Surprise Daddy Page 10

  Sadie's face lights up. I'm sure it's an adorable image in her head, picturing my cruel mug shocked into silent hope, staring at a newborn baby.

  It isn't wrong. That tiny miracle in my hands gave me a new respect for life.

  “The kid taught me a thing or two, yeah. Jenna, not so much. She took off two or three weeks after she got out of the hospital. Never came by once to see our little girl. I decided after the first week with no calls I wouldn't fucking let her.” It's easy to forget what happened next. There's no point in holding grudges. “Flash to the end. She took off half-drunk on a winter night, not so different from this one. You know how the roads are around the bluffs. Too much ice, a bad reflex or two...calamity. I'll never know what ended her for sure. They yanked what was left of her car out of the freezing river a couple days later.”

  “Oh my God. I'm...” She pauses, holding in her sorry. Smart move. “So, you two never tried to make it work? I mean, if she'd lived...”

  “Never.” It comes out raw. Then my heart starts hammering so fucking hard I think I'm about to pass out.

  My hands take hers. She thinks it's some confession, some special chemistry, but I know what it really is: getting a grip before I hit the floor, mind tangled up in my worst mistake.

  The one I still won't ever tell her. Not anyone.

  Red's just looking. Her face is softer now. Stunned, maybe, trying to digest the hell I just served her.

  I'm waiting.

  Shit, on second thought, I don't know what I expect. A gasp, a look of shock, more sympathy streaming from her mouth I want nothing to do with.

  But Red does the worst she could possibly do: she leans in, hands tight around my neck, bringing her lips into mine.

  Sweet fuck.

  We're two for two. I'm convinced my dick is about to explode.

  But that first kiss was passion, celebration.

  This one's honest fury. Manic desire spiked with truth.

  Too honest. Too fucking truthful.

  I'm growling as I push her away. I haven't had to fight emotion like this since my run-in with her asshole brother three years ago, trying not to end his life on the simmering pavement, in front of a couple hundred people before the cops stepped in.

  “Don't,” I say, holding her at arm's length. Doesn't stop my fingers from coiling around her wrist, pressing tight. Her pulse is livid. “We shouldn't.”

  “I know, Marshal. I'm not stupid. I'm also perfectly well aware it isn't every day you drain a little of the snake bite that's killing you.” Those big green eyes are undaunted. They're also insane. They want to get closer. Still.

  Just fucking great.

  This is where I am. Not only do I have to worry about a flammable attraction to my live-in nanny, my mortal enemy's sister, and spilling my spaghetti. Now, I've got myself a goddamn armchair psychologist who wants in my head as bad as I want up her skirt.

  Kill me.

  “Don't get any grand ideas, Red. I see it in your eyes: you want to be the beauty to my beast, the woman who figures me out, ties me down, and fucking tames me. It's a walking cliché, and you can forget it right now. You see them coming from ten miles out when you've got a four year old into fairy tales.”

  It's hard not to erase that shy, frail smile written on her face. But the only way I'd do that is with another kiss, and we're at our limit for shit-that-should-never-happen today.

  “Last warning,” I growl, reaching for the door. “We need to get back in there. I've got a ham to pull out of the oven and a green bean casserole to make. No more games. I want to enjoy dinner without another side of fuck-me eyes or dark ass secrets.”

  Red doesn't say another word. She follows me in and helps set the table.

  It's a small miracle we sit down like a normal family. Mia helps break up the awkward tension – totally all on Sadie – telling us her big plans for the shiny New Year.

  My little girl can't wait to be class princess in kindergarten. Never mind they don't do royalty. Maybe I've gotten her too damn deep in fairy tales.

  I humor her anyway, letting her know she'll always have a permanent place as princess, Keeper of the Overfed Tiger in this house. The lighter stuff also helps me ignore every attempt at eyes Red makes across the table.

  I don't know what the fuck she's trying to do.

  Can't tell anymore whether it's all in my head. I just know I have to avoid those eyes, especially over pie and coffee later, or else I'll wind up putting Mia to bed early and opening the door to God only knows.

