Bad Boy Heroes Boxed Set

by Patricia Ryan

  Which was a lie. Long ago, Annie had figured out that one of Joe’s issues was his frustration over his intellect. No one else had known he was so smart, no one had encouraged him, and he’d seethed with a severely stifled brain. To top it off, all his adult life he’d worked a rote, mindless job at the local electronics parts plant.

  His eyes closed briefly when she told him Faith was mentally and physically fine. In gratitude? She guessed it probably was, but Annie wasn’t about to feel sorry for him.

  “Does she dance? Like you used to?”

  Annie only nodded. In truth, when she danced, Faith floated through the air as graceful as gently moving clouds, and had that indefinable quality that made the difference between a dance student and a potential pro. Annie herself had had it, too. Joe, of course, had been jealous of her dancing and had wanted her to quit. But by the time she reached high school, she was teaching dance and earning money, which she needed to live, so he let her do it. After they married, it was a necessary source of income.

  “What do you want, Joe?” Linc asked.

  “I want to see my son…and my daughter.”

  Linc zeroed in on him with his minister look. “Why now?”

  Joe straightened to his full height, and Annie had to keep herself from flinching at those big hands and muscular arms that could inflict so much pain. “Because I’m better now. I’m not the man I was six years ago.” He scanned the two of them, then focused on Annie. “I know I’m recovered, and it’s safe for me to see my kids.”

  “I don’t know that.” Annie’s voice was hard and cold.

  “Yes, well that’s why I’m moving back. To prove it to you.”

  “You’re dreaming, pal, if you think I’ll let you near Annie or the kids alone.”

  The corners of Joe’s mouth turned up just a bit, despite the gravity of the situation. Every once in a while, the street kid peeked out of the minister, and showed that Linc was still as tough as nails. “I have legal rights, Linc.” He turned to Annie. “But I don’t want to go that route. I’m willing to do this informally, if we can.” He opened his briefcase, fished out a manila envelope and handed it to Linc.

  With a frown Linc took the folder.

  “Here’s some documentation that might help. Papers verifying completion of a year-long court-sanctioned recovery program, and evaluations by the counselors. Transcripts from the educational institutions I attended. Reports from the support groups I run.” He shifted from one foot to the other, as if the subject made him nervous. “And there are phone numbers to call to check the facts, if you don’t believe me.” He stared at the file, then at Linc. “I thought maybe you could manage this whole thing.”

  “Me?”

  “Uh-huh.” Joe raked a hand through his hair. “Look, I know this is a shock, but as I said, I was afraid to do it any other way. Afraid you’d try to keep me from them.”

  Annie frowned. “I’ve never known you to be afraid of anything.”

  His eyes got so bleak, she was silenced by their expression. “I’m afraid,” he said simply. “Of a lot of things.” He drew in a deep breath. “I always was. All I’m asking for is a chance. If you’ll go along with my request, I promise I’ll do this however you say, but I’ve got to see my kids.”

  He was right. He did have legal rights, no matter what he’d done. After she got healthy, Annie had researched domestic abuse. Some batterers were even left in the home with their families while they went through a legally mandated recovery program, probably like the one Joe had been in. After six years of rehabilitation and counseling, then coming here as a cross between Doctor Spock and Sigmund Freud, any court in the world would let Joe Murphy see his kids.

  So she said, “I’ll think about it.”

  Linc sighed. “Annie, there’s something else. This is a small town. By tomorrow, everybody’ll know he’s back. Matt and Faith will hear it at the corner store.”

  She nodded. “I’ll tell them in the morning. I’d like to leave now.”

  Joe stopped her with his words. “I’d like to tell my mother and Suzie.”

  Who was at her house. It would be hard to keep Joe’s arrival in Glen Oaks a secret from her sister-in-law. She loved Suzie like a real sister and valued her friendship, not to mention her partnership in the business.

  “I plan to visit them tomorrow morning,” Joe added. “It will be easier for them if I let them know I’m back.”

  She looked to Linc.

  “I agree,” he said.

  “Fine. I d like to go now, Linc. I’m whipped.”

