a kneejerk reaction and even that was starting to piss her off.

Slowly, she pushed the design aside, checking the time. She could take a few minutes. “No,” she said, keeping her voice casual. “He hasn’t. If he says anything, I’ll decide then. It’s no big deal, Zach.”

When she went to turn away, he caught her elbow.

“You sure about that?”

She looked back at him, studied his blue eyes.

There was something there.

Did he know?

He watched, for a long, long minute and she wondered, the entire time.

But she couldn’t tell.

“It’s no big deal,” she said mildly. Then she smiled. “But if he tries to bully me into it, I’ll be sure to knock him down to size.”


*

Hours later, she slid out of her car and studied the ramshackle apartment where she’d lived for the past few years. If books and poetry and all that bullshit could be believed, she should be hearing birdsong and looking at everything through rose-tinted glasses.

That meant her piece of shit accommodations should look a little less shitty. The patchy yard would look like there were possibilities to be had. Windows she’d just cleaned over the weekend should sparkle under the sun, but instead, she only saw how small they were.

Grimly, she shifted her attention to the apartment next door where Nolan had lived with his little girls. He’d promised to call her, and she knew he would.

The apartment where he’d tried to make it work with the girls’ mama was still empty but it wouldn’t be for long.

Soon, somebody else would move in and Keelie knew she’d watch that cycle of despair start up again.

She’d watched it all play out over and over again for years.

Up until recently, it hadn’t bothered her too much, living here, or in other places just like it. But now . . .

“What’s wrong with me?” she muttered.

There wasn’t an answer. Shoving away from the car, she strode toward her place. She’d only worked until four and now she was off until Monday. It was Zach’s weekend to cover the shop and that meant she could just relax.

They were talking about hiring somebody to cover the place on weekends, because Zach wanted more time with Abby, and while she didn’t mind working some weekends, she wasn’t doing all of them—not in a college town.

And Javi had kids, a family.

So that only meant finding somebody else. An assistant manager, maybe, someone they could trust with the place. But they’d have to look for a person, interview. Hire. Train. Decide if they could trust said person . . .

Man.

She didn’t even want to think about it.

For now, she’d just think about her weekend off.

And Zane.

Would he call?

Come over?

She headed to the door, suddenly anxious to get inside.

If he did come by, she needed to get the place picked up. She should get her laundry done. There were other things she needed to do, but that would wait until tomorrow.

For the next two hours, she lost herself to the monotonous, mindless tasks. Sweeping, cleaning out the tub, dusting the shelves that held the few items she considered worth anything in her house. She studied the camera resting on the top shelf, stroked a finger down it, smiling in memory. Then she checked it, made sure the cap was on tight over the lens.

After she’d finished cleaning, she gave herself a manicure, removing the deep red and replacing it with a glittery black—the silver flecks shone like stars in the desert sky. Nice.

Nails done, she brooded until the polish was dry and then moved on to her hair. She trimmed it, standing in front of the sink in panties and a tank, handling the task with a familiarity born of practice. While she worked, she debated yet again on dying her hair. She’d had the platinum and black locks for a while and she needed to decide what she was going to do. Soon, because the roots were really starting to show.

Maybe she’d go back to her natural . . .

The phone rang.

Scowling, she brushed the loose bits of hair from her shoulders and walked out of the postage-stamp square that served as a bathroom, down through the hall.

Ring.

Ring.

Ring.

It was the landline and, for some reason, her gut twisted with dread. Less than five people had this number.

Staring at the caller ID, she curled her hand into a fist.

859. She knew that area code. Like the back of her hand. She almost turned away, but then, she grabbed the phone and lifted it up, answered in a voice so cool and calm she didn’t even recognize it.

“Hello.”

There was a pause, and then a man’s voice flowed out. He had a good voice. Soft and low, a faint Southern accent—just a faint one, but familiar all the same.

“Hello. I’m trying to contact Katherine Ann Vissing.”

She didn’t flinch, didn’t let anything come flying out of her mouth. She’d always suspected somebody would track her down one day. What was really excellent was that she could do this without lying. With a slow smile, she slumped against the wall. “Sorry, man. There’s no Katherine Vissing here.”