Page 18 of Talk Wicked to Me

“Yeah, I am pretty lucky. How far away are your relatives?”

“I don’t have any relatives left,” she said uneasily. “My parents didn’t have siblings, and my grandparents are all gone.”

His brows knitted again. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

She shrugged. “You can’t control life, right? Are Tank and Gunner your brothers’ real names, or are those their road names?”

“They’re road names. Their real names are Benson and Dwayne, but it’s kind of cool that you speak the lingo. What else did you learn editing biker books?”

Thinking about the spicy scenes she edited, she said, “A lady never tells. What about your name? Is Baz short for Baxter, or is it your road name?”

“Neither. Baz is what my younger sister, Ashley, used to call me.”

Your sister? She realized she hadn’t asked him about having sisters. “How many sisters do you have, and what does she call you now?”

“She was my only sister, and she doesn’t call me anything anymore.” He uncrossed his leg and leaned forward, elbows on thighs, holding her gaze. “She died from an accidental overdose about a decade ago. She was only nineteen.”

“Oh, Baz,” she said softly. Sadness welled inside her, putting pressure on the walls that kept her own painful memories at bay. She couldn’t afford more fissures in them, especially when her hormones were so out of whack. But she felt for him, and he’d done so much for her, she wasn’t going to try to change the subject. “I’m sorry. That must have been awful.”

“It was. Talk about a heart of gold.” His gaze softened. “Ash would get upset if I killed a spider.”

“I noticed her name tattooed on your chest. You must miss her.”

“Every damn day.”

She knew how painful that was, too. “If you don’t want to talk about her, I understand. But if you do, I’d love to hear what she was like.”

“I like talking about her. I also like talking to her. Once a year I go to her favorite beach and tell her about all the good things that happened that year. I never want to forget a thing about her.”

Emerson’s throat thickened again. What a beautiful way to honor his sister. She wanted to tell him that she didn’t want to forget her parents, either. But she was afraid to bring them up, afraid he’d ask too many questions, and that awful morning would come rushing back.

“She used to call me Baz the spaz,” he said, drawing her from her thoughts.

“I can’t see you being a spaz.”

“She did it to try to get me going. She was a lot like my old man. A pistol, full of life. She treated every day like a wild and wonderful adventure waiting to be had. She had my mom’s strawberry-blond hair and her knack for seeing more than people wanted her to.”

“She sounds incredible. Do you have a special memory of her?”

“I’ve got too many to count, but one of my favorites happened dozens of times.” His eyes brightened. “When we were young, I wasn’t a big talker when something was bothering me. I went through a stage of holing up in my room when I was in a bad mood, and Ashley hated it. She’d knock on my door and beg me to do shit with her. If I didn’t come out, the next morning she’d run into my bedroom at full speed and jump on me, giggling like it was the funniest thing in the world.”

“To force you into a better mood?”

“Exactly, and it always did.” He grinned, going quiet for a beat, as if reliving one of those times. “She stopped when she got to be about ten or twelve, moodier. She’d go into her bedroom and close the door. As you can imagine, paybacks were fun. I’d barrel into her room and tackle her, and she’d crack up and smack me, furious that I’d made her laugh. I swear Ashley’s laugh was magic. I’d give anything to hear it one more time.”

“I get that.” She’d give anything to hear her parents laugh or talk or feel them hug her one more time.

“I wish you didn’t,” he said, the compassion in his eyes wrapping around her like an embrace. “How old were you when you lost your parents?”

Her skin prickled, despite knowing the question would come, but this was the easy part. “Sixteen.”

“Jesus. That’s way too young. Do you mind if I ask what happened?”

She’d been asked that enough times to have a brief answer at the ready, though it still was never easy to relay. “It was a home invasion. I was sleeping at Gwen’s the night it happened.”

“Em…I’m sorry.”

She swallowed hard, trying not to let her emotions take over. “I don’t really like to talk about it.”