Chapter 14
Fourteen
Colt
I come awake slowly. Suspiciously.
No soft, harried breathing.
No big blue eyes waiting inches from my face.
The guest room is empty and that hurts more than all my other aches and pains put together.
It’s quiet this morning, though, making me wonder if the girls are already gone, back to their normal routine.
That’s depressing.
They have a routine, and I don’t even know what it is. Frankie goes to school, and Briar works for—with, she works with—Atlas, but she doesn’t seem to have strict hours.
If I’m going to insert myself into their lives, I have to learn the ins and outs of the life they lead. Quickly. It would be great to lounge around for a week or two, getting my strength back and starting to look for a place to live, but I don’t have that luxury.
Money isn’t an issue. I have plenty. A lot.
In fact, more than I’ve ever seen in my life.
Certainly not the many millions Banks makes or the billions Atlas has amassed, but for a kid from Ohio who literally grew up using hand-me-down hockey sticks, I made a lot of money while I was letting the FSB beat and torture me.
My handlers even took the opportunity to invest it for me, so the two million in my account almost mocks me.
Almost.
I’m not stupid, though. That kind of money won’t last a lifetime. I still have to figure out my next steps. I’d assumed—probably stupidly—that Dash or Atlas would be able to help me find something. Now I’m not so sure. Hell, I’m not sure of anything at this point.
I drag my sorry ass out of bed and into the shower. That helps loosen up the stiffness, so I feel halfway human.
Lights are on in the kitchen, and I walk in to find Frankie by herself, coloring.
“Good morning, honey,” I say cautiously.
She doesn’t look up. “Good morning.”
At least she has manners, even if she’s still pissed.
“Whatcha coloring?” I stare down at the stick figures on the page.
“My family.”
“Show me who everyone is,” I say carefully.
“Mommy and me.” She points. “Uncle Banks.” He has on a crude but effective hockey jersey with his number on it.
“Auntie Aspen and baby Maisie.” Aspen still has her pregnancy belly even though she’s holding the baby.
“Uncle Royal and Auntie Jade with their baby.” She made a big circle for Jade’s belly, drawing a stick figure baby inside.
“Uncle Atlas and Lily.” Atlas is the only one other than banks that’s wearing clothes—and it’s a rudimentary suit.
“Uncle Dash and Auntie Willow.” Well, I guess that’s a lie—Willow has on red high heels. “And Fruit Loop.”
“Fruit Loop?”
She finally looks up, eyeing me like I’m stupid. “My goldfish. My other one died but Uncle Royal got me another one.” She points, and sure enough, there’s a goldfish in a bowl on the counter.
“My family.” She shrugs and goes back to coloring, though she pushes the now finished family portrait to the side.
Ouch.
I guess Daddy didn’t make the cut.
What did you expect? The devil on my shoulder asks smugly. You left them.
Well, nothing to be done about that now.
“Where’s Mommy?” I ask.
“Blow drying her hair. That takes a long time.”
“Have you had breakfast?”
“No.”
“Are you hungry?”
“Do you even know how to cook?”
“I make a pretty mean waffle.”
“The frozen kind?”
This kid really is a ball-buster, but that’s okay. I kind of like that in a woman.
“Not the frozen kind, smarty-pants,” I say, ruffling her hair. “I make them from scratch. Want to help me?”
“Nope.” She’s not looking up again, but that’s okay.
Consistency, Briar said. Letting her know I’m not going anywhere, even when she’s having a tantrum. Or being difficult. I’m sure this won’t be the last time.
I make a cup of coffee and start scouring Briar’s cupboards for the ingredients I need. It’s funny—this is one of the only things I remember from my childhood. Before my dad died and everything went to hell. Before grief sent my mom off the deep end of alcoholism. Before the beatings and—
No. I’m not going to re-live that. She had her demons, I have mine. I’m not bringing that into my relationship with my daughter.
Luckily, Briar has a very well-stocked pantry. Now if I can just find the mixer.
“Frankie, do you know where Mommy keeps the mixer?”
Still not looking up, she uses one hand to point.
I don’t know whether to laugh or cry, but I get out the mixer and then go back into the pantry. I saw some white chocolate chips. I don’t usually add them, but this might be fun. Especially since I know there are strawberries in the fridge.
