Full House (Stacked Deck Book 4)

by Emilia Finn

  “Move in with us, Brooke. Love us. We can be a family. Ya know… after I can stop hiding from yours because I kissed your mom.”

  I burst out laughing, and slam my lips over his until he hisses.

  But his hands are strong, they take my hips, pull me closer. He groans and takes our kiss deeper, slides his tongue over mine until I whimper, and doesn’t slow until little padding feet, accompanied by Twain’s heavy thumps, make their way through the living room.

  “Daddy?”

  Miles breaks our kiss, looks to his daughter with a smile. “Hey, baby. Daddy’s okay.” He swipes the cloth over his face to collect last-minute blood. “You don’t have to be scared.”

  “I’m not scared.” She shyly tiptoes her way forward. “Daddy, Uncle Bry said his fist hurts, and can he borrow the ice pack?”

  “No!” Miles shouts for my brother, who hasn’t left our kitchen. His fist does not hurt, and though Miles has blood on his face, it’s nothing more than a bumped nose. No bruising. No broken skin. “Bryan, get the hell out of my house. And stop trying to make Lyss feel bad for you.”

  I remain in Miles’ lap, even as new footsteps echo on the tile. I peek to the doorway, to my big brother leaning against the doorframe with folded arms and a playful grin. “She’s mine now, Iowa. Her loyalties have switched.”

  “You can’t bribe, buy, or guilt what we already share.” Miles reaches out for Lyss’ hand, and pulls her close. “She’s my girl. Oh, and so’s your sister.”

  “Yeah? Hey, Lyss. Wanna go to Disneyland?”

  “Dude!”

  “Not really,” Lyss murmurs. “Doesn’t sound like much fun.”

  “What?” three adults gasp as one.

  “Disneyland is the most magical place on Earth,” Bry murmurs. His tone is like someone called him ugly. “Lyss, Disneyland is the ultimate vacation for a little girl.”

  She shrugs and gives him half a sly smile. “I’d rather have a pony.”

  He throws his head back and laughs, then moves into the room and snatches her up so she squeals. “You’re a hustler.” Bry tickles her belly and presses noisy kisses to her cheeks. “You can’t get a pony, pretty girl. Your daddy said no.”

  “No, it’s fine.” Miles smiles for Bry. “I changed my mind. Get her the horse, rich boy. But then you gotta stable it, feed it, brush it, train it, and drive her to wherever it’s being stabled every single day. Oh, and don’t forget the vet bills. And probably antihistamines for her allergies. And while you’re babysitting, I’m gonna take Brooke out to dinner.”

  He grins. Evilly. It’s the only word I can think that applies.

  “We’ll kiss. With tongue.” He lifts a brow. “Like how I kissed your mom.”

  “Motherf—”

  “And if you teach your niece swears, you’ll have to explain to your mom how you intend to undo that damage.”

  “You’re a hustler too,” Bry murmurs with a little awe in his tone. “You’re playing the long game.”

  “Yup,” Miles agrees with a sly twitch of his lips. “I am. You know the father version of me, but you forget I was somebody before my little girl came along. That guy was a boss. He was the king of his fight circuits, and nobody messed with him.”

  He grabs my hip with a possessive hand and squeezes. “I’m back.”

  Miles was invited to my mom and dad’s dining table again about thirty-six hours after “the incident,” as we so lovingly don’t speak of it. It’s the elephant in the room that no one mentions; no one except Aunt Tink, of course.

  Like I predicted, she hates missing out on the fun stuff.

  After the initial few awkward minutes, the throat clearing, the angry scrape of Daddy’s knife and fork on his plate, the slam of his water glass on the table after each sip, things went back to normal, and all discussion of ponies and extra-marital kisses have been placed in a box that is forbidden to be opened again.

  School continues for Lyss, and because I want to earn her trust, I’ve taken control of the afternoon pick-ups. Miles still does drop-off, but then he stays at the gym longer in the afternoons to prepare for Stacked Deck, and I pick Lyss up and spend two hours on an adventure with my favorite girl.

