Bad Boy Heroes Boxed Set

by Patricia Ryan

“Why would a stranger do that?”

  “The two kids were orphans. Grandparents raised them, but they pretty much got to run wild. Like the rest of the town, the diner guy felt sorry for ’em and wanted to help.”

  “So you tryin’ to play savior like him?”

  “That’ll be the everlovin’ day.” He waited a bit, then confessed, “I just wanna help the boy, Tuck.”

  “Well, I hope your hair-brained scheme doesn’t backfire and make things worse for her.”

  “Nah, it won’t.”

  “That, old man, remains to be seen.”

  *

  JUST HOURS AFTER the Council meeting, Annie stared hard at her reflection in the beveled, free-standing oak mirror she’d purchased at a flea market and refinished. “You’re thirty-four now, not thirteen,” she told herself over the soft rock that crooned from her CD player. “You own a house, and a dance studio. You’ve made a good life for your kids. He has no control over you like he did then.” She swallowed hard. “He can’t interfere.” Light brown eyes, full of apprehension, peered back at her, calling her a liar. By virtue of the fact that her children were biologically Joe Murphy’s, he could, and obviously would, interfere.

  But he wasn’t going to choreograph the whole thing; he did not have control, and that’s what it had all been about before—the isolation from others, the orders on how to dress, the battering. And the insistence on sex when, and in ways, she didn’t want. She’d been a marionette for over fifteen years and only after intense counseling had she realized what a bastard had pulled the strings. And what a wooden doll she’d been to allow it. Six years ago she’d cut those ties and had no intention of tangling herself or her kids up in them again. None.

  With renewed confidence, even if it was tinged with unease, she turned away from the mirror, made her way out of her in-the-process-of-being-remodeled bedroom and strode down the hall. Hardwood floors squeaked under her feet; unwillingly she took the past with her into Faith’s room.

  The child had kicked off all her covers, just like Joe used to, and was sleeping in the same position he always had, sprawled on her stomach, face half buried in the pillow, arm over her head. He’d taken up most of the bed, too, which was a symbol Annie had never recognized before. His needs, his wants, his views were the only important things. Thankfully, Faith was the opposite of him in every way that counted—she was the most giving child Annie knew.

  Carefully, Annie settled down on the end of the white canopy bed, her legs crossed, her posture dancer-straight, and gazed at her daughter.

  Faith stirred, and Annie leaned over and smoothed down her hair. The weight of the braid was heavy in her hand. Suddenly an image overwhelmed her. A flashback to the past struck as if she’d touched a live wire. Usually she kept the memories at bay, but tonight she allowed this one to come, to give her strength, to remind her just what Joe Murphy was capable of. Annie’s hair had been braided just like this…

  “Get over here, bitch.” Joe had yanked on her braid when they’d reached his car after leaving the seedy bar on the outskirts of town. “I saw you come on to that guy.” He’d jerked on her hair again and swayed drunkenly. He’d been downing shots of scotch all night. “I told you not to flirt with him….”

  She’d shrunk away from him. He’d never been this physical with her before. “You’re hurting me, Joey.”

  He slammed her up against his battered old ‘77 Chevy. “Yeah, well it’s gonna hurt a lot more,” he said raising his other hand.

  It had hurt more, but inside rather than out. Because it was the first time the love of her life, the boy who’d rescued her from neglectful and sometimes abusive parents, had slapped her, twice, across the face. It had stung like a whip, but the emotional scourge had hurt worse. And she’d been so shocked. Oh, she’d been slapped before, by her mother, her father. But never, never by Joey. He was her savior. He was the one who’d given her hope. And he told her over and over she had done the same for him.

  Tears had formed in her eyes and she’d tried to sidle away from him. He grabbed her arm roughly and dragged her back. “Get in the car.”

  A noise from the bar distracted him. Three men exited and shuffled toward the van parked next to them, joking and singing one of the Country Western songs from inside. Joe saw them and let her go. He circled around to the driver’s side and slid in, assuming she’d follow his orders like the good little girl she was. Instead she’d darted away, into the woods next to the bar. As she ran, she glanced over her shoulder. Blurry through her tears, she could still see the men go up to the car. One asked, “Hey man, what’s goin’ on?”

