Ride Steady (Chaos, #3)(8)

So it sucked worse for Mr. Robinson and the dead kid he lost.

Carson should have come out stillborn. Mr. Robinson’s baby should have come out bawling so he could have all Mr. Robinson had to give, which was a lot.

He went into the hospital, found where they did the baby stuff, and it took a while—nurses and doctors and other folks giving him looks as he hung around—but finally, he saw Mr. Robinson walk out of a room. He had his head down. Even if Carson couldn’t fully see his face, he could still see the man looked wrecked.

Carson gritted his teeth.

Suddenly, Mr. Robinson’s head came up. He stopped dead right there in the hall when he saw Carson.

Carson put everything into his face. Everything he felt for the man. Everything he felt for the man’s dead kid, who wouldn’t get a lifetime of knowing just how f*cking lucky he was to have the seed that made him.

Then he lifted up his hand, palm out, and kept it there.

Mr. Robinson didn’t move except to lift his hand the same way.

But Carson saw his eyes were wet.

He’d give him that. Any man before him, Carson’d think that was weak because his father taught him a long time ago just how weak it was for a man to cry.

He’d been seven when he’d learned that lesson, a lesson delivered with a lit cigarette.

It was not the first or the last time his father had used that method to deliver a lesson, but he’d not even so much as teared up since.

But Mr. Robinson made it different.

He made it strong.

Carson nodded once, dropped his hand, turned on his boot, and walked away.

*

In the hospital parking garage, he was opening the door to his car, thanking Christ he got that fake ID, which would mean he could rent a hotel room, when he heard a familiar female voice say, “Carson?”

His body locked, all except his head, which swiveled.

And he saw Carissa Teodoro coming his way.

Cute little skirt. Cute little top. Cute little cardigan. Cute little ankle boots. Tights on her slim legs. Honey ringlets bouncing on her shoulders. Eyes aimed direct at him.

But the instant she got a look at his face, she rushed to him, skidding to a stop on the opposite side of his door.

“Oh my God!” she cried. “Are you okay?”

Not her.

Anyone could see him like this but not her.

In the halls, after his dad went at him, he’d avoid her. Skip the classes they had together.

But there she was.

Fuck.

When he said nothing, she asked, “Are you…?” she looked toward the hospital then to him. “Are you going in to get checked out?”

“Did already,” he lied. “I’m good.”

“You sure?” she kept at him. “You look like you need an ice pack.”

“I do,” he told her truthfully.

“Didn’t they give you one?”

He lied again, “I’ll get one when I get home.”

She stared at him and he had a weird feeling she knew he was lying.

It wasn’t like they didn’t speak.

She said “hey” whenever she’d catch his eyes.

She’d tripped down the stairs when she was a sophomore and he was close so he caught her. She’d laughed, told him she was a klutz, and thanked him for saving her from taking a header. In return, he’d told her it was no problem then he took off.

They’d had a substitute teacher once who was a scatterbrain and kept dropping the chalk, and Carissa caught his eyes in class and rolled hers.

She’d also been in front of him in line at Dairy Queen with her dad once when he was there getting Mrs. Heely a hot fudge sundae and she’d shared that Blizzards with Reese’s Pieces and Cups were the bomb.

There was more, but not enough she’d know he was lying.

Still, she did, and he knew it when she asked, “Are you sure you’re okay?” and he knew she wasn’t asking about his face.

“You heard about Mr. Robinson?”

She did. He saw it move over her expression. Her obvious distress weirdly making her even prettier.

“Yeah,” she said softly. “Sucks. He’s totally awesome. He’d be such a good dad.”

“Yeah,” he agreed.

“So, you’re upset about him?” she asked.

“Who wouldn’t be?” he asked back.

“No one,” she murmured, still eyeing him.

Totally didn’t believe him. There was something more, but he wasn’t saying what.

“I’m good, Carissa,” he said firmly.

“If you say so,” she replied doubtfully.

Her eyes strayed to his car. She opened her mouth but closed it and stared into his car.

He turned his head and saw what she saw. His bag. His stuff. Shit from his house.

He looked back at her just in time for her to curl her hand on his, which was resting on top of the open car door, seeming not to care his knuckles were torn and bloody.

“Carson,” she whispered but said nothing more.

“I’m good, Carissa,” he stated, and it came out firm but it also came out rough.

Because she was touching him.

God, just her hand on his felt good.

“You’ve never been good,” she shocked him by saying. It was quiet but he could tell it was also angry. Her hand squeezed his carefully. “But you will be.”