  Time for another resolution: no more mistakes this year.

  Not with Red. Not with Mia. Not with Jackson Kelley.

  Definitely not with Red. Again.

  The fact that I'm more worried about screwing up with her than the others drives home an ugly truth I don't want to put into words. It involves the two of us, an empty bed, and a very hard night of fucking.

  The road to desolation might be paved with the best sex of my life. That can't be how Marshal Howard ends.

  I've fought too hard and come too far to let my dick lead me to ruin.

  I'm happier than ever to get back to work the next day. Getting my parts together and hauling them three towns over to the small company who hired me takes the whole morning.

  When I get home, several thousand bucks richer, there's no car in the driveway. I shouldn't feel so relieved. Red took Mia into town just like she said, a grocery run and an errand for her family, supposedly.

  I sit down at the table for lunch, thinking nothing of it, until I see the tall black Escalade through the window pulling into the driveway. The fucking truck that belongs to the bastard I'm supposed to murder.

  “Shit!” I toss my half-eaten sandwich against the plate so hard it rattles.

  I haven't planned for this scenario, what the hell to do if asshole himself shows up on my doorstep. The guns are locked up in my shop, and even so, I'm not sure even I'm so insane I'll shoot a man in broad daylight on my doorstep.

  There's also no time. I move.

  My fists are on fire as I crash through the screen, heading straight for the truck, ready to rip the driver's door open. The vehicle stops in Red's parking space, dumping gasoline on the cauldron roaring inside me.

  Then I see the kid's seat and my daughter's smiling face in the glass. Urge to destroy, gone.

  Well, mostly. I still don't understand why the fuck Red is here with this vehicle. My eyes flick to the license plate, confirming my worst suspicions. There's no mistake. It's Jackson's.

  “We're back! No worries about lunch, we stopped off in town for a bit. Brought you a little something, too.” Red holds a sandwich out from my favorite deli, dangling in a paper bag.

  It doesn't make up for the questions beating in my temples. I reluctantly grab the food and ignore her confused look, watching as she makes her way to the other side to retrieve Mia.

  “Daddy?” My little girl looks up from her nanny's arms. She senses the worry, the rage, the relentless questions written on my face.

  “It's okay, honeybee. Sadie, get her inside. We'll talk later.”

  I only catch the briefest glimpse of her shocked green eyes before turning my back.

  Then I head straight for my shop, trying to decide if having this vehicle here is a lucky break or a fucking curse.

  I look around the corner a few hours later. I see Mia on the floor playing with her tablet. A delicious aroma wafts through the house – so appetizing it makes my stomach growl through the anger.

  Red sits in front of the stove, eyes on her phone, waiting for the timer to announce the most heavenly chicken dumpling soup I've smelled since grandma's. She's a damn good cook, I'll give her that, but fuck if it absolves the menace parked outside.

  “Oh, there you are. Finally,” she says, looking up, pressing her phone tight against her thigh. “What's wrong?”

  “You didn't tell me you were driving his truck.” I fold my arms, trying not to scowl.

  Maybe there's a rational explanati
on. One that won't make me blast through the roof.

  “Just a family favor, Marshal. I'll only have it a day or two. They needed me to pick it up, and I figured it wouldn't be a problem. Jackson knows. He's also perfectly aware why I'm here and who I'm working for.”

  My fingers pinch my arm. I suppress a growl. “I'm not asking you to fall down and beg for permission. But shit, it would've been nice if you'd decided to drop a head's up before bringing a killer's fucking wheels here.”

  “Killer?” Her echo is pointed and sharp. As it should be.

  I've said too much. Fuck this.

  I'm about to walk away when she rushes over, throws her hands on my shoulders, refusing to let go. I turn, giving her the ice in my eyes. “I don't understand, Marshal. Killer, what? What are you talking about?”

  “Nothing. He's an asshole, is all I meant.” I can't let her on to what I'm planning. “Look, I want that thing gone ASAP. Next time you drag his shit on my property, ask first.”

  I tear myself away, stomping back outside, ignoring her eyes trailing after me. This whole thing is a mistake.

