Nuclear Heat (Firework Girls #4) (19 page)

When I open the door to Sam’s house, the scene almost looks normal at first. She’s sitting on one end of the couch, and he’s on the other. It could be any cozy family get-together, anywhere in the world. But she’s unnaturally still and slightly wide-eyed and he is a dark presence seeping through the entire room.

She gives me a look of shock and relief, but it washes over her in the space of a heartbeat, then is gone. I’ve seen her plenty freaked out over the past few weeks, but this is fear of a different flavor. My adrenaline’s been racing since I got her text, but just the sight of her triggers that primitive thing that dwells deep inside of all decent men.

I make my decision in an instant.

“Get your purse, Sam,” I say. Head down, she hops up. Arms tight by her side, she hurries past me and down the hallway toward her bedroom. I set my eyes on the man on her couch.

So this is Sam’s dad.

Here’s what I know about this guy. When he was still married to Sam’s poor mom, he got busted for his first DUI and spent a few months in the county jail. Sam was only seven. When she was ten, he got into the kind of one-car accident only drunks are capable of, securing himself his second offense. Except this time, Sam was in the car with him. She has a scar on the backside of her left arm from getting gashed by the window that busted out during the crash. She was lucky to walk away with no more than that cut and a handful of bruises. Having his ten-year-old daughter in the car while driving drunk bumped up the charges from a misdemeanor, second-offense DUI to a felony with child endangerment. Instead of the county jail, he went to prison for six years, which isn’t half of what he deserved.

Sam hasn’t seen hide nor hair of him for most of her adult life, and damn near half of her childhood, too. But every time he shows up, it’s some sort of shit storm. There was an incident her senior year of high school, a few months after he got out of prison, that I’m not too clear on. He got into an altercation with Sam’s mom, apparently, and Sam was there to witness the whole thing. Thank god her grandmother came home. Sam’s take-no-shit-from-nobody grandmother called the police, but it sounds like she kicked his sorry ass out herself so the police didn’t have much to do once they got there. I have no idea how she did it. Sam’s mother apparently could’ve, and should’ve, pressed charges, but refused. Sam won’t talk much about that day—one of the few things she doesn’t discuss with me—so I can only imagine what the fuck really went down.

Then there was the time he showed up when we were all still in college. I wasn’t there for it, but the girls saw. Isabella ended up escorting Sam to class with her asshole father following along, acting like he thought he had a right to be there. Then he disappeared like he does and that’s been that. Isabella told me how Sam had reacted to the whole thing, but I couldn’t for the life of me picture the frightened, intimidated Sam that Isabella had described.

As far as I’m concerned, the only thing this sorry excuse for a man did right was this: he brought Sam into the world.

Under normal circumstances, that’d be enough to deserve my respect. I’ll make an exception in this case.

“Who are you?” he asks, scrunching his face into a look of detached derision. He strikes me as one of those guys whose default facial expression is to look at you like you’re an idiot.

“I’m here to pick Sam up,” I say calmly. So get the fuck out.

He gives a harsh bark of a laugh. “Yeah? Where you kids think you’re going?” He’s slurring his words just slightly. He’s taking in my clothes. I’m in slacks, a button-down shirt, and a tie. I left the conference right in the middle of a session about hackers and firewalls.

“We’re going to dinner,” I answer.

“Doesn’t that sound nice,” he says. The glass in his hand is half full of what looks like whiskey, but he throws it back and it’s gone in two seconds flat. Then he looks at me levelly. “I’m hungry. I could eat.”

But he doesn’t move and I don’t think he really wants to come. Based on his hit and run actions of the past, I think all I need to do is get Sam away from him and he’ll slink back into whatever slimehole he calls home and she won’t see him again for a while. No, I think he’s just trying to measure me up.

I debate whether it’d be better to try to get him to leave, or just get Sam out of here and be done with it. I don’t know if he’d get into anything with me—weak men who abuse women and children don’t always have the balls to stand up to anyone else—but he looks like he might.

He’s a short guy, maybe five foot six. I can see where Sam got her height, or lack of it. But he’s one of those little guys who try to make up for it in muscle. He’s scrappy and tough-looking. He probably knows some good holds, and I imagine he had plenty of opportunity to polish up his fighting skills in prison.

But I doubt he’s half as pissed as I am, so I still think I could take him.

The bigger issue is what that would do to Sam. She doesn’t need another high-octane experience with this guy. As she hurries back down the hallway, looking for all the world like a terrified little girl, I realize I just need to remove her from the situation as quickly as I can.

The best response to this guy’s needling is no response. I maintain eye contact and hold my ground. “Sam, come on,” I say, holding out my arm and gesturing with my hand. She hurries to my side. I put my arm protectively around her, but my eyes are on her dad, who’s giving me a hard look now.

Yeah, he’s definitely not a guy who’s afraid to get physical.

“Hey,” he says, gruffly, apparently realizing I’m taking Sam whether he approves or not. “I came here to see my daughter.”

Too fucking bad,
I think. “We’re meeting some people,” I say, opening the front door and hustling her out in front of me.

“She ain’t dressed for it,” he says snidely, but I don’t respond.

I don’t say, “It was nice to meet you.”

I don’t say, “You can talk to her later.”

