Bad Boy Heroes Boxed Set

by Patricia Ryan

  Feeling like a fool, he shook his head at his whimsy. He always used to talk to his cars. Rising from the stool, he crossed to it. Slowly he rubbed his palm across the unpainted panel he’d showed Ron how to solder the week before. “It’s because of you, sweetheart. The damn kid’s even makin’ me like you again.”

  The words were out before he could stop them. For years, since Danny Donovan’s death, Tucker had denied himself the joy of racing, of loving the car, the track, the smells and the downright fun of his career. When he quit, he’d forsaken everything, like a monk who’d given up the pleasures of life to suffer for his sins.

  Maybe, just maybe, he didn’t have to live that way anymore.

  The door to the garage burst open. It slammed angrily against the wall, rattling its glass windowpane.

  Tucker spun around to see Ron in the doorway. He was about to ask what the kid was doing here at noon—he wasn’t due till four—when he recognized the look on the boy’s face.

  “Ron, what—”

  Quicker than braking for the pit, Ron was on him. Surprised, Tucker stumbled backward, dropping his coffee mug. The ceramic shattered on the cement floor.

  “You lying son of a bitch.”

  They hit the car with a thud and Tucker heard the thin sheet metal crunch. His eyes clouded as his head connected with the frame underneath.

  Still he didn’t react.

  Ron raised his fist and slammed it into Tucker’s jaw.

  Primal instinct took over. Bigger than Ron, he pushed against Ron’s chest. The kid was forced back and Tucker rolled away.

  “What the hell—” Tucker shouted.

  Ron bent over, lunged forward and tackled him.

  Together they careened backward, like a car out of control, bounced off the wall, smashed against the shelves and hit a stepladder. Tucker’s back took the brunt of the contact. The sound of aluminum cans tumbling off the shelves echoed in the garage.

  He saw the fist coming again and grabbed for Ron, stilling his arm, if not his curse.

  “You cocksucking—”

  Suddenly Ron was pulled off him. Doc was behind the kid, grabbing him in a headlock.

  Tucker panicked. “No, Doc, stay outta this. Your heart—”

  Again his words were cut off. Wild-eyed, and adrenaline pumped, Ronny tried to throw off Doc. It didn’t work. Ronny tried twice more, then finally he succeeded.

  It happened in slow motion. Doc stumbled backward. Into the car. His head banged it hard.

  Then his face contorted.

  He grasped his chest.

  And slid to the floor.

  “Oh, my God.” Tucker rushed to him.

  Doc was out cold.

  Don’t move him. Call for help.

  He looked up at the boy, who stood white-faced and frozen in mid-stride. “Ron, grab that phone over there and dial 911. Tell them we need an ambulance right away.” Blindly he clutched Doc’s arm. “Ron,” he barked when the kid didn’t move. “ Call!”

  Ron came out of the trance and dived for the phone.

  Tucker held onto Doc and prayed for the first time in ten years.

  *

  “YOU ALL RIGHT, KID?” They’d sat across from each other in the ER without speaking, like strangers at a bus stop, just as they’d driven to Glen Oaks Hospital in silence. The tension in the car had reached the nervous pitch Tucker felt before a Daytona 500. He’d barely looked at Ron, who sat sullenly in the passenger seat. Now, concealing his own concern, he watched the boy on the sly; Ron had gone from shocked to scared to resigned. But the hollow sadness in his eyes finally prompted Tucker to ask how he was doing.

  “I’m fine.” At least the white rage that had possessed the kid when he’d burst into the garage and attacked like a wild dog without warning was gone. Tucker still had no clue what had brought on this new round of fury.

  The ice broken, Ron glanced at the treatment rooms, then back to Tucker. “How much longer, you think?”

  “No tellin’. You heard the doctor say she’d come out when they had a diagnosis.”

  Though the conversation was stilted, it seemed to ease Ron’s mind. Tucker started to ask if he wanted to talk about why Ron had tried to beat the crap out of him, but the door to the ER waiting area opened, halting his question.

  “Ronny?” Beth hurried into the room looking harried and upset. She still had a white apron tied around her waist over which she’d thrown her tan canvas jacket.

