No Damaged Goods Page 5

  I frown. “Who is your dad, anyway?”

  She doesn’t even get a chance to answer. There’s a knock at my door, sharp enough to rattle the doorframe, but with a certain restraint.

  Who in the heck, at this time of night...?

  The last thing I expect when I peer over my shoulder and through the glass of the door is him.

  Blake.

  Mr. Grumpy Silver Tongue himself.

  From the frozen look on Andrea’s face...well, now I know who Daddy Dearest is.

  And I also know Silver Tongue isn’t too far off from Silverton.

  “Hey,” I promise her, giving her another squeeze before standing, keeping my voice low. “It’ll be okay. I won’t squeal about the liquor, but maybe take a few more sips of that tea.”

  Wide-eyed, she nods, lifting the mug to her lips while I cross to the door.

  Blake looks particularly intimidating in the light falling through the glass. Big arms folded over his chest, thickly honed forearms bulging against the sleeves of his coat, his mouth set like a steel trap.

  Yikes.

  But I smile ever so sweetly anyway, pulling the door open.

  “Hey!” I say. “I’m guessing the lost kitten here is yours?”

  “Correct,” he says grimly. I barely get to step aside before he’s stalking inside, his big bulk taking up so much space in my little cottage living room. “Andrea?”

  She winces but sets her mug down and shuffles over, her head down.

  Only for Blake to throw his arms around her shoulders, dragging her in close, enveloping her in this massive, sheltering hug that actually takes me by surprise. His expression softens as he buries his face in her hair and cups the back of her head.

  “Goddammit, girl,” he whispers roughly. “I didn’t even know you weren’t home. Thought you were freezing me out. Then Haley called in the fire and I knew.”

  Andrea makes a soft, hurting sound, clinging to Blake, knotting her hands in his shirt. “M’sorry, Dad. Sorry. I know it was stupid, we could’ve...we could’ve set the whole woods on fire—”

  “The Inn too,” he growls, his eyes drilling into her. “You don’t want to hurt Ms. Wilma or Warren and Hay that way, do you? This town’s had enough fire damage the past year.”

  “No, no, of course not.” Miserably, Andrea buries her face in his chest. “I just wanna go home, Dad.”

  “I know.” He squeezes her tighter for a moment, then pulls back, gently nudging her. “Go wait in the Jeep. I’ll be out in a second.”

  She holds on to him for a few more seconds, then pulls back and slogs away, the living portrait of tired dejection as she clomps out into the snow.

  It’s my guess she’ll be out cold before they even get home.

  Blake lingers, awkward in his thick flannel wool-lined coat, jeans, and boots. Apparently, changing out of his fire gear and into everyday stuff takes zero points away from the sexy department.

  I try to quit gawking.

  “How did you know you’d find her here?” I’m not even sure what to say, so I try a smile.

  He gives me a flat look, then reaches into his back pocket and retrieves something.

  My crocheted cap, several spots of it blackened and singed.

  “You had this on earlier,” he says. “And it’s pretty distinctly ugly. But if you want it back...”

  “Nah, I don’t really think it’s any good anymore.” I wince, glancing away. “Sorry. I didn’t know she was your little girl, or I’d have tried to call, or something. I saw them out in the woods, went to check out the fire, and they bolted. One kid was being reckless. A few twigs caught fire, but Andrea put it out. Now I know where she gets her fire safety tips from.”

  If I’m not mistaken, there’s actually a touch of pride flickering in his eyes. Pride in his daughter. It warms me to see it.

  And it does jack squat to dispel this ridiculous crush.

  He rakes a hand through his thick hair, making it spike wildly around his sharply patrician features. “Yeah, well, thanks for looking out for her.”

  “Oh, it’s no big!”

  He starts turning away.

  My lip digs against my teeth. Hey, I might as well shoot my shot while he’s here, right?

  Better than desperately trying to chase him down later.

  “Hey,” I say quickly, starting forward. “Listen, um...I was wondering about the stories Justin was talking about. The stuff about you and your friends and all the stuff that happened here? Heroes of Heart’s Edge?”

