No Damaged Goods

by Snow, Nicole

  My free hand pinches into a fist. My chest hurts from harsh breathing, digging around inside me like claws, this sick feeling of razor-sharp memory. “Worst crime in her book was doing something she didn’t approve of. Bitch did everything she could to stop me from marrying Abigail. I think that’s half the reason I did it.”

  There it is.

  There it is, fucking out loud.

  Hell.

  So maybe Abby wasn’t the best mom, and a pretty lousy wife.

  But maybe I was a shit husband, too.

  Marrying her half for love and half to spite my Ma in the first place.

  Growling, I hang my head, closing my eyes, starting to pull my hand back from hers. “Now you know. I’m goddamn trash. What kind of fucker marries a girl just to piss off Mama? Even if he was young and stupid.”

  “That’s just it. Someone young,” she soothes, never letting go of my hand.

  Never letting go of me.

  I pull her fingers in, tangle them around mine, and squeeze till she gasps real sweet for me.

  God.

  There are a thousand reasons I shouldn’t be doing this, but a million more reasons why I can’t stop.

  “Someone who, I think, gets his daughter more than he lets on.” Her other hand covers mine then, and I lift my head to find her watching me with so much compassion I almost can’t stand it, being seen like this. “Did you ever hurt Abigail?”

  “Nah, don’t think so. Not the ways she backstabbed me.” I’m searching deep here, going back in memory, pushing past the grief to try to really see. “Thought I loved her, Peace. I really did.”

  “We always think we’re in love...until we realize we’re not. That doesn’t make us evil. It makes us human.” She smiles, but her eyes are wet, glistening, like she’s just stolen away my pain so she can cry it out because I’m too fucking proud to.

  And she squeezes my death-gripping hand so tight. “And it’s human to be afraid of hurting your kid, Blake. But it’s also human to love Andrea so much you’d never hurt her the way your mother hurt you. You love Andrea that much, and more—and that’s all that matters.”

  I want to believe her.

  I want to believe her so much.

  But I can’t pin it all on her.

  I’ve got this girl out here practically crying over me and my unresolved shit, when she should be inside keeping warm and getting rest after a madman scared her out of her wits.

  Fuck this.

  I need to handle my own mess.

  Including figuring out how to keep Clark Patten away from Andrea before he gets her into trouble I can’t get her out of.

  I stand, gently tugging on my hand to free it from hers.

  “Thanks, lady,” I say. “I want to believe you. I do.”

  I shake my head.

  Then on impulse, because she pulls me every which way, I draw one of those slender hands up and press my lips to the center of her soft, warm palm. Savoring the way her breath hitches and her chest rises, her eyes widening. I want to believe she’s blushing for me and not the cold.

  Her skin’s so smooth. Plush against my lips, and I linger, rubbing my beard against her palm like I’m some wild beast marking her before reluctantly pulling away.

  “Think I need something a little harder than beer,” I tell her, taking a step back toward the house. “Shame I don’t keep anything potent in the house with that little moonshine monster already sneaking crap with her friends. I grounded her hard last year when Leo brought her home drunk off her ass.” I offer her a rueful, apologetic smile. “Go on inside before you freeze them little bunny ears right off your feet. Quit worrying over me and get some sleep.”

  And with her watching me, her eyes still so wide with confusion, longing, hurt, something more, we part ways.

  I turn and walk, crunching away into the snow, rounding the side of the house.

  I’m not running from this woman, I tell myself.

  Or from the specter of two dead women who make me afraid to believe I could ever love again.

  Tonight, I just need to think.

  * * *

  Lucky for me that Brody’s is crowded, but not too crowded.

  I’m not in the mood for company tonight.

  Warren, Leo, Doc, they all know me as the funny guy. The big goof.

  I’m the dumbass who thought Leo’s name meant Tiger back when we were kids. Not lion.

  I’m always the one with an idiot joke, an easy grin, but the last one to get what’s going on.