I don’t bother trying to mask the situation with any bullshit pleasantries because I realize it’s pretty obvious I’m escorting her away from him. I can’t stomach even
pretending
it was nice to meet him or that it’s okay for him to contact her later. It’s not. He needs to be out of her life forever, as far as I’m concerned.

He’s starting to get off the couch, and I’d fucking love to have a go at him, but my priority is Sam. I shut the door hard and follow her, catching up with long, smooth strides.

She’s hurrying down the sidewalk, shoulders hunched. I put my hand on her lower back. We’re almost to the truck when I hear the front door open behind us.

“Jack,” she says, and my heart breaks at the terror in her voice.

“It’s okay,” I say.

“Hey!” her dad hollers. I open the passenger door for Sam while giving a quick glance over my shoulder. He’s hovering in the open door, scowling but not coming after us. That’s a good sign, but I keep my eyes hard on him anyway as she scrambles in and I shut the door.

I go around to the driver’s side, and before I get in I hear his parting words: “Fuck you, hot shot!”

Nice.

Clenching my jaw, I start the truck and peel away. Now that we’re out of the worst of it, my heart’s banging so hard against my ribs it’s painful. I’m gripping the steering wheel and wishing I had something to pound. Fucking asshole.

I glance over at Sam. One look at her, and I start to soften, my anger slipping away in hot rivulets as concern for her takes over. “Hey.” She’s clutching her arms in front of her chest and staring out the windshield with a far-away, frightened look.

“God, you’re shaking.”

She doesn’t respond at all. I examine my rearview mirror to make sure Sam’s dad isn’t following us, then turn onto a side street and pull over. “Come here, honey,” I say, sliding over. She instantly comes to me, crawling right onto my lap and clinging to me.

In the next instant she’s sobbing, tearing my heart right out of my chest. She clutches herself to me like she’s drowning. Panicked cries shudder through her body.

“You’re safe, honey,” I say, cradling her. “He’s gone. You’re safe. It’s okay.”

But nothing seems to soothe her. Cars rush by, shaking the truck as we’re momentarily caught in their airstreams, and Sam just keeps crying. All I can do is hold her. There’s nothing I can do to make her pain go away. It’s the most helpless feeling I’ve ever experienced.

After what seems like forever, she starts to settle. Her muscles aren’t clenched as tight, but her arms are still hard around me and her head is tucked firmly against my chest. Her crying has settled into sniffling and the occasional, shuddering breath.

Suddenly she lifts her head and says, “What if he’s still in my house?” She’s breathing hard, starting to panic again.

“Shh, shh. Let’s have someone go by and see.”

“Not the girls,” she says quickly, as if she’s terrified he’d do something to them.

“I’ll send Shane, okay? All he has to do is drive by.”

She doesn’t agree, but she doesn’t protest either, huddling back against my chest. Keeping one arm around her, I make a quick phone call to Isabella, but I ask to talk to Shane. Once he’s on the phone, I divulge as little as I can while still explaining the situation.

“Tell him not to take Bella,” Sam says urgently.

“Sam would rather Isabella not go over there,” I say.

“Is he dangerous?” Shane asks, surprised.

I glance at Sam, watching me. “I’d steer clear of him to be safe. Just let us know if he’s left or not.”

We sit there in silence, waiting, cars still whizzing by. Part of me thinks we need to get back on the road, but the rest of me knows I need to wait. Sam’s still clinging to me. She’s not going to even begin to unclench until she knows that asshole is out of her house.

And if he’s not? I start running through the options. I’m pretty sure he’ll leave, but if he’s decided to wait around, we may have to take other steps. I think about what that additional drama would do to Sam, and just pray he cut and run like he usually does.

At one point she says, “I’m scared to go home.”

“You can come home with me, honey.” Obviously.

It feels like forever before Shane calls back. “He’s gone,” he tells me. “His bike wasn’t out front, but I checked the house to make sure he wasn’t in there. Everything looks in order. We locked it up.” I hope Sam didn’t hear the ‘we’ part, because she’ll figure out Isabella went anyway, like I knew she would. Thank god Bella has a key so they could lock the bolt. Not that I think it’s likely he’ll come back. Chances are, Sam won’t see her father again in years.

But that’s not really my biggest concern.

My biggest concern is what she does with herself in the meantime. Because I had no idea she had a wound that ran this deep.

By the time I get her back to my house, she’s settled into a grim sort of silence. I get her to eat a little bit, but she won’t talk. She just crawls up next to me on the couch and stares into space as I hold her.

It’s a little frightening.

Eventually we get ready for bed, but it feels like we’re just going through the motions. She doesn’t look like she can sleep. Neither could I. It’s only when the lights are out, and we’re under the covers, and she’s huddled against my chest, that she starts to talk low and quiet.

“When I was little,” she says, “he had this cigar box on his nightstand.”

Then she stops. For a moment, the silence we’ve felt all evening falls against us again, draping over our skin.

When she goes on, her voice is so soft I have to strain to hear her.

“I liked to look inside it even though I knew I wasn’t supposed to. I don’t know why. There wasn’t anything in it but pennies and his silver lighter and some old receipts.”

She pauses again. I’m still, waiting for her.

“One day he caught me looking at it. I think I was... I don’t know... five maybe. I remember him storming up to me. So big. I was terrified. I’ve always wondered what happened after that. I don’t remember.”

I pull my arms around her tighter. She takes a deep breath and goes on.

“Do you know what I hate most about that night my senior year? After he got out of prison?”