Pride and hurt feelings had driven her knee-jerk refusal, but she couldn’t afford pride these days, and after his actions tonight, her hurt feelings over something that happened a long time ago seemed childish. She needed help.
Hancock House had become more than a pile of wood and stone to her. It was like a living entity, and they had entered an intense love-hate relationship. To the outside world, she defended the old house, even as she cursed it alone when something else broke. The sense of isolation that had been dogging her since moving home had eased with him in the house.
But, she had to remember that he was motivated by guilt, and guilt alone.
5
At practice the next afternoon, Alec studied Hunter. The boy seemed distracted. Worry stole away his ready smile and usual jokes. He got confused on which route the receiver was running and overthrew his receivers time after time. With what Logan had told him forefront in his mind, Alec kept his voice even, trying to stay encouraging even as the boy’s performance deteriorated. Dalt’s final whistle put them out of their misery.
Robbie Dalton caught Alec’s eyes and jerked his head toward his office in an unspoken request. Alec closed the door behind him and dropped into a chair across the metal desk from the head coach.
“What’s up with Hunter?” Dalt asked.
“Not sure, but his head wasn’t in practice today, that’s for certain.”
Dalt propped his feet on the edge of the desk and leaned back in his chair, transferring his gaze to the ceiling. “I assume you’re aware of his home situation.”
“Just what I’ve heard. Brother deals drugs. Dad isn’t around. Mom doesn’t care.”
Dalt leveled a stare at Alec. “I’d guess his mom cares plenty, but she’s working to keep food on the table and clothes on their backs. Look, you’re the closest with Hunter. I need you to check in on him.”
When Alec had volunteered to coach the Falcon quarterbacks, he had done it selfishly. Football had been the center of his life until that life came crashing down. Every decision he’d made from middle school through his brief NFL career had put football first. One dirty hit took everything away, and he’d foundered. Three years passed before he could even watch a game on TV.
Bored and sick of his own company, he’d dropped by a Falcon High School game the season before Robbie Dalton took over. They had been a mediocre squad at best, but the youthful energy of kids playing for the love of the sport and not money or fame pumped through his system like antibiotics killing the resentment and depression that had infected him.
Allowing his attachment to the game transfer itself to a player was ill-advised at best. “Hunter and I aren’t friends. We have more of a teacher-student relationship.”
“Exactly. He respects you.”
“If this is about Friday night’s game, I’ll have him focused and ready.” His protest was half-hearted considering he’d already made up his mind, but he didn’t have to be happy about it. “Give me his address.”
The walls he’d spent years erecting had weakened under the seismic shift of the events over the past week. Two people needed him to step up in very different ways, and for the first time in a long time, he didn’t feel the urge to walk away.
Dalt dropped his feet, jotted a few lines on a piece of paper, and pushed it toward Alec. His blue eyes seemed to say more than his words. “Coaching is about more than what happens on the field.”
Alec flashed back to Hunter and the booming car in the parking lot, to the yoke of worry and responsibility, to a familiar cast of loneliness separating the boy from his peers. He grabbed the paper. “I’ll check on him, but I don’t know how much good it will do.”
“Just do your best,” Dalt said.
What if his best fell short? It had been a long time since he’d cared about anyone but himself. Worry made him feel like he was wearing a shirt three sizes too small.
He wanted to take the easy way out and head home. His house was serene and uncomplicated. There were no squeaky floorboards or outdated wiring. It was also empty and a little bit cold and if he were being honest, more than a little bit lonely. His house had no personality or life.
He stepped into the parking lot. The lights were flickering on. A few kids lingered in a group talking and laughing, but Hunter and his beat-up car were already gone. He fingered the paper in his hand. Hunter lived in Mill Town, a neighborhood of cookie-cutter homes built by textile factories that had seen their heyday decades earlier.
Dusk was falling when he pulled onto Hunter’s dead-end street. The one streetlight looked to be shattered, and the trees that rose up at the end blocked the setting sun. Warning, maybe a zing of fear, shot accelerant into Alec’s body, spurring his heart and dampening his palms on the steering wheel.
