Had to Be You: Bad Boys of Red Hook Page 29

  Slater rubbed his chest. Okay, maybe he could feel shame after all. Fuck.

  CHAPTER 22

  Pete had had some rough days as a parent, but the last two were ones for the Guinness Book of Parenting Nightmares, and the future wasn’t looking bright and sunshiny.

  He thought that once the kids were grown and out of the house, his job would get easier. Shit. Was he ever wrong.

  He stared across the bar at Storm and Logan’s desolate faces and cursed the man who had caused his boys so much pain.

  It was bad enough that Slater had to live with it, but telling Storm and Logan made it even worse. Pete would have kept it to himself, but they were grown men—something he kept reminding himself—and they had to be told. Slater needed them. Maybe they’d knock some sense into him. Lord knew, nothing Pete had said worked.

  For the last sixteen years, Pete had prayed every morning that Slater wouldn’t remember, and he’d gotten down on his arthritic knees to thank God every night that Slater hadn’t. Tonight though—if he survived this little shindig—he and God were going to have words.

  Storm looked about ready to hurl. “His father shot him? That scar on his chest is a bullet wound?”

  Pete just nodded.

  Logan sat down hard on the barstool.

  Pete looked at his watch; it was barely ten a.m. Aw, the hell with it, it had to be noon somewhere. He pulled his bottle of Macallan 18 off the top shelf and poured them each four fingers. They were going to need it. He sure as hell did. “Where is Bree?”

  Storm eyed the bottle. “She went with her mother to return the clothes that didn’t fit Nicki.”

  “Good.” Pete slipped his hand into the V of his sweater, pulled out a stogie, and lit it.

  Storm shook his head. “Man, you’re really asking for Bree to come down on you like a woman PMSing and having a bad hair day at the same time—which is exactly the kind of day she’s having.”

  PMS, his ass. The woman was pregnant. Of course, she hadn’t figured that out yet, but he saw the signs. This wasn’t his first rodeo. He’d already started a name-the-birth-date pool with his buddies.

  Storm gave him that I-know-my-woman superior smirk and continued. “It’s gonna get ugly, and don’t think you’re hiding behind me when she comes after you with the cast iron.”

  “Don’t worry about me, son. I’ve been dealing with your wife for a lot longer than you have. I’ve got it down to a science.” Although a pissed-off, pregnant Bree was an unknown. Still, a man deserved a cigar on days like this, dammit.

  Logan was still processing things. The poor kid had no memory of his parents either. He and Slater had that in common at least; now Logan was probably wondering if his father was a homicidal maniac too. This was just getting better and better.

  They each took a belt of scotch.

  Logan stared at the bottom of his glass; Lord only knew what he saw. “Slater’s dad shot his mom in front of him?”

  “Shot her in the head. It was a messy crime scene. It wasn’t even in my precinct but I remember hearing about it. It’s a miracle Slater lived. God was watching over each of you boys.”

  Storm let out a sarcastic laugh but knew better than to say anything.

  “Slater checked himself out of the hospital this morning.”

  A look of surprise widened Logan’s eyes. “Is he upstairs?” He stepped away from the bar.

  “No. He’s staying at the Millennium in Times Square.” Slater told him he couldn’t tell Rocki, but he never said anything about his brothers. “Rocki can’t know or Slater said he’d leave. That means we can’t tell any of the women.”

  Storm looked pissed. Good. “Why in the hell didn’t he just come home?”

  “Because he’s afraid—” Shit. Tears filled Pete’s eyes and his heart broke a little more. “His father lost it and killed Slater’s mother and damn near killed him, but not for lack of trying. He’s not feeling emotionally stable right now, and he’s scared to death he’ll hurt Rocki or Nicki.”

  Storm blanched and sat hard, almost toppling the stool. “God, it’s my fault.” He rested his elbows on the bar and pounded his fists against his forehead. “I accused him of mistreating Nicki. I didn’t know.”

  Pete reached over and grabbed Storm’s joined hands. “Look at me.”