  Hell, I’m the dude who lit up a bunch of those Galentron assholes with fireworks and yelled “Merry Christmas, chucklefucks!” right before my bum leg practically pitched me off the top of Gray’s truck.

  Yeah.

  I’m the clown.

  Because they only see me when it’s just us, and everyone needs to wind down for a laugh. I always feel like I can’t be the guy bringing the group down. Can’t let ’em see when I’m screwed up or worrying about Andrea or remembering shit I don’t want to with Ma, or Abby, or Holt.

  So I laugh.

  But I’m all out of laughs tonight, and I don’t think I could pull one out even for my best friends.

  I find an empty barstool and settle in to order a good hard shot of whiskey. I’d walked here on purpose, forgetting the vehicle. Partly because I needed to clear my head in the icy air, and partly because I know I’ll be safer sobering up on a cool walk home than I would be driving.

  I ain’t gonna get too blasted, anyway.

  I just need to be sober enough to think.

  To figure out why it feels like this ain’t adding up.

  Clark’s a kid.

  A little asshole, sure.

  But I’m having trouble believing a seventeen-year-old kid’s got that much malice in him.

  And that much forethought, to set a fire at the fabric store with prepared incendiaries for what?

  Just to get my goat ’cause I don’t like him?

  And what about that vicious note for Leo?

  Leo, formerly known as Nine, has turned into a local legend to the kids. Their favorite scarred-up superhero, especially since Leo gets all self-conscious and still goes hunting sometimes all cloaked and masked like something right out of a comic book.

  He ain’t nobody personal to Clark, as far as I know.

  So why would Clark Patten be leaving him hate notes?

  Trouble is, nobody besides Clark’s uncle—who ain’t no one to anyone, he’s never in town long enough for anybody to love him or hate him—would have the expertise to do something like that, and the tools on hand.

  Still no motive.

  Still no lead except Clark.

  I know I’m the big bad grizzly bear when it comes to protecting my little girl, but hell.

  I ain’t been that bad to the little punk.

  I stare down at my whiskey, then take a deep, burning sip, letting it clear my head.

  I’ll figure it out.

  If I have to, I’ll bring in the boys. Maybe we can figure it out before I have to involve Sheriff Bumble.

  Between us, we’ve got a decent head on our shoulders.

  I sigh—then tense as someone slides into the empty seat next to me.

  Great. All the stools free all along the bar, and someone’s just gotta park down next to me like they want to be friendly.

  But I breathe out a sigh of relief when I look up and see Justin, sinking down next to me with his movements heavy and tired, his face haggard. There are dark circles under his eyes, and he’s a bit of a stubbly mess.

  “Hey, Chief,” he says wearily, folding his arms on the bar. “Mind if I join you? Can’t sleep.”

  I give him a friendly smile. Here’s one problem I might be able to make some progress with tonight.

  “Sure,” I say, lifting my glass in salute. “Been meanin’ to talk to you anyway.”

  “Yeah?” He looks at me quizzically, even as he lifts one hand to the bartender. “What’s up?”

  “Nothing
to worry about,” I say. “But, say, how do you feel about dinner at my place sometime real soon?”

  * * *

  Okay.

  Maybe I drank a little more than I meant to last night. The wicked hangover settling in tells me plenty in loud shouts of pain.

  Still, I’m feeling pretty good about my decision to invite Justin over to dinner.

  Whatever weight was bearing him down last night, it seemed to lift a bit when I made the offer. He’d relaxed as we’d sat and drank in near silence.

  Lost in our own thoughts, each of us.

  Sometimes it ain’t bad to have a drinking buddy.

  And I’d walked him back to his apartment, just to clear my head and make sure he got home safe. Something about his place still bugs me. It’s too damn barren.

  It seems so lonely, just him and those photos all lined up along the walls.

  Kid like that needs company.

  Maybe I ain’t his family, no, but I can at least remind him he’s part of something. Being with the fire team is no small feat.