  Slowly, Ron rose and just stared at Beth; then he flew across the room and flung himself into her arms. Deep in his gut, Tucker wished he could do the same.

  “Oh, honey.” Her fine-boned hand smoothed down Ron’s hair, as she might’ve when he was a little tyke. “What happened?”

  Silence. The boy held on tight. Tucker’s gaze connected with hers. The last time she’d looked at him, there’d been passion in those eyes.

  Now, her face was filled with questions and concern. She squeezed her son’s shoulders. “Ronny?”

  Finally, the kid drew back. Swiped at his cheeks. “It’s my fault, Mom.”

  “What is? What happened? All you said on the phone was you were down at the hospital, but you weren’t hurt.”

  “I did something terrible. The worst thing I ever…” His grown-man’s shoulders started to shake again. “Doc had a heart attack and it’s my fault.”

  Each stiff movement of Ron’s body and the raw suffering in his voice was familiar to Tucker. All those years of blame, of guilt, were ahead of the boy. Unless…

  Without second-guessing his gut reaction, Tucker stood abruptly and strode to Ron. Grasping his arm, he spun the kid around. “No! This isn’t your fault.”

  Ron’s mouth gaped like a hooked fish. “How can you say that? If I didn’t come out there, gone after you…” He swallowed hard. “It is my fault.”

  Gripping Ron’s shoulders, Tucker shook him hard. “You aren’t responsible for accidents. Sure, you did something stupid, but you didn’t cause Doc’s collapse. He’s got a history of angina and they’ve been trying to get it under control.”

  “What’s angina?” The hope in Ron’s voice gentled Tucker’s tone.

  “Severe chest pains caused by not enough blood gettin’ to the heart. At his last checkup, the doctor talked about doing some angioplasty, but Doc didn’t want it.”

  “Angioplasty?”

  “Where they insert a small tube into the artery. There’s a balloon on the end that gets inflated, to open up the arteries.” He glanced at the doors where Doc had gone. “The old coot wouldn’t go for it.”

  “But I—”

  “No!” Tucker shouted. He’d be damned if this kid would do to himself what Tucker’d done when he’d killed Danny Donovan.

  Suddenly Beth’s words sounded in his head…

  You’re here to pay a debt you don’t owe, Mr. Quaid…Auto racing is a dangerous sport… Everyone out there is at risk.

  Oh, God, was the same true for him? Had he been wrong to blame himself, too?

  Beth interrupted his thoughts. “Will somebody please tell me what happened?”

  Tucker stared at her. The worry grooves on her face had deepened. His fists curled with the need to touch her, to soothe her. But he only said, “Doc had a heart attack. At least we think that’s what happened. He passed out clutchin’ his chest.”

  “How could Ron have caused that?” Her eyes narrowed on Tucker’s mouth, which he knew was swollen and had bled. “What did he mean, he went after you?”

  “That’s not important now.”

  “How can you say that?” Ron’s tone was disbelieving.

  “Because I know what guilt…” Tucker’s voice trailed off when the double doors to the treatment area opened and the doctor who’d taken Doc’s case came through them.

  She headed right for him. “Mr. Quaid?”

  Tucker’s whole body stiffened. Images flashed before his eyes: the first time he’d met Doc and the old man’s sneer, What makes you think you got it, boy? Tucker’s
first win—and watching Doc beam like a proud father. That time he was hurt and Doc spent the night in his hospital room on a sad excuse for a cot.

  “Is he…” Tucker’s voice cracked. He jammed his fists into his jeans pockets. “How is he?”

  The doctor’s smile eased the severe pain in Tucker’s own chest. “Mr. Holt is stable. He suffered a concussion and is in some pain.”

  “Concussion? I thought he had a heart attack.”

  “No, he passed out because he hit his head on the car.” Her tired blue eyes flickered with exasperation. “He told us he was in some…scuffle. He did have a severe angina attack, though, which leads us to think his condition is unstable now.”

  “Unstable?”

  “Yes. His previous angina attacks were less severe than the last two. At the onset of the first one, he took some nitroglycerin, but it didn’t work. Then he had another attack during the scuffle.” She glanced from him to Ron with an admonishing frown.

