Page 32 of Darcy
He smiles, and it’s a soft expression. “Never expected you to, Dark. Like I said, Slate pushes. That’s just who he is.”
Then, in a move so smooth he has to have practised it, he twirls me so his arm wraps around my shoulders without letting go of my hand. “There. Now, I happen to know a really good place that makes the best waffles I’ve ever tasted.”
“Won’t you be recognised?” I ask.
He shrugs. “Even if I am, most fans are harmless. They’re happy to leave me alone after an autograph.”
This close to him, the scent of his aftershave is slowly drowning out everything else. I’d hoped to get some distance from the guys to think, but right now, I’m struggling to remember why I was mad.
“So now that we’re more than just internet buddies, do I get to know stuff about you?” Arlo asks. “Like about your family, or your life?”
“Does it go both ways?” I ask as we dodge the San Jose traffic.
He stiffens, then nods. “I… none of us have great pasts, just preparing you for that. I don’t know if you know, but we met in juvie.”
I do, because I’ve researched these four obsessively, but I’m not going to admit that. Besides, the reports I looked at told me nothing beyond the bare facts, and even those didn’t add up sometimes.
“I have a lot of sisters,” I hedge. “We were all adopted.”
“Wow.” Arlo stares down at me with a new kind of respect. “That must’ve been crazy.”
“Our father is amazing,” I add. “He’s always made sure we have everything we need.”
All true.
“And your birth parents, did you ever want to find them?” He pushes open the door to a cosy cafe, decorated in neutral tones, and leads me up to the counter where a small line of people is waiting to be served.
“They’re dead, and I barely remember them,” I admit. “They were part of a cult that believed in some messed up shit.”
I leave out the fact that their cult leader set the church on fire with his entire congregation locked inside. I only escaped because I was small and sneaky. While Sunday School was being held in the basement, I crept out of the tiny window without anyone noticing to go and play in the park instead.
I remember vividly watching the proud, white-painted structure at the centre of the commune go up in a pillar of smoke. The destructive flames, and the way they resisted all the fire brigade’s valiant efforts to tame it, fascinated me.
Later that same day, I ran away from the social worker who was going to take me to my first foster home. I waited until she stopped for gas, opened my door, and ran until I crashed straight into Man.
He prevented me from ending up trapped in the foster system, or worse…
“My adoptive father saved me,” I finish. “What about your parents?”
He shrugs, but is saved from answering by the server asking for our order.
When we sit down in the far corner with our fruit and syrup-drenched waffles, he sighs.
“My parents were addicts,” he admits. “They spent all our money on pot, speed, and coke. I got thrown into juvie for taking their stash and selling it on to my classmates so I had enough to feed my sister. My own parents sold me out—not because it was wrong, but because I was giving away their drugs.”
How did he go from living like that, knowing the harm the drugs could cause, to taking them himself?
I bite my lip, staring hard into my coffee. “That’s where you met the guys?”
Fondness eclipses his face for a second. “Yeah. The detention facility we were in had all these classes we were supposed to take, and music was one of the optional ones. Our band started out on crappy third-hand instruments in the basement of that hellhole.”
We fall silent for a second, both of us focusing on our food.
“So, you really had no idea you were coming to work with us?” he asks. “That’s a pretty incredible coincidence.”
I shrug, not wanting to lie to him. “I saw a job and took it. It helped that your music is good.”
He looks up, shocked. “You like our stuff?”