  You have to trust a man in the middle of hell with your life.

  Once I saw him home, I wandered back to my dark house and collapsed into bed.

  Tried hard not to think about Peace, sleeping just a little ways away, only a thin wall between us.

  Fat chance.

  I can’t not think about her. Morning brings the smell of frying bacon and the sound of clanging pans drifting up the stairs.

  I don’t know if the smell makes me want to throw up or makes me hungry. That hangover messed with my senses something fierce.

  One thing I know: that noise is gonna kill me.

  Snarling, I crack one eye open.

  Someone’s been in my room.

  There’s a water bottle on the nightstand and the bottle of Tylenol that belongs in the medicine cabinet. Andrea didn’t leave that.

  Shit.

  She’s probably still holed up in her room, hoping I’ll oversleep long enough for her to sneak out with her friends before I can say boo about the next week.

  No can do.

  I’m due out on a welding job at the Potter farm. Just a quick private gig, but not many others have the qualifications. They’ve got some framing that needs to be done up proper and safety-checked for a new well tank.

  Welp.

  Dragging myself out of bed, I grunt as my body protests with creaking bones and a throbbing in my thigh that matches the pounding in my skull.

  Goddamn, what kind of rotgut did I drink last night?

  The sound of Peace’s soft singing echoes below, prying my mind off the pain.

  I pause mid-reach for the water bottle to have a listen.

  She’s singing something sunny, something sweet, lyrics about California waves and tans.

  Even with my skull splitting fit to blind me, I can’t help but grin.

  And with a bit more energy, I wolf down several pain pills, chug the water, throw some clothes on, brush my teeth, and go clattering downstairs.

  It’s a good morning. An easy morning, like Peace just fits into the house in some odd little way. With nothing more than a good morning smile, she reveals another talent.

  Knowing the perfect cure for a hangover: a big greasy breakfast, bacon and sausage and cheese and mushrooms and onions all slammed together into the largest, gooiest omelet I’ve ever seen.

  Girl knows the way to a man’s heart, all right.

  “You’re a lifesaver, darlin’.” I toss her a wink as I settle at the dining room table and tuck in to the food.

  Andrea even comes down, still in her pj’s—girl’s sixteen and still sleeps in a big purple fuzzy onesie, and somehow I’m just not surprised that Peace loves it.

  That’s another thing Broccoli’s good at. Making Andrea light up as they chatter over breakfast.

  I might as well not even be here, listening to Peace yammer on about the massive sapphire-blue waves people surf off the shores of Oahu and Maui with a glimmer in her eye.

  As much as she swears she belongs to the continental US of A now, there’s a part of her that’ll always call that far off paradise home. And who can blame her? My ears prick up as she talks about the palm trees and big sea turtles and some wild story about this former SEAL dude taking down a modern-day high seas cartel for a very forgetful lady.

  Same story she read up on after Andrea mentioned it, I guess.

  I grin. She’s a natural storyteller, her words just suck me in.

  Not because I’m thinking about going to Hawaii.

  I’m not.

  Maybe for a vacation one day, with the way Andrea’s eyes are shining.

  Next winter, maybe.

  Nice break from all the snow.

  I don’t mind being invisible, listening to Peace’s stories as we cast little glances back and forth over the table.

  “What?” she whispers emphatically. “I swear to God, that Valerie chick did have a wild cat when she washed up on shore with Mr. SEAL. A serval—er, half serval. I read all about it. I’m so not making this up.”

  “Careful, darlin’. You keep on bringing these Hawaiian romance thrillers here, and soon little old Heart’s Edge won’t be so freaky, and I won’t have much to blab about on the radio.”

  “Perish the thought.” Andrea chomps off a big bite of eggs and points her fork at me. “I can’t figure out what’s worse.”

  I quirk an eyebrow, waiting.

  “You playing Mr. Conspiracy or Dr. Love. God, Dad, the things you tell some people.”

