The Boy I Grew Up With
Page 58
Now we were in Channing’s truck, heading to his house. He was behind the wheel with Rebecca beside me in the back, and Congo in the front seat.
The guys remained silent on the drive back, until Rebecca spoke up. “If only I’d put the brooch on you after all, and not that other guy.” She cradled her head in her hand. “I thought the guys would want to keep tabs on him, and I gave you my phone to show you since I was helping Congo. When I pinged my phone and found it on the street, I knew something was wrong. Horribly, horribly wrong.”
“Becca,” I grunted, giving her preferred name a try for once. “Nothing’s your fault. I only got away because of you.”
She flicked a hand over her face, wiping away tears. She sniffled. “Really?”
I nodded, or tried to. The painkillers were kicking in. I was starting to feel like I was strapped in to a roller coaster.
“When I was out there, and Richter’s guys were climbing up to get me, I thought I’d have to go higher than them. And I couldn’t do it. I started to slip, and I thought I was going to die, but then I thought to myself, What would Becca do?” I grinned. “WWBD, man.”
She smiled back. “You’re messing with me.”
“I’m not. I’m really not.” It hurt to laugh. Well, that and it felt like the roller coaster had just tipped upside down. “I realized you wouldn’t climb. You’d think of some other way to get out of the situation, so I broke it down. I wanted them to leave, and I thought about what would make them leave. You guys weren’t going to get there in time, so I needed something else. And I thought: the police. Cops would make them run ASAP.”
“Yeah?”
“So I pulled my phone out, put on that police siren alarm, and hit a timer so it’d go off in a minute and get louder. Then I chucked my phone.”
I remembered worrying that the phone might break, that it wouldn’t work.
I worried the alarm wouldn’t work.
That minute was the longest—well, not in my life, but it took forever.
I felt myself grinning again. “When that alarm went off, I almost started crying. I slipped on the tree and fell a little bit, but they didn’t even notice.”
The alarm had been soft at first.
“They didn’t hear it at first. Then it got louder and they started hearing it.”
“Wait! What was that?”
“Oh fuck.”
“Cops!”
“That alarm got louder and louder, and they bolted out of there.”
“Hey!” One of the climbers had begun swearing. “Wait for us!”
“They left the two guys who were climbing for me.”
“You’re not far up. Just cut the rope and bolt,” the first had said as he did just that.
Both dropped almost at the same time.
“They took off after the rest. I’ve never heard more guys squealing.”
“What about Richter?” Congo asked, turning around to look at me.
I shook my head, still smiling. “He was the first to go.”
45
Channing
I smelled the cigarette before even nearing the front door.
Heather was on the porch, the screen door open, and it was three in the morning. She had wanted to come back to her house, so after dealing with some business at the warehouse, we’d headed here.
Richter was back.
The Peter was back.
It seemed like nothing had changed.
Manny’s parking lot was bare, for once, and all the lights were off. They usually kept one light on for the lot, in case anybody had to return for a car, but all of it was dark now. I knew that was Heather’s doing.
I stopped just inside the screen door before going outside.
I didn’t make a sound. I never did, but it didn’t matter. She knew I was there. She remained quiet, just like me. There was no specific reason except maybe to take a breath, to prepare myself.
They’d taken her. And the they was interchangeable—could’ve been Richter, could’ve been the Peter, could’ve been the con man. They could’ve been any other enemies we had or would have.
But she was here.
She was safe.
She was pissed, wounded, and exhausted, but she was here.
Moment done.
I felt ready to do this, and pushing open the door, I looked to the side.
Heather sat in her rocking chair, one foot propped up on the bench beside her, a blanket wrapped around her so one shoulder was exposed. Her tiny tank top strap was hanging off her shoulder, her clavicle a bit more pronounced than normal, giving me a nice shot to the goods. If it was possible, she looked tinier to me. Smaller. More vulnerable. But I knew most of that was a mirage. If Heather went up against a cliff, it wouldn’t land her on her ass. She’d figure a way to scale the bitch and then proclaim it was hers at the top.
Her hair was pulled up in a loose ponytail, some free strands framing her face, and she had a cigarette between two of her fingers.