Blocking the sidewalk, the bass-booming car from the day before sat directly in front of a mailbox, the number faded but readable. It matched the address Dalt had given him. An SUV was pulled up beside the house, the grass crushed and worn but not giving up. Hunter’s car was parked on gravel toward the bottom of the street, two houses down.
Alec circled around and parked with his truck pointed toward the mouth of the street and escape. Weeds pushed through cracks in the sidewalk and rubble crunched under his boots. An eerie feeling of being watched slowed his steps.
Hunter’s house was a more run-down version of the one next door. The porch floor sagged, pieces of vinyl siding hung askew revealing plywood, and termites had moved in. Dust gathered around the rails of the porch. The windows took a beating from the pumping music inside. The house seemed weary.
A light flashed from the trees at the end of the street, close to Hunter’s car. Alec paused, his senses heightened. Nothing but the music registered in his ears, but a darker shadow of movement in the woods drew his eye. Bypassing the house, he made his way down the sidewalk toward the light.
Instinct crackled his nerves. Someone was out there, and he hoped to God he was guessing correctly. He called out softly, “Hunter?”
“What are you doing here, Coach?” The boy materialized between two thick pine trees, keeping to the shadows, his words rushed.
Alec held his hands up in front of him. “I’m here to check on you, that’s all. You weren’t yourself at practice.”
Hunter darted out, grabbed his arm, and pulled him into the trees. “I’m fine.”
A math book was splayed open on a decaying log. A backpack and flashlight lay close by. A half-eaten white-bread sandwich with a slice of indeterminate meat sticking out rested on top. Hunter was anything but fine.
“What’re you doing out here?” Alec asked even though he didn’t expect the truth.
“Got a calculus test tomorrow with Coach Dalton.”
“Why aren’t you inside?” He nudged his chin back up the street, not taking his eyes off Hunter.
“Hard to study up at the house.” Hunter broke eye contact, directing his gaze into the dark woods. “You shouldn’t have come.”
“I’m not leaving you out here to spend the night, Hunter.” He had no clue what he would do with the kid, but leaving him in the woods as darkness crept in wasn’t an option. Even in Alabama, October nights were cold.
“I don’t sleep out here.” Defensiveness sharpened Hunter’s voice. “It’s the music. The music makes it hard to concentrate.”
Alec made a more careful assessment of the area. A cooler and sleeping bag were tucked behind one tree. Fast food wrappers were wadded up and stuck in a hollow at the base of another. Either Hunter had no idea what normal was anymore or he didn’t trust Alec. Probably both.
“Get your stuff together. You’re coming with me. Now.” His voice had roughened and came out harsher than he intended.
When Hunter didn’t move, Alec kicked the sorry-looking sandwich to the ground, gathered up the math book, and threw it in the backpack. Swinging it by one strap, Alec gestured around them. “Grab anything else you need. We’ll take my truck.”
Alec walked away, but Hunter
grabbed the back of his shirt before he got to the sidewalk. Hunter was as tall as Alec, but he hadn’t yet developed a man’s muscles.
“You can’t take my stuff like that.” The plaintive note in Hunter’s voice made Alec feel like a schoolyard bully.
No doubt, there was a better, more diplomatic way to handle the situation, but his people skills were rusty, and he was doing this for Hunter’s own good. “Watch me.”
Something around the size of a small car rammed into Alec and drove him to the ground. His breath whooshed out, and his lungs cramped. Alec had been sacked enough to not panic. A mixture of grass and pebbles bit into his face and neck. His left shoulder had taken the brunt of the fall, too numb for pain—yet.
The car that hit him had flailing arms and legs and manifested into a man-boy who would have gotten an unsportsmanlike flag had they been playing football. He punched Alec in the side and pushed off him to gain enough leverage to ram a knee in Alec’s hip.
“What the hell, Will?” Panic or shock or maybe both veered Hunter’s voice high. Alec wasn’t sure where his quarterback was but hoped he was smart enough to stay out of range.
