Page 27 of Kiss, Kill, Thrill Me, Daddy

Tatum rolls his eyes and sighs. “I have to introduce them to Abi. I just wanted a bit of privacy first. There’s no need for a goddessdamned temper tantrum. Honestly, Scotty. I’ve had enough.”

A gun cocks, and when I look up, Brody’s got his Glock aimed at Tatum’s head. “The fuck did I tell you about yelling at my boy?”

Thankfully, Fiona seems just as annoyed by the situation as I am, because she slaps his hand down. “Enough of that. Thelonger you queens bicker, the longer it’s going to take to get this over with, and I’m already done with this day. I want to go check into the bed-and-breakfast, cuddle up with a taboo romance novel about brother-fuckers, and feel warm and fuzzy. Twincest for the wincest. Kincaid, collect your chihuahua and take him to see his parents. Scotty, stop causing havoc for the hell of it. And as for you ...” She pokes her finger against Brody’s chest. “If you don’t stop pointing loaded weapons in enclosed spaces, I will quite literally slit your throat. I’ve had enough of this. I’m absolutely sick of it!”

As Fee continues her laundry list of complaints, I step out of the car and hold my hand out for Tatum. Once we’re outside, out of ear shot, Tatum stands in front of me, staring at me like he’s trying to telepathically relay a message, but I’ve never been skilled in the art of mysticism.

“Use your words, my love.”

He stares at me for a moment, then, Tatum takes me by surprise when he stands on his tiptoes and leans in, giving me a quick kiss on the lips. He doesn’t make a big deal out of it, and I try to follow suit, brushing it off like it’s the most natural thing in the world, despite the fact my heart is racing a mile a minute.

“Thank you for coming,” he says. “Thank you for putting up with me. I know I’m a lot to handle sometimes.”

Taking his chin between my thumb and index finger, I guide his gaze up to me and force a reassuring smile. “There’s nowhere I would rather be, and there’s no one I would rather handle.”

He turns and takes a step forward, but rather than run off like a cheeky scamp, he waits for me, his arm held out in my direction. He’s offering me his hand, and it almost feels like more. It’s almost as if he’s offering me passage into a portion of his life I know nothing about. Like he’s rolling out the red carpet for me, hoping I will walk it alongside him.

The cement walkway leading up to the home shows signs of wear. It acts as an outlier, bringing down the property value by simply existing. There are cracks where weeds have workedtheir way up. Chipped concrete where heavy objects must have been dropped. But there, right along the left side of the walkway, are these tiny, little footprints. They’re so small they could easily belong to a wild animal. I pause, letting go of his hand and crouching down, tracing my finger against one of the print’s grooves. It’s funny, really, how I instinctively know to whom these prints belong. The narrow arch. How his big toe sticks out at an awkward angle. I would know Tatum’s feet anywhere. I would know every inch of his body.

“Abi?”

When I look up, he’s staring at me with a look I can’t quite read. Amusement? Perhaps. Annoyance? For once, I don’t think there’s a trace of it on his face. He kneels beside me, placing his hand atop mine as I trace his steps.

“My little one’s little footprints,” I say with a soft chuckle. “I bet you were an adorable child.”

A blush spreads across his face, and his smile widens. “There are pictures inside. You can see for yourself.”

The screen door screeches as it opens, and when I look up, I’m greeted with one of the most beautiful women I’ve ever seen. Tatum is the spitting image of his mother. Same piercing blue eyes. Same button nose. They even have the same bleach-blond hair, though hers hangs past her shoulders. Unlike Tatum, she doesn’t have a permanent scowl fixed on her face, just a smile as wide as Texas itself. There are happy tears in her eyes, and they pour like raindrops as she rushes off the porch, toward her son. Tatum sucks in a sharp breath, and his body tenses as if he’s bracing himself for what’s to come. When she reaches her son, Mrs. St. James lunges forward, wrapping her arms around him and holding on for dear life, her legs kicking the air behind her. She’s trying to get words out, but they just sound like unintelligible sobs.

“Mom, It’s okay. I’m okay, I promise,” Tatum insists, causing her to blubber something else, and I’m assuming this is a regular occurrence, because he’s able to decipher the words with littleeffort. “Yeah, I know. I’m sorry. I wasn’t trying to ignore you, we just get really bad reception on open water.”