  Storm lifted guilt-filled eyes to his.

  “Slater took it the wrong way. You had no way of knowing how he’d interpret it. It’s not as if you knew his history.”

  “Thanks, Pop, but shit, I can’t let myself off that easily. I crossed the line. I sure as hell knew we didn’t end up in foster care because we came from stellar families.”

  “No, but there aren’t many who have had as bad a time of it as Slater.”

  Storm shook his head, looking paler by the minute. “I’d have given anything to have Nicki for a daughter—both of us would—and there’s Slater. I thought he found out he might be the father of this amazing little girl and a few hours later, runs away to New Hampshire. I was pissed. Nicki deserves better than to have both her parents run out on her.”

  Okay, so maybe Storm deserved a little guilt. “I told Slater to take Rocki home. She was so upset about her brother’s accident, she was in no shape to go anywhere by herself.”

  “Yeah, I got that from Rocki once she stopped chewing on my ass long enough to ream me out.”

  Pete blew out a breath. “So you fucked up. Go out there and talk to him.”

  Logan drained his second scotch. “And say what?”

  “Tell him you’re on his side. For God’s sake, you’ve been there. You two boys know better than anyone what a nightmare the foster system can be. It can’t be that huge a stretch to put yourself in Slater’s shoes. He needs to know you trust him not to go postal. He needs to know that he’s not the monster his father was.” Pop pointed at Storm. “Any more than you’re an abusive husband because your father used you and your mom as a punching bag.” He aimed his finger at Logan. “Or that you’re going to abandon your child because you were dumped by your parents.”

  Storm set his drink down and shot Pete a get real look. “Will he even talk to us? You know how he is. He’s probably got his head so buried in his computer, he won’t notice we’re there.”

  “Shit, boys, I don’t know. I hope to God he listens to you because nothing I’ve said to him can get through that thick skull of his.”

  Storm looked at Logan and both nodded. “Okay, but we’re going to need ammunition.”

  “What’s that?”

  “A bottle of 1812, a bottle of Macallan, and a bottle of Jack.”

  Logan got up and headed toward the storeroom. “Oh, and cover for us with Skye and Bree.”

  Pete smiled and snapped his rag on the bar. “You got it.” He tossed Logan the keys to the storeroom and finished setting up. “I love you boys. Call me if you need me and even if you don’t.”

  • • •

  Slater stuck his key card in the door, dumped his duffel on the bed, and prayed Pop hadn’t forgotten to pack his shaving kit. He needed a shower, a shave, and about ten hours of sleep sans nightmares.

  He tugged the zipper on his duffel, stuffed his hand in to feel around for his ditty bag, and pulled out an accordion file. He saw his name on the cover and opened it. His case file. Shit. He didn’t know if he wanted to kiss Pop or strangle him. He tossed it on the bed, sat beside it and, elbows on knees, tried to breathe. His chest felt as if someone had parked a car on it, and not a smart car either—more like a Hummer.

  He looked at the folder and forced himself to pick the damn thing up. It wasn’t going to get any easier to look at. He opened the thick file and blinked, trying to muffle his inner voice screaming for him to burn it. He felt as if he were standing on the edge of a cliff with a raging wildfire licking his back—he had to either jump onto jagged rocks, or be burned alive. It
was a sucky versus suckier situation. He just wasn’t sure which was which. Still, he couldn’t live in this weird state of limbo because his ass was getting burned either way.

  He dug through the crypt of his life and ignored the ring of his cell phone. He ignored the knock at the door. He ignored the incessant ringing and flashing red light on the room phone. He ignored the fear, the urge to flee, the pain stealing his breath.

  The description of the crime scene had him heaving.

  He was raw and scared and felt as if he were doing his best to exorcise his demons and praying it worked because he couldn’t imagine living through this again. He wouldn’t. He couldn’t.

