Deathtrap (Crossbreed #3)(91)

“Outlaw?” Christian asked.

I followed his gaze to the decal on the back of Crush’s truck window. “He’s not a man who believes in the system.”

Christian unbuckled his seat belt. “Now I’m beginning to see where you get your rebellious nature from. I feel like I’m about to learn a lot about the infamous Raven Black.”

I nervously tugged at my fingerless gloves, the air in the car quickly cooling down. “The lights are still on. That means he’s watching TV.”

Christian shifted in his seat and gave me a pointed stare. “You’re taking this too seriously. Remember the story about the man who traveled with the ghost to visit his past?”

“Scrooge? Are you comparing me to Scrooge?”

“You’re just passing through this life, Raven. It’s not real anymore because you’re no longer a part of it. I don’t see how this is going to accomplish anything but mess with your head. You’re a fecking lunatic if you think this is going to bring you any resolution. I’m here, I’ll do as you ask, but it’s not your life anymore. It’s like when you end a relationship with someone and they pay you a visit years later. It feels familiar, and that makes you think you can have it all back. But you can’t. You’re a ghost to those memories.”

“Someday a ghost is going to knock on your door, and we’ll see if you have the balls to slam it shut. Now quit getting all philosophical; you’re making me nervous.”

“As nervous as the man on the porch with a shotgun?”

My eyes widened when I looked up. “Oh, shit.”

“Who’s out there?” Crush bellowed. “Get the fuck off my land.”

I opened the door and put my hands up. “Don’t shoot.”

“What do you want? Did your car break down? Tell your friend to get back in that pussy-ass car of his.”

“Christian,” I hissed. “Stay there.”

“Your da’s a real charmer,” he said quietly, resting his arms over the roof of the car.

“That’s the pot calling the kettle black.”

I slowly approached the trailer, my hands still up. The gun was obscuring Crush’s face, and the light on the porch turned him into a silhouette.

“Daddy, it’s me.”

When he lowered the gun a little, I took a few paces forward. He slowly descended the steps, shotgun still pointed. The closer he got, the better I could see his blue eyes aimed straight at me.

I finally wasn’t a ghost anymore. I was real, and he saw me. The closer he came, the more he lowered the gun until he was staring at me stone-faced. Crush had a hard look on his weathered face. He still had the grey mustache and long goatee I remembered from most of my life. His hair wasn’t tied back like usual, and the wind blew some of it around. Neither of us spoke. I stood frozen in fear, my hands trembling, my breathing so rapid that I began to feel light-headed.

Crush drew in a deep breath, and when he released it, a cloud of frosty white air filled the space between us. His inscrutable expression gave away nothing. When he dropped the gun in the snow, I couldn’t move fast enough. Crush surged forward and pulled me into a tight bear hug.

Then he smelled my hair.

“It really is you, Cookie.”

I burst into tears like a little girl, crying right into his whiskery neck. He squeezed me so hard I couldn’t breathe, but it was the realest thing I’d felt in a long time.

“I’m so sorry, Daddy,” I whispered, caught in a maelstrom of emotions.

I’d missed his voice, his bear hugs, and even that awful cologne.

He finally let go and drew back, his eyes shining. “I knew they’d lied to me. You always were a tough cookie.”

I wiped my face. “We need to talk. I can’t stay long.”

His eyes flicked back to Christian and then returned to me. “What kind of trouble are you in? Is he mafia?”

“Yep.”

The two-fanged mafia.

Crush knew my sass, but he still looked like a man in shock. “I think you better come inside.” He picked up his gun and led the way, Christian tailing behind in his black trench coat and looking like… the mafia.

I mentally sighed as I climbed the steps and then lifted my foot to remove my wet shoes.

Crush captured my wrist and jerked me inside. “Forget it. I don’t care if you throw mud all over my floor; get your ass inside.”

“Same old bulldog,” I said.

He leaned against the divider wall between the living room and kitchen. “Same old smack-talker. Who’s your friend?”

Christian shut the door behind us and stayed quiet in the background, like a plastic plant.

“A friend.” I gestured to the table on the left. “Can we sit?”

Crush ambled into the living room to the right and muted the TV.

“I see you still have that same ratty old recliner.”

He chuckled. “My boys are going to bury me in that. Might as well be comfortable in the afterlife.” Crush returned to the kitchen in front of us and switched on the light.

I took a seat at the table by the door and watched him make a cup of cocoa. He kept peering at me suspiciously but didn’t say a word. Crush looked exactly the way I remembered him. Black jeans, a skull T-shirt that was too tight for him, and biker boots. He didn’t have on all the skull rings and other jewelry he often wore, so I guessed he must have been getting ready for bed.