by S. M. Shade
There’s a mischievous little grin forming on Tucker’s lips that I’ve never seen before and he gives me a cocky sideways look before taking his first shot which goes in effortlessly. He then proceeds to run the damn table on me.
“Ha! You don’t have a shot on the eight,” I point out, like that means I now have a chance in hell at this game. He really doesn’t have a good shot when it comes to the eight ball so he strikes it lightly, enough to roll it toward one of the holes where my stripes are blocking the way.
“If someone would get all these stripes out of the way,” he taunts.
“Maybe that’s my plan.” I walk around the table trying to figure out the best way to do this. I need to leave myself as many future shots as possible.
“To lose? You shouldn’t have to plan that. Seems to happen naturally.”
I gasp and cover my mouth. “Oh! Did you just make a joke? So you do speak human. Careful though, you might crack your face if you smile.”
Leaning against the wall, he crosses his arms, his cue in one hand. “Are you always a smart ass?”
“Nope,” I reply, leaning over the table beside him. “Sometimes I’m asleep.”
I manage to sink one ball, and go on to the next. My groan makes him smile when we watch the cue ball follow the next stripe into the pocket.
“Scratch,” he announces.
“No shit,” I mumble, stepping back.
I’m greeted with a smirk while his eyebrows reach for the ceiling. “You aren’t a sore loser are you?”
My death glare should be response enough.
That frustrating little smirk stays on his face after he sinks the eight ball, though he doesn’t say anything to rub it in.
“Good game,” I mutter, returning my cue to the rack mounted on the wall. Yeah, I am kind of a sore loser. It used to drive Derek crazy when we were young. It got so bad that he taught me to say good game after every win or loss to try to teach me sportsmanship. I don’t think it worked.
“Where are you going?” he asks, amusement clear in his voice.
“To put my running clothes on. It’ll be dark soon and I need to beat you for a third time.”
This time I hear him laugh aloud as I walk away.
Although it isn’t as loud as his laughter an hour later, when he beats me back to the house for the first time.
I’d curse him, but I don’t have any breath left in my lungs.
Things lighten up between us after that and he talks to me more. I actually even manage to draw a few smiles and some laughter from him which for some reason makes me feel good. It’s like a daily goal now.
We settle into a routine. He works outside building his furniture or he’s gone on assignment for Striking Back during the day while I write. A hammock mysteriously appears between the two trees and I spend some time in the early afternoons just lying in it, daydreaming. When I thank him, he just nods at me and goes back to measuring a plank of wood.
I cook and we eat dinner together, usually in front of the evening news. We run through the wooded trail in the evenings, still trying to best the other, though we seem to be pretty evenly matched.
At night, we sometimes watch a movie and other times I read or write while he watches some mob show on TV I’m not fond of. I get payback on Thursday nights when he has to sit through one of my medical dramas, although he usually ends up going to his room or out to the garage.
Except for Saturdays. On Saturday he leaves early and gets home late, always in a somber or irritable mood. After getting my head bitten off a few times when I try to get him to talk, I’ve learned to avoid him on those nights.
It doesn’t take me long to realize I’m too socially isolated out here. I’m used to going to school or working, so I do some research and find a place to volunteer a few hours per week. A local recycling plant sponsors some of the highways and parks which means they’re responsible for keeping them clean. They get volunteers and prisoners from the local jail to help pick up the trash. They also have little get togethers for the volunteers, so I sign up to help out on Saturdays.
I’ve made a few friends between my volunteering and the days I spend at the library. Without really realizing I was doing it, I’ve built a little life here and I’m happy.
Chapter Four
Tucker
I pull into the driveway of a house a little more than an hour away from me and double check the address. There’s really no need, since I see Devon, one of Striking Back’s bodyguards, heading my direction. Mason called me this morning to see if I could work today. Devon has been guarding a woman and her two school aged children for a few days and needs a break so I agreed.
It seems like an easy assignment with little risk, not that I’m afraid of a little danger. It would liven up my boring little life.
“Hey, thanks for relieving me,” Devon says, shaking my hand. “Mason fill you in on the details?”
“Abusive ex-husband. Active no contact order. No violent priors,” I rattle off.
“That about covers it. He’s a drunk. He’s not a big guy, but he was abusive to her and the kids. He has also showed up at their school trying to bully his way inside, so it’s not unlikely he’d try here again.”
That’s the reason Striking Back likes to relocate the family, but the woman refused. She doesn’t want to uproot her kids, and I understand. Why should they have their lives interrupted by some asshole who can’t take no for an answer? If Mason had seen any real chance of a violent outcome here, he would’ve insisted, but the only felonies on this guy’s record are DUI charges.
“If he does, I’ll take him down and call the cops.”
“Damn straight,” Devon replies, heading to his car. “You can go on in. The lady’s name is Robin. She’s expecting you.”
“Thanks.” A thin woman with dark skin and darker eyes gives me a cautious grin as I approach her door.
“Robin? I’m Tucker. I’ll be keeping an eye on things for the night.”
