Quest (The Boys of RDA Book 4) Read online

  Simone, the tall blonde is just perky. She swears I’m crazy and her life wasn’t special, but I can’t get the image of Simone as a sweet and peppy cheerleader out of my head. She met Trey on vacation and after more ups and downs than a Six Flags roller coaster, they somehow settled together. Trey is your typical tall dark-haired brooding hottie and Simone puts up with him.

  Grant holds the door to Giorgio’s pizzeria open and I’m saved from having to answer. I like Marissa and Ryland married. It works.

  “So what pizza do you want?” Grant asks not stepping up to the counter even though there isn’t a line.

  I walk past him not needing time to check out a menu. Giorgio’s is literally around the block. We eat here often. I’ve had the menu memorized for years. “Personal pepperoni and extra cheese. Two cups of ranch on the side, please, Samantha,” I order referencing our cashier by her first name. What? I’ve already admitted I eat here often. It would be rude not to learn their names.

  “I thought you didn’t eat meat?”

  Samantha narrows her eyes in question. She probably knows my order by heart as well. “Shut up,” I say to Grant. And when he doesn’t call me on it, I let a smile slip over my features. There’s no way Drew would have let me get away with any of this and I love the fact Grant takes my attitude in stride.

  Not that I want him to put up with me. If anything I hope the attitude puts him off and he’ll give up after this venture. At least, that’s what I mean to think.

  “I’ll have the same so make it a medium,” he orders turning to me. “Drink?”

  “Oh, Clare always gets a Cherry Coke,” Samantha says. I scowl even though the fact I’m a regular is obvious now. “Have a seat and I’ll bring it right out to you.”

  I pull on Grant’s sleeve leading him to my favorite table in the far back corner. The red cheap vinyl crinkles as I slide across it.

  “I hope this place is okay with you. It’s not your normal dinner venue.”

  Grant pulls three or four napkins from the dispenser at the end of the table. “I wish you’d stop doing that.”

  “What?”

  “You act like I’m a rich, pretentious asshole.” He passes a few napkins my way.

  His comment catches me off guard. That’s not what I’ve been doing, is it? “I’m not. I’m just saying you normally eat at better places.”

  “I like pizza. Who doesn’t? And my family may have money, but it doesn’t mean I do. I go to work every day like everybody else.”

  Nothing bothers me more than when rich people act like they’re no different from the rest of us. “Yeah but one day somebody’s gonna die and leave you a whole lot of money. And most of us don’t go to work running multimillion-dollar companies that share a last name.”

  “Maybe not, but many people can work their way up to running any company. Or start their own. And who knows, possibly one day a long-lost relative will leave you money.”

  I don’t think that is a concern for me. My mother’s life savings consists of what is in her prison spending account. There’s one family member with a bank account big enough to make my money dreams come true, but my father won’t leave me a dime.

  When it comes to people with shoulders to lean on, there’s Drew. It’s not a topic I want to discuss with Grant though. He’s dressed in a dark pair of jeans and a simple light blue t-shirt under his Columbia jacket, but I guarantee his outfit costs more than the thrift store finds I have on. He’s not the person I want the “pull yourself up by your bootstraps” pep talk from right now.

  “What is it you do in your fancy board room, anyway?” I ask to steer the topic away from where we were headed. Notice he doesn’t fight me on the board room being fancy.

  “Moore Investments has many different arms, but our biggest division is point of sale payment terminals.”

  Grant stops like I’m supposed to understand the meaning of what he said. “And that is?”

  “Oh.” Grant thinks about how to answer the question. “The little black boxes you swipe your credit card on when you check out.”

  “The credit card machines?” Why couldn’t he just call them that? I don’t need it kindergarten simple.

  “Yes. We process the transactions and make many forms of the readers as well. There’s a large manufacturer of them right here in San Francisco, but most of our work is done in China.”

  “Why are they always broken?” Half the time when you check out the machine is either broken or the screen doesn’t work properly. Who designed those stupid pens?

