“I don’t give a shit about the truck!” I shout.
She stares at me like she can’t possibly fathom what else I’d be losing it over.
The door to the garage opens. “I’m home!”
My stepfather’s smile vanishes as soon as he walks into the kitchen to Cade’s very apparent absence. Guilt tastes like a steel knife scraping my molars.
“You picked him up, right?” He asks hesitantly.
My mouth opens. Nothing comes out.
Mom resumes texting. “Cade stole Seba’s truck.”
Declan’s eyes widen in panic. “H-hewhat?”
“Yep,” Mom says, popping the P. “I told you he wasn’t ready. He probably manipulated the staff.”
“And I toldyouthat’s impossible,” Declan snaps back.
Just like that, their fight from last night resumes. That’s all they do these days— fight about Cade. Cade’s treatment costs too much. Cade should stay there longer. Cade isn’t fixable. Cade should come home. Cade isn’t trying hard enough.
If I didn’t have my own place, I’d probably cut my ears off.
A low rumble vibrates the walls. I strain to hear over their back and forth. Maybe I’m imagining it. It wouldn’t be the first time hope has played tricks on me.
The door opens again.
Cade wanders in, twirling my keys around his finger.
He’s a pain in the ass, but I’ll never get sick of the sight of him.
“Way to give us a heart attack,” I growl.
Declan shoots me a warning glare, as if scolding his son will send him right back out the door. The blasé look on Cade’s face says otherwise.
“We were worried, Bud.”
Cade tosses my keys on the counter, glancing between the three of us. “Had one last errand.” His brow lifts at Mom. “Nice hair.”
“Thank you!” She beams, oblivious to the backhanded compliment.
He breezes through the kitchen to the living room.
I tail him like a magnet. “Where’d you go?”
“Wouldn’t you love to know.”
Brat.
God, I wanna pin him down and remind him who he belongs to. His duffel smacks his thigh as he ascends the stairs ahead of me, his ass at my eye level. My dick immediately takes notice. It’s been too long since I claimed him. Too fucking long.
I’m lost to dirty thoughts when he reaches the landing and throws an accusatory glare over his shoulder.
“I’m sure Andrea would’ve loved to know too.”
It’s a bucket of ice water to the face.
So many times, I tracked her down, sat in my truck outside of wherever she was living, battling with the desire to tell her and the need to protect her.