“Don’t judge. I was kidnapped. That warrants a smoke.”
Her voice was hoarse, but it wasn’t the smoking.
I went over, scooped her up, and deposited her back down on my lap. She didn’t even tense. She just held her cigarette up and out the way, then waited until I was comfortable before rearranging the blanket around herself, one end laying over my leg, and relaxing against my chest. Her head rested on my shoulder, and I put a hand over her forehead, stroking her hair.
She loved that. Always had.
“I loved you when you were eight years old,” I murmured.
Her chest and shoulders moved from her laugh. “That’s not possible.” She brought the cigarette to her lips, inhaling the last bit of it.
She held it out to the side, and I took it from her, grinding it out before flicking the bud into the metal can she had on the floor. My arm went back around her, sliding under her blanket and settling on her stomach. She had her pajama shorts on, and a few of my fingers slipped underneath the waistband, resting there.
“It is.” I nipped her exposed shoulder, just a small pinch from my lips.
Heather’s throaty laugh had my dick sticking right up now.
She’d just been through a nightmare, and I was having to refrain from sliding my hand down between her legs, dipping my fingers into her, and taking it from there. But no. The doc said she needed to rest, and the sex I wanted right now wasn’t soft, gentle, or anything close to making love. I just wanted her, and I wrestled to stamp down the need to own her, claim her, and make sure nothing bad ever happened to her again.
It was primal.
I had to ball my hand into a fist, resting it tight on my leg.
“What’s wrong?” Heather was no longer relaxed. She was tense—she was responding to me.
Get yourself under fucking control, asshole.
I expelled a deep breath and forced myself to relax. Letting the fist go, I slid my arm around her from the other side, hugging her for a moment before brushing my fingers against her inner thigh.
“Nothing. I’m good.”
“You’re not good. You’re telling me you were in love with me when I was eight.”
I laughed, catching her ear with my lips now. I felt her shiver as I said, “I was. It was the best kind, when we were kids. I just wanted to pick on you all the time. I didn’t care about other girls.”
She snorted a laugh. “That right? What happened junior year?”
Junior year.
How could I explain that to her?
I had to. It was time, and I could only hope she didn’t hate me.
The guys remained silent on the drive back, until Rebecca spoke up. “If only I’d put the brooch on you after all, and not that other guy.” She cradled her head in her hand. “I thought the guys would want to keep tabs on him, and I gave you my phone to show you since I was helping Congo. When I pinged my phone and found it on the street, I knew something was wrong. Horribly, horribly wrong.”
“Becca,” I grunted, giving her preferred name a try for once. “Nothing’s your fault. I only got away because of you.”
She flicked a hand over her face, wiping away tears. She sniffled. “Really?”
I nodded, or tried to. The painkillers were kicking in. I was starting to feel like I was strapped in to a roller coaster.
“When I was out there, and Richter’s guys were climbing up to get me, I thought I’d have to go higher than them. And I couldn’t do it. I started to slip, and I thought I was going to die, but then I thought to myself, What would Becca do?” I grinned. “WWBD, man.”
She smiled back. “You’re messing with me.”
“I’m not. I’m really not.” It hurt to laugh. Well, that and it felt like the roller coaster had just tipped upside down. “I realized you wouldn’t climb. You’d think of some other way to get out of the situation, so I broke it down. I wanted them to leave, and I thought about what would make them leave. You guys weren’t going to get there in time, so I needed something else. And I thought: the police. Cops would make them run ASAP.”
“Yeah?”
“So I pulled my phone out, put on that police siren alarm, and hit a timer so it’d go off in a minute and get louder. Then I chucked my phone.”
I remembered worrying that the phone might break, that it wouldn’t work.
I worried the alarm wouldn’t work.
That minute was the longest—well, not in my life, but it took forever.
I felt myself grinning again. “When that alarm went off, I almost started crying. I slipped on the tree and fell a little bit, but they didn’t even notice.”
The alarm had been soft at first.
“They didn’t hear it at first. Then it got louder and they started hearing it.”
“Wait! What was that?”
“Oh fuck.”
“Cops!”
“That alarm got louder and louder, and they bolted out of there.”
