Cold Hard Truth

  Max knew what that felt like. He’d give anything for his pain not to be up for public conversation. Maybe even Emmie had heard about Jade by now, though she’d never ventured to ask him about it. Yeah, privacy was obviously important to her. Maybe that’s why she’d shut down his more public advances.

  “Your secrets are yours to share,” Max said. “They’re safe with me, but what about you?”

  “Me?” she asked, oblivious to his question.

  “Yeah, are you safe?” Secrets were one thing, but could she keep herself safe when he wasn’t around? “Do you know any self-defense?”

  The corners of her mouth turned up. “I thought you were planning on taking down all the bad guys.”

  “Is this a joke to you?” How could she make light of this? That was exactly the attitude that would get her in trouble.

  She flushed. “No. Of course not.”

  “Stand up.”

  “What?” She sat up tall and rigid in her chair.

  “I said, stand up.”

  “Okay.” She pushed her chair back slowly, letting it scrape on the floor. Then she got to her feet. So did Max.

  “Now come at me,” Max said.

  “What?”

  “Quit saying ‘what’ and do what I say. Come at me. Slow motion.”

  She moved toward him, one eyebrow arched, her curly hair framing her face.

  “You’re small.” The corners of his mouth tipped up. “You won’t overpower anyone. You need to surprise them. So as they come near you…Will you let me touch you?”

  Emmie nodded, and Max wrapped his hands around her upper arms. “When they come near you, don’t push away. They’ll be prepared for that. Instead, let them pull you closer, and as they do, bring your knee up.”

  She grabbed his shirt at the shoulders and pretended, rather convincingly, to knee him in the nads. “Like this?”

  Max jerked back, but she stuck close. Very close. Close enough for him to smell her shampoo and count the freckles on the bridge of her nose.

  “Yeah, like that,” he whispered. God, he wanted to kiss her. Her face was turned up to his. Questioning. Did she want him to? He couldn’t tell, and he didn’t want to make a mistake. Or lose a testicle.

  He swallowed and glanced down at her lips, and he felt her tense in his arms. Yeah, bad idea.

  “And if that doesn’t work?” she whispered.

  He stepped back. “Go to plan B.”

  “Which is?” The corner of her mouth torqued with skepticism.

  “Play dirty. Bite. Scratch. Go for the eyes.” Max reached out and touched the side of her arm, testing the limits of their new familiarity. “Remember that first hockey game you went to?”

  “The one where you nearly killed that guy?”

  Max closed his eyes for a second. “Thanks for reminding me. I was actually asking if you remembered what happened right before that.”

  “Um…one of your friends went down? Everyone in the stands was super pissed.”

  “Yeah. The other player slashed Chris behind the knees with his stick. It’s a weak spot. Brought Chris right down, and he’s a big guy. Plan B, I want you to go for the knees.”

  Emmie nodded seriously, as if she were taking her marching orders. Max could have kissed her right then. God knows, he still wanted to. He pulled off his knit cap and held it front of him so she wouldn’t see just how much he wanted to.

  That’s when the back door was flung open.

  Max whipped around, blocking Emmie and immediately on defense. A tall, thin man with graying hair stood inside the doorway, his panicked eyes darting from Max to Emmie and back to Max.

  “Who the bloody hell are you? Whose jeep is that?” he asked in a thick accent.

  “Dad, settle down.” Emmie pushed past Max to position herself between him and her dad. “It’s okay.”

  “Like hell it is,” he said.

  Did Emmie’s dad already know about her car? Max backed up against the stove. Emmie walked across the floor toward the door and closed it. “Dad, I—”

  “Did you talk to your aunt Bridget?” he asked, glancing warily at Max again. What was that accent? English? Irish? He sounded like a badass Harry Potter.

  Emmie shook her head a little bit. “No.”

  “Someone tore open the screens on her porch and threw this inside.” He held open his palm, revealing a bikini-clad plastic torso. “Is this what I think it is?”