  Sometimes we bake. Once a week, we go to dance class with Bean. Sometimes we play hide-and-seek in the house – Twain is especially good at it. He hides with her, shields her, silences her when she giggles and gives away her hiding place. Sometimes we explore the forest, and sometimes we head to my treehouse, and while I work with Tully and Rome and that horrible man Malachai, Lyss works on her own books.

  She draws her own pictures, pens a story to go with them, and at the end of the day, she has another cute book to add to her pile.

  It’s just fun for her, but that’s exactly how I started, so I let her create her little worlds, and if she asks to have them properly illustrated and formatted someday, then I’ll make it happen, and I’ll ask for the first copy – signed and delivered by the author herself.

  B.K. Robertson works with the press when they get word that a fantasy trilogy is being penned. When news hits the internet, readers who grew up with her earlier books and have aged up prepare for her next installment.

  Yeah, B.K. is still someone else in my mind. But it’s all fun, and for as long as her connection to the Rollers is kept under wraps, it’ll remain something I do in a treehouse above a magical forest.

  Today, I’m in a brand-new head, and Malachai Noble’s thoughts aren’t like Tully’s. He hates her, perhaps more than she hates him.

  Tallulah spins, fast as a snake, and swings a fist that catches my jaw and snaps my head around. Rage sizzles in my icy veins as I spit blood to the forest floor by her feet, and bring a hand up to massage the ache she left behind.

  “I’m not too proud that I won’t hit you back,” I hiss. “Do it again, Princess, and I’ll slit your fucking throat.” I shove her forward. “Now move.”

  “Why didn’t you already?” she taunts. “You held your blade to my throat. Why am I alive?”

  “Because I said so. We have two hours of walking left, then we rest for the night.”

  “Where are we going?” Her voice isn’t a gentle question, nor a meek enquiry, but a fiery demand. “And take this filthy fabric off my face. Show me who you are. Show me the coward who won’t face me unless my hands are tied, and my eyes are blinded.”

  “My name is Malachai Noble, and your family owes mine a debt that is more than four hundred years overdue. They call you ‘Princess,’ but where I come from, you’re scum.”

  I watch as she slips and slides on a patch of ice, and do nothing when she drops with a heavy thud that will bruise her tailbone. “It makes me so happy to see you hurt, Tallulah. My people have been waiting a long time for this.”

  “I hate you,” she hisses. “You killed my best friend, all so you could take me.”

  “Did I?” I laugh. “Shit, Princess. That was my bad.” I pick her up from the icy ground, shove her forward, and continue moving. “Walk faster, or we’ll have to set up camp early.”

  The security system installed in our estate is elaborate enough that not only do we require keycards to gain access, but every phone bleeps with a notification when someone arrives at the gates, whether they have a pass or not. It’s the reason my cousins and I were forced to get creative with our escape routes over the years. It’s why we created a weakness in Uncle Jack’s fence, and avoided the front gate system as often as we could.

  But now my phone beeps and draws me away from my fantasy world. Away from Tully as she risks death if she doesn’t stifle her bad attitude.

  Malachai Noble has nothing to lose if he slices her throat open and lets her bleed out. Perhaps he’d even be rewarded for it.

  Together, they create a volatile situation that I’m dying to continue exploring.

  Lyss and I have climbed into my treehouse, and Twain keeps guard on the ground while I work and she pens her own world. But I pick my phone up now, since no one is on the estate. Mom�
��s with Aunt Tina at the studio. The guys are at the gym. Aunt Britt’s working late at school, since winter break isn’t too far away, and everyone else is scattered as Stacked Deck’s third year sneaks up fast.

  Fighters are coming, and on top of their own training, anyone that is affiliated with the Rollin On Gym – myself included – is saddled with administration work to make sure the tournament goes off without a hitch.

  I bring my text box up while Lyss draws and hums under her breath, but frown when the name shows unauthorized and unknown.

  Switching apps, I go to the security feed and wait for my spotty reception to work, and while I wait, I push my laptop aside.

  “Can you pack up, Lyss? It’s time to head in anyway. Daddy will be home soon.”

  “Okay.”

  Her movements are slow. She’s in her own world, and it takes a minute to come back to reality – a feeling I can relate to. She packs her pencils away in a special little case I gave her, and closes a notebook with a hardcover featuring glittery unicorns. Dumping them in her school bag, she jumps to her feet with an excited smile; something I haven’t been able to do in here since I grew more than four feet tall.