Still short of oxygen, Alec grabbed at anything that would disrupt the beating. He wrapped a hand around a bare ankle, twisting and pushing his attacker’s foot high into the air. The man-boy toppled on his ass. Like his playing days had been weeks in the past instead of years, Alec popped up onto his knees.
A middle-aged white man in a wife-beater, smiling with tobacco-stained teeth, joined the fray. He aimed a kick toward Alec’s ribs but missed. Alec made a grab for the man’s booted foot, but his arm tingled, his grip strength gone.
Hunter pushed the white man away. “Don’t touch him.”
“Your brother and I will handle this.” The man sidestepped around Hunter and offered Will a hand, hauling him to his feet. Alec sat back on his heels, pressing at the shooting pains in his shoulder.
There was no mistaking the family resemblance, but the sheer mass of Will Galloway was unexpected. Hunter was tall and lean, while his twin was tall and thick. The perfect defensive linebacker.
Will moved within six inches of Hunter, the proximity designed to intimidate. “You shouldn’t be out here in the first place. Get inside, bro. Now.”
“I hate it when you’re like this, Will. Why do you think I come out here?”
“Get the fuck inside. We’ll talk later.”
A battle played out between the brothers even though neither of them said a word or moved. Without warning, Will shoved Hunter in the shoulder, sending him shuffling back. With his head down and not sparing Alec a glance, he retreated like a kicked dog, stumbling over the unkempt yard. A screen door banged. Hunter’s backpack lay ten feet away, books spilling out and papers fluttering.
Will turned his attention back to Alec. Alec’s shoulder throbbed, and his side burned. Feet. He had to get to his feet or he was a goner. He staggered up.
“What you hassling my brother for?” Will feinted toward him like a boxer testing an opponent. Twists that resembled short dreadlocks swayed with his movements.
“Step back, Will.” The white man cracked his knuckles and spit a stream of tobacco to the side. Brown dribbled off his lip to stain the front of his shirt. “You a cop?”
Alec’s pain-fogged brain focused on the answer that wouldn’t get him killed. “I’m not.”
The white man assessed him and craned his head to see his truck. “You looking to score some weed from Will?”
“Shut your mouth, Bone-man.” Will pushed him aside and looked Alec over, this time more carefully. The smell of nicotine and marijuana were strong on both men. “Ah, hell. This is Hunter’s coach.”
Alec backed toward his truck, putting some distance between them. Should he try to get Hunter out? Or would his interference feed the animosity between the brothers? Reality was he was in no shape to take on Will and Bone-man considering Hunter seemed unwilling to cross his brother.
“I expect to see Hunter at practice tomorrow. Healthy and ready to play. You got me?” He held Will’s gaze. The boy gave in first, dropping his head to chuff a few times and rub at wiry, sparse hair sprouting out of his chin.
When his face came up, his smile contained a sickening amount of charm considering he’d been beating Alec to a pulp not three minutes prior. “Hunter’ll be fine. Boy Scout’s honor. Sorry about the dust-up, Coach. Yo, you know Bone-man was joking about the weed.”
Will’s chin rose a fraction, and Alec realized he expected an answer. “Yeah? Hilarious.”
Will’s eyes narrowed. “This ain’t the best place to be wandering after dark, Coach.”
Alec continued backward toward his truck, his voice shot with irony. “You don’t say? Tell Hunter I’ll see him at practice.” He raised his voice, sure Hunter was watching out of a window. Pulling out his key, he unlocked his truck and slid onto the seat, muttering a curse. Now that he was sitting, each breath he took sent needles of pain down his side.
Forcing himself to act, he started the truck and checked his rearview mirror. His face appeared in shades of gray. Blood had already started to congeal on several long, shallow cuts along one side of his face. He’d have a raging case of road rash by morning.
The street behind him was deserted as he pointed the truck toward town. Even the backpack had vanished. He wasn’t hurt enough for medical attention. Football had taught him to assess his own injuries—bruised ribs, banged-up shoulder, a few cuts. Everything would heal on its own. Still, it hurt like hell.
