Stranger Read online

  “You read my e-mail?” My laugh might have been choked, but I had no such issue now.

  My voice rang through the carport loud enough to hurt my ears. My dad winced.

  “Grace, I’m your father.”

  “Yeah? Well, I’m not a kid anymore, Dad! Okay? You had no right to take my computer without asking, no right to look at my personal accounts and absolutely, positively no right to read my e-mail!”

  “I wanted to make sure you weren’t in trouble!” my dad roared, but I was past being threatened by the growling.

  “You wanted to check up on me!” I shouted back, stepping toward him with the envelope still clutched in my hand. “You just wanted to know my private business!”

  “Yes, I did!” he shouted. “So what? I’m your dad, Grace, it’s my prerogative to keep tabs on what you’re doing! Especially when you’re making mistakes!”

  I saw red. Literally. Crimson ribbons flashed in front of my eyes, and I thought the top of my head might explode. I threw the envelope at my dad’s feet. Money scattered. Neither of us bent for it.

  “It’s a little late to start ‘being there’ for me, Dad.” I took several shallow, rapid breaths to ward off the rage, but it still twisted barbs inside me. “I don’t need your money. And I don’t need your advice.”

  My tone made it obvious what I thought of his advice.

  “Don’t you talk to me like that.”

  “Don’t you talk to me like that,” I said through clenched teeth. “You gave me the business because I was the only one who wanted it. And sure, it’s been tough, but I’m pulling it together.

  People like me. They like what I’m doing with the place. So tell me something, what really pisses you off? The fact I’m using my own money for something you don’t approve of, or the fact that I’m not failing without you there to tell me what to do and how to do it?”

  My dad sputtered, his face getting red, but I didn’t wait for him to reply.

  “I thought so,” I said. “I’m sorry that you’re disappointed in me, Dad, I really am. But what I do with my money is my business. And what I do with my business is my business.”

  He called after me, but I didn’t look back.

  I was silent and seething on the car ride back to my place, where I slammed out of Sam’s car and stomped up the stairs to my apartment. Sam followed a few moments later and helped himself to a beer from the fridge. I thought about having one, too, but my stomach had knotted so tightly I thought I might puke if I tried to drink it.

  Sam watched me stalk around the living room, punching pillows into place and sweeping the scattered magazines into neat piles. I even rearranged the remote caddy. I needed something to do with my hands so I wouldn’t punch something.

  “I’m sorry,” Sam said at last. “I wasn’t thinking.”

  I stopped and looked at him from across the room. He leaned against the kitchen counter.

  He was on his second beer.

  “What?” I asked stupidly, so consumed with my own private fury I couldn’t even think of what he might have meant.

  “About saying that thing about sleeping with you in front of your mom. That was stupid.”

  “Oh, Sam.” I said that a lot lately. “I don’t care about that. If my parents want to pretend I’m a virgin, that’s their problem.”

  The irony of that hit me. Obviously my dad knew I was having sex. Shit. He’d assumed worse than that of me. He’d thought I’d actually brought a paid-for boyfriend to my family party.

  Brought a casual fuck-buddy around my niece and nephew. The more I thought about it, the angrier I got.

  “Goddammit!” I threw a sofa pillow across the room, where it hit the wall harmlessly.

  “What’s the matter?” Sam asked.

  I wanted him to come over to me and enfold me the way he did so well, but he didn’t move. He tipped the beer back and set it down on the counter. He crossed his arms over his chest and watched me.

  “It’s my dad,” I said. “He’s a nosy son of a bitch.”

  “Huh.” Sam’s face made me sorry I’d said anything. Dads were a sore subject with him.

  “What did he do?”

  “He tried to give me money.”

  Sam raised a brow. “And that’s bad because…?”

  I sighed. “He thinks I need it.”

  “Not following you.”

  “He thinks I’m ruining his business, but I’m not.”

  Sam nodded as if that made sense. “He’s your dad, Grace. I’m sure he’s just worried about you.”

  I snorted indelicately. “He read my private e-mails. He dug into my personal bank accounts. He totally crossed the line this time.”

  “I’m sure you’ll get over it,” Sam said.

  Oh, he did not just tell me I’d get over it.

  “Excuse me,” I told him. “But I don’t exactly think you’re the dude to be giving me advice about getting along with my father.”

  Sam said nothing, and instant regret flooded me. We stared at each other across the room.

  I hadn’t stopped wanting him to put his arms around me and make me feel better.

  He cracked open the fridge and pulled out another beer. It was my turn to make a bitchface. There was no way he could’ve missed it. I felt the frown on my mouth and the corners of my eyes.

  “Get off my back,” Sam warned, though I hadn’t said anything. Defiantly he unscrewed the bottle top and drank. “Your dad wanted to give you money. I don’t see what the big deal is.”

  “The big deal is,” I said, “that he was giving it to me to pay for you.”

  Sam’s bottle paused at his mouth. “Come again?”

  “My dad thinks I hired you.”

  “For what?” Sam put the bottle down, finally.

  I sighed and crossed to him. “Because he found some stuff on my computer that made him think you were a gigolo.”

  Sam laughed. “Why would your dad think I was a gigolo?”

  “Because,” I said with another sigh, “I spent a lot of money on rentboys and he found out, and he assumed you were one.”

  Sam’s smile looked strained. “You spent a lot of money on rentboys.”

  “Yes.”

  Sam went back to drinking his beer. I leaned against the kitchen table, directly across from him. He moved his legs so we didn’t touch.

  “What does that mean, exactly?” he said at last.

  “It means that I used to hire men to go on dates with me.”

  Sam took a long, silent pull on his bottle and put it down. Another dead soldier. He wiped the back of his mouth. “Just for dates?”

  “Sometimes.” I put my hands flat on my stomach, wishing I didn’t feel so much like I might vomit. Or scream. Or cry.

  “And sometimes…?”

  “Why don’t you just ask me what you want to know, Sam.”

  “Grace,” Sam said. “Why don’t you just tell me.”

  “Yes. I fucked them sometimes, too. More than just sometimes. A lot of times.”

  Sam pulled another beer from my fridge. The last one, I thought. He rolled it in his palms before opening it. I really hoped he wouldn’t, but he did after a minute.

  “That guy you were with at the Firehouse?”

  “Jack. Yes.”

  “Fucking hell.” Sam looked sick. He hadn’t started on the beer, at least. “For how long?”

  “A few months.”

  I could see him turning the idea over in his mind. He drank silently. I pulled a cola from the fridge to drink myself, hoping it would settle my stomach.

  “Jesus,” he said after some long minutes of silence. “You’ve been fucking him since we met?”

  “Since after we met. Before him it was a few others. But Sam,” I said, pleading, “not since we’ve been together.”

  He pulled his arm away when I tried to touch him. “You just said you started with him after we met.”

  “But we weren’t together—”

  “We were together the first