Beneath the Scars

by Cherise Sinclair

  “Apparently not. But why should he? He got rid of me easily enough when it happened.”

  Holt eyed her. She was perhaps a bit younger than he was. “How old were you when Carson was born?”

  She shrugged. “It doesn’t matter.”

  Didn’t like to share, did she? Some people would dump their life stories on perfect strangers. Most people answered questions when asked. Then there were the ones who raised a wall around their world. He had a feeling he knew when a young Josie’s wall had gone up.

  As a kid, he’d loved jumping over fences. These days, the walls he tackled tended to be emotional rather than physical. He reached over and took her hand. “Don’t make me play guessing games, pet. How old?”

  “Seventeen.”

  A teenager. His jaw tensed. That note was on office paper, so Everett had been employed, not in high school. “And how old was his father at that time?”

  She looked out the window. “I’d guess mid-thirties.”

  Nine months pregnancy meant she’d probably been sixteen when the asshole got her with child. Holt kept his voice level with an effort. “I’m surprised your parents didn’t go after him with statutory rape charges and a paternity suit.”

  When she didn’t answer, he glanced over.

  She was still looking out the window. The hand in her lap was fisted.

  On the phone, the navigational app kicked in, and Yoda stated, “Reached your destination, you have.” Holt slowed the car. The bastard’s house was a pretentious colonial mansion style. Yeah, why was he not surprised? Inside, the lights were off. He saw no child lurking in the yard or under the dimly lit portico.

  Josie had the window down and leaned out, searching the street for her boy.

  They cruised past the asshole’s home, reached the end of the street, and spotted a police patrol car moving slowly down the block.

  Holt pulled to the curb, got out, and flagged the car down.

  The patrol officer lowered his window. “Can we help you?”

  “If you’re looking for the eleven-year-old, I have the boy’s mother in the car. Have you spotted him?” Holt noticed Josie had gotten out and stood close enough to hear.

  The young officer shook his head, as did his female partner in the other seat. “All quiet.”

  Dammit. “We’ll keep cruising around, so if you get calls about a white Honda Civic scoping out the neighborhood, you’ll know it’s us.”

  “Good point. I’m glad you stopped us.” The officer handed over a card. “This is our station. If you find him, have them relay us the message that he’s safe.”

  “Will do.” Holt pulled out his own card. “My cell phone is on here. Same deal.”

  With nods, they separated.

  As Josie jumped back into the car, she said, “Now what?”

  “Now we circle this neighborhood and start back…slowly. We know he got here. Let’s make sure he didn’t run into trouble on his way home.”

  * * * * *

  Carson pushed his bike down the sidewalk, scowling at the flat front tire…and trying not to cry. When he and Isaac had figured out how to get to Lake Magdalene on his bike, it’d looked easy. The ride there hadn’t been bad.

  Walking back? It was going to take him forever.

  He had a feeling it was awful late. Trying to get up the courage to ring the doorbell at his dad’s—at Everett’s—house, he’d walked around the block a bunch of times first.

  Then he’d rung the doorbell.

  Tears spilled down his cheeks, and Carson roughly swiped his arm over his face. The door had opened, and a smiling man had answered and asked if he was a Boy Scout or selling stuff for school.

  Carson hadn’t been able to talk.

  His dad hadn’t recognized him. Shouldn’t a father recognize his son…somehow? So Carson had blurted out, “My mom is Josie Collier. I guess you’re my dad, and I wanted to meet you.” When the man just stood there, Carson figured he had the wrong person, only then a lady somewhere in the house had called, “Everett, who is it?”

  Yeah, Everett was the right person. Besides, the man kinda looked like Carson. Same straight brown hair. Same hook on what Mom called a Roman nose. Same brown eyes.

  But his father’d stared at him like he was…a cockroach or something. And he’d whispered, real mean, “I don’t fucking believe this. You’re not my kid. Get away from here, you little bastard,” and slammed the door. As Carson’d stood there, staring at the closed door, he’d heard the guy tell the lady, “Just some homeless bum, darling.”

  His dad was a dick.