  Once in the woods, she’d run and run, the low tree limbs scraping her face and arms, her lungs burning right out of her chest. She’d run until she couldn’t run anymore and fell sobbing by a large oak tree on the other side of the woods that bordered a town playground. Dazed, she stared at the swings and teeter-totter, wishing she was six again, wishing back her childhood illusions for a knight in shining armor. But she was sixteen, all grown up now. And that knight had turned black and dangerous.

  He’d found her there at six the next morning, shivering in the early June chill. She’d fallen asleep, never gone home. He’d been bleary-eyed, a rough beard shadowing his jaw, his clothes rumpled. And he smelled like stale booze. He’d knelt down, sober and sorry. “Oh, baby, I was so worried. I passed out in my car…”

  Still afraid, she’d tried to scramble away from him. “Leave me alone.” Her hand flew to her cheek. “You…you hit me.”

  His face crumpled with remorse. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” He gulped back the emotion in his throat. “I had too much to drink. You know how jealous I am. I lost it when I saw that guy come on to you.”

  She cowered like a frightened dog kicked by its master.

  Until he started to cry. She’d never seen Joey cry before. He was four years older than her, a man, and he was crying huge fat tears. Even his shoulders shook. “Please forgive me. I promise I’ll never do it again.”

  She’d melted, and held him in her arms as if he’d been the abused one, as if he’d been hurt…

  Of course, it hadn’t been the last time. She didn’t know then that they’d follow the same pattern over and over—the violence, then remorse, and weeks or even months of a honeymoon period until he lost control again and hit her again.

  Annie felt herself shiver and sat upright. She left Faith’s room quickly and fled to her own bedroom. In the doorway, she sniffed at the fresh paint she’d applied herself, in the house that she’d bought, to remind her that this was her present. Those memories were in the past; it was over. And it was never going to happen again. Six years before, when he’d almost killed their baby, she’d vowed never to let him hurt them again.

  “And I won’t.” She crossed to the mirror again. Fingering her short hair, she told herself, “The braid’s gone, the woman who wore it is gone, and that part of your life is over.”

  Joe Murphy may have some legal rights in this situation, but she had control; she had power, too.

  And damn it, she was going to use it. To protect her kids, and herself.

  *

  RONNY DONOVAN HAD a bedroom that Margo would have killed for as a teenager. It took up the whole top floor of a little Cape Cod the Donovans had bought two blocks away from the diner and fixed up before Danny had died. With its peaked roof, warm pine paneling and thick carpet, his space was a secure, safe hideaway from the world. Most of the walls were covered with race car posters, and on the wall facing Margo were the drawings Ronny had made on his computer with the CAD program he’d learned at school. They were precise, professional and unique.

  From one of the beds—he had two, for Christssake, making Margo remember the lumpy cots in the commune—she tossed back the baseball he’d just thrown to her. Staring at the kid who was Danny’s double, right down to his intense dark eyes and cocky grin, she asked, “You’re scared, aren’t you, buddy?” He’d been dealt a heavy blow tonight.


  He started to deny it, but she gave him a don’t-shit-me look and he nodded. Throwing the ball back to her, his face reflected a myriad of emotions. “You ever spend any time in jail?” he asked.

  “Yep.”

  “When?”

  Margo shook her head, making her earrings clink. She couldn’t believe she’d ever been the young girl who’d stolen Mr. McFinney’s car from the drugstore parking lot on a dare. “A couple of times. The last was when I was sixteen, I nabbed a car. They put me in juvenile detention for a few months. Finally, your uncle Linc talked my mother into getting me out.”

  “Was she pissed?”

  “Are you kidding? They took turns at the commune beating the crap out of me, then made me pray on my knees for twenty-four hours straight, begging for God’s forgiveness.” Absently, she rubbed her knee and drew in a deep breath, battling back the chill that rode along with memory. “I never got in trouble with the law again.” She arched a brow pointedly at him. “Luckily my last run-in with the legal system was when I was a minor.”

  “I know. I was stupid.”

