The Best of Winter Renshaw - An 8 Book Collection - Winter Renshaw Page 0,517

Devanie’s nose scrunches.

I don’t think she cares so much that Mom’s always gone. In fact, I think she prefers it that way. It’s not like they’d spend much time together when Mom is home, but still. Someday Dev’s going to be an adult and she’s going to look back on her childhood and wonder why her mom was never there, and then she’s going to be angry. And then she’s going to turn to drugs or food or sex or gambling or God knows what to fill that gaping hole in her chest that won’t go away no matter how much she tells herself she’s over it.

"Because I give a shit. And because you need more supervision."

"No, I mean why do you waste your time even talking to her about that?" she asks.

Valid question.

"All right. I'm out." I ruffle her pale curls before swiping my keys off the counter and heading for the front door.

The screen door slams behind me, and I turn to pull it all the way shut. Glancing through the tear in the storm door's screen, I watch my sister stand in the middle of the kitchen where I left her, arms folded across her chest as she stares at the ground. She’s still as a statue, and I wonder if she's waiting for me to leave or if she's just lost in thought.

I'm sure all the other kids her age are texting each other on their phones - something Devanie has never been able to experience - making plans for summer or meeting up at the pool. I need to cave and get her a phone ... mostly for safety reasons ... but no good has ever come from a teenager having a cell phone, especially an unsupervised teenager having a cell phone.

Dev still hasn't moved, and I realize now that I recognize that look on her face.

She's lonely.

And of course she is.

She's alone. Constantly. And while I'm more than familiar with the feeling, at least I'm alone by choice. Devanie isn't.

I force myself to turn away, to go, to leave her behind the way I've done hundreds of times before. One of these days, I just might take her with me. But it won’t be that simple. Or that easy. Mom won't allow it. Dev is her meal ticket. Her tax refund. Her extra little bit of food stamps that she trades for who the hell knows what.

Cranking the radio, I head back to the south side and pull into my reserved parking spot in front of Madd Inkk.

The white Volvo with the boot is already gone by the time I get back. Good to know Dustin was able to make that happen. I'd never seen a girl so antsy to get out of here, like she was late for a flight to the Maldives or wherever rich assholes go.

Not that she was an asshole.

Quite the contrary.

She was polite. All "pleases" and "thank yous." Proper grammar and all of that. I’m willing to bet she's fluent in French and takes tennis lessons, and judging by her dainty, nimble fingers, I’m sure she plays piano – classically trained by European dignitaries or something. The kind of shit her parents can brag about to their friends over dinner at "the club."

I've seen a lot of shit in my day, and in all the years I've run Madd Inkk, I've met all kinds.

But today? Some preppy little thing with a sugar-spun voice and honey gold eyes telling me to put anything I want on her body as long as it's hidden?

Definitely a first.

Definitely something I couldn’t forget if I tried.

I head inside, smirking to myself and shaking my head as I shove my keys in my pocket and consider the irony in the fact that she cared so little about the ink I was permanently embedding into the side of her ribcage and cared so much about the fact that I don’t have any tattoos myself.

Three times she asked.

And in three different ways, like she thought she could trick me into giving her an answer. She finally stopped prying when Pierce told her I was “commitment phobic.”

Little will she ever know, commitment phobic doesn't even touch it.

Three

Brighton

* * *

"Ah, there she is! Happy Birth-"

I lift my finger to my lips, pleading with my eyes for Eloise, my family’s loyal and beloved housemaid, to be quiet.

Her hazel eyes crinkle at the corners, followed by a wash of confusion over her porcelain complexion, and finally, the smallest of winks.

The number