  Swallowing hard, Carson kicked a soda can and listened to it clang down the sidewalk. He’d hoped his dad would be happy to find he had a son. Would…like him.

  Mom was really awesome—some kids had horrible mothers—but most of his friends had dads, too. And their fathers would hang with them and watch football or shoot some hoops. Sure, his mom and dad wouldn’t, like, get together or anything, but it would’ve been nice to have a dad. Sometimes. To visit or something.

  More tears made his eyes burn, and he blinked them back. I want to be home. Home and curled under the covers…where he could cry.

  The noise of traffic increased. The nice houses were behind him, and he was close to another big street. Dale something or whatever. It was all parking lots and most of the stores were closed and dark.

  Creepy.

  Skin prickling, he walked faster, feeling…small.

  Even as he thought that, a big guy came out of a dark parking lot and onto the sidewalk. He had a shaved head, a straggly beard, and missing teeth. “Yo. You lost, brat?”

  Carson stopped, retreated a step, and turned to run the other way. He rammed right into another man, and the guy grabbed Carson’s arm in a painful, biting grip.

  “Got him.” The guy had red and blue tats from wrists to shoulders—and he stank.

  “Let me go!” Heart pounding, Carson kicked at the man. “Let me—”

  The man slapped him.

  Fiery pain burst in Carson’s cheek. He cringed.

  The man spun Carson around and put his forearm across Carson’s throat. “Shut your trap, or I’ll shut it for you.”

  Carson’s yell strangled along with his air. He couldn’t breathe.

  The bald guy with the beard shoved his hands into Carson’s pockets, searching him. “No fucking wallet?”

  “How about a phone?” the tatted man asked.

  “Nope. Got shit.” Baldy stepped back.

  “Wha’d’ya wanna do with him?”

  “Pretty boy like this? I can think of—”

  Carson kicked Baldy hard in the knee, frantically scratching at the arm across his throat.

  A white car screeched to a stop at the curb.

  The tatted creep holding Carson jerked around. He didn’t let go, despite Carson’s kicking and scratching.

  The driver of the car sprang out and charged straight for Carson. Holy shit, it was their neighbor, Holt.

  Carson tried to call out and couldn’t.

  “Get the fuck out of here, asshole.” Baldy stepped in between them.

  Holt ducked a swing, grabbed Baldy, and heaved him at a parked car so hard the man went headfirst over the hood.

  The tatted guy holding Carson gave an ugly grunt, and his arm across Carson’s neck loosened.

  Carson ripped himself loose and scrambled toward Holt who pulled him up against his side.

  “Easy, buddy.” Holt pulled him closer. “Fight’s over.”

  But…the other guy. “What about…” Carson spun around.

  Hand to his head, the tatted guy was on his knees, swaying like he’d fall over. Blood poured through his fingers.

  Mom…Carson’s mom…stood behind the man, a broken, bloody chunk of concrete in her hand. She tossed it away and held out her hand to Carson. “Oh, honey.”

  “Mo-om!” Carson lunged across the space, buried himself in her arms…and cried.

  * * * * *

  Safe, her ba
by was safe.

  Josie was shaking so hard that it took a minute to realize her son was trembling even more. He held her as if he’d never let her go—and dear heavens, he hadn’t cried like this in years.

  Pulling in a breath, she realized they stood in a dreadful part of town at night, easy targets for someone to… She frantically looked for Carson’s attackers, but they’d disappeared. Then she spotted Holt.

  Big and muscular, black leather jacket, black boots, bearded. Steely gaze alert, he radiated menace, even as he leaned against her car and spoke on his cell phone.

  God, she was glad he’d come with her.

  Call finished, he shoved the phone in his pocket. He never stopped scanning the area as he opened the back door and told her, “I called off the search party and reported the attack. Let’s get you two home.”

  “C’mon, honey. Let’s go.” Arm around her son, Josie tucked him into the back seat and hesitated.

  “Stay beside him, Josie.” Holt helped her in beside her boy.

  After putting the bike in the trunk, Holt slid into the driver’s seat and glanced in the rear view mirror. “Buckle up, you two.”