  It’s the wrong thing to ask.

  I know it’s the wrong thing to ask, when I remember far too late that Justin said the whole thing makes Blake touchy.

  I’m tired, I’m confused, I’m not thinking straight, and I’m regretting opening my mouth.

  Sigh.

  I expect him to slam down on me, to go gruff and cold and incisive the way he’d been earlier tonight.

  I’m just a stranger, after all. A very nosy one.

  But the man actually smiles.

  It’s so sad, though. And I can’t help but wonder what made him that way as he says, “You’re plenty welcome to ask other folks those stories. Warren. Doc. Even Leo. They’re the heroes, and they do the talkin’. I don’t need to be nobody’s hero, Peace.”

  Then he’s turning away again, and this time, I don’t have the heart to stop him.

  Especially when his voice floats over his shoulder, and the music in it comes out like a haunting dirge, making me ache to tease out what’s at the heart of it.

  “Not interested in heroing anyone these days but my little girl.”

  4

  Bought for a Song (Blake)

  I survived the school week.

  Barely.

  I’m pretty sure the only reason Andrea hasn’t murdered me in my sleep is because she’s out of the house for twelve hours a day. Still, that little moment we had at Peace’s cabin the other day went flat real fast when I told her she was grounded.

  Look, she did good putting that fire out quick.

  But like hell that tea or whatever Peace gave her was gonna mask the smell on her breath. Her breath stank like rocket fuel.

  I know she was out there drinking, and probably with that firestarter kid Clark.

  Little goddamn punk.

  She’s slowly relaxed, at least over awkward dinners where she spends half the time pretending to ignore me with her sketchbook at the table and the other half drawing furiously, applying the lessons Haley’s shown her. That’s the one thing I’ll relent on—letting her spend two evenings a week at the Charming Inn.

  I have to be her dad.

  I’m not going to be her prison guard.

  Can’t stand seeing her grow up feeling crushed, stifled, run down.

  Not the way I did.

  By Saturday she’s more animated, though—maybe because her grounding’s lifted, and after dinner I finally give her permission to go out and find her friends.

  She’s been pretty pissed at them. Mad enough that making up between classes hasn’t been possible, but she never stays angry at them for long. Small-town life gets even smaller when you’re a teenager.

  So she mostly saves her hellfire for me, I guess.

  I’m shocked she actually kisses my cheek as she bounces toward the door. “I’ll be home before midnight,” she says, slinging her messenger bag over her shoulder.

  “Ten thirty,” I growl after her, and she lets out an exaggerated sigh.

  Not really mad at me.

  Just putting on a show. I hide my grin.

  “Compromise,” she says. “Eleven.”

  I stroke my beard, pretending to consider, then nod. “Eleven it is.”

  Rolling her eyes, tossing her head back, she groans, “God, you’re such a dad,” before bouncing out into the night.

  Leaving me alone, in the quiet of my house.

  I don’t usually notice the emptiness when I have the rare evening to myself—no fires to put out, no cats to rescue from
trees, no other crises, no call-in show, my growing daughter out having a life of her own. I’m usually too tired to think about anything but resting my feet and getting some shut-eye.

  I’ve been trying to read the same book—Gone Girl—for nearly six damn months. Doc’s idea. I get two pages in and then pass out, even if he’s right about it being a fast-paced thriller.

  But I’m not that tired now.

  Maybe it’s the ghost of my ma, riding in Holt’s wake. Or maybe it’s the lingering memory of Abby, her shadow haunting us all week, but hell.

  I don’t think I want to be alone right now.

  It’s not hard to know where I’ll find the guys. Unless it’s Warren’s turn with a cranky kid or two—Doc also, now, damn all my friends are settled in with kids and wives, but one out of two ain’t bad—they’re always at Brody’s.

  It’s a clear sky tonight. No fresh snow, though it smells like it’s biting cold, the kind that makes the air feel thinner. With my leg not acting up, it’s almost relaxing to make the drive under the bright full moon, everything gone silver under the snow.