“Thank you,” she replies, showing me inside. I take a quick look around the place, assuring myself everything is locked up tight.
“It’s been a few days since I heard from him and he hasn’t shown up at the school or anything,” she says. “I think he may have finally gotten the message.”
“I hope so.” I don’t want to disagree, but that’s not usually how it works. He’s probably backing off for a bit and trying to think of another way to skirt the restrictions. These entitled assholes never give up.
She peeks over my shoulder. “The school bus should be here any minute.”
Nodding, I accompany her outside.
It’s getting colder by the day now that we’ve moved into November, and an icy wind rakes across my face. A large school bus turns the corner and stops right in front of the house. I’m sure Mason has made arrangements for them to be delivered to their door instead of a nearby bus stop.
A boy who looks around seven and girl in her early teens climb off and start for the door. “Really, Mama? More security?” the girl scoffs, flipping her hair off her shoulder. “Daddy isn’t going to do anything.”
Ignoring the girl’s attitude, her mother nods to me. “This is Tucker. He’s here for the night until Devon returns tomorrow.”
“Peachy,” she mutters, slamming through the front door.
Robin looks at me. “Sorry, this has been hard on Daysha.”
“Wow, you’re big. Do you have a gun? Can I see it?” her boy asks.
Robin puts her hands on his shoulders and he steps back against her. “This is Kevin. Who knows better than to ask to see your gun.” She looks down at him. “Didn’t Mr. Devon talk to you about guns?”
“Yes,” he mumbles, looking disappointed.
“Good, now go inside and have a snack. I made brownies.”
“All right!” All his disappointment over not seeing a gun forgotten, he darts indoors.
The rest of the evening drags by. While Robin feeds the kids, helps them with their homework and
gets them to bed, I pace the house, occasionally peeking out to watch the street. I’m out of my element around kids and I’m not sure what to do with myself.
Finally, they all go to bed, and I sit on the couch, watching TV with the sound low. A little after ten my phone beeps with a text from Leah.
Leah: Everything okay?
Hmm. Maybe I should’ve mentioned I’m working all night. I’m not used to having anyone who would give a shit if I don’t come home.
Me: Fine. Working. Won’t be home until morning.
For some reason, picturing her at home alone makes me nervous. It’s ridiculous. This whole thing started with her house sitting while I was gone. Why do I care now?
I spend a few minutes flipping through TV channels but there’s nothing on this late. I can’t stop thinking about Leah and I wonder if she locked the house up. The last thing I usually do at night is go around and make sure the windows and doors are locked.
Finally, I give in to the anxiety and text her again.
Me: Be sure to lock up and arm alarm.
A minute or two passes before I get a response.
Leah: Aw, if I didn’t know better, I’d say you’re worried about me.
This woman can be infuriating even by text.
Before I can think of how to reply, my phone beeps again.
Leah: Doors are locked and alarm is on. I’m letting Humper sleep inside with me. It’s cold out.
Humper usually sleeps inside in the winter. I forgot to tell her, so I’m glad she thought of him.
Me: Don’t let him hump my chair.
Leah: He has already had a romantic time with your chair. He’s now making sweet love to your pillow.
Damn dog. She might be kidding, but it’s entirely possible.
Me: And you just watched instead of stopping him?
Leah: Who am I to stand in the way of love?
I’m wearing a stupid smile on my face and it suddenly occurs to me what I’m doing. Why am I lying on the couch texting like a teenage girl with a crush?
She texts again.
Leah: Ayda said to tell you that we’re having Thanksgiving at their house this year. So don’t make any plans.
Shit. I hate the holidays. The guys and their families always try to get me to join them when I’m in no mood to celebrate.
Me: Tell her I already have plans, but thanks.
Leah: Tell her yourself. What plans? Staying here and eating takeout?
Me: Go to bed, Leah.
Leah: Confession time. I’m in your tub. I couldn’t resist. It has jets.
Fuck. Why did she tell me that? My cock responds instantly to the picture in my head of her slim, naked body lying in my bathtub. I can’t think that way. It’s wrong for too many reasons, the least of which is that she’s Dare’s baby sister. That doesn’t keep me from picturing her bent over the edge of my tub, though, wet and slick while I plunge inside her.
When I fail to answer, she texts again.
Leah: You’re picturing me naked aren’t you?
I feel like I’ve been caught red handed when there’s no way she could actually know.
Me: You aren’t funny.
Leah: Nope, but I’m nude and soapy.
Fuck. Me. I have to end this now.
Me: Good night, Leah.
Leah: Killjoy.
Sighing, I lay my head back. Leah drives me insane sometimes with her peppy attitude and enthusiastic energy, but I’ve grown used to her. At first, I was just counting down the days, and the plan was to avoid her as much as possible, but it’s like she’s a shiny piece of metal and I’m a magnet.
I’m drawn to her sunny optimism despite my own gloomy outlook. Maybe because of it. She’s the first bright spot I’ve had in my life after a long, dark period. I’m attracted to her. I doubt there’s a man who wouldn’t be, but it’s not my desire to fuck her into next week that worries me. Lust can be fought.