  In the middle seat, Carson didn’t move. Josie buckled his seat belt and fastened her own before wrapping her arms around him.

  Safe, safe, safe.

  “That guy called me a pretty boy,” Carson finally whispered. “I kicked him.”

  “I saw that,” Holt said. “It was a good kick, ace.”

  A good kick? Her baby had left the house at night and been assaulted by two men. He could have died. Furious words piled up in her throat. Don’t yell, don’t yell. Her jaw cramped from holding everything back.

  Her boy had been terrified. Alone. Lost. He’d suffered more than enough consequences for a foolish action. “Why weren’t you on your bike?”

  “Got a flat tire.” He tried to sit up straighter.

  Despite the pang of letting him go, she opened her arms. “You went to see your birth father.”

  “Yeah. I told him I was his kid.” He stared at his sneakers. He had big feet, like a gangling dog still growing into his paws.

  “It didn’t go well,” she prompted.

  The streetlights outside the moving car provided enough light to see tears fill his eyes.

  She would have killed Everett if he’d been in reach.

  “He said I wasn’t his.” Carson’s lower lip trembled. “Only I know I am. I look like him.”

  She forced her tone to stay quiet and even. “Yes. You do.”

  “An’ you don’t lie. You never lie.”

  When she heard the certainty in his voice, tears blurred her vision. Her son had watched her deal out truth even when she hadn’t wanted to, when it was awkward or ugly or had unhappy results. He believed her.

  Don’t cry. Blinking hard, she drew in a breath through her nose. “There is no doubt he is your father, Carson. I’d never been with anyone before him and wasn’t for years after.”

  Only her voice and the low hum of the car engine broke the silence in the car. She took her son’s hand. “I was young and foolish. He said he wasn’t with his wife and was getting divorced, and I believed him. When I was pregnant with you, he was afraid his wife and friends would find out.”

  She swallowed and continued. “He’s never been willing to risk losing what he has, even to gain an amazing son.”

  Carson returned to staring at his feet, and his mouth twisted into an unhappy line.

  “I’m sorry this didn’t turn out the way you wanted it to.”

  His short nod acknowledged her words.

  The rest of the drive was in silence.

  Holt pulled her car under the carport and opened the back door.

  The anger and worry had drained her, and as she tried to stand, her knees buckled.

  “Whoa, pet.” With a muscular arm around her waist, he steadied her until her legs stopped wobbling.

  “Thank you,” she murmured.

  “Mmmhmm.” Keeping his arm around her, he waited for Carson to jump out, locked the car, and escorted them into her house.

  Once inside, Holt released her. Looking down, he gave Carson a half smile. “Considering the level of hygiene your muggers displayed, you might want to take a thorough shower and toss your clothes in the washer.”

  “Oh. Gross.” Carson’s nose wrinkled.

  Josie couldn’t suppress a laugh. She waved toward his bedroom. “Agree. Shower and laundry.”

  Carson took two steps, turned, and looked at Holt. “Thank you.”

  Rather than laughing it off, Holt tilted his head gravely. “You’re very welcome.”

  As Carson trudged toward his bedroom, Josie faced Holt. “You have my thanks as well. So many thanks. I wouldn’t have…” She was going to have nightmares about those two men. “You saved him.”

  “Hey, we’re neighbors. Neighbors help out.” He glanced toward the bedroom. “You’ve raised a good kid, Josie. You should be proud.”

  Startled by the unexpected compliment, she looked up…and into his eyes. Eyes the color of a windy sky, only so very warm. Heat pooled inside as she saw him for what he was—more than just a gorgeous male. He was an incredibly confident, masculine man whom she’d leaned on all evening. He’d soothed her panic without making her feel inadequate. His sensible orders, given in a firm, controlled voice, had calmed her even more.

  He’d kept her boy safe.

  “Will you be all right?” He curled his hand around her nape in a warm grip.

  His touch was so comforting she rubbed her cheek against his forearm. “Yes, Sir. I will now.”

