My arms itched to hold that sweet, soft body. It would’ve been so easy to go to her and take what I needed. To touch, taste, and smell. Reassurance that she was living, breathing, flesh and blood, and mine. All fucking mine.
Only, that wouldn’t be right. Because so much of me still wanted to punish her. I didn’t trust myself not to mark her in some way. So I didn’t go to her, like I needed, like she needed. Instead, I stayed a safe distance and watched her sleep.
When the urge to join her became unbearable, I headed to the coffee machine. The pot had just finished brewing when I heard, “Where’s Rocky?”
Oh fuck. I loved the sound of her voice.
I didn’t make eye contact, because I knew I’d lose footing on my moral high ground, and I wasn’t ready to quit climbing that mountain just yet. “He’s with Marion.”
“Oh. Good.”
I heard her slide onto one of the barstools. I poured two cups of java and slid one across the counter.
“What are you doing here?” Her fingers stretched around the cup. I imagined those soft delicate hands on me. Then I pictured them bloody and broken, like Kim’s, and I remembered why I’d come.
“You didn’t call. You didn’t come home last night, and you didn’t call.” The words came out harsher than I’d intended.
Slade’s eyes lifted to mine, exhausted and wary.
I attempted to tone down the raging caveman vibe. “Don’t do that again.”
“I’m surprised you noticed,” she snapped.
She wanted to pick a fight. Couldn’t blame her. I knew all too well what it was like to need an outlet.
“I was worried.” I leaned my ass against the counter and lifted the cup to my lips.
Slade sighed, her shoulders slumping. “I only wanted to lie down for a minute. I didn’t mean to fall asleep. I’m sorry I worried you.”
“Rocky missed you last night.”
“He did?”
“Yeah. I had a hard time getting him to bed.”
“Thanks.” She slid off the stool and walked to the window. “I needed to hear that. I feel like he doesn’t need me anymore.”
Because I’d done everything in my power to make her feel that way. Fuckin’ jackass. “You okay?”
Slade shifted nervously from foot to foot, gaze focused out the window. “I could’ve ended up like Addy, you know.”
I followed a trail of jet fuel hanging in the blue sky. I couldn’t look at my beauty. I hated seeing her so out of sorts. “You were nothing like her.”
“She didn’t choose what happened to her.”
“She had a choice every time she lied.”
“That’s not what I’m talking about.” Slade shook her head. “They used her. Her body. Before I took her to Montana. Hell, for years before that. That’s why she used you. I get it now. She was desperate. Thought you could save her.”
Fucking hell. What was her deal with Addison? “Do you hear yourself? You’re making excuses for the sick games she played.”
“They would’ve used me, too. If it weren’t for Dane, I might’ve ended up just like her.”
Fury slammed me back a step. “The fuck you talking about?”
“One of them tried.” She paused, swallowed hard, wrapped her arms around herself. “It’s funny. I’d always thought that if I found myself in a dangerous situation, I’d fight my way out of it. But when he grabbed me, and touched me, I froze. My mind went blank. My body numbed. I couldn’t move or scream. I just stood there.” She wiped a tear from her cheek. “Dane came out of nowhere, and next thing I know, I was running home.” Slade turned her head my way, chin dropped to her shoulder, and gave me a brave smile. “Anyway. I never told anyone about what happened. I never saw Dane again. Addy and I left for Montana two days later.”
I was rage. My blood acid. My skin shards of jagged glass.
Slade stared over my shoulder. “I wonder if Kim fought, or if she froze, like I had.”
I couldn’t hear another word. I grabbed her wrist and slapped my keys into her palm. “Take my Rover home. I gotta get the hell out of here.”
“Tango. Wait,” she whispered, voice broken.
I was seconds from losing my shit. She’d seen enough horror. I couldn’t show her what I was about to turn into. “I need to get away from you right now,” I said, throwing my hands up and backing away. “Go straight home and don’t fucking go anywhere alone.”
I turned on my heel and sprinted out the back door. Then I ran. Across the gravel lot. Up the embankment. Across the old highway. I headed for the base of Hangman’s Hill and sprinted up the old hiking trail.
