mellow, the pain medication making her head feel light and fluffy.
“There you go again. Putting yourself down.” Dirk turned around at the bottom of the stairs and shot her a quizzical look. “Why don’t you want people to like you?”
“ What makes you think I care what people think of me?” she said stiffly, moving past him to sink into the plaid chair, which had grown on her after an afternoon spent in it.
“I think you do care, which is why you adopt this bitchy, I’m -better-than-you attitude. You’re afraid to let people get close to you. You use your attitude as a shield. So let me ask, who made you feel like shit in your past that you now feel you have to be this way?”
Marissa cocked a brow at his frank question. “Who hasn’t?” she replied with a shrug. And why do you care?
“I’m gonna take a wild guess here and say an ex -boyfriend or husband. Am I close?”
Too close. Marissa forced her expression into a smooth mask lest he guess too much. “I’m sure I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Come on. Talk to me. I want to get to know you better.”
“Why?”
“Because. I get the impression there’s a heck of a lot more to you than the bitchy exterior you like to present to the world. I think that’s a façade. I think the true you isn’t like that at all. And I think the key to understanding you is in your past with whoever fucked you over.”
Was he guessing , or did he know something? Marissa felt a moment’s panic. Her past belonged to her, along with all its pain and betrayal. So she did what she did best when she felt uncertain—she attacked. “What did you go to prison for?”
Expecting him to tell her to mind her own business, she couldn’t hide the look of surprise on her face when he answered with a rueful smile.
“I guess the boys told you about daddy spending time in jail. It’s okay. I’m not ashamed of it. I did some bad things in the past, and I had to pay for them.”
Marissa eyed the door. Maybe now is a good time to escape.
Dirk must have sensed the direction of her thoughts because he laughed, a big belly sound that made her frown at him.
“Oh , princess. I’m not a raving lunatic or murderer.”
“Says you,” she muttered. “They don’t send choir boys to jail.”
“No, they don’t,” he agreed. “You want to know what I did? Fine. Here’s my story in a nutshell. I belonged to a motorcycle gang.”
Good thing there were no flies , she could have caught some with her mouth hanging wide open. Dirk, a biker? Yeah, she could picture him in leather on a motorcycle. A totally hot look.
“The gang I belonged to,” he continued , “was not as hard-core as some, but they weren’t exactly a law-abiding bunch. We were a rowdy group, spending most of our time drunk or stoned. For cash, we grew and sold some of the best marijuana in the district.”
“You’re a drug dealer?” Marissa could only stare at him. Oh my God, but he seems so nice. Not like those addicts she saw wandering the streets of town, begging for change to get another fix.
“Was. I don’t go near drugs now. Back then, though, I was living the high life—literally. And then I got caught. I spent almost two years in jail, and since my release over a year ago, I’ve been drug and alcohol free. My parole officer even makes sure of that, giving me random blood tests.”
“But you don’t act like a convict .”
“And how does a convict act?” Dirk retorted. “Never mind. Having seen some of the guys in the joint, I can kind of see where you’re coming from. Honestly, though, being in jail was the best thing that could have happened to me. Not being around the drugs and alcohol, not to mention separated from my buddies, I had a chance to look at my life and realize I didn’t like it so much.”
“But what about the boys and their mother?”
“Ah yes, Clara. Well, see, Clara was a part of the gang. It’s how we hooked up. It’s a wonder the boys ended
“There you go again. Putting yourself down.” Dirk turned around at the bottom of the stairs and shot her a quizzical look. “Why don’t you want people to like you?”
“ What makes you think I care what people think of me?” she said stiffly, moving past him to sink into the plaid chair, which had grown on her after an afternoon spent in it.
“I think you do care, which is why you adopt this bitchy, I’m -better-than-you attitude. You’re afraid to let people get close to you. You use your attitude as a shield. So let me ask, who made you feel like shit in your past that you now feel you have to be this way?”
Marissa cocked a brow at his frank question. “Who hasn’t?” she replied with a shrug. And why do you care?
“I’m gonna take a wild guess here and say an ex -boyfriend or husband. Am I close?”
Too close. Marissa forced her expression into a smooth mask lest he guess too much. “I’m sure I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Come on. Talk to me. I want to get to know you better.”
“Why?”
“Because. I get the impression there’s a heck of a lot more to you than the bitchy exterior you like to present to the world. I think that’s a façade. I think the true you isn’t like that at all. And I think the key to understanding you is in your past with whoever fucked you over.”
Was he guessing , or did he know something? Marissa felt a moment’s panic. Her past belonged to her, along with all its pain and betrayal. So she did what she did best when she felt uncertain—she attacked. “What did you go to prison for?”
Expecting him to tell her to mind her own business, she couldn’t hide the look of surprise on her face when he answered with a rueful smile.
“I guess the boys told you about daddy spending time in jail. It’s okay. I’m not ashamed of it. I did some bad things in the past, and I had to pay for them.”
Marissa eyed the door. Maybe now is a good time to escape.
Dirk must have sensed the direction of her thoughts because he laughed, a big belly sound that made her frown at him.
“Oh , princess. I’m not a raving lunatic or murderer.”
“Says you,” she muttered. “They don’t send choir boys to jail.”
“No, they don’t,” he agreed. “You want to know what I did? Fine. Here’s my story in a nutshell. I belonged to a motorcycle gang.”
Good thing there were no flies , she could have caught some with her mouth hanging wide open. Dirk, a biker? Yeah, she could picture him in leather on a motorcycle. A totally hot look.
“The gang I belonged to,” he continued , “was not as hard-core as some, but they weren’t exactly a law-abiding bunch. We were a rowdy group, spending most of our time drunk or stoned. For cash, we grew and sold some of the best marijuana in the district.”
“You’re a drug dealer?” Marissa could only stare at him. Oh my God, but he seems so nice. Not like those addicts she saw wandering the streets of town, begging for change to get another fix.
“Was. I don’t go near drugs now. Back then, though, I was living the high life—literally. And then I got caught. I spent almost two years in jail, and since my release over a year ago, I’ve been drug and alcohol free. My parole officer even makes sure of that, giving me random blood tests.”
“But you don’t act like a convict .”
“And how does a convict act?” Dirk retorted. “Never mind. Having seen some of the guys in the joint, I can kind of see where you’re coming from. Honestly, though, being in jail was the best thing that could have happened to me. Not being around the drugs and alcohol, not to mention separated from my buddies, I had a chance to look at my life and realize I didn’t like it so much.”
“But what about the boys and their mother?”
“Ah yes, Clara. Well, see, Clara was a part of the gang. It’s how we hooked up. It’s a wonder the boys ended
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