Page 82 of Layla

When I turn back to the table with the dishes, I see Dee watching me, a knowing expression on her face. I’m getting the feeling we aren’t going to be able to sell this “friends” story for very long.

And, I realize with no small amount of surprise, I’m not really sure if I care.

* * *

Though I had been jokingabout Dee setting me up with chores, I find that I’m surprised when she instead urges me to go take a nap after we finish our cookies. “You look exhausted,” she says in her firm mom voice. “I know you haven’t been sleeping.”

I can’t meet John’s eyes. The truth is, I’ve been sleeping a hell of a lot better since he started joining me in bed.

“You too,” she tells John, shooing us both now. “Go rest, both of you. I know how grueling that schedule was.”

“Did your mom just give us permission to have an afternoon delight?” he whispers once we’re clear of the kitchen. I giggle, feeling like a teenager as we head up the stairs.

“It wouldn’t be the first time I snuck off to have sex in her house.”

John laughs. “I cannot wait to grill her for teenage Layla stories over dinner.”

It’s just my luck that he doesn’t have to grill her at all. Dee is more than eager to dish all of my dirt for John while we eat that night. She tells him all of my most embarrassing anecdotes over thick bowls of stew and warm, crusty chunks of fresh bread.

“What if he sells all these stories to TMZ or something?” I ask her.

“I would never do that,” he assures me sweetly.

“Because you signed an NDA,” Dee guesses, and he points at her.

“Exactly. Otherwise she would be fair game.”

Dee laughs, tapping his glass of wine with hers. “I’m so glad I brought you here so I could have two people to tease me,” I mutter and John grins at me.

“So, John,” Dee says. “Layla said you work in security?”

I can feel him tensing next to me. “That’s right.” I chance a glance at his face and see that he looks uncomfortable for the first time since we arrived.

Her eyes narrow a little as she studies him. Dee is one of the warmest, most welcoming people you’ll ever meet, but that doesn’t mean she’s a pushover. Especially not where I’m concerned. It’s obvious she likes John, but I also know she’s going to be suspicious of him until she knows exactly what it is between us. “That’s an interesting line of work,” she says, not bothering to hide her curiosity. “How’d you get into that?”

He meets her eyes across the table. “I was in the military,” he says, voice even. “And then law enforcement. When I left the force, this seemed like a natural next step.”

“And why did you leave the force?” she asks.

I groan. “Dee, are you seriously going to give him the third degree?”

John grabs my hand under the table. “It’s fine,” he says, never taking his eyes off hers. “There was a lot of corruption in my precinct. The kind of stuff everyone knew about and looked the other way. I…I didn’t realize how bad it was until I started working there.” He finally drops her gaze and I can see a flash of pain cross his face as he stares down at the table. “Then a woman was killed by an off-duty officer. It was covered up—really well.” He looks up and that pain is still in his face even as his expression hardens. “I guess you can say I was disillusioned.”

He hadn’t told me why, exactly, he’d left law enforcement but I remember him telling me that most of his family had been involved in the same line of work. And from the look on his face right now, I can’t help but feel like his disillusionment must have been very personal.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Dee says softly.

He shrugs, looking away. “I shouldn’t have been so surprised.” His laugh is more than a little bitter. “It was silly to think there are heroes in real life. I’ve seen enough to know better.”

“I don’t know,” Dee says thoughtfully, no longer looking the least bit suspicious. “I’ve seen some heroes in law enforcement.”

“You have?” I blurt out, surprised. Dee isn’t usually one to speak so kindly about stuff like this. She’s not quite an anarchist, but she definitely has a healthy dose of suspicion for authority.

She frowns at me. “Of course I have. You don’t work in foster care without seeing it. Usually cops are the first responders when something happens to endanger a child. I’ve had more than one show up at my door in the middle of the night, holding some scared kid’s hand.” She reaches out and touches the end of my ponytail, her face soft. “The cop who brought me you,” she murmurs, “bought you a slushy on the way here. You remember that?”

I do remember it, though it kind of runs together with the other cops I’d been rescued by. The other foster homes I’d been brought to with nothing to my name but a black garbage bag filled with a few clothes.

I realize that my whole body has gone tense. It’s one thing for Dee to tell John funny stories about me as a teenager, but it’s another to bring up the circumstances of me coming to live with her. I can see myself, the way I had looked that night I was brought to her. Skinny and scared and heart breaking for the mother who just couldn’t get it together for me.