Hot Alphas Page 22

  Nichole had been silly. Strict and silly. Absolutely wonderful.

  So many of those arguments had happened because their dad thought she was too strict.

  Half the fights, though, Tate didn’t even understand what they were about. The last one …

  Something crunched behind him.

  Slowly, he turned, although he already knew who he was going to find behind him.

  His father stood there, wearing the overalls he had to wear at the mechanic shop where he’d worked the past ten years. The words Assistant Manager were embroidered under his name. He’d been an assistant for ten years. At sixty years old, he probably wasn’t going to go any higher.

  “The old shop looks like hell,” Doug said softly, looking past him to glance at the place he’d once taken so much pride in.

  There were so many things Tate could have said.

  So many things he’d already said. Questions he could have asked, maybe questions he should have asked.

  He found himself thinking of what Guy had said … and Ali. Maybe it was just desperate hope that forced him to look at his father. Really look.

  Tired eyes. So much more tired than Tate had ever seen them.

  Tired but kind.

  He’d been angry that night and Tate wanted him to suffer for what he’d said. But people did things, said things in anger. How many ugly words had he forced back inside? How many times had he leashed his anger, afraid of letting it out?

  “Did you kill my mother?” The words ripped out of him, full of desperation, and a son’s need to believe.

  Doug slanted a look at him. Then he sighed, his stooped shoulders rising and falling. “Tate—”

  He closed the distance between them, hands clenched into fists as he glared down at his father. This man, whom he had loved so much, whom he’d looked up to, admired.

  “Trailer trash.”

  “Go on. Get out!”

  “You called her trash,” he said, his voice shaking as years’ worth of rage and grief came spilling out. “You made her cry and you called her trash and you told her to get out. Did you kill her?”

  “No.” Then Doug met his eyes. “But I might as well have. If I hadn’t been so cruel to her, she wouldn’t have left that night. Whatever happened…”

  Tate barely heard the rest of it.

  The word no echoed through him and he spun away, sucking in oxygen. He couldn’t get enough. Couldn’t breathe deeply enough and his heart knocked hard against his ribs.

  “Tate, I’m sorry.”

  Blood roared in his ears and it was forever before he realized his father had moved to stand next to him.

  “It was a fight,” Doug said, his voice level. “I said awful, ugly things that I never should have said and I said things that I know hurt her. I’ll never be able to apologize to her and I’ve accepted that. But I also hurt you all. Saying what I said was wrong. I was wrong and whatever happened to her that night wouldn’t have happened if I’d just shut my fool mouth. Because I couldn’t, because I let anger get the best of me, she left … and you kids had to grow up without your mom. You all lost her because of me.”

  “No. We lost her because somebody took her from us.” Tate closed his eyes, struggled to keep his voice level. “That lies with that bastard, not you. It’s my fault I’ve been blaming you all this time.”

  Then he took off.

  He didn’t look back.

  There was too much crashing inside his head just then, too much noise, too much confusion.

  Underneath all of it, though, he realized something painful.

  He believed him.

  For the first time ever, Tate really believed that his father hadn’t killed their mother.

  But all that did was leave him with more questions.

  If Doug Bell hadn’t killed Nichole … who had?

  * * *

  The storm came blowing in not long after her parents whisked the boys off.

  Her dad hugged her tight, folding her in his arms and asking, “Do I need to beat somebody up?”

  She tried not to sniffle against his chest. They’d had their rough spots, but there were times like this when he proved to be … well, just wonderful. “Won’t help, but thanks for caring.”

  That had been nearly thirty minutes ago and not long after they’d left, the storm had started. The hard, heavy downpour hadn’t let up since.

  Sitting on the porch swing, staring out into the night, she watched as the lightning lit up the sky over the river and she tried not to cry. It was easy to push it all aside when the kids were here. When they were here, she had to be a mom, first and foremost. Sometimes it sucked because as a single mom, she rarely had a free moment just to herself. But in moments like this, it was a blessing in disguise because she didn’t want moments to herself, moments to brood, moments to hurt.

