Total pages in book: 62
Estimated words: 61723 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 309(@200wpm)___ 247(@250wpm)___ 206(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 61723 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 309(@200wpm)___ 247(@250wpm)___ 206(@300wpm)
Roger swings.
He doesn’t even get close.
Tucker catches his arm, twists, and in one smooth motion, throws him. Roger hits the street hard. A grunt comes out of him. Everything goes still. My heart is racing so fast I can barely think. The other biker stands back, watching.
Tucker turns and walks toward me.
I don’t realize I’m shaking until he’s right in front of me. His eyes scan my face quickly. “You okay?”
I nod automatically. But it’s not convincing. Not even a little. I wrap my arms around myself. Trying to hold it together. Trying not to fall apart.
And then, he steps forward pulling me into him.
Strong.
Solid.
Safe.
“You’re okay,” he murmurs against my hair. “I’ve got you.”
The words break something inside me. My breath hitches. My fingers curl into his shirt without permission. He doesn’t let go. Instead he gently backs me into the house, one arm still around me, his body between me and the open door.
“You’re safe,” he says again.
And for the first time since the doorbell rang, I actually believe it.
EIGHT
MELLOW
The second I get her inside, I kick the door shut behind us.
Not hard. Just enough.
Lucy is still shaking in my arms. Not the loud kind. Not sobbing. Not falling apart.
Worse.
The quiet kind. The kind that tells me she’s hanging on by a thread because she has to. I keep one arm around her shoulders and glance toward the hallway.
“Quinn awake?”
Lucy swallows and shakes her head. “I don’t think so.” Her voice is weak.
I look at the other man standing just outside the doorway. “Stay with him and make sure he gets all the way home with a message.”
He nods once and steps off the stoop toward the road where Roger is groaning and trying to gather his pride off the asphalt.
I turn my attention back to Lucy.
“You want me to check?”
She blinks up at me like the question catches her off guard. “My daughter?”
“Yeah.” A beat passes. Then she nods.
“Please.”
I ease my arm from around her carefully, like I’m afraid if I let go too fast she’ll shatter. Maybe I am. She wraps her robe tighter around herself as I move down the hall, my boots suddenly too loud in a house this quiet.
I slow my steps as I approach the bedroom door.
The whole place smells like clean laundry, shampoo, and something warm from dinner. Home. Real home. The kind that’s lived in and cared for, not just passed through.
I reach the half-open bedroom door and pause.
A little girl is sprawled across a small bed under a yellow blanket, one stuffed rabbit tucked under her arm. Blond hair everywhere. Dead asleep.
Didn’t hear a thing.
Good.
I step just inside, careful not to let the floor creak. My size doesn’t lend itself to stealth, but I manage. I crouch enough to see her face better. Relaxed. Safe. Dreaming whatever five-year-olds dream when the world hasn’t managed to take too much from them yet.
Something in my chest shifts.
Lucy was right to be scared. A man on her porch is one thing. A drunk, angry man on her porch while her child sleeps down the hall? That’s something else entirely.
I back out quietly and pull the door nearly closed again before heading to the living room.
Lucy is where I left her, standing in the middle of the room with both arms wrapped around herself like she’s trying to keep from coming undone. Her robe is pale pink. Hair loose around her shoulders. Bare feet on the wood floor. She looks soft and exhausted and scared half to death.
And somehow still beautiful.
That thought annoys me on principle. “She slept through it,” I tell her quietly. “Didn’t even move.”
Relief rushes over her face so fast it hurts to watch. “Okay,” she whispers. “Okay.”
I nod toward the couch. “Sit down.”
She hesitates, probably because I’m not exactly making requests right now. Then she crosses the room and sinks onto the far end of the couch, still clutching her robe shut. I stay standing for a second, listening.
A low murmur of voices outside. Roger’s pissed, but he’s not making a scene loud enough to wake the neighborhood. Good. The prospect knows how to keep a lid on things.
Lucy follows my gaze toward the door.
“Who is that?”
I look back at her. “The other guy?”
She nods. “Yeah. Who is he?”
“One of ours.” She stares at me confused but I don’t elaborate.
“One of yours.” She reiterates.
“Yeah.”
Her jaw tightens just slightly. “How did he know to come here?”
There it is. The question I knew was coming. I drag a hand over my clean shaven face and stay where I am, weighing how honest to be and deciding real damn quick there’s only one smart answer.
Lucy’s eyes narrow a little. “Tucker.”
The way she says my name shouldn’t do anything to me. It does. I exhale. “Before I answer that, you need to know Roger’s done coming here like this.”