  Linc told Joe he would get in touch with him at the motel just outside of town where he was staying, and they both left without saying goodbye. Joe stayed where he was, and Annie felt his eyes bore into her as they left the tension-filled room.

  Chapter 4

  *

  FOR ONE OF the first times in his life, Ron Donovan was down-and-dirty scared. He glanced over at his mother, who sat like a stick in the chair, dressed in a dark skirt and fuzzy pink sweater, as she listened to the Youth Council members discuss his latest sin. Her pretty brown hair was pulled off her face in a knot, making her look fragile.

  She hadn’t laid a guilt trip on him, though. She’d just made him hot chocolate that first night, as she always did when things got bad, and tried to get him to spill his guts the next day. And that made him feel like pond scum. But he couldn’t talk to her about this.

  Catching him staring at her, she reached over and squeezed his arm. No matter what, buddy, we’ll get through this, she’d told him a thousand times. But he’d heard her crying at night, alone in her room, like she hadn’t cried since his dad died. That worried him more than anything. His mother was tougher than anybody he knew. What he’d done this time had really thrown her, probably because it concerned his father.

  Or maybe because her only son could go to jail. His gut clenched. His only hope of reprieve, the eight people seated at the table in front of him, seemed about as sympathetic as a jury for Jeffrey Dahmer.

  On the other side of him, his aunt Margo smiled at him, too, foxy as ever in cool black jeans, a black sweater and boots. Huge gold hoops dangled from her ears and matched the jangling bracelets on her wrist. He’d known he was in deep shit when she’d shown up from the city to go to the Council meeting with them; but he’d been glad to see her. About the only person in the world who understood him these days was Margo Morelli, his mom’s best friend. Because she hated Glen Oaks as much as he did and there was something inside her, a streak of rebelliousness, that he recognized as kin to his own. However, the fact that she’d come home for this meeting was a wake-up call to Ron.

  As the mayor droned on about his priors—truancy, vandalism, petty theft, possession of marijuana, underage drinking with a DUI—Ron checked out his uncle Linc. It was obvious that he’d been glad to see Margo. His eyes had lit up like the lights around the racetrack when she’d strutted her stuff into the room. Linc was a cool guy, and not afraid to show his feelings. He’d talked to Ron about sex a zillion times, and admitted his own needs as a man. For a minister, Ron thought that was pretty mag. Of course, Ron knew Linc had been hell on wheels when he was young, along with his mother and their friends. Hell, maybe his getting into trouble was genetic.

  When the mayor finished his speech, the head honcho running the meeting faced Ron. Joe Murphy—the guy who’d stopped traffic when he’d walked into the town hall. Jesus Christ, he was Annie’s ex. Ron didn’t have a clue what had happened between him and Annie—it was hushed up like state secrets. Whatever it was, though, made the nicest woman he’d ever met glower at the guy all night and made his mom and even Margo gasp when they saw him. “Ron, we need to hear a few things from you.”

  Ron nodded at Murphy’s comment. Be respectful, kid, and don’t let that chip on your shoulder show, or I’ll beat the crap out of you, Margo had told him.

  “Yes, sir,” he said politely.

  “We can all guess why you did this. But tell us in your own wor
ds.”

  There was a low murmur of voices among the group when Ron didn’t answer right away. He wanted to scream at them to leave him the hell alone. But this was too important to blow, so he battled back the urge. When he needed it, he had his mother’s grit. Besides, he was scared shitless of going to jail. In halting words, he told them what he’d done and tried to explain why. “It was like this anger just took me over—kind of a red haze, making everything fuzzy.”

  Murphy’s broad shoulders straightened. His intense eyes focused sharply on Ron. “Do you have a problem controlling your anger, son?”

  No, Sherlock, I smile when I mutilate cars, vandalize the school and steal from stores . “Yeah.”

  Murphy nodded. “And your anger at Mr. Quaid has to do with your father’s death?”

  Ron’s hands fisted.

  Murphy glanced pointedly at them. “You have to say it out loud, Ron, to have any chance of controlling what you feel.”

