Chapter 8
Eight
DECK CHANGED into a T-shirt and PJ bottoms and crawled into bed. He glanced at the clock. Half past one. His body—exhausted. His mind—reeling.
His dad was alive. His mind should be blown, but somewhere in the back of it, he’d always wondered if the explosion had been just another of their dad’s cons.
The ultimate con—death. But he hadn’t stayed with it.
Why? Not because of any of them. Because of Bristol getting in “too deep.” Their dad risked life and limb to save her, no doubt from a con of her own making.
His hand on his chest, Deck whooshed out an exhale.
Not only that, but Art had led the strong possibility of danger straight to them by coming to their property. Their home. Deck shook his head. Their dad hadn’t changed—just as selfish and uncaring as always.
Before coming back inside, Deck had asked Christian to keep the threat of danger between them.
He didn’t want Riley, and definitely not Harper, worrying over something that may not even materialize into a problem.
But if Big Max did come to interrogate them, they’d have nothing to give and, knowing Big Max, that wouldn’t suffice.
But the excruciating pain Harper was obviously in was of far more urgency and importance. He was utterly useless to fix it for her, and that killed him. If only . . . He cut off the thought. He’d been helpless with Riley as a kid and now with Harp. Why couldn’t he help those he loved most?
He’d understood he cared deeply for Harper before she’d left on her trip.
More so than any woman before. But when he’d seen her on his doorstep—beaten and bruised—he’d been overwhelmed with love for her, and it hadn’t ceased.
He’d tried to convince himself it was out of friendship, but he knew better.
He loved Harper. But one, romantic love was the last thing she needed now—she could barely be within five feet of him and healing was more important.
And two, even if she was ready, he doubted she felt the same way.
She treated him like a friend. A good one, but a friend all the same. Always had.
Although . . . she’d come to the ranch. To him. She trusted him enough to come, even while terrified. If he got his hands on whoever did this to her . . .
The burning scream for justice and yearning for revenge rent his chest, but both were out of his reach until she talked about what happened. But clearly she wasn’t even close to being ready, and he wouldn’t push. Just like she hadn’t pushed about his dad.
But the longer it took to learn who’d done that to Harper, the further they slipped from his grasp.
He wanted to hurt whoever had harmed her.
Whoever had hurt her more than the bruised surface told.
Her level of trauma didn’t come from bruises alone.
Again, if he ever got his hands around their necks . . .
While he’d experienced trauma of his own, it wasn’t the same. Besides, he managed to keep those horrid memories in a sealed box in his head. He could control them if they stayed in the box. But if they ever crept out, he was in trouble.
Harper. He let his thoughts drift back to her.
Just as they’d grown close, she’d left on her three-month humanitarian trip.
Left what they were building between them.
Left him. It was clear she didn’t want to take things further.
Even their calls throughout her stay overseas were casual, friendly.
Definitely not deep. Then his calls went unanswered.
He’d tried several times and gotten nothing but static. Now he understood why.
Rolling over, he prayed. Please, Father, return Harper’s joy.
She was the most vibrant woman I’ve ever met.
So full of life. And now . . . she’s a shadow of herself.
I don’t know the extent of what happened to her, but I do know the bruises make me hunger for revenge.
I know that’s not my place, but it burns within me.
He rolled back over. Not willing to let go of that yet.
Please heal Harp. Bring the joy back to her eyes and let me be what she needs me to be. I’ll give all I have just to see her smile return.
At half past two, he rolled onto his back, his eyes finally drifting shut as a prayer for Harper to sleep well slipped off his lips.
Darkness surrounded him. . . .
“Please!” Riley cried from the doorway—her eyes rimmed red, her cheeks raw with streaks of tears. “Please stay!”
Deck stood beside his young sister at the window, gazing at their teenage sister walking across the motel’s busted up parking lot without a backward glance. . . .
Deck held Riley’s trembling hand and led her to the couch. It sunk beneath their weight, the worn springs creaking. He pulled the dingy, threadbare blanket over her seven-year-old body.
Eight days and counting . . .
Were their parents ever coming back? What would happen when the motel staff figured out it was just kids in the room? He wished he could scoop Riley up and take her out of this place, but where would they go? How would they survive on their own with no money?
The doorknob jiggled, and Deck jumped to his feet as the door clanked inward—getting held up by the chain.
“Who put that stupid thing in place?” Mom snapped. She banged the door against the chain. “Open up. You hear me? Open up or I’ll tan your hide with my shoe.”
He sprinted, tripping over the coffee table. But he managed to get the chain off before she busted the door open and came after him with her spiked heel again.
She stumbled in, a cigarette in her hand—the ashes teetering on the end. “About time.” She narrowly missed the coffee table, swerving toward the couch at the last minute, flinging her purse across the floor.
Dad staggered in, took one long look outside, then shut the door behind him. Leaning against it, he slithered to the floor. He laughed, and Mom joined him. Then she turned.
Deck held his breath. Not Ri.
“What has you so mopey?” she asked, tipping Riley’s chin up with her long pink nails. “You’re in a beautiful hotel room!”
Try disgusting.
“You’re lying there on your lazy bum watching television while I’ve been out working.
Well, it’s your time to help out.” She took the edge of the blanket Ri was rolled up in and, with both hands, jerked the fabric toward the floor.
Ri went spinning, landing hard on the paper-thin carpet covering the concrete floor.
Riley’s bottom lip poked out.
Deck tensed—every muscle in his twelve-year-old body coiled.
Mom heaved Riley up from under her armpits, dragging her toward the door. “Come on, kid. Time to get to work.”
Tears bit at Deck’s eyes, but he didn’t cry. He’d learned years ago it only spurred them on. He rushed forward. “Take me instead.”
His mom turned. “You?”
“Yes. I’ll go. I’ll do a good job. Just take me.” Please.
Her dark brown eyes bore into him, then a smile curled her lips and laughter erupted through them. “You outgrew your usefulness years ago, but . . .” She looked toward his father. “Soon, you’ll be of use again. Ain’t that right, Art?”
Dad simply smiled.