Page 2 of Needing Your Love
Hugging himself tighter, Jimmy dipped his head in a nod, and I tore my soft touch from his head.
Fucking Riley…if the man was no more than passed out, dead-drunk, I was going to be tempted to smother the life from his worthless lungs. At least Darla’s dad had a heart attack a few years after she and I had married so we no longer had to deal with his ass.
My footfalls on the three stairs sounded loud, a dog barking in the distance the only other noise meeting my ears.
The scent of cigarettes clung to the stale air as I paused on the threshold, my nose curling at the offensive, acidic stench. Passing into the interior, I blinked, my eyes slowly adjusting to the dimness. A quick scan of the living room on my left assured me the place hadn’t been cleaned in months if not longer. Litter lay in every corner, crushed beer cans, Pedro’s Pizza boxes, and Dig-In takeout containers making up most of the mess. Dirty clothes piled on a chair and draped over the back of the couch.
A lump of a man sprawled in between said couch and scarred coffee table, an empty bottle of cheap vodka clutched in his meaty fist.
“Rich,” I hissed, not wanting Jimmy to hear in case his dad didn’t answer—which it didn’t appear like he would.
The man didn’t move.
I kicked his bare foot, and he didn’t so much as twitch.
Sighing, I bent closer to check his pulse. Maybe the man really was dead?—
A snort escaped from his parted lips, and adrenaline shot through my veins. I straightened, watching his chest rise and fall a few times.
“Asshole,” I muttered at his face-down form. “I ought to leave you like this. Maybe you’ll get sick and drown in your own vomit. Deadbeat motherfucker.” I strode through the hallway towardthe bedrooms. “Babs,” I said into my two-way, “Riley is passed out, not dead.”
“Oh, thank goodness.”
I couldn’t agree with Babs after seeing Jimmy. Neglect was spelled out in black and white from his filthy appearance to the state of the house. I expected the cupboards and fridge would be empty of anything edible or semi-healthy for a growing child. And I couldn’t begin to imagine what discoloring might lay under the T-shirt the child wore.
Lips in a thin line, I grabbed a pillow off the unmade bed in the master and returned to find Rich unmoved. While we were roughly the same six feet and not quite an inch over, the guy had a good thirty to forty pounds on my two hundred.
I moved the coffee table out of the way, rolled him onto his side, and propped his dead weight against the front of the couch. I lifted his head by a nice tight grip on his greasy hair and shoved the pillow beneath before taking the vodka bottle and setting it aside with the other cans and empties on the floor.
Once sure Rich wasn’t going to slump forward and possibly end up like his son had suspected, I went back out onto the stoop and settled onto the top step beside the boy—who mindlessly scratched at his left forearm.
“He’s just sleeping, kiddo.”
My statement caused his filthy fingernails to stop digging into his skin.
I kept my hands to myself when I wanted to ruffle Jimmy’s hair. Maybe sling an arm around his stooped shoulders and give him comfort, which was what the kid appeared to need.
A shuddered exhale made the poor boy tremble beside me, and my body responded in kind, hairs raising on my arms, as though the trauma of the afternoon had somehow connected us.
Although it was late September, warmth still shone down with the sun, but a foreboding lay in the breeze, the scent andpromise of a long, cold winter. Harder times with nothing but the spring to look forward to.
I wondered what joys or dreams filled Jimmy’s thoughts when he crawled into bed at night.
“Your dad drank too much, but he’ll be fine,” I reassured him, and his audible swallow had the muscle in my jaw ticking again. “You did the right thing in calling the station, Jimmy. Your dad is lucky to have you. It takes a real man to look after his family.”
I’d meant that last bit as a dig at Rich, but Jimmy straightened a bit, swiping his forearm over his wet cheeks.
“You’re a good kid.”
“I’m a worm,” he said, thin shoulders once more rolling inward, and my eyes stung at the confidence in his voice. He glanced over at my cruiser. “You’rethe hero.”
How often did he get called names? Having learned all about Darla’s childhood, I knew words hurt more than fists in the long run.
Fingers itching to pull my gun and go back inside to take care of Jimmy’s problem, I eyed the bones of his clavicles poking through the thin shirt. While committing murder to make his life better wasn’t exactly an option, I would do what I could to ease some of his suffering. “You hungry?”
He shrugged. “A little.”
“Don’t move.” I hopped up and retrieved a Snickers bar from my car. Babs had tossed the chocolate to me earlier in the day when I’d been grumpy about one thing or another. She’d informed me I needed a pick-me-up. Thankfully, I’d forgotten about the empty calories until now.