  Moments to think about everything that was never going to happen.

  Sniffling, she focused on the raindrops, told herself they weren’t blurring before her eyes.

  I’m not going to cry because it’s over.

  I’m not going to cry because it’s over.

  I’m not going to cry—

  She hiccupped as a sob broke free.

  Bringing her knees to her chest, she buried her face against them.

  Lost in the hurt, she didn’t hear his footsteps. It wasn’t until he closed his hands around her ankles that she even realized she wasn’t alone.

  Jerking her head up, she stared into Tate’s gaze. His eyes, so dark they were nearly black, bore into hers.

  “Tate…”

  He tugged her legs down and she curled her hands around the edge of the porch swing, her heart slamming against her ribs. He went to lean in and she lifted a hand, pressed it to his chest.

  “Don’t.” Her voice cracked. “I’m not … we can’t do this anymore. I can’t do this anymore.”

  He didn’t seem to realize she’d even spoken as he reached up and closed one hand around her wrist, his thumb stroking against her inner wrist as she continued to press against his chest. “Ali…”

  His heart slammed against her palm and his shirt, soaked by the rain, was no barrier between them. She felt the scalding heat of his skin. Drops of rain clung to his hair and as she stared into his eyes, one of the drops fell, caught on his cheekbone, and rolled down. It hit her wrist and she was surprised it didn’t sizzle, as hot as she suddenly felt.

  It was a heat that echoed deep inside her, down low in her belly and every beat of her heart sent that heat pulsing through her until she thought she might explode.

  The seconds drew out and she took a slow, deep breath. His gaze dropped to her mouth and she had to bite back a moan.

  “Tate, stop,” she whispered, forcing the words out. That hunger continued to pang inside her, making her skin feel tight, hot. She had to curl her fingers into a fist to keep from reaching for him. “I’m tired of only having part of you. I told you. It’s all or nothing and you won’t give me everything—”

  He lifted her hand to his mouth, pressed a kiss to her inner wrist. That gentle caress sent shivers racing through her. Blood started to roar in her ears, so loud it took her a minute to realize he had started to speak.

  “All my life, even from the time I was a kid,” he murmured, his voice slow, smooth as silk. He let go of her wrist, placing both hands on her knees as he continued to speak. “Everybody told me how much I was like my father. His parents, before they died. My mom. Even my sisters saw it.”

  Her heart stuttered.

  Tate rarely spoke of his father, but when he did, there was always a burn of rage in his voice. That wasn’t there now.

  There was only sadness.

  “After Mom disappeared, part of me wanted to believe he hadn’t done it.” He flicked a glance at her. “I really did want to believe it, you know. But I understood that gut-wrenching rage. Because there were things he’d said that made me so angry that I wanted to hurt him. I wanted to go after him and beat the shit out
of him. I didn’t. Because of my sisters. When they were fighting, out in the living room, I was trying to keep Chrissie calm.” His voice skipped, almost broke and he looked down. “She was nine, scared. Confused. Upset. Clinging to me like a monkey. She … hell. You remember how she was? The teachers thought she might be kind of slow, how much trouble she had with school and everything. She did just fine as long as Mom was there. Mom could always calm her down, get her focused and everything. But…” He blew out a breath. “But she didn’t have Mom to calm her down that night. It was just me. We’d been out there, at first, when they started fighting. I don’t even remember what started it, not really. We were watching a movie. Mom got on me about something … and then … bam. It was like a nuclear explosion. They started fighting and I ended up picking up Chrissie, dragging Jensen along with me into my room.”

  Memories clouded his eyes and his voice was soft, almost too soft to hear over the rain. He still had his hands on her knees and he rubbed them up and down, slowly, like he needed the touch, that light, physical contact to stay grounded.

  “Chrissie was shivering, shaking so bad. Every time I went to put her down and go out there, tell them to shut up or chill out, she just squeezed me tighter. I figured I’d let them fight it out. Chrissie needed me and they wouldn’t listen to me anyway. So while my dad was being ugly as hell, I just stayed in the room with the girls and listened. He said the worst things. I’d never heard him talk like that. I hated it.”