  “You got it.” She softened when she saw Ronny’s eyes sparkle with tears just before he glanced away. Letting the ball drop to the floor, she sat up. “You’ll be okay, kid. From what I hear, the weekend jail thing isn’t with hardened criminals. Nobody named Butch is gonna make you his bride.”

  Ronny’s jaw dropped. “Oh, God.”

  “Really. A guy from work’s kid got assigned it a couple of years ago. You’ll probably be in some minimum-security thing. Or a work program, so you’re not cooped up the whole time.” She nodded to the computer. “Wanna look the specifics up on the Internet with me?”

  “Yeah, okay.”

  Margo slid off the bed and Ron stood too. When had he topped her five foot eight inches? When had his shoulders gotten so broad? Her heart turned over in her chest for the boy who was the closest thing she’d ever have to a son. Spontaneously, she enfolded him in her arms. God he even smelled like a man. That he didn’t rib her about hugging him was a measure of his fear and anxiety. She patted his back, and for a while he just held on to her. When he drew away, he whispered, “I’m worried about Mom, Margo.”

  The kid was so good. Way down deep, he was a genuinely good person. “I’m glad to hear you’re concerned about her.” She left her hands on his shoulders. “We’ll be here for her. I’ll take your place at the diner if I have to.”

  Ronny gave her an adult look of scorn and jammed his hands into his jeans. “You hate this town. You hardly come back, even to see Uncle Linc.”

  A brief picture of Uncle Linc’s face when she’d pranced into the Council room that night made her warm. His eyes had burned with heated intensity that she felt right down to her cowboy-booted toes. Then he’d given her that smile that had gotten him into her pants at fifteen, and into her heart forever. “When times are tough, kid, you do what you gotta do. Just like you will.” She angled her head at the computer. “Come on, let’s see what you’re in for.” As he sat down and the familiar ping of a computer booting up filled the room, she said casually, “I meant to ask you if you’re staying away from LaMont and Anderson.”

  “Yeah, but you know, you and Mom and Uncle Linc don’t make sense about that.” His eyes glued to the screen, he didn’t look at her. “They’re my buddies, like you all were to each other.”

  Margo stared over his shoulder, watching the icons materialize. “No, we took care of each other. Sure we got into too much trouble, but we loved each other. Those guys would sell you down the river without batting an eyelash.”

  Her vehemence must have made Ronny back off, because he didn’t answer; just the click click click of the keys filled the silence. Trying to defuse the moment, she cocked her head. “Any girls on the scene?”

  A faint blush crept up the back of his neck.

  She tugged him around. “Are there?”

  “Well, there’s one girl. Lily.” His brown eyes danced, again reminding her of Danny. “She’s different.”

  “Wanna talk about it to good old Aunt Margo?”

  “Nah, not yet anyway.” He turned back to the computer. “Here, I’m into the search engine. Let’s do this.”

  When Margo left Ronny an hour later—this time blasting imaginary enemies with simulated ray guns in a computer game—she felt better. According to the sites on the Internet, weekend jail was a milder experience than the real thing. Though she’d played the confident adult for him, she’d been terrified of what could happen to him in prison. She bounded down the steps, relieved.

  In the living room at the bottom of the stairs, Beth was seated on a huge stuffed denim couch, sipping a beer. She looked exhausted, her pretty eyes smudged underneath with signs of sleeplessness. She’d kicked off her shoes, and had tucked her feet under her.

  Across from her, sprawled on a stuffed chair, was Linc; Margo’s eyes took in every detail of him: disreputable jeans, a red thermal shirt that made his complexion glow, ragged sneakers, propped up on an ottoman. As usual, his hair was a little too long, falling boyishly over dark eyes. He looked more like James Dean than Father Flannigan. “Hi, babe,” he said catching sight of her. The gravelly quality of his voice always enervated her.

  “Hi. I thought you were at Annie’s.”

  “I was. We talked awhile, then she wanted to go to bed. I made sure the alarm was set and headed over here.”

  Margo glanced at her watch. “A minister’s job is never done.”