No, it’s the way I think of her when I shouldn’t. The way I wait for her to join me in the living room in the evenings even though we don’t talk much. I just like having her there, typing on her laptop or reading from her tablet.
During my evening runs, my mind would always wander to the past, to everything I’ve done. The war, the fellow soldier I killed, my time in prison, and especially her; the woman whose life I ruined.
Since Leah has started running with me, I’m not so tortured by the memories. I’m listening to her laugh when she thinks she’s winning or watching the way her ponytail swishes back and forth with the beat of her feet on the dirt.
She brings me something I haven’t known in too long.
She brings me peace.
But I don’t deserve it.
And I can’t keep her.
That doesn’t keep me from thinking about her, though.
It’s after two a.m. when I think I hear something in the hallway. I haven’t heard a vehicle approach or anything, and I suspect it’s just one of the kids out of bed to go to the bathroom, but I still need to check it out.
The house is silent as I walk past Kevin’s room and the master bedroom where their mother sleeps. When I get to the end of the hall, I hear whispers from the girl’s room. Pressing my ear to the door, her words become clear.
“I miss you too, Daddy! No, she still has some big guy here. He’s in the living room.”
She’s obviously on her cell phone with her father. There is supposed to be no contact until the court date next week. I feel sorry for her. She’s too young to understand the danger posed by him. She just misses her father.
I have every intention of letting it go and just telling Mason that the guy is still trying to make contact until I hear her next statement. “Really? You’re here? Yes! Just come to my window. He won’t know you’re here.”
The motherfucker is using his kid to break in.
As quietly as possible, I let myself out the back door and creep around to the corner of the house to watch. A man strolls across the yard as if he belongs there and goes straight for Daysha’s window.
I’m a soldier. I know how to walk quietly and the guy doesn’t seem too concerned with monitoring his surroundings. I hear the window slide up. As soon as he braces his arms on the windowsill, I tackle him and he goes down like a wet sack of hair. Within a few seconds, I have him sitting with his arms above his head, his hands zip tied to the fence. Rule number one when you’re providing security, always have your gun, phone, and some zip ties.
He’s letting out a string of curses a mile long and his daughter is screaming and crying in her room while I make a quick call to nine-one-one and report the situation.
“They’re my fucking kids! This is my house! I can come home whenever I want. You aren’t a cop. I know what you’re doing here. I don’t care who she’s fucking now. You can have her. But the kids belong to me.”
I ignore his ranting, and Robin looks out of the bedroom window. She blinks, trying to comprehend the situation when she’s been pulled from a dead sleep.
“He was climbing through Daysha’s window. He called her, and she let him in.”
This instantly causes an argument between them. While they scream at each other, blue lights strike the side of the house, and I wave to the officer, who parks out front.
“He’s breaking a no contact order. Caught him climbing through the window,” I explain.
The cop nods. “We were informed Striking Back was providing security. Does he have a weapon?”
“I didn’t search him. Figured he was incapacitated and if he’s carrying, it’d be better for an officer to find a weapon than a civilian when it comes to the court case.”
The officer stands him up and pats him down. “Well, what were your plans with this?” he asks as he pulls a handgun from the man’s ankle holster.
Glaring, the guy doesn’t answer. By the time the arguing inside ceases, the officer has the guy in his cruiser. “We’ll need you to stop by the precinct tomorrow to sign a statement.”
“
No problem. If he’s released…”
“We’ll inform his wife.”
As the officer pulls away, Robin approaches me. “I’m sorry. I didn’t think she’d let him in. She’s watched him hit me for years.” She rings her hands. “Maybe it would be better if we were relocated until this is over.”
“It’s probably for the best,” I tell her. “I’ll get in touch with Mason.”
“I’ll start getting us packed. Both of the kids are awake now anyway. I don’t think anyone is getting any more sleep tonight.”
Mason answers his phone quickly, though it’s obvious from his voice I woke him. “Tucker? Everything all right?”
“Everyone is safe. The asshole ex showed up and his kid was going to let him in her window. I took him down, held him for the cops. He’s locked up, but I don’t know how long they’ll keep him. He had a gun. Loaded and ready.”
“Fuck. Okay, he’s a felon, which makes the gun illegal, so he won’t be out right away.”
“Robin says she’s ready to relocate. She’s packing up now.”
“Good. I’ll make the arrangements and send someone for them in a few hours.”
“I’ll let them know.”
Mason chuckles. “Devon’s going to be pissed. He was complaining about how bored he was. You relieve him, and the guy actually shows up.”
Chuckling, I shake my head. “He didn’t miss anything. Guy was half my size. Couldn’t have been easier.”
* * * *
It’s been a shitty day and I’m headed home much earlier than usual for a Saturday. I never get sick. Didn’t get sick once the entire time I was homeless, but something has got ahold of me now. My head aches and my stomach is queasy. My throat seems to get more raw with every breath I take and all I want is to get home and sleep off whatever this is. Thankfully, I don’t have any upcoming assignments for Striking Back.