  Grant’s forehead pinches together, lines forming right in the middle. “They’re plastic and process thousands of transactions a day. That much use and it’s bound to happen.”

  I shrug. “I just think if they worked more often you’d be able to take people’s money faster.”

  Grant rolls his eyes. “I’m not stealing people’s money. They are paying for goods purchased. It’s not highway robbery.”

  “Have you seen the price of milk in this town? It is highway robbery.”

  Rather than be offended, he laughs. “Believe it or not, Clare, I’m only in charge of processing transactions. I don’t control the costs of food.”

  I want to make a witty comment, but the only thought I have is a snotty, “you should,” which is more childish than I’m willing to stoop to. Thankfully, Samantha picks that moment to deliver our pizza, saving me from an answer.

  We eat in a comfortable silence until Grant ruins it with his big mouth.

  “This is nice, right?”

  I answer with a head nod hoping he’ll take the hint and go back to eating. Eventually he’ll do the polite thing and ask more about my family. When you’re rich, it’s a good thing. It gives people the chance to brag about their family members’ achievements and how much money they made on the stock market yesterday. Accomplishments I’m sure they find exciting.

  When you’re me the only bragging available is the fact your mother didn’t do any time in solitary confinement this month. It’s missing the same pizzazz.

  “You. Me. This pizza. It’s nice.”

  I smile while chewing, anything to get me out of agreeing. The truth is, it is nice. Well, it was until he started talking.

  Another minute passes with Grant watching me chew and I lose my mind in the questions.

  Why is he being nice to me?

  Is it pity?

  Or hope?

  Maybe Grant wants to try and get another night of sex out of me. I can’t imagine he has a hard time getting sex from the ladies, but this pizza is cheaper than what his normal dates require.

  “Why am I here?”

  He doesn’t spout out a platitude, but instead stops chewing and appears to think of his answer. Finally, after keeping me in suspense for at least thirty seconds Grant simply shrugs.

  “That’s it? You don’t know?”

  He shrugs again. “I’ve always had a thing for redheads?”

  I guess I should be glad he’s truthful, but it’s not what I expected to hear.

  “What do you want me to say? When I saw you that night I was instantly attracted to you, but then we spent a night drinking together. I realized you were complex for a girl who wears an evening gown like she was born to wear it.”

  “Exactly how much do you think you like me?” It sounds like Grant is trying to figure me out and that is not a good thing.

  Grant smiles. A teeny tiny dimple forms in the crease of his right cheek — something I’ve never noticed until now. “Exactly as much as you don’t find creepy.”

  I laugh at his playfulness. At least I hope he’s joking. Grant finishes his second slice of pizza, but rather than reach for a new one off the tray his arm snakes across our table and he touches a piece of my crust.

  My fingers fly out and I slap the back of his hand, the crust dropping back to my plate. “What are you doing?”

  Grant looks at his hand baffled. “I was planning to eat your crust. You hadn’t eaten them yet.”

>   Men.

  “That’s because I save the best for last.” Where does he get off touching my food? On my plate. My plate.

  Grant leans back with both of his hands raised, palms out in an “I surrender” move. “I’m so sorry. It will never happen again.”

  “See that it doesn’t.”

  Grant laughs, the cute tiny dimple not so cute anymore. He obviously doesn’t understand how serious I am about this food thing.

  “What’s so funny?” I ask with attitude.

  His face turns serious as he says, “You are different than any girl I’ve ever met. I might not have figured out why I like you, but I want the chance.”

  “And why should I give you the chance?” Not that I plan to give him a chance.

  “I have no idea.” He laughs again. “I haven’t done anything to make you think I’m a good person, but I haven’t done anything wrong either. Give me the opportunity.”

  “A chance for what?” I still don’t see what Grant is going to get out of this.

  “To become your friend. The chance to be in the same room with you for more than two minutes before you make an excuse to leave.”

  “Just friends?”

  “For now.”