The waffle iron is on the counter, so I heat it while I mix everything together. Then, as the first batch is cooking, I get another bowl to make fresh whipped cream—with a touch of melted white chocolate. Briar loves fresh whipped cream, and white chocolate is her favorite.
Well, it was.
People don’t just change their love for chocolate, do they?
Hopefully not.
“What are you doing?” Frankie demands, and I realize she’s standing next to me.
“Making fresh whipped cream.”
“I don’t like whipped cream.”
“That’s okay—your mom does.”
“How do you know?”
“Because your mom and I have been friends for a long time. Since long before you were born. I know lots of things about her.”
“What’s her favorite color?”
“Green.”
Frankie seems surprised I know the answer.
“What does she put on her hot dogs?”
“Chili and cheddar cheese.”
She makes a noise that sounds a little like “hmph,” as if it flusters her that I have the answers to her questions.
“Can I do the next one?” she asks as I put the first batch of waffles on a plate.
“Sure.” I help her lift the bowl, and she carefully pours some batter into the iron. We close it together, since I don’t want her to get burned, and then stand there watching it. Maybe it’s going to do a trick.
“What do you want on your waffle?” I ask while we wait.
“Butter and syrup.”
“Coming right up.” The syrup is already out, and I grab some butter from the fridge. “You want me to fix it for you or do you do it yourself?”
Her brows knit together. “Mommy always does it for me.”
“Mommy’s drying her hair. I’m happy to do it or let you do it. What do you prefer?” I’m treating her like she’s a lot older than four, but she acts a lot older than four.
“I guess you can do it.” She climbs back up on her stool while I fix her plate.
“One waffle or two?”
“Two, please.”
“Do I need to cut them up for you?”
“No, thank you.” She lifts the knife, but I can see she’s struggling. I also note that she’s left-handed.
Like me.
“You’re a lefty,” I say casually. “That makes things a little harder.”
She nods solemnly. “You have no idea.”
I chuckle. “Actually, I do. I’m left-handed too. Here, let me show you.” I lean over her from behind, taking both her hands in mine, demonstrating what I consider to be the best way to hold the knife and fork.
“Oh! That’s easier!” she says, excitement in her voice.
“Great.” I turn to grab the next batch of waffles just as Briar comes in.
“Good morning,” she says cautiously, looking from me to Frankie and back again.
“You still love white chocolate?” I ask her.
“Is that even a question?” she asks, laughing as she makes herself a cup of coffee.
“Just checking. I made white chocolate whipped cream to go with the waffles. And I cut up some strawberries.”
Her eyes widen as she looks around. “This is…lovely. Thank you.”
“Your hair looks really pretty,” I say, winking.
Her cheeks turn pink. “Th-thank you.”
Compliments still make her stutter.
Have the men in her life in the last five years not showered her with compliments? Made her feel beautiful? Let her know how desirable she is?
While I hate the thought of another man touching her, I hate the thought of anyone not treating her like the goddess she is even more. Weren’t the boys looking out for her?
We settle at the end of the island again, just like yesterday, and dig in.
“These are so good,” Briar moans. “I’d forgotten about your dad’s waffle recipe.”
I grin. “Right?”
“You have a daddy?” Frankie asks.
“Of course. Everyone has a daddy. But mine died when I was nine.”
“You died when I was zero,” she says flatly.
“I was a prisoner of war,” I correct gently. “I don’t know if you understand what that means.”
She shakes her head, but her eyes are on mine, curious. Interested. Trying to understand.
And that’s a great start.
“It means that there was an enemy when I was in the marines, and during a fight, they caught me. They kept me prisoner for four years and wouldn’t let me write letters or call home.”
Her eyes are wide and filled with confusion.
God, I hate that. But what else can I say? She’s four. I think using words like spy or black ops or military intelligence would just confuse her.
“That’s mean,” she finally whispers.
“It is. But then a friend came and rescued me—and now I’m back.”
There’s a long, awkward silence as she studies my face, as if searching for answers to all the questions she has.
“Are you going to leave again?”
I flick a quick glance in Briar’s direction and note she’s stopped eating, watching me carefully.
I don’t think I’ve ever been more afraid to answer a question in my life.
But I can’t let my girls down.
Not now, not ever again.
I won’t.
“I guess that depends on if you guys want me to stick around.”