  He pulled a picture of his momma out of the file and it was as if he was caught in a freeze-frame. He remembered her scent, the sound of her voice, and the way he’d climb onto her lap, lay his head against her breast, and listen to her heartbeat mingling with the sound of her voice while she read him books. He remembered the hugs, the kisses, playing in the park. He remembered having picnics on the kitchen floor in the middle of winter and pretending they were on Coney Island in the summer. He remembered her singing “Baby, Mine” to him every night after they said prayers, and he remembered praying. Praying for his father. Praying his business would survive. He hadn’t understood what that meant, but said the words while he prayed the monster would go away. He remembered when he stopped praying.

  He picked up a copy of the suicide note, not ready to deal with that. The bastard had it planned—that’s all Slater needed to know at the moment.

  The door opened and slammed against the wall and his brothers stormed the room like Ghost Busters.

  Slater dropped the note. “What the hell are you doing here?”

  Logan held up the key card. “Pop had to call his buddy to get us in. Why didn’t you just open the door?”

  “Because I wanted to be alone, you idiot.”

  Storm leaned against the wall holding the suicide note Slater had dropped. “He’s wallowing.”

  “Fuck you!” Slater got in his face, shaking with rage. “Get out.”

  “Make me.”

  Logan put a hip on the dresser, set up a makeshift bar, and poured tequila. “Got any ice?”

  Slater’s head whipped around. “What?”

  “Ice. You know, frozen water.”

  “No.”

  “Fine, I’ll get some.” Logan looked as if Slater hadn’t threatened to rip Storm and him a new one. “Do you want a Coke to go with your Jack?”

  “No, I don’t want a fucking Coke. You need to leave. Both of you.”

  Logan just shook his head like he would to Nicki, refusing to hear her plea to stay up late. “You want us to leave, you’re going to have to make us. It’s two against one.” He smiled and rubbed his hands together. “Should be fun. I don’t have a problem rearranging your face. Again.”

  “You only did it the last time because I allowed it. You couldn’t fight your way out of a wet paper bag.”

  Storm stood behind Slater. “Maybe Logan can’t, but I sure as hell can. So here are your options. We can sit down, have a drink, and talk about this, or Logan and I can beat the crap out of you, sit down, have a drink, and talk about this. Your choice.”

  If he took the two of them on, he could toss them out—after he retrieved the other key—and then have a drink by himself—or a bottle.

  Storm walked around him, “Oh, and Pop asked his friend Jerry to give you a room slated for a remodel in case we break anything.”

  Shit.

  Logan raised an eyebrow. “I’m going to get the ice and maybe we can order room service. I’m kinda hungry. How about you?”

  Storm the human garbage disposal just grinned. “I can eat.”

  Slater fisted his hands so hard, his almost nonexistent nails cut into his palms. “Okay, what’s it going to take to get you guys out of here?”

  Storm crossed his arms and leaned back against the wall, still holding that damn suicide note. “We’ll leave once you prove to us you’re not going to do anything stupid. It might take a bottle of Jack for you to do that.”

  Logan shook his head. “Don’t forget room service. I’m hungry.”

  Storm went over to the bedside table and picked up the phone. “Slater, what do you want?”

  “For you to leave.”

  “I’m talking food.”

  “Nothing.”

  “Okay, I’ll get the usual.” Storm ordered while Logan went to get ice.

  Slater had to get that suicide note away from Storm. If he did, he’d just pick up his duffel and leave. He didn’t need to stay there. But Storm had the note and he knew Slater wouldn’t leave without it.

  Big rare steaks and baked potatoes were delivered. Drinks were poured, and Logan and Storm settled in with their backs to the door. If he was going to leave, he was going to have to go through them and get the note.

  Storm cut into his steak. “So, what’s the deal?”

  “I thought Pop would have told you.”

  “I want to hear it from you.”

  Slater reached over, picked up the file, and handed it to him. “I don’t want to talk about it. You might want to finish eating before you open it—either that, or just stop eating now.”

  Storm raised an eyebrow. “That bad?”

  “I lost my cookies, but then, it could have just been because it was my mother who ended up with her brain matter splattered all over the room.”