  “Grant….” The sentence trails off, but my annoyed eyes finish the thought.

  Once again, rather than take my warning and abrasive attitude the way they’re meant, the man laughs like I don’t bother him at all. “I’m giving you a warning, Clare Cunningham. You’re going to fall head over heels for me. I’m irresistible.”

  That’s doubtful.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  A soggy Cheerio falls from my spoon and lands perfectly in the middle of a giant heart on my Dragons Reborn inspired leggings. I doubt Finn, or the company that now owns his popular video game, gave them permission to make leggings based on his characters, but the dragons flying around the pixelated hearts were too good to pass up. Drew calls them my crazy cat lady pants because rather than grow old with one hundred cats he thinks I’ll be the little old lady playing online video games in my nursing home.

  Sounds like a good plan to me.

  The man in question lumbers down the stairs like an elephant that saw a mouse. Framed pictures on the wall shake as he turns into the kitchen. His footsteps slow long enough to grab a granola bar from the box he continuously leaves on the counter. He exits from the other side of the kitchen, and we both throw up a hand in a silent wave as he passes me and heads for the front door.

  “Later!” he yells on his way out.

  I don’t bother yelling back as the front door slams shut, the pictures rattling again. Over the years, this has become our summer ritual when my working hours better line up with his. Drew didn’t have the grades to get scholarships out of high school (like me). Aging out of the foster care program pretty much guarantees you don’t have a wealthy benefactor to pay your tuition. While I was attending classes in the city, Drew was working his way up the corporate ladder. He is now assisting day manager for a large local construction firm.

  I’m not sure when we stopped being the rebellious kids who snuck cigarettes behind Mrs. Haverbush’s garden shed and became these responsible adults, but I like it. This adult business isn’t half as much fun as we thought it would be, but it has its moments.

  A knock on the heavy wood of the front door startles me, and I dribble the milk I’d been drinking from the bowl down my shirt. Mother F’er. At least I hadn’t gotten dressed for the day yet. Drew would never let me live it down if I wore the dragon leggings to work. No one else would either.

  With another silent curse I stand, wiping spilled milk into my shirt. On the other side of the door is a man in a brown uniform holding a ridiculously large vase of red roses. I consider letting him leave them on the porch, but curiosity wins over my distaste for answering the door.

  “You probably have the wrong house.” My eyes flicker back and forth between the roses and the delivery guy.

  His head drops to the pad in his hands, not accustomed to my unexcited reaction. “I’m looking for Clare Cunningham. You her?”

  My eyes narrow and my forehead pinches together in suspicion. “Who are they from?”

  The guy studies his clipboard again. “Paperwork says the name on the credit card was a Grant Moore.”

  I was afraid of that. “Can you send them back?”

  He looks at me as if I have a snake coming out of my ear. “You want me to send back three hundred dollars in roses?”

  “Don’t tell me the price!” I wave my hands frantically in front of me to stop him from saying more.

  “Listen, lady, do you want the flowers or not?”

  I sigh in defeat. “Fine.” With one hand I sign for the delivery and hold the heavy vase in my other hand irritated. With the delivery taken care of, I leave the roses on the table next to my empty bowl of cereal and grab my phone heading upstairs.

  CLARE: Flower delivery is not included in our friendship contract.

  I’d tried to refuse taking Grant’s phone number last night, but now I’m glad he programmed it in my phone.

  I send the quick text to Grant and toss the phone on my bed not expecting an immediate response. In what is his ongoing theme, the man surprises me by sending a return text right away.

  GRANT: Are we discussing contracts now? I love a good negotiation early in the morning.

  I hurry to throw on a pair of jeans and a grey hoodie with the center’s logo across the front. The flower delivery set me back on a tight morning schedule.

  CLARE: Plus red roses, really? How unoriginal.

  Getting dressed distracted me from the purpose of my text — to ensure Grant lays off the flower deliveries.

  CLARE: Seriously, Grant, friends only. You promised.