  My phone screen remains fuzzy, so I close my laptop with a snap and slide it into my own little bag, and a minute after that, I climb down the rope ladder with Lyss right above me, so close that her butt is in my face as we move.

  So close that if she slips, I can catch her.

  “What did you write about today, baby?”

  “I wrote about a pony.” She giggles. “His name is Uncle Bry.”

  I come to the end of the ladder and step onto flat ground, then I grab Lyss’ hips and place her down. Once we’ve fixed our clothes – my jeans, and her unicorn tutu dress – I take her hand and pat Twain on the head to let him know we’re going home.

  He jogs a few feet ahead of us, prances the way his brother does, and happily lifts a leg to pee on the same tree he pees on every single day.

  “Uncle Bry is your pretty pony?” I ask with a smile. “He’ll love that.”

  “Uh huh. He’s so fast, Miss Brooke. And his hair is always brushed and pretty.”

  “Really?” I look down to her and show my wrinkled nose. “I’m not sure Uncle Bry owns a comb. Does your pony-Bry stink? Because Uncle Bry stinks sometimes.”

  She giggles and sends a bird fleeing from a tree ahead of us. “He always smells nice. ‘Specially when he wears pretty perfume.”

  “Baby…” I shake my head. “That’s not how he’s supposed to smell. Uncle Bry is what we would call an unbroken stallion, I suppose. He helps himself to everyone’s land, eats their grass, craps on their lawn, then he leaves again, smelling of the cheapest fillies. That’s not something you should tell him you like. And definitely don’t cuddle him when he smells that way. Tell him to go take a dang shower.”

  She thinks I’m joking, when in reality, I suggest my brother go to a clinic to make sure he’s not carrying a disease. But that’s not something you discuss with a six-year-old, so we walk through the forest, and head for my Uncle Jack’s fence, since it’s closer than going around.

  I bend low, and hold the timber slats open for Lyss – something that doesn’t come across as weird for the girl anymore, since we’ve done it a million times. Which means I really should fix this fence before she’s old enough to understand why the gap was made in the first place.

  Once she’s through, and Twain follows behind, I duck low and join them on the estate, then I turn back and fix the fence. Annie, Uncle Jack’s black Labrador, wanders over with slow, sluggish movements, and butts her nose against Lyss’ belly in hello. And though I pat her head, she doesn’t follow us through the yard and out again.

  We don’t have much longer left with her, and I think everyone knows it. She’s too old, too sore… too tired. But she’s lived a good life, a happy life surrounded by kids and laughter.

  I turn back before we move through the gate, to watch her wander back to her comfortable bed in a warm patch of sun, then I open the gate and let Lyss move through first.

  My phone bleeps again, so I move a little faster, take hold of her hand when she walks ahead of me, then finally emerge to the front lawn of Jack’s home.

  Three people stand by an older model Ford sedan on the other side of the gates.

  I scan the trio, frown, and tilt my head a little to the left when I recognize none of them. While we walk, Lyss pays full attention to Twain.

  “Hello?” I keep a hold of Lyss’ hand in mine, squeezing a little tighter when the woman at the front of the pack skeeves me out. “Can I help you?”

  “Grandma!” Lyss’ face lights up, her hand whips away from mine as she darts toward the gates, and my stomach drops out when the youngest member of the trio, a woman my age, looks up with sallow cheeks and bottle-dyed red hair.

  “Oh fuck,” I whisper to myself.

  I move faster, walk with more intent as we approach the gates, and despite everyone – including Lyss – expecting me to open them, I don’t touch the controls. “Um… hello.”

  “Lyssy!” Grandma Lorna, I suppose, waves her arms, opens them wide like she thinks the gate isn’t real, and lowers to a crouch. “Hi, beautiful. Oh my gosh, it makes me so happy to see you!”

  I look to the odd one out – not Grandma, and not the clearly uncomfortable Karla… my boyfriend’s former lover, the absent mother of the child I’ve fallen in love with. The other woman is clearly other. Lorna and Karla look alike in ways, same build, same facial structure – a facial structure, it breaks my heart to notice, that I sometimes see in Lyssa’s face.

