Page 208 of Bossy Hero

“Nope.”

“Then we’ve got no problems.”

After throwing my hands up in defeat, I let them flop onto my lap. “Do I have any guards capable of keeping it in their pants?”

“You’ve got me, Boss,” Junior offers.

I squeeze the bridge of my nose, rolling out my shoulders to release the tension. “Nobody likes a kiss-ass.”

Jonesy tries to lighten the mood with a joke. “You also have Kri, Deb, and Marley. No doubt they’re keeping it in their pants. Only by default, though.”

“Agree to disagree on Kri, big guy,” Junior quips. “She and Shep were assigned to guard Val before they adopted her. And youknowthey were?—”

All right. That’s enough.

“Is it raining dicks?” I whip my head around to look pointedly at Junior, then shift my glower to Jonesy.

“No, Boss,” Junior answers, taking me literally.

“Then why the fuck are your mouths open so damn wide?”

Jonesy apologizes despite not looking or sounding the least bit contrite. “Sorry, Boss.”

“No more talking until we get there,” I snap.

Jonesy puts on the turn signal. “Well, I’ve got some bad news.”

I huff, my spine sagging. “Whatnow?”

Great. I’m whining like a petulant fuckface.

Jonesy grins. “You won’t be getting any quiet time. We’re there.”

Well, this is terrific. I’m about to walk into this conversation, already pissed off. I didn’t expect that to happen until Mrs. Holt opened her mouth for the first time.

The SUV jostles as he turns off the pavement onto a dirt road. Correction. This is the driveway, not a road. A ranch-style house is set off the road by about three hundred feet. As we approach, more of the structure comes into view, and I find myself leaning forward in my seat as I take it all in.

This is the house where my daughter was raised.

It’s a large one-story home with a wrap-around porch. Potted plants hang every couple of feet. With only the front porch light on and minimal streetlamps in the area, it’s hard to tell the house’s color, but I suspect it’s white or beige with dark shutters around the windows.

There’s a large oak tree in the front yard. The type you could hang a tire swing from.

Unbidden, my mind brings forth an image of a little girl climbing the tree just before sunset. Her blond hair is tied in pigtails, and she wears a lavender tank top with cut-off jean shorts. A faceless man watches her from the porch. When she reaches the first branch, she grabs it with both hands, swinging like a little gymnast with her feet dangling ten feet off the ground.

The vision plays out in slow motion before me.

Worried she might need help, he sprints off the porch. He wants to be there to catch her if she falls or gets scared.

But she doesn’t fall. And she isn’t frightened.

Because she’s strong and a bit wild.

Like he was when he was her age.

While swinging from the branch, she laughs and laughs. The sound surrounds him like a chorus of pure joy. Looking up at her, he could swear sunshine was born from her smile.

He reaches over his head toward her, encouraging her to come down. After one last swing, she lets go, falling right into the safety of his arms. They both laugh while he twirls her around. She throws her head back, her blond locks fluttering in the breeze. Once he sets her down, she stutter-steps to one side, dizzy from the spinning. Without looking back at him, she runs to the tree to climb it again. Before ascending, she turns around to ensure he’s still watching.

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