She thought he was going to say something else, but all he said was, “Eight’s good. I’ll be gone.”
Blake stood in the front doorway and watched her haul on the steering wheel, turn that battered old truck around, and head up the drive.
Too much. Too fast. You pushed too hard. And in no possible universe was that “friends.”
The worst thing was, when he’d been looking into her eyes, feeling the pull in her, feeling her wanting to come to him, knowing how much he wanted that—no, how much he needed that… he’d known something else, too. That she knew what Steve Sawyer had said about her. And that she knew Blake had heard it.
And that she thought he believed it.
This wasn’t what he’d wanted to do. This wasn’t it at all.
Then why did you do it?
Because he was a damn fool with no discipline, which was the whole entire problem. Next time, though, it was going to be different. Next time, he was going to do things right. Next time, he wasn’t going to be making her run away.
Stupid, Dakota told herself, punching the steering wheel with one hand and doing nothing but hurting her fist. Stupid, stupid, stupid.
She’d known she should pack up and leave, that there was nothing there for her. Instead, she’d stuck around, and sure enough, Blake had made a move on her, and she’d stood there and waited for him—wanted him—to do it. It had been perfectly clear what it was all about, and it wasn’t true love.
He wasn’t the boy next door. He was an NFL player, a multimillionaire working his way up to the “billion” mark while he dated women like Beth Schaefer, women who met his standards, women with graduate degrees and family money and class. And this was Wild Horse. She was no Beth Schaefer, and everybody in this town knew it. Blake wasn’t her hero riding in to save the day. He was another rich guy used to taking what he wanted. That’s exactly what he’d said. I know what I want, and then I go after it.
Predatory. It wasn’t on anybody’s list of love words.
The disappointment was right there, tightening her chest, constricting her breathing. Or maybe that was the shame.
You have nothing to be ashamed of. Nothing. Maybe if she said it enough times, she would actually believe it.
She didn’t go straight home, even though she was already late. Instead, she pulled into the lot at City Beach, sent Russell a quick text, and went for a swim.
No hesitation. Not here. Not anymore. She ran into the cold water, then dove under and swam for her life. For her self-respect. For her dignity, and most of all, for her courage. If it didn’t come easily—well, nothing did. It came hard, always, but she wasn’t getting out until she had it back.
When she walked into the kitchen at last with Bella following her inside, disappointed out of a session with her dog toy, the table was set, but Russell wasn’t there. She followed the sound of the TV into the living room.
“Hey,” she said, her tongue sticking on the “Dad” as it had all week, ever since that dinner with Evan and Blake. “Sorry I’m late. I hope dinner isn’t ruined.”
Russell turned the set off and struggled to stand. “No problem. You told me. Not like I’ve got someplace else to get to. Go clean up. I’ll get the burgers started.”
Even after her shower, though, which usually made her feel better, the food didn’t go down easily. She should be hungry—she was hungry—but she was having trouble anyway.
She’d look at her glass after dinner, that was what. She wouldn’t work on it—she’d mess up if she tried, and she knew it—but she’d look at it, and she’d believe in herself a little again. She’d feel better.
Russell had been nearly silent since they’d sat down. She hadn’t seen much of him lately anyway, between the work, her glass, and the excuses she’d made to be somewhere else. Now, though, he spoke. “I was checking the bills today. I looked at the mortgage balance, and it said it was almost out of the red. Looked to me like about four thousand bucks too much in there. That a mistake? If it is, I’ll take it.”
Dakota glanced up at him, then back at her burger. “Blake Orbison bought two of my glass pieces on Friday. The eagle and one of the flowers. He paid me thirty-nine hundred dollars for them, too. Once we get the last payment for the resort, you’ll be all the way out of the red. Then it’ll just be keeping up with the payments.”
Russell had stopped eating. “That’s a hell of a lot of money. It’s a whole lot more than you’ve ever charged. He paid that? Why? And you shouldn’t be putting that money into the mortgage anyway. That’s yours, for your own start someday.”