  “Yeah. It’s because of my father.” Though his mother and Linc had talked of forgiveness, had said it was a twist of fate that had caused the accident that Ron had witnessed when he was seven, no amount of rationalization could acquit Quaid in his mind.

  Murphy glanced behind Ron to the second row of chairs. Ron knew Quaid sat back there with Doc Holt, a little guy with a brush cut and dark, knowing eyes. He was the mastermind of three Winston Cup cars that flew like the wind. Ron had studied every single car Holt had ever worked on. Five years before the man had had some heart problems and retired from the racing circuit, and had come to live in a cottage on Glenora Lake, twenty miles away. Quaid was here probably because, in an article Ron had read about him, Quaid had called Holt a father figure. In racing books, they’d been compared to Clark and Chapman—the famous Formula-One driver-and-crew-chief team.

  “Mr. Quaid,” Murphy said. “You’ve stated that you don’t want to press charges.”

  “That’s right.” Quaid’s voice was deep. “Considerin’ what the boy just stated.”

  Murphy nodded. “Still, we can’t let this go.”

  That uptight son-of-a-bitch Pratt leaned forward. “Legally, that’s not an option. And Ron knows that. I’ll listen to the Council’s recommendation, but I’ll put it before the judge only if it’s acceptable punishment.”

  “Perhaps we should list our options,” Murphy suggested. Man the guy was cool as a cucumber in this room full of people who hated him. He wasn’t even sweating, like Ron was.

  The retired teacher, Mrs. Breed, who’d always told Ron he wasn’t living up to his potential, stood and crossed to a board behind the table. “I’ll list the choices as we brainstorm them. I miss this,” she said picking up a piece of chalk.

  For ten minutes Ron watched his future etch out on a freakin’ blackboard. Trial and most likely prison was the first option. Fear hit him when he saw it so starkly written; it felt like a kick in the nuts.

  Weekend jail, suggested by Pratt, was the second suggestion. Fuck, he couldn’t do that. His mom needed him to work at the diner on weekends. The list continued with counseling, and a few other mamby-pamby things he knew would never fly; it ended with community service.

  In another ten minutes, the panel members had narrowed down their choices. Pratt wouldn’t settle for probation again, or nightly curfews or making monetary restitution, all of which Ron’s grandparents had pulled strings to get him in the past.

  “All right, let’s discuss these four.” Murphy had put on glasses and was staring at the board.

  Mayor Hunsinger cleared his throat. “Weekend jail would hurt his family’s business. Ron works there to help his mother.”

  Straightening, his mom shook her head. “I’ll be fine, if it’s an alternative to prison. I can take care of the diner myself.”

  She couldn’t, Ron knew.

  “No offense, Beth” —the straight-arrow lawyer glanced at her then turned to the others— “but in any case, should our decision be based on Mrs. Donovan’s needs?”

  The prick. Becker had dated his mom and she’d dropped him after a few months. It was payback time.

  “We need to consider everybody’s needs in this, Mr. Becker.” Seemed this Murphy guy had his own opinions.

  Ron sensed movement behind him. He knew Quaid was gonna say something and he braced himself. Goddamn it, he didn’t want a murderer’s help.

  But instead, a rusty voice that sounded like it had a history with Camels and cheap bourbon boomed out, “Can I speak?”

  “And who are you?” Murphy asked.

  The man identified himself as Doc Holt and explained his relationship to Quaid and the town.

  Murphy cocked his head. “Is it okay with the rest of you?” The members of the panel agreed. “Go ahead, Mr. Holt.”

  “I got a way for the kid to make reparation for the three-K plus damage he did and maybe learn somethin’ in the process. Assign him community service until September. To me and Tucker Quaid. He can help us on the car.”

  Ron whirled around fast, but Margo grabbed his hand and dug her nails into his palm, telling him to shut up.

  “We’re doin’ this whole exhibition race for the benefit of the town,” Holt went on when nobody jumped at the offer. “So it’d be genuine community service if the boy helped us. We’ll work his butt off.” Holt glanced quickly at Quaid, whose face was blank. But his green eyes burned fire. “And the kid’ll have to deal with the demons that chase him.” Still, the stunned silence. “Seems like a mighty big punishment to me. The devil inside’s the hardest one to face, ain’t it?”

