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Okay, maybe not.
“I’m not following.” I batted my eyelashes. What business did I have batting my lashes, anyway? Why was I flirting with this man, whom I found out yesterday wanted to destroy my childhood town? The place where my beloved mom still lived. Literally erase its identity and replace it with plastic, mass-market, easily digestible junk.
“All soft puff pastry on the outside, but once you take a bite, you realize the inside is almost always too raw.”
“I’m not ra—”
“You do the happy-go-lucky schtick, and that’s why you’re stuck. Because you don’t dare. Your father’s right. Running again should be a priority for you. Otherwise, you’re gonna be stuck in the same place forever.”
“Thanks for the quick psychoanalysis.” I picked up my pace, which he matched easily. I was irrationally annoyed now. “But you know nothing about my life.”
“I know enough. Yesterday you said you want to start a podcast. What’s stopping you?” His expression was calm, his tone deadly.
“Hmm, life? I work a full-time job at a restaurant!” I tossed my hands in the air.
“Five days a week.” He knotted his arms over his chest. “Two spare days to do whatever the fuck you want.”
“Actually, I pulled some doubles in the last few months.” To help pay Dad’s hospital bills, but he didn’t have to know that. “Anyway, I need money to rent recording equip—”
“The top-notch stuff, yeah. But some people start their podcasts recording themselves on their phones,” he said, cutting me off. “What’s your next excuse?”
I clamped my mouth shut, then opened it again. “I need to think very carefully about my first episode. If it’s not good enough—”
“Then you make another badass episode. Record it from scratch. Send all the demos to your friends and get better after they give you feedback. I burned my first three omelets. The second one, I almost set fire to my entire house. Didn’t make me quit.”
“Your medal’s on the way.”
He suppressed a smile, folding his arms and making me turn cherry red. “Next?”
“Stop, just stop.” I poked his chest, partly because he was pissing me off but mostly because I wanted to see if it was as hard as it looked. Suspicion confirmed. “Nobody asked you for a pep talk.”
“Well, I’m giving you one on the house.” He stepped out of my way so I’d stop jabbing his chest. “You need to start running or you’re never gonna get anywhere worth visiting.”
“You saw my panic attack out there.” I pointed at the door. “I can’t.”
“Of course you can. It will be hard, uncomfortable, but worth it.” He leaned forward, popping the doors to the master bedroom open. “And if running alone scares you so much, ask your mom to run with you.”
That made me snort out loud. “Mamushka’s only cardio involves unscrewing the ice cream tub’s lid every evening after dinner. And Dylan is pregnant with an entire daycare.” My shoulders slumped with a sigh. “Maybe I’ll take Kieran.”
He paused, his back to me, before pushing the doors open. “Good idea, if you need some deadweight. Fox Sports said his leg is busted.”
Yesterday, Kieran had mentioned that he and Row weren’t each other’s greatest fans. He hadn’t gotten into what had caused the rift but alluded to it being his fault. That he had been a dumb, power-drunk teenager and that he regretted the way he’d treated Row. This made me feel guilty about mentioning Kieran at all. Especially because Row’s instincts last night had been right—I hadn’t wanted to stay alone with Kieran. He had sort of ambushed me, and I’d felt like a caged animal throughout the entire duration of his visit.
Row continued, “And this is the maste—”
A blood-chilling shriek left my mouth, drowning out his last word.
“Shit.” Row backed out of the room, plastering his palm over my eyes to shield me from the image in front of us. Too late. It was already permanently seared into my brain.
“Is it dead?” I slapped his hand away, peering behind his massive shoulder. Violent nausea slammed into the back of my throat.
There was a coyote lying right in the middle of the empty room. It looked like roadkill, its eyes open, dead, and empty. Its guts spilled onto the floor. My eyes watered at the smell, and I palmed my mouth to keep myself from heaving.
“Unless the tire marks on its body are a fashion statement, I’m pretty sure it’s dead.” Row tugged me by the arm out of the room, turning me in the other direction and forcing me to march out into the hallway.
“This is sick.”
“Agreed.” But Row seemed more pissed off than surprised. Which begged the question—had he been the target of something similar before?