“Hey!” One of the climbers had begun swearing. “Wait for us!”
“They left the two guys who were climbing for me.”
“You’re not far up. Just cut the rope and bolt,” the first had said as he did just that.
Both dropped almost at the same time.
“They took off after the rest. I’ve never heard more guys squealing.”
“What about Richter?” Congo asked, turning around to look at me.
I shook my head, still smiling. “He was the first to go.”
45
Channing
I smelled the cigarette before even nearing the front door.
Heather was on the porch, the screen door open, and it was three in the morning. She had wanted to come back to her house, so after dealing with some business at the warehouse, we’d headed here.
Richter was back.
The Peter was back.
It seemed like nothing had changed.
Manny’s parking lot was bare, for once, and all the lights were off. They usually kept one light on for the lot, in case anybody had to return for a car, but all of it was dark now. I knew that was Heather’s doing.
I stopped just inside the screen door before going outside.
I didn’t make a sound. I never did, but it didn’t matter. She knew I was there. She remained quiet, just like me. There was no specific reason except maybe to take a breath, to prepare myself.
They’d taken her. And the they was interchangeable—could’ve been Richter, could’ve been the Peter, could’ve been the con man. They could’ve been any other enemies we had or would have.
But she was here.
She was safe.
She was pissed, wounded, and exhausted, but she was here.
Moment done.
I felt ready to do this, and pushing open the door, I looked to the side.
Heather sat in her rocking chair, one foot propped up on the bench beside her, a blanket wrapped around her so one shoulder was exposed. Her tiny tank top strap was hanging off her shoulder, her clavicle a bit more pronounced than normal, giving me a nice shot to the goods. If it was possible, she looked tinier to me. Smaller. More vulnerable. But I knew most of that was a mirage. If Heather went up against a cliff, it wouldn’t land her on her ass. She’d figure a way to scale the bitch and then proclaim it was hers at the top.
Her hair was pulled up in a loose ponytail, some free strands framing her face, and she had a cigarette between two of her fingers.
“Don’t judge. I was kidnapped. That warrants a smoke.”
Her voice was hoarse, but it wasn’t the smoking.
I went over, scooped her up, and deposited her back down on my lap. She didn’t even tense. She just held her cigarette up and out the way, then waited until I was comfortable before rearranging the blanket around herself, one end laying over my leg, and relaxing against my chest. Her head rested on my shoulder, and I put a hand over her forehead, stroking her hair.
She loved that. Always had.
“I loved you when you were eight years old,” I murmured.
Her chest and shoulders moved from her laugh. “That’s not possible.” She brought the cigarette to her lips, inhaling the last bit of it.
She held it out to the side, and I took it from her, grinding it out before flicking the bud into the metal can she had on the floor. My arm went back around her, sliding under her blanket and settling on her stomach. She had her pajama shorts on, and a few of my fingers slipped underneath the waistband, resting there.
“It is.” I nipped her exposed shoulder, just a small pinch from my lips.
Heather’s throaty laugh had my dick sticking right up now.
She’d just been through a nightmare, and I was having to refrain from sliding my hand down between her legs, dipping my fingers into her, and taking it from there. But no. The doc said she needed to rest, and the sex I wanted right now wasn’t soft, gentle, or anything close to making love. I just wanted her, and I wrestled to stamp down the need to own her, claim her, and make sure nothing bad ever happened to her again.
It was primal.
I had to ball my hand into a fist, resting it tight on my leg.
“What’s wrong?” Heather was no longer relaxed. She was tense—she was responding to me.
Get yourself under fucking control, asshole.
I expelled a deep breath and forced myself to relax. Letting the fist go, I slid my arm around her from the other side, hugging her for a moment before brushing my fingers against her inner thigh.
“Nothing. I’m good.”
“You’re not good. You’re telling me you were in love with me when I was eight.”
I laughed, catching her ear with my lips now. I felt her shiver as I said, “I was. It was the best kind, when we were kids. I just wanted to pick on you all the time. I didn’t care about other girls.”
She snorted a laugh. “That right? What happened junior year?”
Junior year.
How could I explain that to her?
I had to. It was time, and I could only hope she didn’t hate me.