  Things happened in a blur after that. All Ron knew was, by eleven o’clock, a decision had been made by the panel and accepted by the cop to be presented to the judge: biweekly counseling sessions with this Murphy dude, weekend detention at the county jail until Memorial Day, and assignment to Doc Holt and Tucker Quaid for fifteen additional hours of community service each week until September.

  *

  “WE ain’t on the track, man. Slow the hell down.” Inside Doc’s Mach I Mustang, the old man leaned against the passenger’s door. Tucker drove with Grand Prix concentration as he and Doc headed home from the Council meeting.

  “If I slow down, I’m gonna reach over there and strangle you one-handed, old man.” Tucker tried to make his voice take on the cold hard tone of The Menace.

  Doc cackled. “Yeah? You and whose army?”

  Tucker gave him what passed for a smile these days.

  Doc pulled out a cigar, sniffed its rich tobacco scent, and went to light it.

  “Put that goddamned thing away. Didn’t you learn anything from those angina attacks?”

  At least that got to him. “I’ll oblige, if you get off your chest what’s buggin’ you. You’re actin’ like you did every time we lost a race.”

  The dark night was broken by the headlights of an oncoming car. In their cold glare, Tucker could see the angular planes of Doc’s face. “What the hell possessed you to do that tonight?”

  Doc shrugged. “Like I said, time to get the monkey off the kid’s back. And yours.”

  Tucker shot a sharp look Doc’s way; the papers had called that expression “green ice,” and it had shriveled grizzled mechanics, pushy newspaper reporters and the likes of Richard Petty. Doc, however, seemed immune to it.

  “I wanna help the kid,” Tucker said. “But this is nuts.”

  “Don’t think so.” Doc settled his bones into the chocolate-colored leather he’d ordered from New Mexico, obviously appreciating its fine, smooth feel. “The kid’s on a fast track to the pen, Tuck. You and me both know it.”

  “Because of me.”

  “The NASCAR sanctioning board said you didn’t do nothin’ wrong.”

  “The NASCAR report was inconclusive. I was negligent in my driving that day. I drove like a bat outta hell and didn’t care who I took out.” The guilt still clawed at him.

  Doc let loose his best curses. Then he said, “You really think that, then do somethin’ about it instead of nai
lin’ yourself to the cross in this godforsaken town.”

  “What can I do for the kid?” Tucker finally asked.

  “Well, we talked them highbrow social workers and law people into keepin’ him outta jail ’cept for the weekend. Which’ll probably be good for him.”

  Tucker frowned, seeing again Beth Donovan’s face when they came up with their verdict. “What will she do, you think?”

  “Who?”

  “His ma. I wonder if she really needs the kid to work at the diner. Between the weekend sentence and spendin’ fifteen hours a week with us, he won’t be able to help her out much.”

  “She’ll be okay,” Doc said with a dismissive wave of his hand. “She’s got some people workin’ for her. One—Gerty Stoffer—is a little batty, but they seem like good employees. And Beth Donovan has family and friends to help out.”

  “How you know all that?”

  “Small towns.”

  “You don’t live in town.”

  “I truck down into the place on occasion.”

  “I…worry about her.”

  “I know,” Doc said gently. “But you tried to give her money years ago, and she refused. The girl’s a tough one. She’ll come outta this okay.”

  “At the police station, she told me she’d been in more trouble than the kid by the time she was his age. You know what she meant?”

  “Yeah, some.”

  “What?”

  Doc smiled. “Seems she was a real hellion as a teenager. There was this group of kids in Glen Oaks that made up a gang of sorts; called themselves the Outlaws. They weren’t as bad as the gangs in the city, but they got in a shitload of trouble. Her brother was the leader.”

  “The minister?”

  “Yep. They drank, did some drugs. Big-time vandalism. They even got into scrapes with some thugs in the city. And there was a robbery when she was sixteen that could’ve sent her to juvy.”

  “Didn’t it?”

  “Nope. Seems the owner of the diner took an interest in her and her brother, and corralled them into workin’ for him as punishment. I guess it turned their lives around.”