  Tucker’s shoulders sagged. “What does all this mean?”

  “The occurrence of two attacks so closely together, as well as the severity, may indicate he needs more advanced treatment.”

  “Bypass surgery’s been mentioned, but his arteriosclerosis wasn’t bad enough.”

  “We’re still not sure if that kind of radical treatment is called for. We need to do tests first.”

  “What tests?”

  “An ECG. Then an arteriogram.” She explained the heart-monitoring exam and the dye injection which would show how clogged Doc’s arteries were. “We’ll know more after we run these tests.” She glanced at the clock. “We’re going to do them now. Then, we’ll determine what procedure to do.” She smiled again. “If it is surgery he needs, or angioplasty, we’ll probably just keep him in the hospital and schedule it for tomorrow morning.”

  Tucker nodded.

  “Will you be here, or should we contact you at home?”

  “No, I’ll wait here. Can I see him?”

  “Not now. He’s being prepped for the tests.” She gave him another smile. “I’ll be back out when we have more information.”

  Watching the doctor’s retreating back, he felt Beth come up behind him. “Tucker?”

  He pivoted. “You hear?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Now we just wait, I guess.”

  Ron turned his back to them, stuck his hands in the pockets of his jeans and stared out the window.

  Tucker addressed the boy. “Ron? Did you take in what the doctor said?”

  Not facing him, Ron nodded.

  He and Beth exchanged looks.

  “What happened between you two?” she asked.

  Backing away, Tucker averted his gaze. “I think he should tell you. I don’t know the whole story.” He touched his jaw and winced. “I don’t know why he did this.”

  Ron said nothing. Wouldn’t face them.

  Beth crossed to her son. “Ronny, tell me why you attacked Tucker.”

  Ron’s shoulders went rigid. Beth felt as if that famous sword of somebody was hanging over her head, about to fall. Still, she had to know. Placing a hand on his shoulder, she whispered, “Honey, I’m not letting this go. I have to know what happened.”

  Slowly, Ronny pivoted. His face was full of regret. He glanced at Tucker, then back to her. “I heard something.”

  “About?”

  He nodded to Tucker. “You two.”

  “Me and Tucker?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “What?”

  “That you were together Saturday night at Crocodile’s.”

  Dear Lord, how could he have found out? Beth felt the raw edges of guilt flutter in her stomach.

  “You lied, Mom. Two weeks ago you told me there was nothing going on between you.”

  Beth opened her mouth to tell him there wasn’t anything going on, but she couldn’t get the words out. Saturday night might have been a mistake, but she wasn’t able to deny its significance. “I meant it when I said it.”

  “Maze and Loose said you were…on the dance floor…you looked like you were gonna…” His face reddened.

  So did Beth’s.

  When she glanced at Tucker, his complexion had flushed, too.

  “What were Maze and Loose doing in a bar? They’re underage.”

  “It doesn’t matter what they were doing there, Mom.”

  “Not for the purposes of this discussion, maybe. But it underscores why I don’t want you to see them.”

  Ronny faced her like the man he’d become. He seemed bigger, more streetwise than ever before. “Tell me what’s really going on, Mom. Did you lie to me?”

  “No, I told you Tucker and I were friends. Nothing more. But Margo, Annie and I bumped into him and Linc and Joe at Crocodile’s.” She shot Tucker an apologetic glance.

  He stood there grimly, in a denim shirt, jeans and navy Nike windbreaker, just watching her.

  “We were all dancing.” Now, of course, she had lied. The feel of Tucker’s body next to hers was still vivid. More, much more, was shared than a few dances.

  “I…” Ron raked a hand through his hair. “They made it sound like more.”

  It was . Carefully, she avoided comment. “In any case, you had no right to attack Tucker. This is between you and me.” When Ron said nothing, she added, “Did you hear me, young man?”

  Ron nodded.

  Pivoting to speak to Tucker, her attention was diverted to the doorway; Joe Murphy strode into the ER and crossed to them. “Hi, guys.”

  “What are you doing here, Joe?” Beth asked.

