Until You (The Redemption, #1)(39)

I don’t have a response. Pride. Embarrassment. Shame. All three block any excuse from rolling off my tongue.

“Talk to him, man. It might help get your head back where it needs to be so you can get your sorry ass back here.”

“What’s wrong with you? Usually, guys like me aren’t wanted back. I’m a reminder of what can happen. Of the danger.” It’s so much easier to address this than to talk about Justin.

“You’re right. We don’t want you.” I can imagine his sarcastic shrug and lift of his eyebrows on that ruddy face of his. “Or maybe it’s you who doesn’t want this. To be back. And that’s okay, Crew. I get it. We’d all get it. You faced some serious shit. It shredded your body and fucked with your head. But don’t use Justin as the excuse. He deserves better than that.”

Easy to say when you’re not the one who hesitated. When your two-second delay is the reason your partner, your best friend, has a bullet lodged against his spine and won’t ever walk again.

They think they don’t want me around as a reminder.

Well, maybe seeing Justin is that same fucking reminder about how I failed.

“I’ll look at your stuff for you,” I say, completely avoiding everything he just said.

“I’m sure you will.”

When he hangs up, I stare at the wall with a sour taste in my mouth. He’s right. Fucking right, and I need to be a man and suck it up.

I need to be the man I know I can be.

The thought prevails as I make my way downstairs, moody and worried and wondering how both Justin and Tennyson are doing.

“Whoa!” I say when I walk into a complete disaster in the kitchen. Addy has flour on her cheek and Paige is dumping unceremonious amounts of cocoa powder into a bowl filled with who knows what.

“What?” Paige asks with a bat of her lashes and an impish smirk, daring me to ask her to stop.

“I’m not a culinary wizard or anything, but I think that might be way too much cocoa powder.” Its bitter smell fills the air.

“Why? The chocolatier the better, right?” Paige says.

Addy adds, “Momma says you can never have enough chocolate.”

Or Greek assholes who steal wives, but hey, who am I to judge?

Oh yes. Right. I’m the abandoned husband. I have every right to judge.

“What?” I ask when I shake the thought to find two pairs of eyes narrowed at me.

“You got that weird look on your face like you’re mad at us,” Addy says, immediately making me feel guilty for ruining their fun with my bitter thoughts.

“Not mad. Not at all. Just wondering how that is going to taste.”

“Like heaven,” Paige says.

“We’ll see about that,” I tease and then yelp when Paige accidentally lifts the hand mixer from the bowl too far and batter flies everywhere. The walls. Her chest. The floor. My face.

Their quick inhales are audible. The fear that they are in trouble heavy as their wide eyes stare at me.

I have a split-second choice—get pissed at them for the mess I’m going to have to clean up, or show them I’m not the hard-ass they think I am.

“Really?” I warn with a playful grin on my face. “You think that’s bad? How about this?” I ask as I reach out, dip my finger in the batter, and smear it across Addy’s cheek. And as she shrieks and tries to evade me, I wrap an arm around Paige’s waist and give her a big smack on the cheek, transferring all the batter from my face to hers.

“Ew.”

“Gross.”

“Dad, stop,” Addy shrieks as she runs straight toward me, her laughter just as loud as her smile.

Paige holds up a spoon and flings more my way, the blob hitting me squarely on the chest.

“This. Is. War,” I declare.

The statement was more than accurate because when all is said and done, when the girls have jumped in the shower to clean up, I’m left with my batter-slicked hands on my hips and an utter disaster to pick up.

But from Tenny earlier, Dusty calling me on the carpet, then my girls’ giggles—their hugs? These are memories of not being perfect.

They’re exactly what I needed.

What I need.

A simple reminder of what matters the most.

A reminder that I’m alive for a reason.





CHAPTER SEVENTEEN


Tennyson




When my cell rings, I jump as if it isn’t already in my hand and I’m not desperately waiting for Peter to call.

“Hi. It’s me. I’m here,” I say, the adrenaline of the day coming out in those five simple words. “Peter?”

“You’re good?”

What kind of question is that after he hasn’t called me back for five hours. “Yes. No. You tell me.” I chuckle nervously. “You called me.”

“I did. I just wanted to tell you that you might see some stories in the news about some things possibly tied to him,” he says, not mentioning Kaleo’s name as is protocol. “I just wanted to reassure you that everything is still okay. That you’re still okay.”

“How can you be so sure? The articles said that—”

“I know what they said, but that person ceased to exist. There are no records saying otherwise.”