Wild Man Read online

  “Hey,” I replied.

  He studied me.

  Then he noted quietly, “You’re pissed.”

  “I don’t like to get hung up on anytime but especially not when I’m buying carpet cleaner to eradicate puke smells,” I returned, also quietly.

  He continued to hold my eyes.

  Then he nodded once and murmured, “Right.”

  “I’ve got this, you didn’t need to come,” I told him, still quietly so Cob wouldn’t hear.

  “He’s my dad, Tess,” Brock replied.

  I tipped my head to the side and asked, “He is?”

  I watched his mouth get tight.

  Then he warned low, “Don’t go there, babe.”

  I turned off the burner and grabbed the saucepan, moving to the bowls.

  While I poured, I whispered, “It’s go time, Brock. You need to jump off that fence and land on one side or the other. You don’t miss much so I’m guessing you can take one look at your father and know where this is heading. The destination is uncertain but the path is not and it’s an ugly one. You no longer have the luxury to sit on that fence. You need to make a decision.”

  I put the saucepan back on the burner and my eyes went to his.

  “Is he in or is he not? You’ve got ten seconds to decide while I take him his food. You walk out the door, that’s your decision and I’ll support you on that but you need to know my support will not include me not kicking in to help Jill and Laura with Cob. If you don’t walk out the door, I’ll make you a bowl and we’re hanging with your father to make sure he keeps his dinner down.”

  I grabbed a spoon, put it in Cob’s bowl, took the plate, and walked into the living room.

  By the time I got back, Brock had moved. He wasn’t standing at the stove. He was standing at the kitchen window, his weight leaning heavily into one hand set high on the window frame. His eyes aimed at the flurries now falling outside. His mood filling the room now, the weight so heavy, it was suffocating.

  His jaw was clenched.

  But I knew his decision was made.

  And the decision he made made me love him all the more.

  I pulled in a breath and walked to him.

  Then I wrapped my arms around his waist and pressed my front into his back.

  I held him for a while then whispered, “Snow keeps up, will you take me to your place and bring me back to my car tomorrow morning? I don’t like driving in it.”

  He didn’t answer for several long seconds.

  Then he said to the window, “Yeah, babe.”

  I pressed my forehead into his back.

  Then I lifted my head away but pressed my body closer and carefully said, “He’s not taking his nausea medication. You need to talk to him about that.”

  I looked over his shoulder at his profile and saw a muscle in his jaw jump. He made no verbal reply but I knew he heard me and he’d do what he could.

  Then I gave him a squeeze and kept whispering. “Take that plate, honey, and go sit with your dad. He’s got the game on. I’ll make another one for me and be out in a minute.”

  He nodded to the window.

  Then his body moved. I let him go and he walked to the bowl. He looked at it and walked back to me. Then he lifted both hands, cupped my jaw, and tilted my face up to his so he could touch his mouth to mine.

  When he lifted his head, I whispered, “He loves you.”

  He closed his eyes, that suffocating feeling suffused the room before he opened them and whispered, “I know.”

  “I love you too.”

  His eyes got soft, the weight in the room lifted and, he repeated his whispered, “I know.”

  “We’ll get through this,” I promised.

  He didn’t look like he believed me and he didn’t repeat himself again.

  “Go eat. It’s getting cold,” I ordered.

  His eyes held mine a moment before he let me go and walked back to his plate.

  I made my own, took it out, and watched the Nuggets game with Brock and his father.

  Cob held down the soup, crackers, and one of the cupcakes his granddaughter baked that I ran out to my car to bring in.

  The Nuggets won.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Somewhat Good for Now

  “GONNA SWING BY Dad’s with this TV then I’ll be over.”

  I had the phone to my ear, Brock on the line, and I was sliding a chicken into the oven.