“It’s my debt, too. Mine to help with.”
“It’s not your debt.”
She wasn’t even pretending to eat anymore. “I know. It’s not my house. You told me so. I got it. It’s still my debt. You took me in when I had no place else to go, and then you kept me. That’s my debt, and I pay my debts.”
“You stop that right now.” Russell shoved away from the table, and she saw the spasm of pain that crossed his face. Sudden movements always hurt. “Kids don’t owe parents. That’s not how it works.”
“Except that I’m not your kid.”
The words hung there. Her throat was tight, her breathing shallow as Russell stared at her, pale blue eyes in a face creased beyond its years. The face she loved. The man who wasn’t her father.
He said, “Of course you’re my kid.”
“You forget.” It was hard to say. She said it anyway. “I heard you. This isn’t my house, and you’re not my responsibility. But I still owe you.”
His palm came down on the table, rattling the silverware, but she didn’t jump, and she didn’t flinch when he raised his voice, either. “God damn it! That wasn’t what that meant! You telling me you’ve spent all this week thinking I was saying you’re not my daughter? That’s why you’ve been so messed up? I thought it was Orbison, and you having to paint his house. Why would you think something that crazy? Just because I don’t want to be reminded that I’m useless, and that you’re carrying all the weight for me like nobody’s daughter should have to do? That you have to work for him like you never wanted to do? What the hell does that have to do with whether you’re mine?”
Her voice was shaking, her hands gripping the paper napkin in her lap. “I thought…”
“Well, stop thinking.” He was glaring at her, barking the words out. “Maybe I had some payback of my own to do, you ever think of that? Man stays drunk the whole first two years of his son’s life, lets his girlfriend go off with somebody else without even putting up a fight, never tries to get those kids back? And then they finally come back to him through nothing he’s done, and he still barely manages to hang onto them? What kind of payback do you think he needs to do for that?”
“But you did,” she managed to get out. “You held onto us. You stopped drinking so they let you keep me.”
“And how much good did it do? Riley still had to join the Army, didn’t he? You still left town. And now you’ve had to come back.”
“I’ll survive.” She took a gulp of iced tea, then choked on it and coughed helplessly for a minute, the tears she’d held back earlier coming to her eyes with the force of the spasms.
“If you’re taking favors from Blake Orbison,” Russell said when her coughing had subsided, “that’s too high a price. I’m not letting you do that for me.”
It was her glass hitting the table this time, its force surprising both of them. Russell jerked back, and Bella, who’d been standing up leaning against his leg, barked twice, the sound unexpected and sharp.
Dakota jumped, but she went on anyway. “I am not prostituting myself for Blake Orbison. I wouldn’t be worth that kind of price to him, so there’d be no point even if I wanted to. I’d be fifty bucks on the nightstand and ‘That was great, honey. See you next time.’ That isn’t paying any mortgages, and I’m not doing it.”
“You bite your tongue.” The leathery skin on Russell’s cheeks had darkened. “Don’t you ever think that.
Don’t you dare. You’ve got more in you than any ten models Orbison ever dated. You ought to know it. And if he’s pressured you… you’d better be telling me, and telling Evan, too. You switch jobs with Evan, and if Orbison doesn’t like it, he can talk to me about it, and I’ll tell him how it’s going to be.”
Dakota shrugged, suddenly so tired. “I don’t need to do that. It doesn’t matter. I asked that price for my glass, and he paid me. Maybe he’s a fool. Could be. He has too much money, that’s for sure. But I didn’t trade anything for thirty-nine hundred other than my glass, and I’m not going to.”
She saw the fight go out of Russell like a balloon leaking air. He slumped in his chair, and Bella shoved her nose into his palm. “Good,” he said. “That’s good. Eat your dinner.”
She had to laugh. “Really? All that, and that’s what you’ve got?”
He smiled, a painful twist of his mouth. “No. Guess I need to say more than that. Guess I need to tell you that of course you’re my daughter. What else could you ever be? What else have you ever been?”
