Chapter 14
Chapter Fourteen
It takes eighty-five fucking years to get home.
“You can drop me at my house, if you’d rather be alone,” Meg says as I turn down our street.
I force a breath through my nose. “Is that what you want?”
“I’ll be fine,” she says, her chin jutting out.
It would be cute if I wasn’t a walking tornado of feels right now.
If only Trina hadn’t cornered me with her half-baked plan. If only Vance hadn’t tried to touch me.
Fuck!
I came too close tonight. My veins pulsing with venom, the energy coiling up inside me, the rush of adrenaline and desire mixing into a potent fuel. The kind I had to learn to control before it destroyed me and the people I cared about.
I haven’t wanted to hit someone that badly since I stopped fighting for good almost twenty years ago.
“What about your stuff?” I ask.
Was there a part of me that hoped she’d stay at my place a little longer and that’s why I found a hundred excuses not to take her belongings back to her place today?
“I’ll be okay until you’re home again.”
I pull down her driveway and park so my headlights wash over her front door. Since she’s so capable, I let her leverage out of the cab and tuck her crutches under her arms without my help.
“Thank you,” she says without looking at me, and shuts the door.
I watch her swing to her porch, my cold, dead heart cracking a little more for every inch of space that she puts between us.
Once she’s safely behind her door, I back up her driveway and park in mine. Then I head inside. But passing by the guest room, I catch a hint of her scent at the same moment I spot her bag on the bed.
Upstairs, I walk into the bathroom to brush my teeth, but her shampoo bottles are still on the shelf next to the tub. It takes an extraordinary amount of effort not to sweep them from sight. Or throw them against the wall and watch them explode.
It looks like you might actually care about her, so I’ll say this nicely. Be honest with her. Don’t advertise yourself for a role you don’t plan to satisfy.
I need a distraction. Something to get the train back on the tracks.
After shutting off the faucet, I push off the counter and hurry downstairs to the shower.
I’ve barely got the water hot before I’m bracing against the tiles with my cock in my fist. I picture Meg’s tongue flicking down my shaft, imagine the softness of her mouth as she takes me deep. That’s it, shortcake .
But the relief I find when groaning her name as I come lasts only as long as it takes to catch my breath.
I rest my forehead against the shower tiles as the water cascades down my back. There has to be some other cure for this .
Because I’m dangerously close to losing control. I’ve even started bargaining with myself.
Kissing her at the upcoming retirement party like it won’t mean anything.
Beating Vance to a pulp for getting into Meg’s space like she’s mine to protect.
Imagining more moments together like the past two days as if there’s a possibility she could ever want more from me.
Wrong. Wrong. Wrong.
All of these little missteps are proof I’m gunning for a fall.
When I get to work, I almost wish Vance’s car was here so I’d have a reason to be an asshole. He must have done a swap yesterday, or he had vacation time.
At muster, there’s a new face. William Hayes.
Fresh out of the academy. He looks like a younger version of Zach, with the same intense blue eyes and thick dark hair.
I drink in his eager expression and the keen way he’s observing everything without commenting or drawing attention to himself.
As a quarterback, he’s used to calling the shots.
How does he feel stepping into this new role at the bottom of the heap?
“Hayes will be with the engine crew today,” our station chief says as he wraps up our briefing, nodding at me and Scotty.
“Yes, sir,” I reply as Hayes and I lock eyes.
Life as a probie isn’t easy, but if he’s tough like his brother, he’ll do fine.
We tackle the janitorial duties then move to the trucks. Scotty takes Hayes through the crash truck’s checklist while Hickman and I inventory and fill bottles.
“This is a step down from all-American QB,” Hickman says in a low tone while Hayes and Scotty move to the engine .
“I didn’t get that vibe,” I reply. The kid deserves a shot and I plan to make sure he gets a fair one. We might think we know him, but that’s up to him to decide.
“We’ll see how he feels about polishing my boots,” Hickman replies with a snort.
I cut him a stern look. Hazing is against policy. Some crews still do it, but I won’t tolerate that kind of behavior.
Hickman flashes his palms.
We run a series of grueling drills. It’s no surprise that Hayes, former college athlete, barely breathes hard.
In the downtime after lunch, Scotty and I challenge Hayes and Hickman to a game of two-on-two.
We lose miserably thanks to Hayes’ incredible accuracy and speed. I don’t think he breaks a sweat.
