The Taming of the Bachelor (13 page)

A
s the boys dispersed Dillon noted the lone backpack left lying half-buriedhalf buried in the snow. “Is that one yours?” he asked the kid he’d rescued.

The small boy nodded, wiping blood from his nose.

Dillon reached down to pick it up, but it wasn’t zipped closed and crumpled papers and books spilled out.

The boy knelt and struggled to gather his things, his hands shaking as he stuffed it all back into his bag.

Dillon crouched down and finished putting everything into the backpack and then zipped it closed, sliding one strap over his own shoulder. “Come,” he said, rising and propelling the boy towards his truck.

In the truck, Dillon glanced at the boy. His nose was still bleeding and his upper lip was split. He’d have two shiners tomorrow along with plenty of swelling.

“You okay?” he asked, aware that the kid was anything but okay but a man had to be a man, even if he’d just had the snot kicked out of him.

The boy nodded his head once, a brief, barely perceptible nod before reaching up to wipe his damp eyes, and then his runny nose. Snot. Blood. Tears.

Dillon’s gut hurt. He hated seeing little kids cry. “I hope you got some good licks in,” he said, starting the truck.

The boy gave another half-shake of his head.

“Why not?” Dillon demanded.

The boy shrugged, winced. “Don’t know how.”

“That’s not an excuse. Your dad hasn’t taught you?”

Again, the child shook his head, looking even smaller and more miserable than before.

Dillon frowned, frustrated. “He doesn’t believe in fighting?”

The boy looked up at him then, his eyes pink, watery, and green, sea green. “He’s dead.”

Hell.
Dillon exhaled slowly, hugely uncomfortable.
Great. Nice one, Sheenan.
He shifted the truck into drive, ignoring the sting in his gut, not wanting to feel for this pathetic little guy. “Where do you live?”

“237 Bramble Lane.”

“Well, let’s get you home then.”

The boy was silent as he drove and Dillon told himself he was glad. It was better to be stoic and quiet than crying and carrying on, but still...the kid was small.
Really
small. How old was he?

“What’s your name?” Dillon asked gruffly, breaking the quiet.

“Tyler.”

“You have a last name?”

“Joffe.”

Dillon shot him a swift glance, doing a double take.
Paige’s boy
?

He looked the child up and down, trying to see Paige in him. She was golden and beautiful and this boy was, well, small and bruised and definitely not golden at the moment. “What grade are you in?”

Tyler folded his hands in his lap but they were shaking. “Second.”

The knot in Dillon’s gut pushed up into his chest. He was pretty sure the boy sitting on top of Tyler wasn’t a second grader. “Those boys...were they in your class?”

“No, sir.”

Sir.

The knot in Dillon’s chest grew, hot and heavy. It made his throat close and eyes burn. “What grade were they in?”

“I don’t know.”

“Not your class?”

“No, sir.”

“So you don’t know them?”

Tyler glanced at him and then away. “Not...really.”

Hmm. “And the kid who’d pinned you down? Don’t know him, either?”

The boy’s shoulder shifted.

Dillon lifted a brow. “Not going to tell me, or you don’t know?”

Another small shrug. “It’s not going to change anything,” he whispered.

Dillon frowned. “Has this happened before?”

Tyler hesitated. “Sort of.”

Dillon’s jaw tightened and he drummed fingers against the steering wheel, remembering his own ass-kickings. “Does your mom know this is happening?” he asked after another lengthy silence.

“No.” The boy’s lower lip quivered. “Sir,” he added huskily.

“I think, son, it’s time she knew.”

P
aige was pacing the front living room when she spotted an old green pickup truck pulling up out front, the truck’s faded rusty patina almost jade in the late afternoon light. She knew that truck. It was the one that needed paint almost as much as her house.

Dillon Sheenan.

What was he doing here, now?

She sucked in a breath, pulse quickening, thoughts abruptly shifting as a boy in a puffy winter jacket slid out of the passenger side of the truck.

Her
boy. Tyler.

Why? How? What was going on?

Paige flung open the front door, rushing out onto the covered front porch with its chipped and peeling decorative spindles, and practically ran down the sidewalk, meeting Tyler halfway.

“Where have you been?” she said, placing her hands onto his shoulders. “Tyler, I’ve been worried sick. I’ve been calling the school, calling friends....”

He hung his head, not speaking.

“That’s no answer, Tyler.” She took his chin and lifted his face, forcing him to meet her eyes. But what she saw in her eight-year-old son’s face horrified her—bloody nose, split lip, swollen jaw—and she released his chin quickly. “What happened?”

He shook his head and tried to look away, but not before she saw the tears welling fresh. “Fell down.”

“You didn’t fall down.”

He didn’t answer and a tear quivered on his lower lashes and she had to hold her breath, holding the air and anger and fear in. What had happened? Who did this? And why?

Looking up, she caught Dillon’s eyes. His lips compressed, his expression sober.

“He needs to talk to you,” Dillon said. “I think he’s going to need your help with this one.”

