No Damaged Goods

by Snow, Nicole

  That’s how they got Warren and Doc.

  Damsels in dead cars.

  Weird shit around here sometimes, man.

  Weird shit.

  Gritting my teeth, I shove myself out of the cab of the truck—and nearly collapse.

  My leg’s been groaning at me for months, always has, but tonight? It’s had enough.

  Thank God there’s nobody here to see me like this. I dropped off my guys after I shot myself in the face by turning down Peace’s massage.

  I catch myself with one hand, gripping hard at the door, my good leg holding me up. All while that fucking traitor thing attached to my hip dangles there uselessly, burning like I’ve shoved it into hot lava.

  It ain’t usually this bad. I’ve done a lot worse to it and never had it flare up like this.

  But I’ve been feeling weird all day.

  Groaning, I sink down on the footboard, leaning my back against the cold metal of the fire truck, and thump my fist against my thigh, pounding against the thick ridge of scar tissue I can feel through my coveralls.

  Fucking shrapnel wound, well over a decade ago.

  Lucky I survived it, I guess.

  If you call this surviving.

  Sometimes that burning lance of pain takes me right back to the fateful day under the hot Afghani sun. Blood spouting everywhere as people got ripped apart in a metal hail. Felt like I was standing in a cloud of bees, sharp edges tearing at me, zipping little lines of blood along my face, my arms, my chest.

  The one that hit me was less like a bee and more like a bullet. An explosion of howling agony as a chunk of searing metal buried itself in my thigh.

  It shouldn’t feel so real. Not after all these years gone by.

  But even if the wound’s closed up, even if the smell of my own blood is just a visceral memory...

  Sometimes it hurts like it never healed.

  Sometimes I hurt like I never healed, either.

  Shit.

  It dawns on me slowly. I know what’s wrong with me.

  And I tilt my head back, staring up at the snow-dotted sky and breathing in its scent, letting it clear me and calm me down while I beat that knotted-up muscle till it starts to relax so I can limp home.

  No forgetting what today is.

  It’s the day Abigail died.

  It’s been four goddamn years.

  Four years, and I still don’t know how to feel about losing the mother of our daughter and the woman who’d promised to make my life a perfect forever and instead made it a living hell.

  How do you grieve when you’ve fallen out of love but you still had a kid?

  When she might not have been the one, but she was sure as hell someone?

  It’s like that question is snarled up in all the hurt in my body, and every time I run up against it, my leg just knots worse. Telling me this is how I get to hurt.

  Never figured out what to do with my heart, so all that pain gets roped up in my body.

  I don’t know how long I stay here at the fire station. Kinda lost track of time when that call came in, with that pretty redhead with her purple-tipped hair and those green eyes that make her look pure vixen.

  Peace.

  Peace fuckin’ Broccoli—oh, sorry. Rabe.

  Who the hell names their daughter Peace?

  Probably the same kind of person who’d raise a chick who’d go mountain-trucking in a van that looks a whole lot older than she is, covered in hand-painted flowers in bright, bursting colors all over the finish.

  That chick looks like she couldn’t have been born any earlier than 1990, but she’s got the look, all right.

  Looks like she’d groove around naked covered in henna in a witch’s communion circle or something, flowers in her hair and wreaths around her wrists and ankles...

  ...and I should not be thinking about a stranger naked.

  Make that a damned curvy, cute, smart-mouthed stranger with a petite body and a pert, pretty, impish face.

  No excuses.

  Even if it’s been a long-ass time.

  I’m lucky when my phone yanks me out of my thoughts, buzzing in my pocket. I dig it out and swipe the new text—then wince.

  GDI Dad u were here and u just left me?

  Aw, hell.

  I’d forgotten Andrea was at the Charming Inn with Haley, taking art lessons. I was supposed to pick her up.

  I check the time.

  Shit.

  Like, twenty minutes ago.

  Yeah, my leg’s being nasty, but she doesn’t need to know it. Nobody does, and that goes double for my little girl.

  She’s sixteen.

