Chapter Fifty
RHYLAND
A s soon as I made it to the apartment building, I took the elevator up to my penthouse. There were three police cars parked in front of it, and Row texted me that an Amber Alert had gone out with the car model and license plate of the vehicle Tucker rented a few hours before. Goddamn amateur stopped at Budget before breaking Cal’s arm and kidnapping his own kid. He really was committed to being a grade-A loser.
When I got home, I bolted to my bedroom, unhooking my iPad from its charger and bringing it to life. A few weeks ago, when Tucker began visiting Gravity regularly and before things detonated between him and Dylan, I’d inserted a tracking device in Mr. Mushroom. I figured if Grav was that attached to the little chub, she was going to carry it everywhere with her. The device had an advanced GPS map that was wired to satellite software, so not only could I see the location, I could even see the street.
I stared at the iPad as I clicked onto the app, watching it gathering information about the location of the stuffie and praying to high heavens it wasn’t going to show up in this building.
Please, baby. Tell me you took it with you when Tucker snatched you from your bed.
The map appeared on the screen, the red dot indicating the stuffie’s location blinking as it moved slowly past streets.
My shoulders slumped with relief. She’d taken it.
Attagirl.
The location showed somewhere in Brooklyn. The address pointed to a warehouse. I grabbed the iPad and took the stairs down to Dylan’s apartment. The door was open, the place swarming with policemen and detectives. Dylan sat on her couch, crying into her hands. Three women I didn’t know were standing next to her.
Actually, one of them I did know.
It was Tate’s PA. The one he was obsessed with.
But that was the last thing on my fucking mind right now.
“I know where she is,” I announced.
All eyes spun to me. I held up the iPad in my hand.
“Dylan, baby, please don’t kill me, but when Tucker started seeing Grav regularly, I put a tracking device in Mr. Mushroom. Behind the zipper that conceals the batteries.” Because of course, Mr. Mushroom vibrated.
“I don’t fucking care!” Dylan said impatiently. “Just tell us where she is.”
I handed the iPad over to one of the police officers. She studied it along with her colleague, then nodded briskly. She pressed the police radio to her lips and gave reinforcement the address and directions.
“Suspect may be armed and dangerous. Assaulted the young woman babysitting the child when he took her.”
Speaking of assaults, I was goddamn sure that as soon as Row touched ground in New York, he was going to kill Tucker six times over. The first time to make a point and the other five for what he did to Cal.
“I’m going there,” I announced to no one in particular.
“I’m coming,” Dylan said.
“I’d strongly advice against it,” the policewoman said.
“We strongly don’t give a fuck,” I answered in the same serious tone.
Dylan trailed behind me outside. We left her new friends in the apartment. The elevator ride down was silent, and so was the first half of the drive to the warehouse in Brooklyn. Luckily, there was barely any traffic.
Finally, Dylan spoke, her eyes still on her phone. “Poor Row is stuck on a plane. He can’t wait to get to Cal.”
“I’m sure.”
Silence.
“Do you think Tucker did something to my daughter?”
A wave of fresh fury drowned out my swirling thoughts, and my fingers tightened over the wheel. “No,” I answered, unsure if I was giving her the truth or my own wishful thinking. “He’s a lowlife who is incapable of making one decent decision, but he loves himself too much to get into that much trouble.”
“He needs to be behind bars after this,” Dylan said shakily.
“He will be,” I reassured her.
“How do you know?”
“Because it would be his better option. The alternative is being killed by me.”
We got there in record time. It was a warehouse on the outskirts of Brooklyn, a two-story redbrick square, with arched black doors. Night had fallen over the city, and the wide, pebbled road was empty of cars. It appeared to be abandoned, and the mere thought of Gravity—so tiny, so precious, so innocent—somewhere so nefarious made my skin crawl.
There were also no police cars anywhere in sight. Though to be fair, I’d gotten here faster than expected on account of not following traffic laws.
I pushed the driver’s door open and rounded the car, opening Dylan’s door. “You’re going to walk in behind me,” I instructed, rolling up my sleeves and making my way in through the arched, rusty door. It felt like today had stretched into an entire century, and I was ready for it to end with Gravity safe and sound, Dylan’s forgiveness, and Tucker twelve feet under.
Dylan nodded briefly. This was one of the first times she hadn’t sassed back.
I shoved the door open with my shoulder. It was heavy but unlocked. Abandoned, just like I’d thought.
The minute I stepped inside, the stench of cigarettes, alcohol, piss, and decayed human flesh filled my nostrils. The scent was unbearable. I tugged my shirt over my nose, grabbed Dylan’s hand from behind, and proceeded into the dimly lit open space.
Inside, there were exposed brick walls, sleeping bags scattered on the dirty floor, and needles on the ground. Shadowed silhouettes of people danced across the windows and the walls, created by the pale, filtered light borrowed from streetlamps outside. Dylan clenched my arm, fingers digging into my wrist, as we both moved slowly, peering into people’s faces to try to find Tucker and Gravity. It felt like swimming against a stream.
This was no place to take a child. Little stinker was in great danger. Dylan understood it just as well. Her body rocked and trembled next to mine as she bit down on her sobs.
I studied faces through squinted eyes, searching for Tucker and Gravity. Some people cursed at the invasion of their privacy. Others were asleep, half-dead, or too far gone to care. And then, in the far corner of the hayloft, nestled under a ladder to shield them from view, was a very small, weepy girl clinging onto her pink Mr. Mushroom and Tuckwad.
The relief I felt was immediate. She was here. And she was okay.