  I can get a beer in with enough time for it to wear off and leave me safe to drive home to see if Little Violet listens to my curfew.

  The flashing sign at Brody’s draws me in.

  I park and head into the long, low weathered building, a classic roadhouse style pub that looks like it was put together from driftwood some thirty or forty years ago. Inside, it’s still rowdy, even at just after nine. Mostly ’cause the college kids come in from a couple towns over.

  They know the bartenders don’t check IDs as often as they should and they love going up to the cliff to make out and throw flowers over the edge.

  No flowers for me tonight.

  Looks like the whole crew’s here. I home in on Warren, Doc, and Leo, settled at their own table—and the moment Warren catches sight of me, my name echoes over the bar in a hearty boom.

  “Blake!” he calls, waving. “Get over here!”

  I catch a fast-moving waitress’ eye and signal for a beer, then cross the room to sling myself into a chair in their booth. We’re four big men, and it’s a tighter fit than it used to be, especially with Leo being a new addition.

  Or I should say a new old addition. We used to play together as kids, and my dumb ass called him Tiger, mixing up my Latin. Only for him to disappear, then show up again years later as the monster-turned-hero of Heart’s Edge, formerly known as Nine.

  I almost don’t belong here with these brave damned men who keep risking it all for this town.

  Peace’s voice resonates in the back of my mind. That soft sweet girl, all vivid eyes and fire and charm, asking me to tell her those stories.

  They ain’t mine to tell.

  I’m not here for grand showdowns and attention.

  I’m just trying to raise my daughter in one piece and stay alive.

  “Hey, man,” Warren says, clapping me on the shoulder as I settle into the creaking wood. “Been a while.”

  I groan, folding my arms on the table. “Had to stay home with Andrea to make sure she stays grounded. Girl’s better than old Mozart at sneaking out.”

  Warren chuckles. “That big ol’ poofball does more sleeping than sneaking these days. The kids spoiled him rotten over Christmas with scraps of turkey and ham. He’s got himself a buddy, too.”

  “Yeah, that big grey monster with the ears chewed off. You’ve got yourself a two-cat household to go with the two munchkins. What’re you calling the new guy again?” I scratch my neck.

  “Van Gogh. Hay’s idea. I wanted to keep the crazy composer naming thing going, but...” He shrugs.

  “No worries, man. Still got your two babes and two big cats beat with one angry teenager, love her to death.” I flash him a grin.

  Leo grimaces, the inked burn scars down his neck and jaw pulling tight. “Guess I’m up next with the terrible teens, huh? Shit.”

  I grin. “Zach is fuckin’ smart, dude. Like, Andrea’s honor roll, but Zach’s like...”

  “Don’t say it,” Leo grumbles. “I caught him trying to build a particle accelerator out of kitchen tools.”

  He’s groaning, but there’s clear pride.

  Yeah. I get it.

  I get it far too well.

  “August will catch up to him soon,” Doc says with a sniff, pushing his glasses up his nose, his sharp green eyes glinting. “She’s quite the wit. Takes after her father, naturally.”

  I laugh. “Little Gus ain’t even talking yet, let alone walking or building things. Give it ten years, man. Then maybe she’ll join you and her mama at your vet clinic.”

  He growls. “Do not call my daughter Gus.”

  That just makes me grin wider. “Aw, why not? You call your wife Ember instead of September.”

  “I—”

  Leo cuts us off with a patient sigh. “C’mon, boys. Don’t start. I think we’re all too tired for the comedy bit tonight.”

  “I feel that,” I say, offering Doc a smile as an olive branch.

  He sniffs again, looking away from me in that cool way he has, but it ain’t hard to tell I’m forgiven.

  If I wasn’t, he’d have flipped me off.

  “Hey,” I add. “You need any help with her? The first kid’s always the toughest, and you and Ember are plenty busy chasing animals at The Menagerie. Ain’t she gonna be teething soon?”