  I don’t need her worrying herself silly over me when I’m the parent here, and she’s got enough on her plate.

  My leg’s not being too big a dick, at least, when I haul myself up. Hurts like a motherfucker, but at least it holds me up as I swagger off to my old military Jeep.

  The top’s all covered in snow. I sweep it off before hauling myself behind the wheel, flicking the headlights on and heading out into the night to pick up my daughter.

  It’s barely a mile’s drive past the outskirts of town and back to the Charming Inn.

  I tell myself I ain’t looking as I drive past the field full of cabins.

  I swear, I ain’t paying attention to that light still on in one set of windows.

  Not at all.

  When I pull up around the front of the big house, Andrea’s waiting outside with Haley and Ms. Wilma. She’s bright, animated, talking to Haley with her sketchbook clutched to her chest, while Ms. Wilma watches with her wizened face set in an expression of kindly amusement.

  Andrea swings herself around like a pinwheel, throwing up her hands between laughs.

  I’ve seen so many little girls raised to make themselves small. To not take up too much space.

  I love my daughter because she takes up space.

  She isn’t afraid to make her presence known, isn’t afraid to be herself, from that punk mouth on her to the wild crop of half-shaved hair that’s mostly pink at the tips, but still the vivid, wild purple underneath that makes her my Little Violet.

  One brave flower, standing bright.

  As she looks up and sees me pulling in, her brightness vanishes into a sullen scowl.

  I sigh, dragging a hand over my face.

  Look, I love my daughter, but she’s a sixteen-year-old girl who thinks her dad is the biggest cringe embarrassment on the planet. I already know I’m in the shit from that mouth before she even gets in the car.

  I ain’t wrong.

  She comes clomping down the steps in those big combat boots she wears—still don’t know where she got ’em, huge and clunky things and she never fucking laces ‘em and she’s gonna kill herself like that—and slings herself into the car.

  Then immediately tucks herself into the corner, glaring out the window.

  Okay.

  No mouth, then.

  Silent treatment tonight.

  I try to wait her out, lifting a hand in a friendly wave for Hay and Ms. Wilma, before jacking the Jeep into gear and reversing out of the drive to head back into town.

  The silence is a knife over my skin.

  I’d wonder what the hell I did wrong this time, but frankly I’m not sure I ever stop.

  As we pull back into town with the light of the Brody’s sign flickering like a second moon over the main street, I glance at her. She’s got on thick black wool tights under her ripped, frayed denim skirt, but they’re all busted out at the knees.

  Another sigh spills out. “Andrea, you either gotta sew those up or let me buy you new ones. It’s winter.”

  She scowls, just a hint of her face twisted up in profile. “I like them like this.”

  “You like freezing your kneecaps off?”

  “I don’t get cold, okay?” she snaps. “I’m fine. You’re not Mom, so stop trying to mother me.”

  Ah. There it is. Didn’t take long.

  The real reason she’s pissy, and tonig
ht of all nights, I don’t blame her.

  For four years, my little girl’s been mad at Abby for being the one to leave, and at me for being the one to stay.

  I think she’d be the same way with Abigail, maybe, if I’d been the one Andrea found dead on the floor. Mad at me for going, and at her ma for staying. Who knows.

  What she really wants is her whole family back in one piece, even if we’d been quietly broken way before Abby’s accident.

  “Hey,” I try quietly. An olive branch or something. “You wanna stop by Brody’s? They got the milkshake machine fixed so they can do the extra-thick ones again and—”

  “I already ate with Haley,” she snaps back. “And I don’t have time. I have homework.”

  “It is kinda late,” I concede. “Sorry I was slow picking you up. Had an emergency call.”

  “Yeah, I heard.” She sniffs, almost offended. “It was on the radio.”

  I wince. She doesn’t like my show, but goddammit I need something to do with myself. It was Warren’s idea, way back, something to take my mind off things.

  I didn’t expect I’d start having fun with it.

  Half the time people call in to prank me, ’cause that’s how we roll here in Heart’s Edge.