  The third woman wears a suit of navy blue, low pumps, and her mousy brown hair tied back in a severe knot.

  “Hello?” I go to her, though I keep the gates firmly in place while Twain sticks to Lyss, and Lyss talks to her grandmother through the gates.

  She’s yet to even notice the other woman. Her own mother. She doesn’t recognize her own flesh and blood, and Karla does nothing to change it.

  “Hello.” The woman offers a business card. “My name is Miranda Carter, and I’m here to speak on behalf of Miss Davis.”

  “Oh… kay. What do you need to speak about?”

  My eyes flick back to Lyss. Over and over again, they flick to my girl, then to the woman that Miles calls a psycho bitch. Then to the girl that I agree suffered – and possibly still suffers – from a heavy case of post-partum depression.

  “I’m sorry,” Miranda shakes her head at my question, like I’m the stupid one here. “I don’t understand who you are.”

  “My name is Brooklyn.” I jab a thumb over my shoulder, “This is my home, so you should know who I am.”

  “We’re here to speak to Miles,” the older woman – Lorna – says. “Please get him to come outside.”

  “He’s not here right now,” I hedge. “He’s working.” I look to the card and summon my years of entering meetings with my mom, and her lessons on fluent bullshitting. “I have your card, so perhaps I can give it to him when he gets home, then he can have his representative call yours.”

  “He’s not here?” Lorna’s eyes light up. “She’s unsupervised?”

  “No.” I step forward and take Lyss’ shoulder.

  This isn’t my place. I don’t have the right to step between her and her grandmother. But that look in her eyes. The hunger…

  “I’m her guardian right this moment. She’s not unsupervised.” I run a hand in front of my body. “Obviously.”

  “And remind me again,” Lorna says oh so fucking sweetly, “who are you?”

  “I’m the owner of the property you’re trying to enter. So if you’ll excuse us—”

  “Mr. Walker has had sole custody of his and Miss Davis’ daughter for the last six years,” Miranda begins. “He stayed in his home state, near the older Miss Davis in hopes for Karla’s return. That was all well and good, but the fact he left the state with this minor is causing issues…” She doesn’t smile. “Mr. Walker
did not have the authority to remove Alyssa Walker from the state without her mother’s permission.”

  “Her mother?” I look to Karla. I stare at the side of her face, and snarl when she refuses to look at me. “She left. She gave up custody of their child.” I look down to Alyssa, then back to Miranda. “She literally has no clue who that woman is, and if any of you cared about her, you’d be handling this in a much more delicate fashion. Leave my property, come back with court orders, then schedule an appointment with my lawyer.”

  “Miles doesn’t have court orders either,” Lorna sneers.

  She fucking sneers, like she thinks I won’t knock her the fuck out.

  “What are you talking about? She’s his daughter, he doesn’t need permission for anything.”

  “He never petitioned the court for custody or child support,” Miranda fills in. “Without that, custody is presumed joint. Miss Davis still retains rights to her daughter, and since Miles is not here with her, and has instead left her with a babysitter, we’re going to have to insist you open the gates.”

  “No.”

  I spin and yank Lyss with me. Then we start walking fast, straight past our house, since I don’t want them to see which is ours, and instead, straight to my daddy’s.

  Once we’re inside, we can walk straight into the backyard, back into the forest, and circle around to come to our own backyard and into our house.

  I snatch my phone from my pocket, send an S.O.S to everyone in my family tree chat, then I dial Miles.

  Miles

  Come Home

  “Nope.” Bry swings out fast with an ungloved fist, sends the wind whistling from his movement over my jaw, then he backs up and smiles to show off his blood-red mouthguard. “No phones allowed during sparring. Shake it off, Romeo. Prove to me why I should let you marry my sister.”

  “I don’t have to prove shit.”

  I run at him, drop down to one knee, and spear him straight to the canvas so we land with a boom that shakes the octagon walls. Rushing, I throw myself over him, slipping in our sweat, but still manage to get mount and throw a flurry of jabs at his face that render him useless for as long as he wants to cover his face.