  “Oh,” she said, her face going pale. “Someone took it out of my car.”

  A vein was starting to pop in the center of her dad’s forehead. Emmie didn’t seem scared of him.

  “Does he have anything to do with this?” her dad asked, leveling Max with a look that Max thought was supposed to crush his balls.

  “No, Dad. Don’t be ridiculous. Why would he be here if he trashed my car?”

  Her dad’s eyebrows shot up. “Someone trashed your car? Excuse me, but I think I’m entitled to be ridiculous when your safety is at issue.”

  Max liked him immediately.

  “This is Max Shepherd. He gave me a ride home. He’s just a friend from school.”

  Max ignored the word just. She was definitely not just his friend from school.

  “I wanted to make sure Emmie got home safely…um…sir. We found more doll parts here.”

  Her dad glanced down at the table, and the vein was officially popped. “Son…”

  “Max.”

  “Max, thank you for bringing Emmie home, but I think it’s time for you to go.”

  Emmie shot Max an apologetic look, but he was taking her dad’s side on this. They needed to work things out. They needed to call the police. Max gave Emmie’s hand what he hoped would be a reassuring squeeze and said, “See you tomorrow?”

  She smiled. “Not if I see you first.”

  She was making a lame joke? Tough. As. Nails. Max shook his head and smothered a smile. Then, after a moment of hesitation, he let himself out the back door.

  Max walked down the driveway to the road, the anger and worry still simmering at the back of his mind, and now hyperaware that someone might still be watching the house. He glanced around but didn’t see anything obviously out of place. Didn’t matter. If he ever caught the guy who’d messed with Emmie, there’d be something seriously out of place. Like his nose.

  And that was one more promise Max Shepherd intended to keep.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  KIDS LIKE HER

  Emmie’s father watched through the kitchen window as Max made his way back to his jeep. A minute later, Emmie heard the engine start up, then the sound of Max driving away. It left her with a hollow feeling deep in her chest—a feeling she didn’t have time to worry about because her father stalked past her with enough urgency that she felt compelled to follow.

  He pulled his cell phone out of his back pocket and faced the living room fireplace, his back to Emmie and to the rest of the room. His free hand was on his forehead. It was a posture that expressed frustration, and Emmie knew what was coming before he ever spoke.

  But then he did. “God, woman, you sound polluted.”

  Emmie cringed. Her mom was supposed to be in rehab, but she could already tell from her father’s reaction that it wasn’t going well. Her father’s Irish accent flared. Emmie didn’t want to be near him when he blew. Ideally, she’d wait it out in her room, but she couldn’t get to the stairs without going through her father’s line of sight. Maybe better to stay in the kitchen.

  “Well, you’ve done it all arseways now, haven’t you?” her father said. “You’re supposed to be working your program, but no. Instead you’re being the usual pain in my hole. Don’t tell me you’re not off your face, woman. I can hear it in your voice.”

  Great. It sounded like her mom had somehow figured out how to use while in a residential program. Leave it to her.

  Emmie ducked back through the kitchen doorway and poured herself a glass of milk. Then she christened an unopened package of Oreos.

  ??
?Second chances? Second chances? Well, good for you. I’m glad you think they’ll let you back in the program, but there are no more second chances, or third, or fourth with me.”

  Emmie searched inside herself for the stillness she so often depended on. She knew it must be there, but she couldn’t find it.

  “Why,” her father bellowed, “in the bloody hell would you give them our address?”

  Emmie sucked in her breath. Is that what had happened? Had her mom given their address to Jimmy and Frankie? Oh God, had she given it to Nick? She knew her mom would never want to hurt her, but her mom did lots of stuff she didn’t necessarily want to do. Information could be bought and traded, and often that was the only currency her mom had to work with.

  Oh God. The betrayal was a knife to the heart, and Emmie couldn’t let herself believe it. She wouldn’t.

  She closed her eyes for a long moment, then she straightened her shoulders and picked up an Oreo. Her fingers trembled as she brought it to her mouth. It didn’t taste as good as she’d expected. She hoped her father’s rant would be over soon.

