by Alyssa Day
Lorraine nodded and pointed at Jack. "You take care of her, you hear me?"
"Yes, ma'am, I wouldn't want to be put to washing dishes again."
She nodded. "Damn straight."
My car was on the other side of the diner from the accident, and I made a point not to look over at the man lying dead in the road even once.
Jack took the keys out of my hands, which were trembling, and opened the passenger door for me. Then we drove in silence toward my place.
"Tess? Are you okay?"
I laughed, but there was no amusement in it. "No, I'm not okay. Would you be okay, if you'd just seen a man's death—twice? Once in your head, and then once in real time?"
He swore beneath his breath, and his hands clenched on my steering wheel.
"Jack. Don't break my new car." Given his tiger strength, this was an actual possibility.
"Would it help to know that the guy whose death you saw is one of the ones who makes a point to kill a police officer in every new territory they try to take over? He would have gone after Susan or young Kelly, if O'Sullivan's really here to expand."
I blew out a breath. It didn't exactly help … and yet, it did, a little.
"But he was still a person," I finally said. "And I saw his death. I hate this so much."
He swallowed so hard I could hear the gulping sound, and then he lifted his chin. "If it helps … if it helps, you can sing along with the radio."
I couldn't help it. I started laughing, and my laughter came perilously close to tears. "And now, enter the apocalypse. Mr. Sensitive Tiger Hearing is willing to listen to me sing."
He reached over and patted my leg. "Well. It's been a weird, damn day."
I very carefully inhaled and exhaled, trying to control my breathing, all the way home.
6
When we turned onto the short dirt road to my house, the empty house down the road was still deserted, but showed signs of activity. A large construction-waste bin sat in front of it, and a sign that this was a WOLF CONSTRUCTION PROJECT sat in front.
"Did Dave tell you who bought the house?" Jack and Dave had been good friends since high school, and I knew they liked to shoot pool and shoot the breeze once a week or so.
"Some guy named Gonzalez."
"Gonzalez? Related to Susan?"
"I don't know. It's a common enough name in Florida." Jack shrugged. "Carlos, maybe?"
"No! Carlos Gonzalez is going to be my neighbor? Oh, boy. Every girl in high school had a crush on him. Mr. Tall, Dark, and Handsome. I'm suddenly going to be getting a lot of female company."
Jack's eyes narrowed. "As I said, it's a common enough name. This Carlos could be Mr. Short, Squatty, and Hideous."
I sighed. "Yeah, knowing my luck, he's a toad. Or, worse, a toad shifter."
"Tess. There are no toad shifters."
"You said there are snake shifters!"
"Yes. Snakes, not toads."
"Whatever. I don't care. I just want to get in my house, make some tea, and eat the rest of the pecan pie I baked yesterday."
"You have pie?" Jack's eyes gleamed. "You know I love the pecan pie you bake."
"Oh, no. You ate most of the last three I baked. You can keep your big, fat paws off this one."
He parked my car expertly at a ninety-degree angle to my house.
Show-off.
"Tess. I have to come in with you, so I can keep on eye on the pecan pie, er, on you, to be sure you don't have any aftereffects." He smiled, but I could see the real concern behind his attempt to help me out by lightening the mood.
Unfortunately, there wasn't much that could accomplish that when I'd just seen a man killed. Twice.
"Sure. Whatever."
Not even the sight of my adorable little house could help me out of the dark cloud looming over me. That man had forced me to touch him, it was true—I hadn't brought any of it on myself.
And still … he was a person. Maybe he had a family waiting for him. And I … I …
"Tess." Jack's hand was warm on mine. "It was not your fault. You know that, right?"
I did know that.
I did.
Okay.
I unlocked the house, another new development—I'd rarely bothered to lock doors before the events of the past year or so—and my cat, Lou, came streaking through the room and jumped into my arms.
"Hey, sweet girl," I murmured into her silky gray and white fur. "I'm glad to see you, too."