We respond to a couple of calls but nothing that gets my heartrate up.
A false alarm fire drill at the high school, a report of a black bear in someone’s back yard, a medical call at a nursing home.
All day I fight the growing ache in my chest and the tug at the edge of my thoughts, like I’ve forgotten something. It’s annoying as fuck.
It’s not like I would have gone home with him.
I stay out shooting hoops after the others go back inside.
Idle time won’t serve me well today. My phone rings several times, but the numbers aren’t in my saved contacts, so they go unanswered.
I think one of the callers is Annaleise, though Meg’s rattlesnake story is now cold, so what could she possibly want?
The other number is a mystery, with an area code I don’t recognize.
Whoever they are, they’ll stop calling. They all do eventually.
Though I’m physically spent when I rack out, sleep doesn’t come easy.
I can’t get Meg out of my mind. That bright laugh of hers.
The way she traps her bottom lip between her teeth when she’s concentrating.
How it felt to caress her forehead and hold her hand when she was scared.
Watching that little gleam of mischief brighten her eyes when she teases me .
What will you do if I’m bad?
I can think of about a hundred answers to that question. Why don’t we start with bending you over my knee? Then we’ll see how long it takes you to beg for my cock.
The next day is a repeat of the first twenty four hours, only with no calls. We drill, share meals, work out, clean, play video games, shoot hoops.
After dinner, I check in with Greta like I always do, but she’s with her friends Cedar and Jenny, so she promises to call me back. When she does, I know she’s at Kelly’s because there’s a toddler babbling in the background.
I press my palm to my sternum and count slowly to three, but the ache spreads through my shoulders and wraps around my spine. It’s inexplicable and frustrating—I don’t want more kids with Kelly, or to go back to our rocky relationship or the torment of what she put me through.
Maybe it’s the reminder that I failed.
Maybe it’s a longing for what I’ll never have.
“Is that your dad?” Kelly calls out. “Can you tell him?—”
Before she can finish her sentence, the click of a door muffles everything.
“Sorry,” Greta says to me. Her bed springs squeak and she sighs.
“How was your day?” I ask to recenter our conversation. I make a note to remind Kelly not to use our daughter as our communication conduit. That’s not her job.
Greta shares some of her day. Hanging out at the swimming dock with her friends.
Rocket pops from the snack shack. No mention of the driving practice she and Kelly were supposed to do.
No surprise, but it irks me. I know the excuse Kelly will use because it’s the same one every time—she’s too busy.
Taking care of her latest meal ticket, a saint named Mike, and his two kids .
We’re wrapping up our call when Greta adds, “Meg’s going back to work next week.”
My skin jolts. “Did you talk to her?”
“She texted me her schedule so I can take care of Kody.”
“She must be feeling better,” I say. That’s good right? She won’t need me.
“Why do you sound sad?”
“Me? Sad?” I scoff. The way we left things after Annaleise’s party has been echoing through my thoughts all day. Why didn’t I go after her? Apologize.
“Now that she’s on the road to recovery you can go back to hating each other.”
My chest pinches. “We don’t hate each other. She’s just easy to irritate.”
“Dad,” she groans.
I’m about to say goodbye when she adds, “She offered to help me with the cheer tryout.”
Dr. Greely calls this conversation-sandbagging. Apparently the teenaged brain needs an entire day to work up to dropping big, complex topics on their unsuspecting parental units. The timing sucks. By this time of the day, my batteries are drained.
But I can rally. “What happened to ‘hard pass’?”
“It might be fun.”
The edge in her tone could mean she’s afraid of my reaction, or she’s not actually sure how she feels about this idea and is testing it out. “You know I’ll support you either way.”
“I know,” she says quickly. It almost sounds defensive. Meaning she’s afraid I’ll judge her. Something I’ve never done and never will do to my daughter. “Did you know Meg’s mom was a cheer coach?” Greta adds.
The framed picture of pigtailed Meg standing between her mom’s legs on the ice rink flashes into my mind. “ I did not.”
“Even if I make the team, I can still turn it down.”
“True.” I choose my words for the next bit carefully. “Have you ever done something like that before?” I lob the neutral question hoping it will entice her immature frontal lobe to wake up and get to work.
“Well, no.” There’s a long silence where I wait for her to try to picture how she’ll confront the cheer coach with news of quitting before she’s had a chance to start. “I guess that would kind of suck.”