  “Don’t deny it. They were here,” her father said. “Are you comprehending me? They could have been here when Emmie got home from school. And they vandalized her car and Bridie’s house.”

  There was a pause as her father fell into listening mode, but it didn’t last long. “You never look farther than the end of your own nose. But I swear to you—” Emmie knew her father well enough that she could picture his face getting redder and redder. He’d be hanging up soon. “Those knackers so much as touch a hair on our daughter’s head—”

  The conversation ended abruptly. Emmie couldn’t tell who had hung up on whom. Her father walked back toward the kitchen and leaned against the doorframe, watching her calmly dunk a cookie into her milk. She didn’t look up at him. She’d found her Zen groove, and she wasn’t going to leave it willingly.

  Her father inhaled, then let his breath out slowly. “Now,” he said. “Would you like to tell me about the fella who drove you home?” He loosened his tie, pulling it down low, then slipping it over his head. He tossed it on the table and unbuttoned the top two buttons on his shirt.

  Emmie guzzled the rest of her milk and set the glass on the table. “I told you. He’s a friend. His name is Max Shepherd. He’s on the hockey team.”

  “Hockey?” Her father raised his eyebrows, and Emmie cringed at the realization that he knew as well as she did that she and Max were a strange combination.

  “We met on Dan’s work crew.”

  That made him stop. “Do you really think it’s a good idea to hook up with someone like that?”

  “God, Dad. We’re not hooking up.”

  Her father waved his hands around in the air. “I don’t mean it like that. I mean, the kinds of kids on the work crew aren’t exactly desirable types.”

  “You mean kids like me?”

  He rested his shoulder against the doorframe and folded his arms. “You’re twisting my words.”

  “I don’t think I am.”

  Her father took off his glasses and slipped them into his shirt pocket. “I’m only saying, after all you’ve been through, can’t you find someone of quality?”

  Emmie raised her eyebrows at him. Spit it out, Dad. This is really interesting. Had she sunk so low in his estimation?

  “I mean someone who’s not in any trouble of his own,” he added.

  “Max isn’t in the court system. He’s on the work crew because of something through school…or with the team. He works hard. He’s a good athlete. And he watches out for me.”

  That got her father’s attention. “How so?”

  “He brought me home today, didn’t he? After what happened to my car, he wanted to check out the house before I came inside. That’s saying something, isn’t it? I thought you’d be happy to have someone like him in my corner.”

  “He’s a big guy…” Her father considered what she was saying; then his eyebrows pulled together. “You’re sure he doesn’t want anything more from you?”

  Despite her attempt to control the blood flow to her face, Emmie couldn’t help the heat in her cheeks, particularly remembering the look on Max’s face when they’d stood so close. She could still smell the laundry soap in the fibers of his shirt. She wasn’t sure what he wanted from her, only the flickering, lusty thoughts of what she wanted from him.

  “Max is a good guy, Dad. I can handle it.”

  He gave one short laugh. “You thought you could handle your mum’s situation.”

  Emmie knew what he was doing, and she knew why. He was worried. She couldn’t fault him for that.

  “I’m not wrong this time,” Emmie said, her expression calm. Her father studied her face as if measuring it for any flicker of doubt. But Emmie was certain. Not about much. But about Max.

  “You’re quite sure, love?”

  “I’m sure.”

  “Then I’ll drop it. About him, at least.” Her father turned to walk into the living room, saying, “But we need to call the police. I want a paper trail on what’s happening. If we have to go to a hotel…”

  “Dad, no…” Emmie followed him into the living room. He sat down on the couch and pulled his cell phone from his pocket. His hands went to his hair, and his fingers curled against the roots. It was such an emphatic attitude of agitation that Emmie felt bad for him.

  “I don’t like thinking this, but even though she denied it, I have to suspect that your mum told them where to find you. How else would they have found Bridget’s house too? We’re going to a hotel for a while.”