She couldn’t say anything. The lump in her throat was too big for any words to come out. The heat was rising in her chest, and if she didn’t stop herself, she was going to cry. “But I was… I’m not yours. I was just… Riley’s sister. I know that’s why you took me. Because Riley wouldn’t let me go. I know. That’s OK. You did it anyway.”
He was still glaring, the words still sharp. “Of course you’re mine. Maybe that was why I did it at first. But just because I don’t go around talking like some Hallmark card doesn’t mean you’re not my daughter. It sure doesn’t mean I’m not your dad.”
Her mouth worked, but no words came, and his voice was gruff and not a bit steady when he said, “You better come over here and give me a hug. I’m too damn crippled to do it, and I can’t stand to watch you cry.”
She was out of her chair in an instant. In the next moment, she was on her knees with her arms around his waist. Russell’s arm had gone around her shoulders, and Bella was right there, too. It was a family hug. A family that was two people and a dog with no trace of blood to hold them together. But they had love. That, they had.
Dakota’s shoulders shook with the effort not to cry, and Russell’s hand stroked awkwardly over her hair. He said, “I’m lousy at this. This is what I’m talking about. I should’ve been saying it. I never had any practice, I guess. Too much in love with the bottle. Maybe if you give me a grandbaby someday, I can start at the beginning. Maybe I can do better at being a dad then.”
“You’re already doing better,” she whispered. “You’re already my dad.”
“Damn straight I am.” He sounded absolutely sure, and now she was crying. “Damn straight.”
Blake said, “OK. Thanks,” hung up the phone, sat back in the desk chair in the office he’d temporarily allocated himself at the resort, and tapped the phone absently against his leg. Then he stood up and headed for the door.
If he was going to take care of this, he needed to get started. It was Thursday, he was leaving this evening for a swing through the Midwest, and besides… he needed to get started. That was all.
He hadn’t seen Dakota since that evening three days earlier. He came home every night to find another room painted, the mess cleaned up, and only the pungent, lingering smell of paint telling him she’d been there. She didn’t hang around to see him, which would have been the easiest thing in the world for her to do, and that told its own story. But then, she’d already given him the message.
He walked into the house ten minutes later and didn’t see her. She wouldn’t be on the main floor, though, because she’d finished it yesterday. He ran upstairs, and sure enough, dropcloths covered the desk in his office, and two of the walls were pale gray. But she wasn’t there.
He called out, “Dakota?” and didn’t get an answer. Her truck was outside, though, so she must be around. He headed downstairs, then to the bottom floor, but didn’t find her there, either.
Well, huh.
It was lunchtime. Maybe she was swimming? It was another warm day. He headed out to the deck to look for her, calling her name as he went.
He found her at last, sitting up hastily in a chaise in the shade at one side of the wooden expanse of the deck. She started to climb out of her chair at his approach, a messy sandwich in one hand.
“Oh,” she said, looking flustered and self-conscious. “Were you looking for me? Sorry. I was just taking my lunch break. Half an hour.”
“Am I allowed to interrupt your lunch break?” he asked. She was wearing her overalls as usual, but she’d taken off her cap and unhooked the straps so the bib hung down around her waist. Another white V-necked tee, the same thick, dark braid, delicate collarbones, and smooth skin. And paint, of course, tiny drops of it speckling her arms.
“Of course,” she said. “It’s your house. It’s your job. And I assume it’s OK that I’m using the deck. I like to get out of the paint for a little while.”
“Sure. Use whatever you want. Go on and sit down, though, and eat your lunch. Or better yet—I’ll go get mine, too, and join you. What are you having?”
He tried his best to send the message. Just lunch.
She held up her sandwich. “Turkey and Swiss, plus an apple. Pretty exciting. Russell makes it for me, so I’m not going to complain.”