  She opened her mouth to say something, but she didn’t know what.

  Tate reached up to brush her hair back. “He didn’t touch her. Dad never lifted a hand to any of us, not even to spank us. Well, except Chrissie. She got her butt swatted more than once. But she was Chrissie. Mom was more likely to do it than Dad, though. With all of us. He always said she was too strict, yelled too much, demanded too much…” He lowered his head, shoulders slumped.

  Unable to stay still, she reached up and pushed her hand through his wet hair. Tate caught her wrist and turned his face into her hand. Her skin shivered as he pressed a soft, gentle kiss to her palm.

  He never stopped speaking.

  It was like the words had been trapped inside, behind a flood wall. That wall had broken and they were spilling out of him now.

  “She yelled. But she loved us. A lot. Dad only yelled when things were really bad.” A scowl twisted his face as he looked away. “If Dad started to yell, we were ready to run for cover. Dad was always the scariest when he was mad. That night…” He stopped, his throat working.

  She could see him fighting with the words.

  “Tate, you don’t have to tell me this,” she said gently.

  “You wanted everything. You wanted all of me. This…” He paused, shifted his gaze to hers, and she saw the hell that lay within. “This is me. All of it.”

  He slid his hands up her thighs, absently kneading her hips. “That fight was a bad one, but I wasn’t really worried, exactly. Not about Mom, not even when she left. She was … tough. If that makes sense. She could look at a person and make them back down. Even that old bastard Theo Miller wouldn’t mouth off long when she told him to shove it. I wasn’t worried when she left. Not at first. But I was pissed at Dad because he made her feel like that. Made her feel so bad she had to leave, even for a while. What he’d said. How he’d said it. He was so fucking ugly and every time I saw him, I wanted to punch him. Chrissie couldn’t sleep, so I thought I’d get her some warm milk—it always helped when Mom gave it to her, so I figured I’d try. I saw him in the living room. He was getting his keys and I just wanted to hit him. Hurt him for saying the shit he’d said. He wouldn’t even look at me. Just left. Didn’t say a word. He came back a little later. Mom hadn’t come home.”

  He closed his eyes and dropped his head to her knee. She reached up and pushed her fingers through his hair.

  “Hours go by. She’s not home. I realize something is wrong. I’m scared, and I’m mad, and getting madder. I could almost understand, then, the things he’d said, how ugly he’d gotten, because I wanted to do the same thing, only to him. I wanted to hurt my father, Ali.”

  She tangled her fingers in his hair. “You were mad, Tate. He’d been unkind to a woman you loved. That’s just how you are.”

  “That’s part of the problem. That’s how I am.” Slowly, he lifted his head and the look in his eyes made her heart skitter in her chest. Burning, full of an intensity that all but stole her breath. “I’m thinking, all this time, that he killed her. Not on purpose maybe. He just caught up with her, or ran into her somewhere. He lost his temper … he was angry, like I was. I’ve always believed that he killed her.”

  His dark eyes bored into hers and he covered her cheek with his hand. “Ali, I’m just like my father. I’ve always worried … if he could do that…”

  Confusion danced across her face and then abruptly, comprehension dawned.

  “Tate.”

  She cupped his face in her hands and leaned in, pressing her lips to his. That soft, light kiss somehow was a balm to the bleeding, gaping hole that was his heart.

  “You stupid, stupid man,” she murmured against his mouth. Then she sighed and pressed her brow to his, slipping from the porch swing to kneel in front of him.

  He curved his arms around her waist. The feel of her was both comfort and torment. Turning his face into her hair, he breathed in the scent of her. Let me fix this …

  “You honestly think that you could hurt me. Is that why you try so hard to keep a distance?”

  Why did he feel so foolish about this now? Foolish, and oddly relieved, as he felt her heart beat against his own. A weight had been lifted off him some time in the past few hours. A weight he’d been carrying around for too long. Maybe even for fifteen years.

