Bastards and Scapegoats (Twisted Legacy Duet #1) - CoraLee June Page 0,16

from campus. Dad—Jack—wanted me to go, but it wasn’t really my thing,” Hamilton said. I swallowed my questions about why he called his father by his first name. I had no room to talk, I sometimes found myself saying Lilah instead of Mom.

“How long have you worked on the rig?” I asked.

“Jack got me the job when I turned eighteen,” Hamilton replied as a jogger passed us by on the sidewalk. His voice was laced with a tone I couldn’t quite process. “I wasn’t going anywhere in life. I guess you could say it was an offer I couldn’t refuse.”

Little Mama started pulling us along, practically dragging her nose along the concrete as we went. “It must be hard,” I murmured.

“What?”

“Being gone for weeks at a time. Your routine is constantly changing, and you flip between two homes.”

Hamilton slowed his steps, and Little Mama whined. He looked me up and down, as if debating on telling me something. “I guess—”

My phone started ringing, cutting him off before he could say anything. “Sorry,” I began. “I need to answer this.” I pulled my cell out of my purse and tossed him an apologetic smile before answering.

“Vera? Are you okay?” Jack’s voice rushed out. “I’m firing my assistant. I can’t believe she told you that I would call you back. Where are you? Are you safe? I’ll be on the next flight home.”

“Jack, I’m fine,” I replied, interrupting his rambling. Hamilton nodded his head once before continuing to walk toward a patch of grass for Little Mama. I watched his back while speaking to Jack. “The police arrived and took my statement. Apparently, this isn’t the first time?”

Jack cursed. “Vera, I am so sorry. I’ll head home now. I’m sure you’re shaken up. You don’t need to be alone right now…”

“I’m not alone,” I whispered. Hamilton bent down to scratch behind Little Mama’s ears. He was grinning at her, the hard lines of his face twisting into a playful smirk.

“Oh? Did Joseph and Lilah come home early?”

“Hamilton showed up,” I replied. “He just so happened to be in the area and saw the cops out front. He offered to let me stay at his place tonight.” The other end of the phone line went silent. After a few awkward moments, I spoke again. “Jack?”

“Yes. Sorry, I’m here. Hamilton was in the area?” Jack’s voice sounded oddly emotional. “Was he coming to see me? Does he need anything?”

“He, uh, hasn’t mentioned anything.”

“Right. Of course.”

Jack went silent again, and Hamilton headed back toward me. He mouthed You okay? while watching me clutch my cell to my ear.

“I’m going to head home early. You said you’re staying with Hamilton?”

“Yeah. We’re at his house now.”

“Good. Good. Stay there. I’ll be there by morning to get you moved into your new apartment. Can you do me a favor?”

“Of course,” I replied.

“Tell Hamilton thank you. And, uh, tell him I’m glad he was in the area. And that he is always welcome home. And that I miss him. Actually, never mind. I’ll just text him. Does he seem okay?” Jack asked, his voice quiet. “Does he seem happy?”

I looked Hamilton in the eye. There was something dark hidden in the depths of his charcoal gaze. I couldn’t quite put my finger on it, but it wasn’t my assumption to make or my story to tell. “Yeah, Jack,” I whispered.

“I’ll see you in the morning,” Jack replied gruffly before hanging up.

Hamilton’s townhouse was nice. It was impersonal, though. Despite the high-end accents and expansive kitchen, there was nothing personal about the place. No pictures hung on the walls. No decor to personalize the space. It was an open concept but a bland execution.

There were, however, some parts of it that told me about Hamilton. There was an overflowing ceramic bowl sitting on the countertop full of seasonal fruits and vegetables. A banged up wooden cooking block with kitchen knives and shears looked well used. The pantry was stocked, and he had a calendar pinned to the oversized stainless steel refrigerator, with meals written down for every day he was home. Hamilton liked to cook. High-end pots and pans hung from a rack on the ceiling, and he hummed while he cooked a simple recipe from memory.

“So where is your roommate?” I asked as we sat down at Hamilton’s wooden kitchen table to eat the taco casserole he’d made.

“She’ll be home later,” Hamilton replied before shoveling food in his mouth. “Jess works late most weekends. She bartends at a local