"You sit, and I'll go get some tea and pie." Jack, who inexplicably was good in the kitchen and even liked to wash dishes, headed down the hall, and I sat on the couch with my cat. Then I remembered my phone, which I'd left plugged into the car's charging cable when we went to Beau's. I kissed Lou's head, put her down on the afghan, and ran out to the car.
When I looked at my phone, I was sorry I hadn't just left it there.
Jack was putting a plate and a mug on the coffee table when I got back inside.
"My phone has been blowing up. I have seventeen text messages and eight missed calls." And no plans to answer any of them until I was good and ready.
"This is why I don't have a phone."
"Jack. You have a phone."
He shrugged. "This is why I don't give people my number."
"I have your number."
He handed me the mug. "Drink your tea. And you're not people, you're special."
Then, leaving me there with the warmth from his words spreading through my chest, he ambled back down toward the kitchen, no doubt to put the entire second half of the pie on a plate for himself.
Somehow, I couldn't bring myself to be annoyed.
I drank my tea, ate a piece of pie, and then the delivery from Beau's arrived, and I ate some of my mashed potatoes and watched in awe as Jack worked his way through six orders of chicken-fried steak.
"Only six? Are you feeling sick?"
He grinned. "Well, I did eat the rest of the pecan pie before this got here. I'll save the last one for a snack later."
"Fine. You go to the store and get me more supplies. Molly is coming over tonight for a movie marathon, and I promised her pie."
He pointed to the boxes of pie from Beau's.
I pointed at him.
"Tigers don't shop," he grumbled, clearing up the trash.
"Oh, yes, they do. You spend at least a few hundred dollars on meat, alone, at Super Target every week. Tigers shop if they want to eat. Get moving, Buddy."
He really didn't want to leave me alone, with criminals in town who'd shown too much interest in me, but I convinced him that 1) they didn't know where I lived, and it's not like anybody in town would tell them, and 2) I needed some alone time. And a nap.
By the time I got him moving, with my grocery list and the fifty dollars he'd refused to take until I'd threatened him with no more pecan pie, ever again, it was almost two in the afternoon. Molly wasn't coming over till seven, since I usually didn't close the shop until six, but after lying on the couch for a while with my eyes closed and my brain racing, I decided to get up and clean.
Cleaning and baking are my two go-to activities when I'm stressed out. I'm a pretty good cook, nothing fancy, but I really love to bake and do a pretty good job. My pies may look lumpy, and my cakes may be a tiny bit lopsided, but they taste delicious.
Aunt Ruby had let me "help" her cook and bake from the time I'd moved in with her and Uncle Mike, twenty-three years ago, and her patient lessons about flour and sugar and Southern hospitality had settled deep into my bones.
I fed Lou and got to work, and soon my house was filled with the scent of apple pies and the music of movie soundtracks. I was dusting with one hand, vacuuming with the other, and singing along to Frozen, when I suddenly realized I wasn't alone.
I whirled around, brandishing my feather duster, only to see Jack, arms filled with grocery bags, standing in my hallway.
This time, he was the one who looked constipated.
I snapped off the vacuum and dropped the feather duster
. "Jack! Are you okay? What happened?"
I ran over and took a couple of grocery bags. "Talk to me. Is it Dave? What's wrong?"
"No. Dave's fine. Eleanor texted to say he's resting and flirting with a handsome nurse."
"Then what's wrong?" I waited, barely breathing, for his answer. I really could not take one more thing today.
"Nothing," he mumbled, ducking past me to head to the kitchen. "Let's put these groceries away."
I ran after him, but then my steps slowed as I came to an unpleasant conclusion.
"Jack."
"Nope." He busied himself unpacking groceries and putting them away. Amazing how well he knew his way around my kitchen.
I tapped my foot. "Jack."
"Nope."
"Were you actually grimacing because I was singing?"
He flinched, just a little. "Nope. Maybe."
I shoved the groceries at him. "I can't believe you. My singing is not that bad. You're the worst person in the world, Jack Shepherd."
I turned to stomp away, but before I took two steps I heard it. Just barely, because he whispered, but I still heard it.