  Everybody knows everybody, and we like to mess around.

  Keeps people entertained.

  Keeps me busy, answering questions about relationships or the latest Bigfoot sighting since the Legend of Nine ain’t a thing anymore.

  And every now and then, I get to really help people. Can’t say I mind that one bit. Even if it embarrasses the hell out of my kid.

  I wait several seconds for the simmer between us to die down a little, then try, “If you need help with your homework—”

  “I’m fine.” She doesn’t even let me get it all out. “I’ve got straight As. It’s all baby stuff. I don’t need anything. And I don’t need you to pull this stupid shit.”

  “Hey, watch your damn language.”

  “Oh, that’s great. Curse at me while you tell me to stop cursing.” She throws a sharp, hard look at me, crackling like wildfire. She’s got her mother’s light-brown eyes, and they’re like sparks when she’s this mad, amber-bright. “I know what you’re trying to do. Okay? I know. It’s the day. That day. And you’re trying to make up for Mom being dead when you can’t, and I hate it when you try. So just stop. Leave me alone, Dad. If I need somebody to cuddle me, I’ve got Mr. fucking Hissyfit.”

  I can’t even get on her for that F-bomb.

  Not when her words hit me like a ton of bricks, stinging more than the throb still in my thigh.

  I’d close my eyes against the pain, if I didn’t have to keep them on the road.

  Goddamn, my daughter knows how to throw a punch.

  I don’t know what hurts more.

  That she can see through me with so much contempt...or that she’d rather get squeezed half to death by her pet albino boa constrictor, rather than take a hug and a little comfort from her old man.

  I don’t know what to say.

  So all I say is, “Okay, Andrea. Fine.”

  Sometimes, all you can do is let people burn themselves out. Especially when they’re sixteen and their emotions run so hot.

  I want to fix this for her. I want to fix everything.

  But she’s right about one thing—I can’t.

  So I’ll respect her wanting to grieve in her way.

  Meanwhile, I try to wrestle up some way to work through this crap on my own.

  * * *

  We don’t say a word to each other for the rest of the drive home.

  Whatever. I’ve got other things on my mind besides my firecracker daughter and my burning leg when I pull into the driveway. My headlights sweep over the car sitting off to one side.

  It’s nice. A Benz, looks like, brand new, glossy black.

  I don’t have a clue who it belongs to.

  But I get my answer a second later when my headlights pick out a familiar figure standing on the porch, cold smoke huffing out of his mouth with every breath.

  Someone I haven’t seen in years, lounging there like Lucifer himself come to pay back a grudge.

  Holt.

  Fuck my life.

  I don’t need this tonight.

  Without even waiting for Andrea, I park the Jeep and throw the door open. I can’t even feel the pain as I get out, standing and stalking toward the front steps.

  “No,” I bite off before my brother can even say a single word. “Whatever it is you want, the answer’s always no.”

  I’ve already got one snake inside the house.

  Now I’ve got another one on my fucking porch.

  Holt even moves like a serpent. The Biblical kind. We’re about the same height, only a couple years apart, but that’s where the resemblance ends.

  Half-brothers, technically, and he takes after the good-for-nothing fuck who swept through town one night and left our single mama pregnant. His hair’s dark as sin, contrasting with those sharp, feral features just made for the lazy, carnivorous, smug smile he turns on me now.

  “You don’t even know what I want,” he says. He’s almost slinky as he straightens and spreads his hands. “For all you know, I don’t want a damned thing.”

  “You always want something,” I growl, even as the door to the Jeep slams behind me and I hear Andrea moving up behind us. “I have yet to see you show up without your hand out.”

  “Uncle Holt?” Andrea says faintly. “Is...is that you?”

  Holt’s eyes flick past me. They’re so pale brown they’re almost yellow-gold, glinting in the porch light.

  Like I said.

  Fucking snake man.

  “Hey, kiddo,” he says with an almost rueful smile, holding his arms out. “Wow, you shot up. Come give your uncle a hug, hey?”