  It was Thursday and it was a Thursday after Brock called his sisters to get them to put him and me on the Cob rotation. It was also a Thursday after Brock found out that Cob had only one TV and it was in his living room. So, lastly, it was a Thursday after Brock swung by Best Buy to get his dad a TV for his bedroom so he had something to do when he was feeling double extra shit and didn’t want to leave his bed. Brock had even called the cable company to add an additional set and he’d laid it on thick about his father’s illness, which meant the wait was not seventy-two hours but twenty-four. They were showing tomorrow and they’d thrown in a couple of months of free premium channels just because.

  Brock did not mess around when it came to TVs or cable. He pulled out all the stops and got results.

  So, nothing new.

  “All right, honey,” I answered. “Dinner’ll be done in an hour and a half but it’ll keep warm if you aren’t home.”

  “I’ll aim for that,” Brock told me, then, “Later, babe.”

  “Later.”

  Then he was gone.

  I hit end call then sent a text to Martha in return to hers. She was planning a girls’ night in at her place for the weekend after this one, being cool about planning it when Brock had his boys so I could finagle some time for the boys alone with their dad without Brock (hopefully) cottoning on.

  And I was at odds, as I usually was, with how I felt about Martha’s girls’ night in. This was not a new concept for Martha but it was a crapshoot what you’d encounter when you arrived. She would either be in the mood to experiment with a variety of recipes she’d totally made up, none of them successful, all of them you at least had to try. Or she’d fill her house with junk food and unearth all her vast collection of romantic comedies.

  I was hoping for the latter.

  My text to Martha started a flurry of texts that included Elvira, Gwen, Camille, Tracy, and even Shirleen getting in on the act. I fielded them all while dealing with the rest of dinner and felt great relief when Elvira firmly took charge of food preparation and stated in a way even Martha couldn’t protest she was making her “boards.”

  I didn’t know what Elvira’s boards were but whatever they were they had to be better than fried celery.

  Celery as celery was bad. Celery fried was the work of Satan.

  The texting frenzy died down and I was basting the chicken for the last time when another text came through right when my landline rang.

  I glanced at the screen on my cell to see it was Brock saying “on my way” then I went to my landline, grabbed it out of the receiver, hit the on button, and put it to my ear.

  “Hello,” I greeted.

  Nothing.

  “Hello?” I repeated.

  More nothing.

  I was about to take the phone from my ear when I heard a man ask, “This Tessa O’Hara?”

  A shiver shot down my spine. I didn’t know why, it just did.

  And it wasn’t pleasant.

  “Uh…” I started.

  “Tessa O’Hara who’s seein’ Brock Lucas?”

  Ice filled my veins.

  “Who’s this?” I asked.

  “It is,” the voice whispered then I had a dead line.

  Fuck. Fuck. Fuck!

  I put the phone in the receiver and moved to my cell, making quick work of calling Brock.

  A ring, then, “Babe.”

  “I just got a creepy call.”

  A small hesitation, then, “What kind of creepy?”

  “Creepy creepy. Creepy wrong creepy. It came in on my landline.”

>   “You listed?” he asked.

  Heck no, I wasn’t listed. First, I was a single female. Second, my ex-husband was a whack job who raped me and eventually turned out to be a drug lord.

  I didn’t give Brock this answer.

  Instead, I answered, “No.”

  “Fuck,” he muttered, then, “What’d they say?”

  I sucked in a breath, then told him, “He asked if I was Tessa O’Hara. Then he asked if I was seeing you. I didn’t answer either but I asked him who he was and he said, ‘It is,’ meaning he knew he got me and I was seeing you and then he hung up on me.”

  “Doors locked?” Brock asked instantly and I felt another shiver.

  “I don’t…” I paused. “I don’t know,” I told him, moving directly toward the backdoor.

  “Check. Lock,” he ordered.

  Backdoor secure, I headed toward the front, saying a shaky, “Okay.” Then I asked, “Is this the kind of thing Olivia would do, you know, to play with me?”

  “Never played this dirty but wouldn’t put it past her,” he answered.

  Freaking great.

  “I’ll be there in ten minutes,” he said softly.