  He kept his face buried against her neck. “Intentionally, no. I don’t think I ever would … but a huge part of me…”

  She eased back and covered his cheek with her hand. “Tate. Don’t take this wrong. Because I love you, dearly. But you’re an idiot.” Temper flashed in her eyes and she surged upward so suddenly, she knocked him off balance. He ended up sitting on his ass while she started to pace.

  He shifted around to keep her in his sight as she moved.

  “All this time.” She glared at him as she reached the end of the porch and wheeled around. “For three years, we played friends, all because you’re afraid you’re going to pull some weird Jekyll and Hyde bit?”

  “Jekyll and Hyde?” He climbed to his feet, staring at her while his temper started to kick up inside. Okay, he could take feeling like an idiot, but he’d held back because he wouldn’t risk hurting somebody—hurting her. “You know, this might sound like a fucking joke to you, and maybe I’m being stupid, but I lost my mother. She was our world. Our dad was our rock. And for the longest time, I looked at him and saw only the man who I thought killed her. I saw a man who is just like me.”

  “Did it ever occur to you that you were wrong?” she shouted. “About any of it?”

  “Yes!” He spun away and sucked in a breath, closing his eyes. He moved to the edge of the porch and leaned against it, his weight braced on his hands. Heedless of the pouring rain and the wind, he closed his eyes. “But … shit. I didn’t let myself think about it. Until today.”

  He hadn’t let anger get a foothold in his life, not since he’d lost his mom. He’d blamed her death on anger, after all. When he felt too angry, or too close to slipping there, he funneled all those frustrations into his art, into a hard, driving run … or sometimes, into sex.

  Right then, though, he was caught, hovering between anger, self-disgust, and other emotions he couldn’t name. When Ali came near, he caught her arm and she crashed into his chest, glaring up at him.

  This. He closed his eyes, let himself revel in the feel of her pressed against him.

  Just … this.

  He hadn’t felt whole since she’d walked away.

  And even when they’d been together, he’d held ba
ck. Always.

  This was probably the closest to whole he’d ever been. Slowly, he twined her hair around his fist, holding her gaze with his. “I know it might not make sense,” he said gruffly. “I didn’t let myself think it, because I couldn’t. Even if I was wrong, at least it was an answer. Can you understand that? Do you understand what it’s like … living with that? Not having any answer?”

  Something flickered in her eyes and the tension that had held her rigid drained away. The hands that had been pushing him away curled into the fabric of his shirt and she sighed, gazing up at him. “Yeah. I think I do. You lost your mom—the answer, right or wrong, was something you needed. I get that. But you spent fifteen years blaming the wrong man. You spent fifteen years putting yourself in a box, only letting bits and pieces of yourself out because you were afraid you’d be just like him. You are like him, Tate. He isn’t a killer. He’s just a stubborn, headstrong man.”

  “But that’s part of the problem.” He pressed his brow to hers. “I don’t want to be like him. I don’t want to be the kind of man who’d say things that sent a woman running out in the middle of the night. I don’t…”

  “Tate.” A soft sigh escaped her, ghosting over his lips. “You can have some traits without being him made over. You decide the kind of man you’re going to be. You’re more likely to hurt me by closing me out than by anything you say.”

  Stroking his thumb across her temple, he closed his eyes.

  She smoothed her hands down his shirt and then turned her face into his neck. “You’ve had a rough day. Why don’t you come inside for a while? You can dry off and wait until the storm passes.”

  He lifted his head and looked into her eyes.

  “Then go home?” he murmured.

  Go home …

  Those words set her heart to racing. No. She didn’t want him going home, not at all.

  But she wasn’t throwing herself back out there again unless she knew he was going to be with her.

  “I think you need to look at all of this, and make sure you know what you want,” she said haltingly, staring at the column of his throat. Much safer territory than his eyes. She felt lost every time she did that and if she looked there now and saw the heat and the hunger and the confusion and the love …