She didn’t know whether to hug Tyler or shake him. What was going on? “Tyler?” she asked wonderingly, fingers curling into fists. She’d kill whoever did this—she’d—

“It’s not the first time,” Dillon added quietly. “They’re older, too, by a couple years at least.”

Her head snapped, attention back on Tyler who still refused to look at her, staring off into the distance instead as tears streaked down his cheeks.

“You have to talk to me, honey,” she whispered, crouching in front of him, hands encircling his upper arms, his frame thin inside the puffy coat. “You have to tell me so I can help you.”

“I’m fine,” he said, lisping through the fat, split lip.

She looked up at Dillon whose expression revealed nothing and yet when his gaze met hers, heat rushed through her, the heat as shocking now as it had been Saturday night.

She didn’t want to think about that night. This wasn’t the time. And yet she couldn’t stop her skin from prickling, tingling, responding to him.

“Thank you for bringing him home,” she said unsteadily, straightening and putting a quick hand to her hair, pushing blonde strands back from her face. “That was nice of you.”

The corner of his mouth pulled, his eyes bright, hot, sparking with knowledge, reminding her he knew...he knew what had happened between them. “I’m a nice guy,” he drawled.

The heat in his eyes was anything but nice.

He was not nice.

He was unbelievably physical, and the chemistry with him had been mind blowing. Just kissing him had been the most raw, the most sensual encounter she’d ever had, and she would have given him everything within an hour of walking out of Grey’s with him.

It’d been so hot and electric that if he’d wanted to take her in the diner kitchen, she wouldn’t have stopped him. If she’d had her way, they would have just done it there...up against a wall, her jumpsuit down around her ankles, her hands fisted in his hair...

She’d loved Lewis but never, in all her life, had Lewis made her feel the way Dillon made her feel....hot, wild, wanton.

It was a good thing they never made it into her bedroom. God only knows what would have happened in there.

The heat washing through her receded, replaced by icy cold and a sickening weight in the pit of her stomach. She couldn’t look at Dillon anymore. Didn’t want to continue this conversation. There was no point in extending her humiliation.

“Thank you again,” she said, her hand pressing slightly on Tyler’s shoulder, steering him towards the house.

It wasn’t until they’d taken several steps up the walk that she realized he was missing his backpack. But not just his backpack. His glasses, too. Expensive much-needed prescription glasses. “Where are your glasses, Tyler?”

His head sank lower. “I don’t know.”

“Maybe in his book bag?” Dillon suggested.

She glanced back at Dillon, who stood planted on her sidewalk, holding her son’s backpack by a shoulder strap and watching her with those intense gold eyes.

For a moment there was just silence, and a strange prickling energy zig-zagging between them.

She swallowed quickly, and went back towards Dillon to take the backpack, before returning to her son’s side. “Are your glasses in here, Tyler?”

Tyler shook his head.

“Where are they then?”

He reached up to dab at his bloody nose. “I don’t know.”

Paige didn’t understand any of this. Tyler didn’t fight, or get into fights. He was serious about school and science and what some kids would call “nerdy things”, but he’d never minded the label, or the teasing. He had a mind of his own and a strong sense of self. So what was going on? “What do you mean, you don’t know?”

“The one boy. Sam. He took them.”

“What did Sam do with them?”

Tyler hung his head. “I don’t know.”

“What’s Sam’s last name?”

“Milk.”

Paige’s eyebrow shot up. “Milk?”

“Melk,” Dillon said shortly, his deep voice low.

Paige glanced back at him. “You know a family named Melk?”

“I went to school with a Sam Melk. Pretty sure this kid is his son. I’ll go get the glasses for you.”

“You don’t want to do that—”

“Sure, I do.”

And with that, Dillon was gone, walking away from them, heading for his truck.

D
illon was glad to get in his truck and go, driving away from Paige’s house with a sense of purpose.

He needed a purpose. A quest. Something to get the picture of Paige and Tyler out of his head.

She looked as if she had the entire world on her shoulders. She looked scared and stressed and he hated that.

He hated that her worry worried him.

He hated that he knew just enough about her to feel concern. To care.

Dillon preferred not to care because he didn’t know how to do anything halfway. He was either all in, or out, but he couldn’t just do a little bit...couldn’t care just a little bit. He was a man with strong convictions which is why he tried so hard to stay on the outside. Better to not get involved, and tangled up, because once he did commit, he didn’t give up, didn’t walk away.

So retrieving Tyler’s glasses was a great excuse to go, escape, do something positive that had nothing to do with being close to Paige. Because as beautiful as she was, as interesting and smart and sweet as he knew her to be, he wasn’t the one she needed. The one she needed would stay here in Marietta and be here for her, and the kids, and he wasn’t going to do that. He couldn’t give up Tutro for her. He wouldn’t give up Tutro for anyone.

He’d done that once, and good or bad, he wouldn’t do it again.

P
aige spent the next half hour cleaning up Tyler, washing off blood and soothing scrapes and applying ice packs so she had no time to think of anything but her son, and how upset she was that a boy who was older, and bigger, would beat up Tyler.