  “Dad, don’t rush into anything. I’m fine. They’re only getting back at me for testifying, but it won’t go any further than this. They made their point.” A not-so-little part of her thought she might have even deserved it. “Now we can all get on with things.”

  “You don’t really believe that,” he said, making it clear that he certainly didn’t.

  Emmie hated how easily her father saw through her. She wished Max was still there, with his arms around her, shielding her from the world with his body and his overinflated sense of vigilance, fixing all the broken pieces. She wondered at what a strange feeling that was to have—to want to be the comforted, instead of the comforter. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt that way. About anyone. Maybe she never had.

  “Your suitcase is in the basement,” her father said, bringing their conversation to an end. “I’ll go get it. You pull some things together. We’re going to a hotel.”

  Her father’s feet clomped down the basement steps, and he returned with her smallest bag. Emmie looked up at him with submission, then back down at the table. She pushed the cookies aside and absentmindedly tried to fit the mangled hula girl back together. A little glue, she thought. Just a little glue.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  ANGER MANAGEMENT CLASS

  Max sat in a classroom at the offices of John Livingston PsyD, LICSW in downtown Minneapolis. There were nine other guys in the semicircle of chairs, all facing a podium and whiteboard. Everyone was dressed in jeans and old T-shirts. No one looked like they’d showered. That included Max. He’d overslept. Nightmares.

  John Livingston was dressed in a cardigan, a checked shirt, khakis, and loafers, but he wore his hair in dreads pulled back in a thick ponytail. Max imagined that he lit a blunt when he got home at night and probably had an old saxophone stashed in his closet.

  Max’s dad thought this whole thing was overkill, given Max was already seeing Quack Linda, but there was no way around it. Anger management classes were part of the conditions to Max staying on the team, and he couldn’t deny that they sounded like they were designed with him especially in mind.

  Still, he was nervous. Despite all his therapy, he could never get used to the touchy-feely crap. How does that make you feel? Relieved.

  Do you see now that you have choices on how to move forward? Only two.

  The same two? The same two.

  They hadn’t ma
de much progress.

  Fifteen minutes into class, Cardigan John was in full swing. “Anger is a perfectly natural reaction, but when it turns into full-blown rage, judgment and thinking become impaired and we are more likely to do things—destructive things—that we would not otherwise do. Uncontrolled anger can lead to serious problems with personal relationships and ruin the quality of your life.”

  Max raised his hand, and John looked like student participation might just give him an orgasm. “Yes! Yes! Please. Join in…?”

  “Max.”

  “Yes, of course!”

  “I have a question.”

  “Ask away!”

  “If anger is a natural thing, then why is it so wrong? I mean, if something makes you angry, why shouldn’t you let yourself feel angry? Is it worse than…I don’t know…feeling sad?”

  When he was done talking, the others, who had turned their heads toward him, turned in unison to face John, who looked deep in thought. He actually stroked his chin. Max didn’t know people actually did that when they were thinking, but John did.

  “Anger is a type of energy. Sadness is a type of energy. When you ask if anger is wrong, I think the answer is no. But the fact of the matter is, generally speaking, no one goes to jail because they’re sad. Anger, on the other hand, gets people in trouble. My job is to help you cope with energies that can land you in jail.”

  Fair enough.

  “So, Max. What is it that makes you angry?”

  “I don’t know,” Max lied. Then he offered a truth, but not the Big Truth. “Dirty plays. Lazy refs. Slow ice.”

  “That’s all?”

  He shrugged.

  “Grief,” John said, addressing the group but letting Max know that he’d read his file, “is a common factor in many people’s anger. It can come from many sources. Death, certainly, but any kind of loss.”

  John reached under the podium and drew out a stack of paper and a fistful of pencils. He went around the circle giving them one of each. “I want you all to make a list of the physical signs you get right before you’re about to lose control of your anger. Maybe you feel dizzy or out of breath. Maybe some of you feel like you’re going to throw up. Or you sweat.”