"Gotcha."
I whirled back around. "What? Did you just say gotcha?"
He stood there, hands full of bags of flour and sugar, grinning like an idiot. A gorgeous idiot, granted, so I either wanted to smack him or kiss him, but I wasn’t sure which.
"I thought if you got angry with me, it might help you deal with the fact that your father is on the way over here. Mike texted me when you didn't answer."
"You … I … what?"
His smile faded. "Was that a stupid thing to do? A guy thing? I just didn't want to see you hurting, and I figured angry was better, and—"
I stalked him around my kitchen table, step by step. For once, he was the one backing away. "You're telling me that you decided to make me feel horrible about my singing, so I'd be angry instead of sad?"
He put the groceries on the table and shoved one hand through his hair. "Well. When you put it like that, it sounds bad."
"How should I put it?"
My doorbell, which hadn't even been working the last time I checked, rang, and the balloon of annoyance in my brain deflated like a souffle at a door-slamming competition.
"That's him?"
"Probably. Unless you're expecting anyone other than Molly. That's not the sound of her car." His gaze was warm with sympathy. "And sorry you didn't like my brilliant plan, which turned out not to be so brilliant after all."
"Your stupid plan," I muttered, but my heart wasn't in it. My heart, in fact, was currently somewhere down near my socks.
My dad is here.
The doorbell rang again.
"Do you want me to send him away?" Jack put an arm around my shoulders, and for a moment I wanted so badly to let him do just that.
But I couldn't.
I had too many questions.
And, for the first time in twenty-three years, I was going to get some answers.
I walked over to the door and threw it open.
"Hello, Thomas. Long time, no see."
7
My father, who had a death grip on what looked like a stuffed Donald Duck toy, stared at me as if he were trying to memorize my face, and something in my chest stuttered. He held out his hand, but I flinched away. I did not want to know how my dad would die.
His face closed down, and he dropped his hand back to his side. "Are you going to invite me in?"
"I'm not sure," I said honestly, trying to decide how I felt about it. "Where are Uncle Mike and Aunt Ruby? I can't imagine they let you come here by yourself."
His lips flattened. "They don't know. I told them I was heading back to the hotel. It was a … difficult afternoon."
Probably what a lot of those text messages were about. Should have read them, not that anything could have prepared me for this.
"Tess," Jack said from behind me. "If you want him to go, I'll make him go."
My dad bristled. "I don't think you'll be making me do anything I don't want to do. And just who the hell are you?"
"That's my friend, Jack. Jeremiah's nephew."
"Jeremiah?" He looked puzzled for a moment, but then his face cleared. "Oh, right. He's a friend of Mike's. Owns the pawnshop where you work."
Another stab of pain. This time for the loss of the man I'd loved almost like a father. He and Uncle Mike had been the closest I'd ever come to having one, after all.
"He did own the pawnshop. Now I do. Jeremiah died."
"I'm sorry to hear that, Dum—Tess," he said quietly. He even looked sincere when he said it. But what did I know about how good an actor—a liar—this man was? He was a stranger to me.
And he was still standing on my porch.
I sighed and moved back. "Please come in."
My father followed me into my living room and glanced around, deliberately ignoring Jack. "You have a lovely home, Tess. Warm and cozy. Did Jeremiah leave you this, too?"
Anger drove steel into my backbone. "No, he did not. I bought this house myself. And I painted the walls and sanded the floors and learned how to put tile down on the bathroom floors. Uncle Mike and I do repairs, and we even painted the shutters. I don't depend on people giving me things, Thomas."
He flinched and closed his eyes for a moment. When he opened them, he nodded, taking the hit. "I brought you this." He shoved the stuffed duck at me. "I know you always loved Donald Duck."
"I … thank you." I forced myself to casually put the duck on the coffee table, instead of clutching it to my chest, which had been my first, bizarre, impulse.
"Maybe someday you could call me Dad again."
"Maybe someday you could act like one," Jack growled.