  “I stopped by the diner looking for Ron. They told me you were here.” His gaze narrowed on her son. “Mr. Johnson called me. He said you skipped his class. He didn’t report you because your friend Sammy said something bad happened between you and Maze and you left school mad.”

  Ron closed his eyes and sighed. “It’s a long story.”

  For a minute, Joe watched him, then surveyed the scene—Beth’s tight expression, Tucker’s swollen mouth, Ron’s stiff body. “Why are you all here?” He motioned to the ER.

  “Doc had a couple of bad angina attacks.” Tucker’s voice was grave. “We’re waiting for some tests.”

  Like a man who cared about his friend, Joe zeroed in on Tucker. “Are you all right?”

  Tucker nodded.

  Turning back to Ron, Joe said, “I need some answers here, son. I’m in charge of your case, and skipping school isn’t part of the deal.” He nodded to Tucker. “Nor is whatever else went on here.”

  Ron closed his eyes wearily.

  Again Joe scanned the room. “Look, let’s go get something to drink in the cafeteria. I’d like to talk to you alone.”

  “What about Doc?” Ron asked, but his tone was agreeable.

  “They’re doing tests, right?” Tucker nodded. “If there’s word, your mother will come and get us.” He looked to Beth.

  “Of course.”

  Ron turned to leave, and Joe squeezed Beth’s arm. His expression said, I’ll help, and she couldn’t have been more grateful. She’d been on an emotional roller coaster since Saturday night, and Ron’s call had caused her heart to leap to her throat and lodge there permanently.

  As the door closed behind them, she turned to face Tucker.

  They were alone once again.

  *

  “YOU SHOULD GO.” Even to his own ears Tucker’s voice was shaky. He was pretty near to losing it with worry over Doc. And torn up with feelings for this woman who stood before him with so much damn understanding in her eyes he wanted to bawl like a baby.

  “No.” Her voice was strong and sure.

  “I’m not in a good place, Beth. I been keepin’ it together for Ron, but…” His words trailed off. Noticing an anteroom adjacent to the main waiting area, he nodded to it. “I’ll talk to you later. It’s best you go tend to your son.”

  Unsteadily, he stood and made his way to the smaller room. Though he didn’t believe in prayer, he asked God with every st
ep he took to make Beth leave. He didn’t want her to see him like this. He reckoned he didn’t trust himself near her now, either.

  The room was small and private, with a big window facing the parking lot; he crossed to it and stared out. Spring was coming to Glen Oaks real pretty. Would Doc get to see those flowers he’d planted in the cottage’s side yard last fall? Would he get to take out the new boat he’d ordered? That he might not hammerlocked Tucker’s heart.

  When he heard the door close behind him, he shuddered.

  After a long silence she spoke. “It was more than a few dances to me, Tucker.”

  “I know.” He tried to swallow back the words, but couldn’t. “To me, too.” Again he waited. “I can’t talk about that, now.”

  “I understand. I just wanted you to know.” She came up close behind him. He could smell the scent she wore—something light and flowery. “Tell me about Doc.”

  “You heard the facts.”

  “No, I mean about Doc and you.”

  With worry about to swallow him up whole, he couldn’t resist the lure. He pictured a younger, broad-shouldered Doc barking orders at his pit crew like a five-star general. His blue eyes had challenged Tucker every step of the way of his career. Tucker had to smile, remembering their first meeting.

  At his side now, Beth caught the brief curve of his lips. “What? Tell me.”

  The words tumbled out like an overflow of gasoline to a car’s tank. “I was near about Ron’s age when I met him. At Darlington, in South Carolina.”

  “That’s where you’re from, right?”

  “About thirty minutes from the track. Some backwater hellhole. Doc was workin’ in the pit for Dale Earnhardt in his early days. I waylaid him on his way to the trailer after a big race that Earnhardt lost. I told him I had a real bad hankerin’ to make it in the circuit. And I had it in me to be the best.”

  “What did he say?”

  “He told me to scram.” Actually he’d said, Fuck off, kid.

  “But you didn’t?”

  “Nope, I followed the Southern circuit that year, whenever I could. Doc got his own crew and driver. After each race, I pestered him like a gadfly. Finally he let me be a gofer on his team—but only after I graduated high school. More than a year later, he let me drive.”