  “Okay,” I replied, locking the front door and then I told him, “I’m all locked.”

  “Good, baby. See you soon.”

  “Okay.”

  He ended the call, and I moved back to the kitchen, my eyes going to the microwave to note the time. Then I tried to control the fear that was mixing with the anger should this be Olivia as I dealt with the final preparations for dinner.

  Eight minutes had elapsed when it happened. I knew this because I had just checked the microwave for the fiftieth time.

  And what happened was I heard gunshots, six of them, one after another sounding like they were right in front of my house.

  I stared at the window a nanosecond before I crouched down behind the island as more gunfire sounded and it penetrated my frozen-with-terror mind that it sounded like return fire.

  As the gunfight continued, I came to my senses, scuttled in a crouch to the landline phone, reached up, grabbed it, hit the on button, then dialed 911.

  “Nine-one-one, what’s your emergency?”

  “Gunshots outside my house,” I whispered.

  “Where are you, ma’am?”

  I started to give my address as I heard noise at my front door and I stopped, staring through my house at it, paralyzed with fear.

  “Ma’am,” the operator called, “please confirm you’re safe and your address.”

  “Someone’s—”

  The door opened and Brock walked in, his overcoat on one side dusted with snow. He turned, slammed the door, locked it, and prowled to me, holding his gun in his hand.

  I didn’t, as I usually did, admire him in his work clothes. Today, a nice, thick black turtleneck (one, incidentally, I bought him for Christmas and I say one because I bought him three). Jeans that weren’t nearly as faded as his normal jeans. A great black belt that the sweater was tucked behind (and that was the only part of the sweater tucked, I didn’t know if he did it on purpose or what but for some reason I thought it looked awesome). And a handsome, tailored, black wool overcoat (which, also incidentally, Laura and Jill got together to buy him for Christmas and on him it was the bomb).

  Although his work attire was only a nuance away from his nonwork attire, when he got home, after greeting me, he never hesitated in taking it off, putting on faded jeans, no belt, and, now that we were in the dead of winter, either a faded long-sleeved tee or a thermal.

  Now he prowled through the house toward me and I didn’t notice how hot he looked in his work clothes. I only noticed the dusting of snow on his overcoat and the gun in his hand.

  How did he get that dusting of snow?

  “Ma’am?” I heard the 911 operator call. “Are you with me?”

  “That emergency?” Brock growled when he got to me, staring down at me still crouched by my kitchen counter.

  I didn’t respond. He bent and pulled the phone out of my hand and put it to his ear.

  “This is Detective Brock Lucas. I was just fired on and exchanged fire with an unidentified male…”

  He kept talking but my mind blanked of everything but his words repeating in my head.

  I was just fired on and exchanged fire…

  I was just fired on and exchanged fire…

  I was just fired on and exchanged fire…

  I straightened as he continued to growl into the phone, his eyes on me, but my thoughts were still elsewhere.

  He had that snow on him because he’d thrown himself to the ground to dodge bullets aimed at him in front of my house.

  My man had thrown his beautiful body to the snow to dodge fucking bullets aimed at him in front of my fucking house.

  And he had his gun in his hand because he’d had to return fire.

  And I knew exactly who ordered that unidentified male to aim bullets at my man.

  No.

  Oh no.

  I did not fucking think so.

  Just like I lost it when Levi was at Brock’s house, I didn’t think.

  I just moved.

  And what I moved to do was snatch my keys off the counter and I ran out of the house.

  “Tess!” Brock shouted, but I was gone.

  Down the walk and in my car.

  “Goddamn it! Tess!” I heard Brock shout from somewhere outside the car.

  Car on, I didn’t even look and put the pedal to the floor.

  I didn’t know how I got there and it was a miracle I made it without killing myself or anyone else. But I hit University, then turned right, then turned left on Yale, then I drove like a demon through Donald Heller’s established, tidy neighborhood with its big houses on big lots. A path I had taken frequently for twelve years while dating and married to my shit-heel of an ex but had not taken once in the last six and a half.

