Page 81 of Tate
Oh, the man reeked. More than beer—he’d probably graduated to one of the bottles of whiskey atop the refrigerator.
In seconds, Axel’s legs started to give out.
He went down like a noodle, and Ford caught him before he hit his head on the floor.
“Wow—how did you—how—that was so cool.”
Not the reaction Ford had expected from a kid watching his dad hit the floor, but, well, maybe he’d been through more than Ford wanted to guess. “He’s okay, Gunnar. Just asleep.”
The kid wore a pair of pajama bottoms, no shirt, and now crouched next to Axel, touching his face. “When he wakes up, will he be angry?” His voice trembled a little.
Oh. Ford looked at Scarlett, who stood next to the counter. Slowly she put down the kitchen knife she’d grabbed. She swallowed, a little white.
“You okay?” Ford said, standing up and putting his foot on Axel’s chest. He would normally flip the guy and put him in flex-ties, but well, technically Ford had broken into his home.
Scarlett should do the honors.
“Call the police—” Ford said.
“What is happening—oh, Axel!”
Ford saw the horror reflected in Scarlett’s face as her mother ran out of the bedroom.
He turned toward Sammy-Jo and wished he hadn’t. The woman wore a low-cut, black silky nightie and a shower cap. He wanted to throw a blanket over her, but she knelt beside Axel, her hands on his chest, and started to scream.
“Mom. Mom—it’s okay. Ford didn’t hurt him. He’s fine?—”
But Sammy-Jo began to wail, her hands over her face. “He killed him! He killed Axel!”
Oh wow.
He spotted Gunnar who had backed up, his eyes wide. Ford got up and walked over to the kid. “Gunnar. Buddy. Why don’t we let your sister try and calm your mother down.”
Gunnar nodded, and Ford pulled the kid close to him, headed him outside. “Why don’t you sit in my truck for a bit, okay? I have a pretty sweet sound system…”
He walked him over to the truck and put the keys into the ignition, turned on the radio, queuing up his playlist.
Shut up and let me go…This hurts, I tell you so
The Ting-Tings, spot-on for once.
Gunnar smiled up at him, but tears cut down his face. Ford shoved his hands into his pockets, wishing he knew what to do. Kids weren’t his thing, really. Sports, yeah, and he knew how to cook, but he was in over his head here.
The wailing had stopped, but the shouts, male and angry, turned Ford, and he sprinted back to the house.
“Scarlett!”
She stood in the family room, her mother in her arms as Axel came out of Gunnar’s bedroom, heat in his eyes, carrying Scarlett’s duffel bag, her belongings shoved inside, messy, trailing out. He spotted Ford, and the crazy in his expression had Ford stepping back. Holding up his hands. “Take a breath here?—”
“Out. Of. My. Way!”
If Axel’s hands hadn’t been full, no doubt he would have taken a swing at Ford. But he kicked the door open, stalked out to the porch, and threw Scarlett’s belongings into the yard.
Rounded, breathing hard. “Get out of my house.”
“Dude—”
“Now!”He came back inside and strode toward Scarlett.