  “Hey, now, some people at this table have gotten pretty good advice,” Peace says, flashing me a sun-shiny look that ignites my blood.

  Andrea’s face goes red. “I mean, well...it’s not all bad. Like that chick who asked you about her crush, Tony the Comic Book Boy. Ugh. They’re freaking inseparable now. Everyone just wishes they’d get a room.”

  We all burst out laughing.

  For once, I ain’t even fed up with her bullcrap. It’s a rarity to have my little girl giving me a backhanded compliment, and today, I’ll take it.

  I can’t even feel my headache now, absorbing the way Peace Rabe brightens up the whole house.

  Maybe I get a little too comfortable. We’re all moving around and murmuring over cleaning up the dishes and putting things away when it happens.

  Without thinking, my arm brushes Peace, then it snags her around the waist and pulls her close.

  Like we’re one big happy family and I’m just kissing my girl goodbye on the way out the door.

  I freeze as her body presses up to mine.

  Shit, what am I doing?

  I catch myself just inches away from bending down to steal her mouth.

  She goes stock-still against me, not even breathing, staring up with those soft green eyes. They’re still glacial forests, but they’re also burning hot.

  That’s the kind of paradox she is.

  All wild whims, and she pulls me all her witch ways when her body feels just like I imagined against mine.

  Soft.

  Lush.

  Hot.

  Like she’s this plush marshmallow thing just melting against me in a whimper.

  Her pert breasts against my stomach, my chest.

  Her breath curled against my lips like the precursor to a kiss that shouldn’t happen.

  She’s frozen with her hands held out from her sides, but slowly she lifts them against my chest, her gaze searching mine. “Blake?”

  I can hardly hear her over my heartbeat.

  Over my imagination going fuck-wild, thinking she’s saying my name the way I’d dreamed it in the shower, Blake, Blake, Blake, oh God, Blake, her thighs gripping my hips and her body pumping down on mine and—

  My whole body tingles, burning from the inside out.

  Not nearly as much as the fire in my cock, the pounding blood roaring through my veins.

  Fuck.

  I swear under my breath, stepping back quickly, letting her go so sharply she stumbles. I reach o
ut to grasp her arm and steady her.

  “Sorry,” I mutter. “Thought you tripped for a second there.”

  I’m a horrific liar.

  She doesn’t say anything. I have no idea what I’ll say if she says I don’t believe that.

  So I just clear my throat.

  I turn around, face the door, then do some more turning. Make sure Andrea isn’t looking, but she’s gone up to her room.

  Screw it, here goes.

  Her eyes go up in a fireball as I bring my mouth to hers, claiming this pixie who can’t stop stirring me up without even trying.

  Oh, but fuck do I try something right now, taking her tongue and her heat, leaving her delirious.

  Believe me, it’s mutual.

  That first kiss is a freight collision, not just our mouths, but our bodies. Peace moans against my mouth as I take her, grasping her neck, lacing my fingers through her hair, and pulling gently so she dips real sweet for me.

  It’s everything I feared.

  Fiery, divine, and so sexy I feel like I need a cold shower.

  Her little mouth ripples again, pulsing another moan that sounds an awful lot like Blake! before I pull back for half a breath and take her again. This time she’s ready. Her tongue dives at mine, starting a thirty-second battle of dueling tongues and teeth and breathless pleasure.

  Fuck.

  I’m grateful Andrea’s still in the house.

  It’s the only shred of sanity that saves me from spinning her around, throwing her on the couch, and having my way right here and now.

  I barely tear myself away, relishing her heat on my lips, watching her still leaning against the wall, wide-eyed and panting. “Blake...what...what was—?”

  “That?” I finish. “That was my thanks for this morning, beautiful. I like having you around. See you for supper. Don’t forget to keep the doors locked and call if you need anything. I’ll have Warren or Leo drive by a couple times to make sure everything’s cool here.”

  I have to go.

  Right the hell now before this turns into a conversation I don’t have the time or clarity for.