My thighs were rubber, my lungs, fire. I pushed higher. Higher. Higher, until sweat weighed down my clothes. Until my vision blurred and I couldn’t pull in another breath. Until I collapsed on hands and knees in the layers of rotting leaves, and crunchy pine needles.
I screamed, releasing my rage, and anguish, and self-loathing. I screamed because I hadn’t been there to protect her. I screamed because I’d thrown away six years. I screamed because I had no face to bloody, no heavy bag to absorb my anger. I screamed because I had no choice. I screamed because I had no one to blame.
No one to blame, but me.
Hoarse, and winded, I lay on the forest floor, next to my heart and soul, and guts. An empty vessel submerged in a river of truth, filling fast with razor-sharp wisdom; to be the man I wanted to be, I didn’t need absolution from Slade.
I needed to forgive myself.
Only, I didn’t know how.
I didn’t know how to ask Tango to leave.
Wasn’t sure if I could.
What I did know, was that I couldn’t live the way we’d been living anymore. He was everywhere and ever-present. I ached for his touch, but he was always out of reach. I craved his smile, his laughter, his kisses, but he reserved those for Rocky. I yearned for his shoulder to lean on, his ear to voice my worries to, but he only offered his back.
His presence, consuming and beautiful as it was, would eventually destroy me. He had to go so that I could get busy moving on with my life. My life alone.
Through the kitchen window, I watched the boys play catch, silently cheered for Rocky as he made futile and adorable attempts to tackle Tango, and cringed as they wrestled in the spotty grass. Father and son, sweaty and sun-kissed, carefree, and beautiful, and slowly, torturously, breaking me.
From the kitchen table, my cell announced a caller. I’d already spoken to Kim’s mother; there hadn’t been any change. I had checked in with Tucker earlier in the day. I didn’t care to speak with anyone else. So, I ignored the phone, rinsed the last dish, poured the sudsy water down the sink, and rinsed my sponge.
Rocky’s raspy giggles boomed outside, making me smile.
He was in good hands. The best hands. Hands I knew too well. The very hands that had the power to carry Rocky out my door, possibly forever.
That was the reason I hesitated asking Tango to leave. Because I couldn’t risk losing the boy I loved with all my heart and soul. My son, who was never mine at all. And so, instead of retreating to my room as I’d done every night since Tango had claimed my couch, I pulled three frozen fruit pops from the freezer, joined the boys in the afternoon heat, and pretended, for Rocky’s sake, and perhaps mine, that the three of us were a happy family.
To my surprise, Tango sat next to me on the back porch, on the second step from the top, and let his thigh fall against mine.
It was shameful, really, how that simple, unconscious gesture, filled my soul with hope, spiked my internal temperature, and jolted my heart rate.
“Thanks,” he said, snatching the white-colored pop from my grip. He ripped the plastic with his teeth and peeled it free from the treat. Then he handed it back to me. “Coconut is your favorite, right?”
Oh God. He remembered. I blinked my burning eyes and nodded.
He grabbed the others from my hand and freed them from their casing the same way. Then he handed Rocky the blueberry splash
, and he slid the raspberry rapture between his own lips.
Fire licked my thigh, where our bodies touched, and for a brief moment, I started to believe that maybe, possibly, by some miracle, we could be a family.
“Mom,” Rocky interrupted my fantasy. He stood at the bottom of the steps, bouncing up and down on his toes, blue juice staining his face and hands. “Tango is taking me to his dance studio tomorrow. Wanna come?”
My insides did a funny dance of their own. I braved a questioning glance at Tango.
Preoccupied with his icy treat, he offered nothing more than a shoulder shrug.
Heat blasted my cheekbones. I’d rather roll in hot lava than step foot in that mirrored dance hall from hell. Tango probably hadn’t a clue what his father was doing with the new instructor. “No, Rock, I can’t go with you tomorrow. I have to work, sweetie.”
“Aw.” He scuffed the bottom of his shoe back and forth on a rock. “You always have to work, Mom.”
Not for long. Soon, I’d be unemployed. “I know, baby. But it’s fun hanging out with Tango, right?”
“Yeah.” Rocky climbed the three steps between us and bumped his hip against my knee. Chin tucked, he leaned in and whispered, as quietly as a five-year-old could whisper, “I wish he was my dad instead of my babysitter.”