His phone dinged. Hands trembling slightly, he checked the display. The text had come in five minutes ago. A local number.
If the offer stands, I would appreciate help with my wiring. Give me a call or stop by. L.
His house was on five acres of land outside city limits. His neighbors were barely acquaintances. Merely people he waved at from afar if he was feeling especially friendly. The effort involved in navigating his dark house and seeing to his injuries made his stomach roll with nausea.
His subconscious made the decision for him, and he turned down Lilliana’s street. Hancock House sat at the end, a stately white-columned throwback from a time that had been romanticized by many. Alec wondered what darkness hid in the past. Were the ghosts vengeful?
He touched his head. The knock on his head must be worse than he’d thought to be thinking about ghosts and revenge. Welcoming light shone behind the front parlor windows like a guiding beacon. He checked the glowing clock numbers in his truck and blinked. It was only seven o’clock? It felt like midnight.
He turned the truck off, opened his door, and looked at the ground. Too far away. The front door opened. Framed in a halo of light from the big chandelier, Lilliana’s expression remained a mystery. A shot of insecurity kept him teetering between dropping to the ground or hightailing it away.
“That was fast. I didn’t expect you to rush over and start work tonight.” Enough warmth weaved through the uncertainty in her voice to keep him in place.
She came closer, stopping on the second step down. The door creaked halfway closed, dimming the weak fingers of light illuminating the path to her porch. Two more steps, and she was at the base of the stairs, barefoot in the grass-gravel mixture of her drive. The red of her tank top glowed. She craned her neck to see him, her face scrunched. “Is everything okay?”
The overhead light of the cab must have revealed the more superficial of his injuries. Her eyes went wide, and before he could respond, she was in the door of his cab, grabbing his arms.
“Ohmigod. What happened?” Her voice squeaked high. “Were you in an accident?”
“No, I’m pretty sure the dude meant to tackle me.” His weak laugh faded into a groan.
“Who was it?” She tugged him out of the truck. His feet hit the ground. The jarring sent pain streaking from his shoulder to his fingers and into his chest, leaving his knees wobbly. Damn, if this had been a game, he would have been expected to suck it up and run the next play. He’d g
otten soft. Or old. Or both.
She tucked herself under his right armpit, but was too short to provide much support. He allowed her to guide him into the house, his arm draped over her shoulders. He turned his face toward her and took a deep breath. The sharp tang of turpentine and paint cut through the fuzz gathering at the edges of his mind.
The last time he’d been this close, she’d smelled of citrus with a hint of . . . marijuana? Every detail about their afternoon together had etched itself on him as surely as his tattoo. The smell from Hunter’s house triggered the realization.
Somehow, it seemed more important than his pain. He stopped in the middle of the foyer. “Were you high the other day? Is that why you had sex with me?”
“High? Not really.”
Her answer was vague enough to keep him in place despite her tugs. “Not really? That means yes.”
She huffed a sigh and moved in front of him. “Okay, yes, I took a couple of hits, not realizing I had the day of the inspection wrong. But being high had nothing to do with what happened later. You can blame your tattoos for that.”
He ran a hand over his cotton-covered ink, the skin tingling as if her lips were tracing the lines once more. Was he really one to judge? He wasn’t her boyfriend. He was her one-night stand. “Is it a regular thing?”
“Jumping men with sexy tats or smoking weed?”
Sexy tats. He blinked. The one thing he hated about his body she thought was sexy.
She stared at him as if expecting an answer. When nothing came out of his mouth, she shook her head and tugged him toward the front room. This time he followed.
“If you must know, I do neither on a regular basis.”
He draped his arm back around her shoulder in a half hug, fighting the urge to pull her fully into an embrace. A concussion was the only explanation.
The back of his knees hit the velvet cushion of her ornate Chippendale-type couch. He sank down, taking care not to jostle his sore shoulder. He rested his head back against the decorative wooden frame and closed his eyes.
Melting into You Page 6