  It's just a question of how fucking big, how irreparable it really is.

  Worst part is, I hate being an asshole to her. My stomach knots at something that used to come naturally.

  Wicked, wicked irony.

  I don't know who I'm becoming. Red has me so tangled up in her innocence, her beauty, her living cliché, I'm risking the only thing that'll ever give my dead friends peace.

  That has to stop now.

  “Shit.” I glance up at the clock hanging in my shop. It's an old Felix the Cat hand-me-down from my grandpa, big mechanical eyeballs moving with every tick. It's past eight thirty, long after I should have come inside, sat down for dinner, and then brought my little girl upstairs.

  I throw the parts down I've been working on, wiping my hands. Pretending to, anyway. I can't keep my eyes off the black truck, almost invisible in the night, a demon chance taunting me.

  If I could find an excuse to sneak out there, fuck with a few choice parts, and then return it myself...

  No, asshole, I warn myself for the thousandth time.

  It's too insane. Too evil. Too risky.

  Unless I know for sure her prick of a brother will be driving, without endangering anybody else on the road, I can't take him out like this.

  Right?

  The clock ticks louder than usual. It brings my gaze to the same picture that always draws my eyes, the one with my boys outside Kandahar.

  It flashes through my head again like lightning. War, mistakes, and murder return in the blink of an eye.

  The prick himself, Jackson, younger and cockier. Selling our commanding officer a load of horseshit about how easy it would be, how sure he thought the target was in the mountain compound, virtually unguarded.

  It didn't jive with everything we'd heard from the villages at the foot of the mountain. But fuck, the drone's photos seemed to back up the prick's story. He was gunning for a big promotion. So certain he volunteered to lead us into the thick of it himself.

  He had local sources, see. More than just grainy pics. Guys who hadn't been vetted by proper intelligence, and who liked to tell tall tales to anybody in a U.S. uniform in exchange for a few precious dollars, which can stretch for weeks in Afghanistan.

  They also loved to murder the shit out of rivals who'd crossed them in blood feuds and ancient politics. They loved it even more when we did their dirty work for them.

  I knew the scheme. I saw how uneasy Adam looked. Remembered that look Zane gave me with his eyes, pleading, say something, sir.

  And I did. I voiced my objection. The commander said he'd consider it, and, of course, it was overruled by morning.

  We did our best, and our best became a clusterfuck.

  Our best got good men killed.

  Our best was a completely preventable shit show egged on by a glory hog who refused to take the fall. The very same asshole who limped home to our little town and did the same shit here, exploiting his purple heart at every opportunity.

  There's a sour taste in my mouth. Reaching under the bench, I grab one of the last beers from my New Year's pack and crack it open. I need to take the edge off. I chug half the contents on the walk to the house.

  Red stops me mid-sentence once I'm inside, seeing her there at the table.

  One look turns my blood molten. She's ready for bed, wrapped in a tight skin-colored gown that leaves too damn little to the imagination. Hell, it's like it forces me to picture her naked.

  What are you trying to do, woman? What the hell are you trying to do?

  “You couldn't wait till you were down for the night?” I glare at her, hard and unblinking. “Dress code.”

  “It's as fancy as what you're wearing, Mr. Bluejeans.” She rolls her eyes, watching me snatch off my faded jean jacket and throw it on the scuffed hanger by the door.

  “Mia?” I ask. The familiar shot of adrenaline only a father knows spikes my blood.

  “I put her down a little early. Upset tummy. She's sleeping peacefully upstairs, if you want to say goodnight. But, uh, maybe you need a napkin or something first?” She smiles, giving a terse nod at the beer droplets clinging to my chin.

  I don't even reach for the napkin she tries to pass, wiping my face with my sleeve. “Whatever.”

  Ignoring her half eye roll, I head upstairs to Mia's room. I stand next to my little girl's bed, stroking her hair, watching her sleep.

  I hate missing story time. Haven't done that for the better part of a year.

  Tonight, she's peaceful. Such a sweet contrast to the uneasy tossing and turning, the nightmares that used to wrack her brain. It's been about a year since she woke up screaming in the middle of the night.