  Usually he laughed at her barbs. Tonight, his smile was feigned. She knew he was worried about Ronny and Beth and Annie, and she wished she hadn’t jabbed him. It was just that the goddamned church would eat him alive if he let it. “Sorry, cheap shot.” Crossing to him, she kissed his cheek—it was stubbly like it always got at night—and took a sip of his beer. The tart taste stayed in her mouth. Plopping down next to Beth on the couch, she asked, “How you holding up, Bethy?”

  “I’ll be fine. Linc says we should be grateful that Pratt agreed to take the Council’s recommendation to the judge.”

  “It could be worse. Ronny and I just looked up this weekend jail thing on the Internet. He printed off a copy for you.” She gave Beth a brief rundown on their findings. “It’s not too bad.”

  Beth blinked back tears. “Thank God.”

  “How is he?” Linc asked.

  “Scared. Sorry. Worried about Bethy.”

  “I’ll be fine,” she said wearily.

  Margo exchanged a look with Linc. His expression read, Not tonight, she’s too raw.

  Adhering to his silent admonishment, instead of analyzing the problem from all angles, listing the options, then choosing the best, which was Margo’s style, she shrugged. “It’ll work out. We can talk about you and the business tomorrow.”

  Beth glanced at the clock. “Speaking of which, I have to be at the diner at six. I’m going to bed.”

  “Don’t you have people to open up?” Margo asked, worried about Beth’s obvious exhaustion.

  Standing, Beth stretched. “Gerty’ll be in, but Nana’s off.” She smiled at her brother. “Lock up when you leave, would you, Linc?” She grinned. “If you leave.”

  He snorted. When Margo was in town, she and Linc were known to stay up all night talking.

  Linc stood too, waited until Beth kissed Margo on the cheek, then took his sister’s hand and walked her to the bedroom in the back of the house.

  When he returned, and without speaking, he picked up his beer, took a swig, handed it to Margo and dropped down onto the couch. She drained what was left, then went into his arms like a long-standing lover. Cuddling against his chest, she breathed him in—no cologne, just that indefinable scent that was Linc. Simply the smell of him calmed her more than any words he could say. They lay back into the cushions, silently reveling in the other’s presence.

  Finally, he said, “You look tired. Bad week?”

  “I worried like hell about Beth and Ronny.”

  “Worry won’t help, babe
.”

  “I suppose you prayed for them.”

  He grunted.

  “Did that help?”

  “The outcome wasn’t too bad. Not as bad as it could be.” Lazily, he rubbed his large, calloused hand down from her shoulder to her elbow, his heat penetrating her black lambs wool sweater. His serenity seeped into her by degrees, and she found herself closing her eyes to savor it. To savor him.

  “You gonna tell me about it?” he asked.

  She stiffened, then cursed. Without saying a word, she’d given herself away.

  “It’s okay, honey.” He brushed his hand down her hair, tangling it between his fingers. “I know something’s wrong.” She buried her nose in his chest. “You always know.”

  “So tell me.”

  “Promise me you won’t get mad.”

  His chuckle reverberated in his rib cage. “I gotta be the only person in the world you’re afraid to piss off.”

  “You are.”

  “I won’t get mad.”

  She said simply, “Philip hit on me during the trip to Boston.”

  Linc’s whole body tensed. “The bastard.”

  She tried to pull back to look at him, but he held her close. He was really angry if he wouldn’t face her. “I wasn’t going to tell you, because of how you feel about him. But I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it.”

  His heartbeat speeded up—she felt its thump under her hand. “Did you…I mean…the pass…did you want it?”

  “Hell no. I hated it. And I told him so.”

  Linc’s body relaxed.

  This time Margo did pull away, summoning righteous indignation. “Jesus Christ, Linc, he’s a married man. You know how I feel about that kind of thing.”

  But, as usual, Linc didn’t back down. Which was one of the reasons he had that little scar just below his jaw. She’d witnessed the knife fight when he’d gotten it, could still hear the blades hit and his low moans in her nightmares.

  “I know,” he said sternly. “I also know how you feel about Pretty Boy.”

  Raking her hair off her face, she tried to get up. He yanked her back down so that she fell back onto his chest. His arms vised around her.