Sledge was a biker.
My gut tightened at the idea that I’d be working for a criminal. A gangster no different than the men who’d killed my brother. They were rough and tough, lawless and violent, acting without any regard for the innocent people who just tried to survive in this world.
Don’t judge,I reminded myself.You don’t know him. You don’t know this world.
His voice snapped me out of thoughts and my doubts. “Zoya doesn’t need to be head -shrinked.”
I whirled around to face him. “Head-shrinked? That’s not a thing.”
Sledge arched a brow. “Pretty sure it is.”
I shook my head and sighed at the seemingly ever-present scowl he seemed to prefer. “I’m here to help her, not label her or whatever else you’re afraid of.”
“I’m not afraid of a damn thing,” he said, his voice low and rough like gravel.
Sure, big guy.I bit back a smile. “Okay, then. Good to know. I’m not here to shrink anyone’s head. Just help. That’s all.”
He grunted. Which I decided was probably his grumpy version of ‘fine’.
“So what exactly do you need from me?” I asked.
“Zoya’s latest babysitter fell and broke her leg and wrist. She’s gonna be out for a while.”
I nodded. “I’m sorry to hear that. How old is Zoya?” I was more interested in the little girl than the circumstances that brought me here. Dr. Saunders had told me some of the details, as much as she professionally could.
“Seven.”
“And she doesn’t speak?”
His eyes narrowed slightly as if he thought I was judging him. “She’s a smart girl, just… shit…” he paused. “She didn’t have the best start in life. I want to make everything right.”
I caught the protectiveness in his tone. It softened something inside me. “Lack of speech doesn’t necessarily mean that a child has a learning disability,” I said. I meant it, I probably knew better than most about the effects childhood trauma could have.
Sledge didn’t respond to any of that, he just crossed his arms again. “You’d be taking care of her during the day while I’m working. Dinner at six. Bed at eight. No exceptions.”
“Okay.” It seemed very regimented for someone who obviously felt he’d lost control at some point, but I kept that to myself.
He must have seen the expression on my face, because he added, “She needs routine, her early life was lacking in it.”
I thought back to the case file I’d been given. There really wasn’t much at all in it. Only that Zoya had been seen by numerous speech therapists, but none of them had managed to make a breakthrough with the little girl,
“Does she attend school?” I asked.
There was another suspicious look. “It didn’t work out. The last therapist we saw said it was making her anxiety worse. We’re gonna try again in the fall. She sometimes talks to me, but not to strangers.” His tone was defensive.
“Sometimes a traumatized child feels safer in the home environment,” I said.
He studied me for a long minute. If I wasn’t mistaken, I was sure he flinched when I said ‘traumatized’. But he ignored my words and just muttered, “You see anything suspicious, you tell me immediately.”
My brow furrowed. “Suspicious like what?”
“Anything,” he said. “You’ll know.”
I almost laughed. There was something militaristic in his bearing. He clearly cared for his daughter, but it sounded like he ran his home like a bootcamp. “Got it. Reportanythingsuspicious. Anything else?”
His jaw ticked but he gave a short nod. “Don’t snoop through my shit and don’t discipline Zoya. That’s my job. Yours is to keep her safe during the day and maybe teach her some shit. Your resume said you’re into school, right?”
“Child development and psychology, yes. I am not a teacher.” It was a common mistake, one I wouldn’t quibble on except for his bad attitude.
