Tuck’s fists were clenched, and that muscle in his cheek ticked. “This is a whole new level of low even for you, old man.”
Craig took another sip of his beer and pulled his companion a bit closer. “Oh, the high and mighty Tucker is going to tell me how to live my life, huh? Too good to work on the ranch with me. Had to go out into the forest like some sort of fucking hippie. Just because you aren’t a real man, doesn’t mean I ain’t.”
What Tuck’s father was saying didn’t even make sense. I watched as Craig wobbled a bit. He was shitfaced.
Tuck flexed his hands. “You’re not doing this to Mom. I’m calling you a cab. You need to go home.”
Craig pushed off his stool, upending the woman who was half in his lap. “You always were a fucking mama’s boy. Go on. Tattle on me. See if I give a fuck.”
“How about I have you arrested for public intoxication? See how a night in the drunk tank treats you.”
Craig’s face reddened, and he charged. He tried to clip Tuck in the jaw with his fist but missed, hitting his son’s shoulder instead. Tuck retaliated with two blows to his dad’s side, sending Craig crumpling to the ground.
The entire bar was dead silent. I’d never heard it so quiet in my life. Tuck’s gaze swung around the space, almost a feral quality to his gaze, and then it landed on me. “I have to get out of here.”
“Go. I’ll have Walker deal with your dad.”
And with that, he took off, but not before I saw the look of true hopelessness on his face.
31
Tuck
I joggedthe twelve blocks to my house, the bitter winter wind stinging my skin the whole way. I had hoped temperatures hovering around zero would cool my temper. It didn’t work.
I slipped my key into the lock and pulled open the door. I hated this house. Loathed that it was in town and not on my family’s property. From the time I was young, the plan had always been for me to build on a piece of the acreage on Harris Ranch. But when things really shifted, I couldn’t handle being in such close proximity to my father. So, I’d bought this modern craftsman in town.
I didn’t like that my neighbors were close. That there was no open space or view. I could’ve bought another ranch, but that sort of felt like giving up. I hated that my father had enough power over my life to ruin even more. Keeping me from my birthright, the place my soul used to feel the most settled, myhome.
“Goddammit!” I spun, crashing my fist through the wall, sending plaster flying everywhere. I pulled my hand from the drywall, blood dripping from my knuckles. “Fuck.”
I headed for the kitchen. Turning the water on as cold as it would go, I stuck my hand under the spray and hissed.
“Tuck?” Jensen’s voice called out tentatively from the entryway.
I was silent for a minute. I should’ve stayed far away from her in that moment. Far away from anyone. “In here.” My selfish desire for her was too strong.
Her boots sounded on the hardwood floor. “Doing some redecorating?”
I kept my gaze focused on the stream of water, my back to Jensen. “You shouldn’t be here.”
Her heat was at my back. “Shit. Where’s your first-aid kit?”
“It’ll be fine in a minute or two.”
Jensen’s heat was gone as she muttered something about macho alpha males and infections that would kill them. She was back in under two minutes, holding the first-aid kit my mother had stocked in one of the bathrooms. It had never been opened. Jensen took the roll of paper towels from the counter and tore off a few. “Give me your hand.”
I removed it from the spray, then turned off the water and placed my palm on the bed of paper towels she held. I stared at my hand as Jensen tenderly dried it with short, patting motions, nothing that would catch on the torn skin. They were the movements of a caring mother. Something in my chest twisted.
Jensen laid my hand and the bed of paper towels on the counter. “Don’t move.”
I obeyed, eyes still locked on my hand. I couldn’t bear to look her in the face, to have her see the depth of my weakness.
Jensen’s movements were both quick and careful. She washed her hands, dried them, then opened the first-aid kit, taking a moment to assess her options before removing a tube of antibacterial ointment and a roll of gauze. She dabbed the gel on my torn knuckles and then slowly wound the bandage around them. The dressing was secure but not too tight. She taped it off. “Sit,” she said, inclining her head toward the kitchen table.
I followed her instructions, still not meeting her gaze.
Jensen moved around my kitchen with comfortable ease. I often forgot how well she fit into my life. Because she had always been there. For almost as long as I could remember, she’d always been a part of me.