Her words were casual, but her face had that somber thing going on big-time. She wasn’t smiling today. She was the very last thing from “cute,” and she was very nearly beautiful, in the way a piece of polished hardwood was beautiful. Nothing superficial, but something born in the texture of the wood.
What was he, a poet? He was losing it. That wasn’t what he was here for. “Give me three minutes,” he said. “I’ve got this idea I want to talk about with you.”
“Uh…” she said.
“It’s not personal. Or rather, it is, but it’s not about you and me.”
“Oh. All right.” She was shoving her sandwich back into its plastic bag, her movements quick, her tension obvious. “I wasn’t going to hang around out here for long, though. I want to finish that room today.”
It didn’t sound much like, “Kiss me now. Touch me, love me, hold me tight,” but it was what he’d expected.
When he came back out again, she was sitting sideways on the chaise, her feet planted neatly on the ground, still looking the opposite of relaxed. She’d fastened the straps of her overalls, too. He wanted to say something about that, but instead, he just handed her a plate, knife, and fork and said, “In case you wanted a little change from the turkey and Swiss.” He set down his own plate, tugged a chair over, and sat down at an angle to her. “And I wish you’d get comfortable again. You’re making me nervous.”
She was looking at the plate in her lap. “Oh. Thanks. That’s nice of you. This isn’t exactly what I imagined an NFL star would eat for lunch, though.”
“No? But then, I’m not an NFL star anymore. And this isn’t too far from what I’ve always eaten. Leftovers from last night, to tell you the truth. Which I didn’t cook, I feel I have to mention. Takeout from the Heart of the Lake.”
“Russ is going to be disappointed,” she said, a little sparkle showing in her eyes at last. “Chicken pieces, kale salad, and roasted Brussels sprouts? I’m sure he envisioned enormous slabs of filet mignon and maybe some manly potatoes. And I’m not even going to tell Evan. He thinks kale is a cruel joke foisted on the men of America for their sins.”
“I’ve been known to eat a steak or two, but you’ve got to lower the calorie count when you’re not burning it anymore. We going to talk about nutrition or eat lunch?”
He got a little smile for that, and she started to eat, too. “So you had an idea?”
“I guess if I said I wanted to see you, that wouldn’t be a good thing.”
She lost the smile. “Probably not.”
“Right, then. I came to talk to you about Russell.”
Now, she lost the ease. “Russell what?”
“Oh.” She shook her head. Shaking it off. “Well, I never thought you could.”
“Or that I would,” he guessed.
“That too. Like you said. It was investigated.”
“Yeah. It was. So that’s where we are with that. I can’t change the investigation, so I started looking into what I could do. That’s where you come in. I called around and found the best guy to deal with a broken back. In orthopedics, now—there, I can throw my weight around a little, or if I can’t, an NFL trainer sure can. They practically have those docs on retainer. I got Russell an appointment to see this guy down at Cedars-Sinai next month. But I thought I’d tell you first, because I’m guessing Russ could raise a couple objections.”
“But…” She looked at her plate as if she’d forgotten it was there, then speared a tiny Brussels sprout. “They said they’d done everything they could.”
“And do you think that’s true?”
“No. I’ve always thought, maybe… workers’ comp won’t cover it, though. I know they won’t, because I’ve checked. I’ve called and called. It would have to be preapproved, and they won’t. As far as they’re concerned, he was treated, he’s fixed as well as he can be, and they’re done.”
“I know that, too. I had my head of HR checking into all this stuff. Big ol’ brick wall. I’m not talking about workers’ comp, or maybe I am. My version, because if it was wrong, and it happened on my watch, it’s my job to fix it.”
She looked at him, a frown drawing her winged brows together. “I can’t believe you’d do that. I can’t believe any HR person would let you, or your attorney, either. I know you must have one.”
“Ah.” He rubbed his nose. “Let’s say they aren’t happy about it. And would you please eat that lunch? If you don’t, I can’t, and I’m hungry.”
Silver-Tongued Devil (Portland Devils Book 1) Page 14