  Storm swallowed hard and pushed his food away, crossing his legs and resting the file over his lap.

  Slater just concentrated on his food and tried to forget what his brother would read. If he was going to be drinking, he needed to fill up. He hadn’t had much to eat since yesterday morning. The nurses had tried to get him to eat dinner and breakfast at the hospital but he just couldn’t.

  Slater cut into the perfectly cooked steak and took another bite. His gaze returned to Storm. He looked like one of those guys you see in Central Park impersonating statues—standing so still you can barely see them breathe. They change position and freak out whoever is nearby. One scared the hell out of Nicki when he and Rocki took her to the ice rink to skate.

  Storm hadn’t said a word—unusual for him. Logan had always been the quiet one—Storm, not so much. In the last few minutes Storm’s face took on the characteristics of shrink-wrap. His skin clung to his bones, making him look almost gaunt, his cheekbones standing out in sharp relief, the color seeming to bleed from his face. Slater supposed he should feel sorry for the guy, but he didn’t. No one forced him to look at his file. Storm chose to stick his nose into Slater’s nightmare. He could deal with the consequences.

  “Storm? Are you going to eat the rest of your steak?”

  Storm didn’t answer him; he just pushed his plate farther away.

  Slater stabbed the meat with his fork and brought it over to his own plate. No sense in wasting good food.

  Logan leaned toward Storm, took a closer look at the file, swallowed hard, and pushed his plate away too.

  Slater had eaten his fill and, after a quick look at his brothers, figured it would be safer to 86 the rest of the food before someone spewed. He put the dishes on the room service cart and rolled it out to the hall, wishing he could take off. When he went back in, Storm was looking even worse. “If you’re going to hurl, make sure you hit the can, man.”

  Neither Storm nor Logan said anything. Yeah, that damn file left him speechless too. So maybe they wouldn’t do any talking after all. He wasn’t sure he could handle talking. Not now, not ever, not about this.

  Storm took the picture of his momma out of the file and looked at it for a long time. He handed it to Logan and then put the file away.

  Slater let out a breath.

  Both Logan and Storm stared at the picture.

  He felt weird about them looking at
her like they were. “Her name was Rachel Slater-Shaw.”

  Storm wiped his eyes, looked at her picture, and then back to Slater. “It’s really incredible. You look so much like her. You have her smile, her hair, and Nicki—” He shook his head. “Nicki has her eyes.”

  “Yeah. I think that’s why every time she looked at me it made me feel as if someone was stepping on my grave.”

  “Man, she could be a carbon copy of your mother—just with a darker complexion. You’re going to have your hands full in a few years.”

  Slater had his hands full now. He took one look at that picture and any question of Nicki’s paternity was erased.

  Storm handed Logan the note.

  Slater bit back his anger. “Do you mind? I haven’t even read it yet.”

  Logan didn’t bother looking at him. “How come?”

  “Because he wrote a note. He planned it. It wasn’t like he just went off.” His voice got louder and his brothers watched him as if they were afraid he was going to go postal too. Hell, they should be afraid. The thought that he could scared him to death. He got a grip, crossing his arms to keep from falling apart or breaking something and lowered his voice. “The fucker planned it. He planned to murder Momma and me. I was going to read it . . . eventually. I guess. Then the two of you barged in.” God, he so didn’t want to do this.

  Logan seemed to get a hold of himself. “Do you remember her?”

  “Yeah, I feel as if someone just unlocked something in my head. I remember everything. She liked to sing. I can hear her voice and I even remember how she smelled—she smelled really good. She was fun—she made everything fun. She played with me, let me get as dirty as I wanted. She taught me to make pots out of the clay we fished out of a stream in the park we used to go to. She took me to church a lot. She was always praying—it never did any good. She always tried to protect me, but . . .” They knew what happened. He didn’t need to paint them a picture—they read all about it.

  Logan looked back at the picture. “Your mom loved you.”

  Storm shook his head. “Your mom died protecting you.”