The air surrounding me thickened. Tango leaned forward, elbows to knees, head dropping low.
Eons passed in nauseating silence before he looked over his shoulder at me, eyes liquid and stormy, communicating his frustration and disappointment. I wanted to slink away from the scrutiny, but it was the most emotion he’d given me in weeks, so instead, I absorbed his glare, and lapped up the attention like a love-starved child.
When I thought I couldn’t take another blast of his fiery gaze, and I coiled to flee, he hooked an arm around Rocky, grunted, “C’mere, kiddo,” and pulled his mini-me between his massive arms into a bear hug so full of love, it could’ve ended wars.
Again, I watched from the sidelines, while father and son shared an intimate, bonding moment. Oddly, their private exchange, their unspoken communication, didn’t open any fissures in my heart. Instead, a veil lifted, revealing a truth. A truth I’d known but had tried to ignore. Tango and Rocky belonged together. Father and son needed each other. More than they needed me.
It was right.
It was how things should’ve been all along.
And I knew that moment was the beginning of another end.
I STOOD OUTSIDE the front door, fighting an epic battle with my tear ducts, watching my boys laugh, dance, and make a complete mess of my entryway. Wood pieces, a tool box, and sawdust littered half the floor. A drop cloth, paintbrushes, and two gallons of paint surrounded the staircase. Rocky wore more of the happy yellow color on his body than he brushed on the banister. Tango wore a smile brighter, and hotter, than the sun beating down on my back.
I stood alone, absorbing the scene, mostly Tango’s bare chest, for ten minutes. My feet ached, and my bladder was about to burst, but I couldn’t bring myself to disturb their progress, or their fun.
Paint fumes reached my nose through the closed door. The thump of the stereo’s bass reverberated the boards beneath my feet. Rocky’s infectious giggles tickled my ears. I feared my ribcage wasn’t large enough to contain the rapidly swelling muscle it housed.
That, right then, right in front of me, was a perfect reflection of the future I’d envisioned before my world had been uprooted and replanted.
What a cruel tease my life had turned into, dangling what-could-have-beens in front of my nose.
Tango would move on. Then what? Could I? Was my heart open to the idea of loving another man? Was marriage in my future? The thought unnerved me. For now, I’d focus on surviving the upcoming days, easing Rocky into the truth about his father, and I supposed, coming up with a parenting plan.
There hadn’t been any more Slayer sightings. Still, I kept my eyes open. Stayed on high alert. I had planned on discussing my worries with Tango, but the timing never seemed right. Or, more accurately, our conversations never consisted of anything beefier than, “Good morning,” or “Have you seen Rocky’s shoes?” or “We’ll see you at dinner time.”
“Whatcha doin’?” Something brushed my shoulder.
I screamed, whirled around, and smashed into a solid chest.
“Sorry. Shit. I didn’t mean to scare you.” Tucker pulled me into a hug and chuckled.
“What are you doing here?” I mumbled into his shirt. Stiff linen scratched my cheek. “Why are you dressed up? Got a date?” I rubbed his collar between my thumb and forefinger and took in the rare sight of my brother dressed in anything other than flannel or graphic tees.
“I’m having beers with your Mr. Rossi.” He straightened his button-down shirt.
“My Mr. Rossi? No. Afraid you’ve got that wrong.” I looked over my shoulder. Rocky waved yellow hands at me through the glass. He turned and pointed to the half-painted staircase, raising his brows and mouthing something to me.
I opened the door to greet my boy. Tango knelt, tapping a lid onto one of the cans. When he looked my direction, heat blasted my insides. Sweet mother of mercy, what a sight. Eyes glowing with pride, playful grin, muscles rolling, bunching, teasing me from beneath his skin.
“Mom, Uncle Tuck! Look what I did today.” Rocky pointed at the banister. “I hammered it and it doesn’t wiggle anymore.” He started toward me, only to be blocked by a massive arm.
“Wait, kiddo. We need to clean up first.” Tango disappeared with Rocky down the long hallway toward the back entrance. The screen door slammed, the garden nozzle squeaked, and Rocky squealed, presumably from the shock of a cold shower.