  “Then get some sleep, sweetheart.” The sun lines at the corners of his eyes deepened. “You’ll have a sulky boy on your hands tomorrow.” After kissing her forehead, he tucked her keys into her hand and walked out, closing the door softly behind him.

  Chapter Seven

  Josie tossed and turned all night. But what mother wouldn’t? Her son had run away and been attacked. She’d finally pushed those nightmares aside only to dream of Holt. Of repaying him…in a very carnal fashion. She’d rewarded him and been rewarded in turn. Those steely blue eyes had watched her as he’d ordered her to…to do all sorts of erotic activities that weren’t appropriate at all. Bad Josie.

  She needed to keep her distance from him. Carson was in a vulnerable state, especially since Everett had crushed his hopes. And here was Holt who’d saved the day in a tough-guy fashion that had to impress a young boy. He’d sure impressed her.

  But if they got involved at all, Carson couldn’t help but view Holt as a father figure. And when the man realized how much work a child and a baggage-ridden woman were and moved on, her son’s heart would be broken. She couldn’t risk her baby’s heart.

  In the shower, she scolded herself for even dreaming about Holt.

  While she dressed, she lectured herself about the responsibilities of motherhood.

  As she fixed a hot breakfast—a treat for Carson on a school day—she reminded herself of what was important in life. Her son was first on the list.

  When Carson emerged from his bedroom, his apprehensive expression reminded her of when he was four and had broken every egg in the carton to see what was inside.

  She knew he was eleven, could see how big he’d grown, and yet her heart saw him as her baby. Did that feeling ever go away?

  Last night, he’d told her what Everett had said. Her boy had tried to pretend he didn’t care. But he did. His father who should have been so proud of him had acted as if his son was something he loathed.

  She knew…oh, she knew exactly how Carson had felt at that moment. Even though her son knew how much she loved him, he would hurt for a long time to come.

  “Good morning, honey.” She patted him on the shoulder. “I made pancakes. Do you want a couple of eggs with them?”

  “Uh. No, thank you. Not today.” Far too quiet, Carson set the table and got out butter and syrup.

  Anger at Everett simmered inside her, yet wh
at could she do? Sure, she could lawyer up and create hell for the jerk. What about his innocent family? What about making Carson an object of gossip at his school? The collateral damage for getting revenge seemed excessive.

  She set the plate of pancakes on the table and joined Carson, seeing he’d poured milk in the glasses. He was on his best behavior…and she wished she had her sullen pre-teen back again.

  Once finished, she started cleaning up while Carson got ready for school. At the sound of a door shutting, she glanced out the kitchen window.

  On the other side of the fence, Holt sauntered into his backyard. His thick blond hair was tangled, his eyes, heavy-lidded. He was obviously just out of bed…and the knowledge sent a wave of warmth through her.

  Dammit, no. You will not go there, Josephine.

  * * * * *

  Monday afternoon, Holt sat on his patio, feet propped on a chair, and contemplated what boring task to take on next. The sky was a clear blue, the temperature a perfect seventy degrees with a light breeze from the Gulf. December in Florida was one of his favorite months, and the perfect time for chores outside.

  Rebuilding the patio or fence came to mind, but he didn’t own the place and wouldn’t live here long. Hell, he’d only taken over Uzuri’s lease to get out of his singles complex where he would constantly run into his ex, Nadia. However, the duplex lease would be up at the end of March.

  No, he was done with apartments—and duplexes, too. It was time to buy a house, one on a quiet residential street like this.

  Unlike some of his friends, he didn’t need lots of land for privacy. He liked having neighbors. In fact, when the time came to move, he’d miss playing basketball with teens across the street, visiting Stella Avery for coffee, cookies, and blood pressure checks—and rescuing distressed mothers with runaway kids.

  His smile faded. Carson had fucked up by running away—and not having backup. That mugging could’ve been ugly. But, damn, the kid had kept his head and never stopped fighting. And his mother—Holt shook his head—Mama Bear had charged right in to save her cub. She’d snatched up that block of cement and smacked the bastard hard enough to scramble his brains.