She pulls her head away and sniffles, but her eyes are a bit narrower than before. “No. We’re done with this ‘cruise’ foolishness. I went along with it for too long, and I refuse to pretend you’ve been gliding across the Atlantic at a snail’s pace for six months. We both know you weren’t on any boat.” She slaps his hands, motioning for him to release her, and once she’s on solid ground, she pokes her finger in the center of Tatum’s chest. “I have my sources. Best you remember that, next time you decide to lie to me.” Considering the only person she knows at the Winawana Wagon House is Scotty, I’m fairly confident he’s the one feeding her information. Either that, or Barb has taken it upon herself, but she doesn’t seem the sort to make messes of people’s personal lives—actually, no. No, that’s not true. I still have a scar on my upper shoulder from when Tatum threw our car keys at me after Barb told him I fucked another man when I was on assignment. It took me a week to convince him I would never touch another soul but him. When I confronted Barb about it, she simply shrugged and said the place was getting boring and she wanted to see a little drama.

I pulled the head from a dead squirrel’s body and placed it atop her pillow that night. She wanted drama, and that’s exactly what she got.

“I’m sorry,” Tatum says, staring at his shoes. The fact someone has been discussing us at length with his parents doesn’t seem to register with Tatum, as he simply stands in front of her like a child who’s been caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

The screen door swings open again, and a man walks onto the porch. He doesn’t look as much like Tatum, but I can still see the resemblance. Unlike Tatum, his hair is brown, but it forms a ring around his head with a landing zone of bald skin atop. He would look twenty years younger if he shaved the ring of hair, but it is hardly my place to give unrequested grooming pointers.His eyes are these big brown things with unexplainably long lashes, hidden behind horn-rimmed glasses. His lips are almost pink, just like his son’s. They’ve even got the same adorable dimples in their chins.

Mr. St. James raises two fingers to the side of his head in a salute before slowly making his way over to us. Tatum has described his father as both aloof and uncaring in the past, but the man has a smile as wide as his wife’s and when he reaches his son, he wraps his arms around him and lifts Tatum into an unwelcome hug. There’s an outpouring of affection aimed Tatum’s way, and it seems to be seeping from every pore in their bodies.

“I’ve got your room fixed up really nice for you, baby. Fresh sheets and everything,” Mrs. St. Jame says.

“And I’ve got steaks on the grill for lunch, kiddo,” Mr. St. James adds. “I thought maybe once we’re done eating, we could all head over to the Dairy Queen and get ourselves a chocolate-dipped ice cream cone.”

“That sounds great.” Tatum’s nibbling his bottom lip, and I can tell he’s trying to hide his happiness from showing. When he looks over his shoulder at me, his lip plops out from between his teeth, and he gives me a shy smile. “Mom, Dad; this is Abi.”

Instinctively, I reach for the small of his back, wanting to feel him against me, but then I remember his request to keep what we share hidden. Though it pains me to do so, I resist the urge to touch him and simply offer his parents a quick smile and nod.

“Goodness,” Mrs. St. James says, finally noticing me. “I’m so sorry. Where in the world are my manners?” She takes a step toward me, her arms out wide like Jesus on the cross. “Sugar, we’ve heard all about you.” I’m not sure where she’s heard anything about me, considering Tatum has never mentioned my existence. “It’s so lovely to finally meet you,Abi.”

Mrs. St. James surprises me when she speaks the name, and again when she wraps her arms around me, pulling me in for an overwhelming hug. Aside from Tatum, no one has held me likethis in years. Not even Fiona. It’s strange to hear my name on her lips. With anyone else, it feels like panic and dread and a heavy weight on my chest. Somehow, it’s different with Tatum’s mother. It feels similar to the way it does when Tatum says it. Like I’ve been saving it for her. It’s a feeling that doesn’t make much sense, but I don’t question it. I just wrap my arms around her and return the hug she’s giving to me.

“Thank you for taking care of my boy,” she says. “I know he must have been forlorn over losing his boyfriends, but it warms my heart to know he’s had someone to pick up the broken pieces.”

A rush of pride washes over me, because whoever has been feeding her intel—again, probably Scotty Levinson—has told her about me. About the way I keep him safe. Because I do. I keep him safe so well.

Wanting to get to the bottom of this informant business, I playfully knock my shoulders against his, trying to lead Mrs. St. James into an admission. “You’ve told her about us, little one?” The endearment is out before I can stop myself, and a chill runs down my spine when Tatum shoots me a death glare.

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