Tucker huffed, his cheeks puffing like an overzealous chipmunk. “Yellow, huh?” he asked, pressing a finger to the fresh paint.
“He remembered.” I stared, in awe of the perfectly bright, obnoxious color.
“Remembered what?”
“My mom liked a dark house. Curtains, paint, furniture. Tango and I used to tease her and threaten to paint every room a happy, blinding yellow. She’d laugh and say, ‘Okay. Only the stairs, please. I suppose every house needs one bright spot.’ It’s silly, I know.” I shook my head. “I can’t believe he did this.”
Cocking his head to the side, he stated, “I can’t believe you don’t see how in love with you he is.”
If Tucker held a rabid rat to my chest and let it gnaw through my breastbone and feast on my beating heart, it would’ve hurt less. “Don’t say that, Tuck. We can’t go there. Not after everything we’ve been through. Not after what I’ve done.”
“You could be a family,” Tucker stated, crossing beefy arms across his chest.
A furnace lit behind my cheekbones. I jammed my index finger into his shoulder, to make him listen, to take out my frustration, hell, I don’t know. Maybe I needed to vent. “No. No. No. He hates me. He has his life, his fancy house, and now he has Rocky. There is no scenario, no possible outcome to this shitty soap opera where I come out the winner.”
“Winner of what?” Tango asked, sauntering toward us, wiping his bare chest with a towel. His grin faded when he noticed my scowl. It took tremendous will power to keep my gaze fixed above his chin. I would not look at his ridiculous abs. I would not.
“Nothing,” I groaned, throwing my arms in the air. I turned to retreat up the stairs, hoping to unleash the tempest of frustration and anger on my pillow, or some unfolded laundry. I stopped before stepping on the wet paint, growled my disapproval, and headed for the downstairs bathroom instead. “And put on a damn shirt,” I yelled before slamming the door behind me.
“What’s wrong with Mommy?” I heard Rocky ask.
I reached behind me and pushed the lock.
What was wrong with me? Well, that was a no-brainer. I was breaking, despite having convinced myself I would survive this whole nightmare. I loved Tango. I loved him so deep, and his parts were so tangled with mine that uprooting any bit of him would tear me
apart from the core. I was headed toward unavoidable demise.
I plopped my ass on the toilet and cried. Angry tears. Ugly, face-contorting, giant, burning tears. I reached over and turned on the ancient, squeaky bathroom fan so nobody could hear my sobs.
I had to get this ridiculous, fanciful hope out of my system. Tango would never be mine. The fates made that perfectly clear. I needed to grow the fuck up and let him go. I could do this. Or at least pretend. I’d faked it for the past six years. What was sixty or seventy more?
I was damn lucky to be sitting on my toilet and not in a jail cell. I could focus on my freedom. Be grateful that I could still call Rocky my son. I’d given Tango his child. He’d granted me immunity—from the lies, fear, guilt, and constant uncertainty.
I had my whole life ahead of me. A whole life of blank pages. It was solely up to me how to fill them.
My life had been one giant blank page since I left home all those years ago. I had tried to cover its blinding glare by burying myself in my studies. When that hadn’t worked, I’d turned to fighting, and sex. For a short time, I had fooled myself into believing I was writing some kind of epic story for myself. Despite my misguided efforts, every morning I’d wake to one blank page after another. Empty. Lonely. Pointless.
Today had been different. When I woke to a little boy stretched across my chest, drooling on my shirt, the glare was no longer there. The page was filled with laughter, and smiles, and sticky fingers. Burps and stinky feet. Wild blonde hair, enormous blue eyes, and flip-flops. There were so many words, so many stories, it made my head spin.
I couldn’t stay angry. I couldn’t spend another day keeping Slade at bay, while I tried to make sense of her decisions, my parents’ refusal to accept my child, or the fact that I had fallen blindly into parenthood.
I had committed crimes to forget my girl, done heinous things born of self-loathing and hate. Slade Mason had committed crimes to remember. Everything she’d done had been for love. Plain and simple. She’d risked her life to save my son. Strangers had risked their lives for him. I owed the Slade family everything. For now, I’d start with the selfless, heartbroken girl crying her eyes out on the other side of the door.
Truck Stop Tango Page 19