  His reply comes as I’m locking the front door.

  GRANT: Okay, I get the point. No more red roses.

  Aghhh. Why is he so frustrating?

  CLARE: NO flowers! Friends don’t send flowers.

  GRANT: Okay, no flowers. You’d be good at negotiating if you ever want to enter the corporate world.

  I read his text, my head shaking, as I quickly walk the few blocks to the center. At least he got the message. I slip my phone in my back pocket, expecting that’s the end of it, but it vibrates a few steps later.

  GRANT: We should get together and play Dragons Reborn. I think you’d like it.

  I laugh at the text. Who does he think I am? I definitely let my nerd knowledge slip last night, but we went the entire meal without mentioning the popular video game.

  CLARE: I already play. Level 30.

  His text comes quickly like the last few.

  GRANT: Homestead or castle?

  CLARE: Castle, of course.

  The walk goes faster than normal while texting with Grant. His next one lights up my phone as I’m unlocking the door to my office.

  GRANT: That’s my girl. What system do you play on?

  I smile at his comment of me being his “girl”, but then I frown. I should not care if I’m Grant’s girl or not.

  I mean I definitely don’t care if I’m Grant’s girl.

  CLARE: A laptop. Windows version.

  I boot up my computer waiting for him.

  GRANT: What’s the graphic card readout on that? How many frames per second?

  I read the text three times and still have no idea what he’s talking about. Sometimes I forget the preppy kid is a big nerd too.

  CLARE: I’m not sure, it’s Drew’s computer. A black one.

  GRANT: What’s your user name and the server you play on?

  I debate being difficult and not telling him, but as I open my work e-mail, I give in and text him back. He’s best friends with the game developer. It wouldn’t take long for him to find someone to figure it out. Plus, he and the other RDA girls play on a different server.

  GRANT: I’m not on that server.

  As expected he tells me information I already had.

  CLARE: So?
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br />   There’s no way he’s talking me into abandoning a level thirty Castle. I worked way too hard.

  GRANT: Well if we play on your server I won’t have any of my cool swords to wow you.

  I laugh at his persistence and the sound travels far enough into the hallway. One of the early arrival kids pops his head in my door. He looks at me in an odd way like he’s never heard me laugh before, but soon he smiles too and his head disappears back to where he came.

  CLARE: Tell you what. You can live in my castle until you get on your feet.

  GRANT: You have space for a roommate?

  CLARE: Level 30 remember?

  The thought of spending my morning locked away in my office texting with Grant has its appeal, but if I don’t show my face with the kids soon, they’ll come looking for me. I turn off the screen to my desktop computer and get ready to start another morning of keeping San Francisco’s kids entertained.

  CLARE: Got to go for real. Kids are here.

  **

  “Okay, throw the balls back in the pit and let’s break for a quick lunch.” The sound of basketballs being dribbled across the gym makes a racket. I’ll enjoy the thirty-minute lunch break I get in my quiet office. Some days I eat it in the conference room with the kids who pack a lunch while the others visit various establishments near the center. They don’t always make it back after lunch, getting caught up in the moment of something more fun but normally not good for them. I understand, I was once one of those kids.

  Lunch with my regulars gives me the chance to learn more about their lives at home. I often hear facts no teenager would normally share with anyone over twenty. They learn to be closed off and secretive. But today rather than information gathering, I plan to use the break to enjoy private time… and check to see if Grant texted again.

  The door to my office is closed the way I left it, but there definitely wasn’t a man sitting behind my desk this morning.

  “Can I help you?” I ask politely rather than yelling “what the fuck” like I want.

  He stands, a huge smile on his face like he’s here to give me a million dollars or solve world hunger, but I’m not dreaming so it can’t be either of those. The poor kid isn’t a day over twenty and he’s obviously proud of whatever reason brought him here. It’s not every day I get a black clad, hair gelled, office guy to visit the youth center. It’s not normally a good thing. I’m suspicious to say the least.