  “No,” I spit out again and shove myself between my daughter and my brother. Maybe I’m possessive, but he’s got a bad habit of putting his hands on what doesn’t belong to him and trying to keep it. “Stay away from her. You tell me what the hell you want, then you leave.”

  “Jesus, Dad,” Andrea mutters at my back. “You’re mortifying.”

  “Thanks for the ten-dollar word,” I mutter back. “Holt, talk. You’ve got sixty seconds, and that’s me being generous.”

  Holt sighs. “We can’t do this inside?”

  “You’re not welcome in my house.”

  “Ah, c’mon. You’d think I’m fucking Dracula. Can’t come in unless invited.”

  “Close enough,” I bark back. “You drain everything you touch dry.”

  “Harsh,” he says, arching one brow and dipping a hand into the pocket of his black leather racing jacket. “Especially since I came to give you this.”

  He offers a slim folded slip of paper.

  Frowning, I take it and flip it open—and slowly realize what I’m staring at.

  A check.

  For five hundred thousand dollars, signed by the law firm that handled Ma’s estate after...

  Yeah.

  Last year.

  I ain’t having a good few years with the people around me staying alive.

  Maybe that’s why I get so psycho protective with Andrea.

  And maybe that’s why I’m not interested in some pretty redhead with a splash of purple in her hair trying to get an angle on me. Don’t need more problems.

  Hell, as much as I call Holt a vampire, I’m like the kiss of death.

  And this check feels an awful lot like blood money.

  My jaw feels like it weighs a ton as I look up at Holt. “She left it all to you. Don’t know why the fuck you’re giving me this.”

  “Because it’s the right thing to do, Blake,” Holt points out quietly.

  “Bull. You wouldn’t know the right thing to do if it leaped up and bit you in the ass.” I crumple the check in my fist—then think better of it. I unfurl it, then rip it to shreds, tearing it clean down the middle. “You’re trying to buy forgiveness. I ain’t th
at easily paid off.”

  “Dammit, man,” Holt growls, slipping into his old small-town accent for a second and tilting his head back with a groan. “You’re still mad at me about that?”

  “She was my wife—”

  “And it was already over. The ink just wasn’t dry on the papers yet,” he throws back. “Nothing even happened. And you don’t understand the real situation—”

  “Will you both stop?” Andrea flares, her voice thick, choked.

  Holt and I both grow silent, turning our heads to look at her.

  She stands on the steps with her face screwed up in a mask of gleaming teary-eyed fury, her fingers digging into the cover of her sketchbook, glaring at us.

  “That’s my mom,” she sputters. “You’re standing here arguing over my mom and she’s dead. And your mom is dead too, Dad? I had...I had a grandmother I never knew about? And you never told me she died? And now you’re gonna stand here and argue over flipping money like nothing else matters?” Her lips tremble. “Assholes! You’re both assholes, and I hate that I’m related to you.”

  Before either of us can say anything, she shoves past Holt and goes racing across the porch. There’s barely a frantic rattle of her house keys, and I catch a sniffle, a repressed hitch of breath that could be a sob.

  Then she’s gone, disappearing inside, running away from us.

  Fuck me.

  I think I’d run, too.

  Holt turns his head, craning over his shoulder, before looking at me with a small, almost sad smile I’ve never seen on that snake before.

  “Well, she’s not wrong,” he says softly. “Maybe I took the wrong tack with this. I should’ve waited before I—”

  I take a deep breath, letting the scraps of the check flutter free from my fingers. “Gonna need you to go. Right now,” I snap. Quieter, but I’m still pissed off. “This is not the day for this shit, man. This is so not the day. I can’t deal with you and your fuckery, Holt. Go.”

  I half expect him to argue. Say something oily, slick, persuasive.

  Snarling, I hold up a fist, fully ready to throw it into his nose if he gives me any lip.

  But all he does is nod, looking at me strangely. “Okay, Blake. Okay.”

  Sighing, he steps off the porch, brushing past me, shoulder to shoulder. Then, just a step past me, he stops and turns.