I tugged on Dylan’s arm and pointed at them, pressing my finger to my lips to signal for her to stay quiet. Dylan gasped, her eyes veiled behind a curtain of unshed tears.
Tucker was shushing and berating Gravity. “You have to be quiet,” he whisper-shouted, pressing his phone to his ear as he tried to call someone. “I can’t fucking think straight.”
Gravity flinched.
And there went the remainder of my goddamn self-control.
I pounced on Tucker like a panther, separating him from Gravity and pinning him to the ground with my thighs. His head crashed against the sodden concrete, his pupils dilating in the dark. Any measly self-control I still had left deserted me completely at the sight of his face.
My fists began to pound him without rhyme or rhythm, raining down on his jaw, his neck, his forehead, his cheeks, and his temples like a vicious storm. Blood splattered across the walls, on the ground, on my face, and still, I couldn’t stop. The sound of bones breaking and blood sloshing filled my ears. I was too far gone to hear the voices begging me to stop. Gravity’s cries. The sound of sirens and police officers and shrieks of horror. My sole focus was him. Tucker. The shitty dad who’d triggered me into facing my own reality.
That you could be an abusive parent without even being present in your child’s life.
That, in fact, your very absence was the cruelest form of punishment.
Tucker may not be my father, but he represented everything I hated about humans who did not step up to their responsibilities.
Tucker’s blood burned my eyes and itched my face by the time two burly policemen managed to peel me away from him. He’d been unresponsive for a while by then, so I was entirely unsure whether he was dead or alive. Frankly, I didn’t care. I did feel a little sorry that Gravity had to witness it, though.
Reality drip-drip-dripped its way back into my conscience, and I felt guiltier.
I was held by two uniformed men, escorted outside the warehouse. Dylan was holding Gravity tightly to her chest, following them briskly. Her red dress—and Grav’s pj’s with the little lemons—were both stained with Tucker’s blood.
“Please don’t arrest him!” Dylan begged, and I realized she was referring to me. The woman never failed to amaze me. “He didn’t do anything.”
Okay, that was a blatant lie, but I certainly appreciated the notion.
“It’s okay, Cosmos.” I smirked. “I’ve always wanted to be handcuffed.” I winked, trying to make light of it.
“My ex tried to kidnap my baby!” Dylan screeched, ignoring me. “Call your station or whatever!” She was running after them.
They burst open the door of the warehouse, and we all poured into the humid summer night. Red and blue swirls of police lights danced across the buildings and the pavement.
“Ma’am, no one is getting detained or arrested. We simply wanted to remove Mr. Coltridge from the situation before he further harmed himself and his future,” one of the officers clipped out dryly.
They stopped in front of my McLaren, eyeing it appreciatively.
Dylan skidded to a halt next to us, burying Gravity’s face in her neck and holding her daughter’s head tightly. “Is he dead?” Dylan blurted out.
“Unfortunately, no,” one of the police officers said, almost apologetically. It was easy to see everyone shared our revulsion for the man. “They’re handcuffing him right now, and he’ll be transferred to a hospital. He’ll be supervised while he gets treated for his wounds, then moved into county jail. I suggest you lawyer up and find someone really good, because New York prisons are overflowing, and you want this man out of your life.”
Dylan nodded. “I’m going to see to it tonight.”
“You do that. Do you have anyone giving you a ride back home, or do you need one?”
“I’ll take her home,” I said.
As soon as they were out of our hair, I snatched Gravity out of Dylan’s arms and crushed her into a hug. I needed to feel the sensation of the little stinker’s heart beating against mine to calm myself down before I got behind the wheel. I couldn’t explain it. It felt like she’d somehow become an extension of me and that any harm that met her was inflicted directly on me.
“Are you okay, little stinker?” I choked out.
Her small head bobbed against my shoulder. Endorphins flooded my bloodstream. They were both fine. Whatever happened, they were safe.
“Good, baby. Were you scared?”
“Naw,” Gravity mewed with false bravado. “I was brave. Tiger-bikers don’t get scared. Rawr.”
I loosened my grip on her, careful not to hurt her with the might of my love for her.
There was no point denying it now. I hadn’t only fallen in love with Dylan Casablancas—I’d also fallen in love with her daughter, with her life, with her universe. I wanted Dylan to let me in, to make me a part of her world. To share with me the magnificence that was her cosmos.
“Of course you were.” I kissed her cheek. “I had no doubt, buddy.”
Gravity pulled back to look at me, her little arms still wrapped around my neck. “Uncle Rhyrand?”
Please call me daddy. I always thought I’d ask her mom to do that, but now I realized I wanted this from Gravity. To take over the space Tucker had left up for grabs.
“Yes, baby?”
“Mr. Mushroom is dead.” Her lower lip curled, and those big, dark blue eyes shone with tears.
I thumbed the hair away from her face. It was matted by the drying blood of her good-for-nothing sperm donor.
“I had to leave him behind.”
“I’m sorry. Did I ruin it for you?” It was only now, when my hand was in front of my face caressing her, that I realized my knuckles were busted and bloodied, my fingers swollen.
“It’s okay.” She caressed me back, her soft, plump hand running over my face. My heart flared in my chest. “You did it to save me, so I forgive you.”
I tucked Gravity inside her seat in my car, fastening her buckle extra-tight.
On the way back home, I threaded my fingers through Dylan’s, and she let me. I didn’t know if it was because of the adrenaline, the way the night had unfolded, or because she forgave me.
“Did you make it to the song ‘Wildest Dreams?’” I asked, bringing her perfect delicate knuckles to my lips and kissing them.
“I did.”
“And how was it?”
“It was perfect.”