My father finally acknowledged the tiger in the room. "And you are who, exactly, to Tess? If you're going to be insulting me in my daughter's home, I think I should have the privilege of knowing."
Jack's green eyes flashed with a hint of hot amber, and I stepped between them before fists or claws started to fly. "Jack, this is my father, Thomas Callahan. Uncle Mike's younger brother. Thomas, as I said before, this is Jack Shepherd. My friend."
They shook hands, each trying to stare the other down, and I abruptly grew impatient with both of them. "Fine. Introductions made. Who wants coffee or iced tea?"
"Do you have any beer?" both of them asked at the same time, before glaring at each other.
I rolled my eyes and headed toward the kitchen. "I don't know. Why don't we go find out."
A few minutes later, we were all seated at the table with beer (them) and sweet tea (me) in front of us. Nobody said anything at first, and then we all spoke at once.
"Thomas—"
"What—"
"Tess—"
I raised a hand. "I'll start. Why are you here now? Uncle Mike said you're in some kind of trouble. Is that why you came?"
"Well—"
Jack interrupted. "He probably needs money."
My father laughed a little wildly. "No. That's actually the one thing I don't need. Look, Tess, can we talk without your furry friend here? I have some things I'd like to say to you in private."
My eyes had narrowed at 'furry friend.' "You know who he is?"
"Everybody knows who he is. Law breaker. Vigilante. Outlaw." He took a sip of his beer and placed the bottle very carefully back on the table. "I'm only surprised Mike lets you associate with him."
"Nobody lets me do anything. I pick my own friends. I'm not three anymore, as you may have noticed," I shot back. "And he's none of those things you said. He's a freaking hero who has saved more lives that he'd ever admit."
"I'm no hero," Jack said flatly, leaning forward. "On the other hand, everyone does not know who I am. Usually only people in a few very specialized circles do. And since you don't look like law enforcement, you came to the shop in daylight, so you're not a vampire, I know you're not a shifter, and you can't possibly be from Atlantis, I'm guessing you belong to the final category."
>
Thomas's brown eyes iced over, but he said nothing.
"What? Jack, what category are you talking about?" I had a sinking suspicion I knew, though.
"The criminal category. Any connection between you suddenly coming home and the Irish mob being here, Mr. Callahan?"
"What?" Unless my dad was secretly an Academy-award-winning actor, he was not faking the shock on his face. "What are you talking about?"
"We met Jimmy O'Sullivan at the diner today. He seemed to be interested in Tess, too. Knew about her …" Jack shot an apologetic look at me. "Her talent."
"What talent?" But this time, my father's eyes flickered, and he didn't quite meet my gaze. So, he was a liar and a child abandoner. Bad start to the tally of his sins.
Jack put his bottle down with a thump on my old wooden farmhouse table. "That was a lie. Your heart started racing. Maybe you should try telling the truth for a change."
"Maybe you should mind your own business. I need to talk to my daughter," my dad said, each word a block of ice.
"Maybe," I said, standing before they could argue about me anymore, "Maybe the two of you should quit talking about me and around me like I'm not even here."
I pointed at Jack. "You. Please leave. Thomas is right, I do need some time with him. Alone."
Jack's face set in hard lines. "I don't—"
"I know," I said firmly. "You don't want to annoy me any further than you already have, especially on a weird-ass day like today. Out. I'll call you later."
He finally, reluctantly, stood. "I'll be patrolling your grounds, in case any more Irishmen come calling."
"Fine. Thanks. Whatever. Just go, please."
He surprised me by leaning over and kissing me—a firm, brief press of lips—right there in my kitchen, in front of my dad. "If you need me, just call. I'll hear you."
I nodded. I knew he'd hear me, just like I knew he'd probably hear every word my father and I spoke. But I needed at least the illusion of privacy for this conversation. Two decades of pain were engraved on my heart, and I couldn't unveil that picture in front of Jack.
In front of anybody.
My phone started buzzing insistently with an incoming call, and I shut it off without looking and shoved it in a drawer.