  In half a second, that icy demeanor vanishes and Doc winces, sagging and burying his fingers in his hair. “She already is. I feel like I haven’t slept in years.”

  “Now, now, she can’t have been fussing more than a few days, young as she is.” I nudge him with my elbow. “Listen, I got a few tips to help her calm down. Andrea was a fussy teether, too.”

  Doc gives me a haggard look.

  “Please,” he says. “Teach me the wisdom of your ways. I had to let Ember deliver an entire litter of kittens on her own this week because I nearly fell asleep in the delivery room.”

  “Well then,” I say. “Strap in, and let the advice man tell you what’s up.”

  * * *

  There’s something about helping people that takes me outside myself.

  Think that’s why I like it so much.

  Feels like I’ve been stuck in a rut for so long, I’d damn rather deal with somebody else’s. Most folks look at their lives as a line from beginning to end, stretching clean through space.

  Me, though?

  My life’s kind of like that line came to a screeching halt.

  The night Andrea’s mother died, somebody just picked up the pen and made the line cut short, but that whole damn piece of paper’s still there, sprawled out in front of me.

  It’s like I was supposed to die too when the ink line stopped, but since I didn’t...

  Now, I’m just waiting in blank white limbo, wondering what I’m even here for.

  I mean, nah. I know who I’m here for.

  Andrea’s reason enough to wake up in the morning and haul my bones out of bed. She’s everything.

  But one fine day she’s gonna be fully grown up and gone, and then what?

  Who the fuck am I gonna be?

  The funny man on the radio who alternates love advice with wild late-night conspiracy rumors, I guess. The dude who puts out fires.

  Because I’d rather focus on other people’s problems than that blank sheet of paper. And that’s what has me laughing, completely absorbed in my buddies as we trade tips and horror stories back and forth about our kids.

  It’s a weeknight, though, and before I know it I gotta get home to make sure Andrea does, too.

  My beer’s worn off. I’m clearheaded as I clap my guys on the shoulder and stand.

  That’s when I catch sight of Justin, who sure as hell ain’t clearheaded at all.

  He’s slumped over a barstool, head on the bar, damn near drooling. His fingers are curled stubbornly in a half-filled beer mug’s handle while the bartender tries uneasily to tug it away from a grip that just won’t relax.<
br />
  Goddammit, poor kid.

  I have an inkling why he’s gone all soggy tonight.

  He always does around this time of year.

  Something about the dead of winter brings out the loss in a whole mess of people in this little town, not just yours truly.

  Sighing, I weave my way through the crowd of people wandering to the exit, make my way over to the bar, and hold up a hand to the bartender.

  “Hey, man, I got it,” I say. “Leave him to me.”

  The bartender, Bruce, gives me a wary look, then nods, his plump hand falling away. “I need him out of here in fifteen minutes,” he says. “Coming up on last call. I already took his car keys. He one of your guys?”

  “Yeah, he’s on the crew. It’s okay. I’m sober. I’ll give him a lift.”

  Another suspicious look before the bartender slips away. I frown, leaning down to try to peer at Justin’s face, but all I get is a mop of black curls and a hint of his brow. He’s buried himself in his folded forearms.

  “Yo, Justin,” I say. “Hey, man. It’s me. Let me get you home.”

  For a minute, I think he might actually be blackout drunk. Unconscious.

  Shit.

  I might just have to carry him at this rate.

  But then he lets out a soft gurgle in the back of his throat. Not just the booze, it’s ragged with grief. I think if he were a little more drunk, he’d be crying. If he were a little more sober, he’d be fighting it.

  Where he is now is no man’s land.

  It’s an awful, heartbreaking place where you hear wounded animal growls coming from a grown man’s throat.

  “Everybody dies here,” he whispers, slurring his words, and I’m wondering how many damn beers he’s had. “Everybody. Maybe she didn’t die here...but they brought her body back. They brought her body back to lay it home.”

  Fuck.

  Yeah.

  Yeah, I know what this is about.

  Justin’s young enough to be my kid, almost. Twenty-seven.