Total pages in book: 177
Estimated words: 173392 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 867(@200wpm)___ 694(@250wpm)___ 578(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 173392 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 867(@200wpm)___ 694(@250wpm)___ 578(@300wpm)
Off the grid?
“She would’ve needed a loan,” he explains. “To get a loan, she needs accounts. To get accounts, she needs identification. To get ID she needs a Social Security card. Get it?”
I stare at him. “Yeah.”
She’s undocumented.
He releases me and looks away. “And I don’t know why the fuck I told you all of that.”
It still doesn’t make sense. Business owners don’t need to be full-fledged citizens. “She’s been here since she was a child, right?” I press. “How has she not applied for permanent residency at least?”
“Because she would’ve been deported as soon as she applied, and she wasn’t young enough to meet the requirements for DACA.”
Right.
And by that time, this was home. She has family here.
Iron continues. “She stayed through several changes in ownership, one of them finally naming the place after her, because her key lime pie was the biggest draw to customers. About six years ago, after she’d worked here for thirty years, the current owner was about to lose it to the bank, so we bought it.”
“How’d you get that much money?”
It wouldn’t have cost seven figures, but at least in the low sixes.
Iron just sighs. “I have no idea. I was seventeen at the time. Macon took care of it.”
The old rumor about Macon and Army selling Oxy and Molly to the college kids back in the day to support their siblings after their parents’ deaths surfaces in my brain, but there were so many rumors about them that I never knew what to believe.
Iron states, “Mariette gets to stay in the place she loves, take care of her family, and we make sure she can do that.”
Got it. Not that I ever thought that they were taking advantage of her, but it’s one of the many reminders that the Jaegers bend and break whatever laws they feel are unjust, and that they are comfortable making that distinction on their own. What people don’t know until they spend time over here, though, is that it’s always in service to others. Macon could’ve taken that money and renovated the house. Bought a car. Moved. He stayed.
“You can’t tell anybody, Krisjen.”
I dart my eyes up to him. “You don’t need to say that.”
“No, I do,” he states plainly. “Because if you turn on us, it’ll be my fault, because I trusted you.”
He trusts me. His brothers wouldn’t. They’d be pissed if they found out that he divulged that information.
But I’ll never tell anyone. Mariette’s worked hard, and she’s lived here longer than anywhere else. This is her home.
“When I come back,” he says, “I need this place to still be here, okay?”
I nod, a lump wedging in my throat at the reminder. “I really hate that you’re going there. How are you not depressed all the time? I would be.”
He laughs quietly, relaxed again, and I look up at him. “Are you going to be okay?” I ask.
But he ignores me, instead asking, “You coming to the party tomorrow night?”
“Who will be there?”
“Me.”
I snort, and we both smile at each other, but then he comes in close again, and I know what he’s going to want if I come tomorrow. I inhale through my nose, taking in his scent and seeing if I remember it from that night. He smelled like grease and wood and tasted like heat with a whisper of bourbon, but all I smell now is water and sunscreen.
Leaning down, his forehead nearly brushes mine. “Would you mind it?” he whispers.
The front of his jeans brushes mine, and everything feels alive.
“Do you mind it?” he teases.
I hear a bell ring outside, and I blink, remembering I have tables. Shit.
I push him away and start to leave. “Y’all are trouble.”
“And so are you,” he calls back.
I leave the cooler, hurrying back to the front.
I’m not going to go tomorrow night. The last thing I need is another party. Even if it’s Iron’s last for a while.
Whatever happens there won’t make my life better, and I have alcohol at home.
And I really don’t want to risk Aracely slashing my tires again. I can’t afford it.
At five thirty, I leave, carrying Macon’s reheated dinner down the road, but the garage is closed.
I knock on the front door, Aracely answering after a minute as screams go off in the background and Dex peals with laughter.
I hold up the bag. “Dinner for Macon,” I say.
I start to take a step in, but she moves in front of me, grabs the bag, and dumps it in the trash can outside, on the side of the porch. “They’re barbecuing tonight. You can go. Thank you.” Her face lights up with a self-satisfied expression. “Or … are you working the ‘night shift’ tonight?”
I back up, her meaning not lost on me.
I drop my eyes, seeing her long smooth legs in a beautiful line right down to the black ankle boots with silver buckles and a three-inch heel. “Cute shoes.”