Page 11 of The Daring Times of Fern Adair
His shoes scraped along the sidewalk as he hoofed it away from her. The bottom of his trench coat flappedfrom the speed. He’d sounded so much like Buchanan. Fern clenched her fists and took off after him.
“Who are you? Why is a bootlegger bothering my father, and why does my brother hate you so much?”
Mr. Black pivoted on his heel. He reached her side and again made to grab her arm. She jumped back to avoid his fingers.
“Listen, princess, I told you to go home. Ask your brother and pop who I am, but I’m not foolin’ around—you better hightail it outta here.”
He took a glance up the avenue in the direction he’d been walking, toward Midway Plaisance Park, then back toward Fern’s house.
“Do you really think either of them will tell me anything?”
“Do you really think I care?” He checked his pocket watch then tucked it back inside his vest pocket. Seeing the time must have pacified his nerves because he relaxed a fraction, his hands coming to rest on his hips.
He stared at her, the lamplight shining off the thin, black satin ribbon wrapped around the base of his hat. “You’re a real pain in the ass, you know that?”
Fern gaped. No one had ever called her that. Oddly enough, the insult didn’t hurt. A smile pulled at the corner of her open mouth, and she shook her head. “If you were one of my mother’s candidates, I’d ask you to come back next week, just to see what she would do.”
Mr. Black again looked up and down the street. There weren’t any cars or people coming from either direction. “I don’t like being insulted, princess.”
“How was that an insult?”
“I’m not low enough to accept an invitation to ogle some girl’s scarred-up face.”
She breathed in sharply; it felt as if her lungs had holes in them. He knew the purpose behind the dinners, even without having been invited. If he did, how many other people knew? How many had gossiped about it?
“Go home,” he said, buttoning his trench coat as he walked away. This time, Fern didn’t follow him.
“Is it really so awful?” she called out. She needed to know, and so far, this man had been brutally honest about everything.
Mr. Black stopped and half-turned. “Is what so awful?”
She closed her arms around her waist. “My face. The scars.”
He hesitated a few seconds before answering, “Yeah. They are.”
His honesty fell through her like rocks plummeting into a fathomless pit. They didn’t hurt. They only made her feel hollow. Grasping.
Mr. Black took a small step toward her. “But you’re not ugly, if that’s what you’re asking.”
Mr. Clifton had said something similar. Notthathalf of her. Fern’s right side was pretty enough, she supposed. It also counted for nothing.
“Go on.” His chin jutted out as a gesture for her to start home.
Suddenly, the red dress that had filled her with boldness earlier now made her feel a shade tawdry. She was ready to retreat to safety. However, before Fern couldtake a single step, two men appeared in the next dome of lamplight.
“Shit,” Mr. Black muttered. He was at her side in a heartbeat, his fingers digging into her arm yet again. “Follow my lead, you hear me? Go along with everything I say.”
Fern’s heart slammed against her chest, and her head felt the echo of it, Mr. Black’s next whispered words muffled and brusque: “Thisisn’ta game.”
He turned toward the two men, his hand loosening its death grip. He didn’t release her entirely, just enough for her forearm to pulse with the rush of returning circulation.
“Cal,” one of the men drawled. A pair of deeply set eyes raked Fern from head to toe. His face was skeletal, his ears prominent. His inspection lingered on her face. “Holy shit. Ain’t she the judge’s daughter?”
“What’s she doing out here, Cal?” the other man asked. This one had a blocky chin and kept his hand deep in his trench coat pocket. His eyes bounced from Fern to Mr. Black. Mr. George Black, notCal, as they’d called him.
“Don’t worry about her,” Mr. Black replied.
Fern’s mind raced over why these men had called him Cal, and what the second man was holding in his coat pocket. There was a bulge there.