  And I went there because I had no idea where Damian lived.

  But I sure as fuck was going to find out.

  I screeched to a halt at the curb, shot out of my car, and raced through the snow in the yard to the front door, not noticing the headlights of the truck that followed me go out as it parked behind my car.

  I banged on the door loudly, not letting up as I shouted, “Don, open the fucking door!”

  A hand came from behind me, fingers wrapping around my wrist, halting my pounding as I felt warmth hit my back and heard whispered in my ear, “Tess, Jesus, baby, calm—”

  Brock didn’t finish because the door opened and Donald was standing there.

  His eyes flashed quickly back and forth and again between Brock and me then a tentative smile hit his mouth as his eyes started to light and he whispered, “Tess, honey, my—”

  He didn’t finish because I shouted, “Where is he?”

  Donald blinked, his gaze moving between Brock, who now had my wrist and arm wrapped around my belly, his with it, and me, then he asked, “Who?”

  “Your fucking scum of the earth shithead asshole of a son, that’s who!” I shrieked.

  He blinked again then I heard, “Tess?” and looked beyond Donald to see fucking, fucking, fucking Damian standing several feet behind him in his father’s foyer.

  That was when I lost it again.

  Tearing free of Brock, I shoved straight past Donald and launched myself at Damian, arms raised, nails bared, ready to scratch his motherfucking eyes out.

  His hands came up to defend himself and he took a step back but I didn’t get there.

  A steel arm clamped around my waist. I let out an “oof!” and was hauled back against Brock, who then clamped another steel arm around my shoulders and chest at the front.

  At my ear, he whispered, “Cool it, sweetness.”

  “Fuck cool!” I screeched and struggled against his hold at the same time planting my feet as he tried to pull me back. Through this my eyes stayed glued to Damian. “You fucking dick!” I kept screeching.

  “What on—?” Donald
asked with soft shock at my side but I shouted over him.

  “It wasn’t enough hitting me?” I asked and Brock froze at the same time I sensed Donald doing the same. “It wasn’t enough raping me?” I kept shouting and disregarded the noise that came from Donald that sounded like someone landed a blow to his stomach. “Then you call me out of the blue, fucking lie to me a-fucking-gain after you lied to me so many fucking, fucking times I lost count with the women you screwed who were not me, and told me your father was sick as a ploy to get me to meet you.”

  “My God,” Donald whispered but I kept yelling.

  “Then you keep contacting me when I asked you over and over and fucking over again not to call me and you drag me into your shit with the DEA and the FBI and the police and now you send someone to shoot at my boyfriend in front of my house!”

  Damian kept his eyes glued on me too and when I quit shrieking, he said softly, “Tess—”

  “Fuck you!” I spat. “Fuck you, Damian. What did I do? What did I do but fall in love with you? What did I do to deserve you treating me like a piece of garbage and then… then… finally when I have something good in my life, something beautiful… finally when I feel fucking safe, you move to destroy that too?”

  “Honey, I didn’t do—” Damian started but I cut him off.

  Screaming at the top of my lungs, the sound so shrill it pierced the space like a dart, I shouted, “Don’t you dare call me honey!”

  Damian held my eyes. Brock held me close. I glared at Damian, heat boiling through my veins, through my brain, so fucking hot, it was burning me alive.

  Then Damian pulled his eyes from mine, turned his head to the side, his face grew concerned, and he started to move that way, saying, “Dad.”

  “Don’t,” Donald ordered and I tore my eyes from Damian to see Donald standing at the wall of the foyer, hand pressed against it, that hand clearly holding him up. His face was pale, his eyes on his son wounded, and I hadn’t seen him for a while but he’d always seemed younger than his years, his humor and love of life making him that way. But in that moment he looked beyond his seventy-two years and well into his nineties.

  At the sight of him, a wave of pain rolled through me. My hands went to Brock’s arms, my fingers curling around, one at my chest, one at my belly and Brock’s arms got tighter.