  Before her speech developed, I never knew why. Now, on the mornings she wakes up early, restless from the night before, she speaks hurt in her tiny little voice. “Afraid, daddy. 'Fraid you'll leave me.”

  It's like a stake through the heart. Those are the times I grab her tight, hold on, and promise daddy's never going anywhere.

  Then the guilt sinks its teeth in. Chews my heart to pieces.

  I'm a fucking liar and I don't want to be.

  I wish I could promise her I'll be good, I'll be enough, and no, nothing will ever drag me away from her as long as I'm breathing. I want like hell to say it and mean it, more than life itself.

  But I can't.

  Because what I'm swearing up and down to honeybee clashes with the vow I made to three dead men.

  I know what it means. Know the risks.

  If I screw up, if I get caught trying to put Jackson Kelley under, there are plenty of ways I'll be stripped away from her for life.

  Hell is this paradox.

  How the fuck do I keep both promises? How do I live with myself breaking one?

  I don't know. I press my lips hard to honeybee's forehead, banishing the torture before I whisper the same words I do every night. “Sleep tight, baby girl. You're safe, you're loved, and you always will be.”

  That part is true, at least. I'll die before it isn't.

  I'm in no mood for Red waiting in the kitchen. She's standing by the stove, her arms crossed, eyeballing me from the knees up.

  I tilt my head without saying a word. What the fuck now?!

  “You called my brother 'killer,'” she says quietly. “What did he do over there? There's a reason you hate him.”

  Guilty. But I'll be damned if I buckle so easy and spill.

  “Mind your own business, Red. You'll never understand. It's better that way.” I turn my back, ready to beat it. Too bad she's too fast. Those little hands reach out, catch the nape of my neck, and squeeze.

  I whip around. There's a thousand stars dancing in her evergreen eyes. “Try me. I don't want to take his side just because we're family, Marshal. If he's done something truly awful, then –“

  “Then the last thing you want is a grandstanding chickenshit for a brother!” I'm snarling.
Somehow, her wrist made it into my hand. She's shocked, and then it's my turn. “Look, I'm trying to save you. I also need some damn sleep, woman. Yeah, your brother made mistakes. Big ones. That's done now. You want to know, find out from the horse's mouth.”

  Her jaw falls open and closes just as quick. Her sharp little tongue flicks across her lips, giving me another sensation I don't need. I can't get hard in the middle of this. “But...”

  “But nothing, Red. Listen! Ask yourself what's the point of me dropping the ugly truth on your head? Do you really want to see every skeleton in his closet and wreck a perfectly happy family?”

  She hesitates, jerks her eyes away, burning a hole through the wall with her stare. “I don't...I don't know anymore, Marshal. No one tells me anything.”

  “That's what I thought,” I whisper, letting her hand drop.

  And that's how it has to be.

  Her silence is my cue to exit. I drag my ass upstairs with electric venom nipping at my veins.

  Sad thing is, treating her like shit is the lesser evil. This predicament is my fault, too. I slipped up when I called him 'killer.' Put a new worry in her pretty little head that's only making this harder.

  Too goddamn bad. My lips are sealed.

  No good will ever come from laying Jackson's dirt at his sister's door.

  Not for me, not for my mission, not for her.

  I'm heading for my room, resisting the urge to slam the door shut like I want to, so hard it rattles the entire house. I can't wake Mia.

  She's too precious. I'm already risking too much hurt she doesn't deserve, pursuing this vendetta. Her little face brings me to a stop in the hall. The pictures from when she was just a newborn hang there, framed in the moonlight streaming through the window.

  So tiny, but bigger than the world itself. Knew it the first time I picked her up, and the feeling's never gone away.

  So soft and so dependent. She needs me, and even though I act like I don't, it's mutual.

  I need her. Mia keeps me sane, focused, prevents me from lashing out like a bigger fool than I've already been.

  I'm so lost in my own skull I don't hear the footsteps behind me. I'm ready to throw the intruder through the nearest wall the second those hands grab my waist, but I relax once I realize whose they are.