Page 35 of Property of Tacoma
And I regret it every fucking day.
“Daddy!”
I turn around when I hear Saylor calling out, and I see her running across the room as fast as she can. Foxy’s raccoon is right behind her, both of them like little tornadoes of energy. Saylor starts to stumble, and my heart leaps in my chest. Arms spinning like a windmill, she manages to catch herself before she falls.
“Saylor! Slow down.”
“Okay,” she chirps, still hauling ass in our direction.
Foxy’s raccoon scurries past Saylor, making a beeline for its mama. The little fucker climbs up Foxy’s legs like it’s scaling a tree.
Bane snorts beside me. “Fat fucker, ain’t it?”
You can say that again.
“It’s not nice to say fat, Uncle Coopey,” Saylor says, skidding to a stop in front of us.
Bane looks down at Saylor to say something, and my little girl’s eyes flare. “Uncle Coopey!” Her face falls. “What happened to your face?”
Jagger swaggers over and pulls his sister against his side.
I’ve done a lot of bad shit in my life, but seeing my boy comfort his sister is how I know I’ve gotten some shit right, too.
Jagger’s lips turn down as he takes in his uncle’s ragged appearance. “You look like shit.”
“Thanks,” Bane grumbles.
“Uncle Coopey, who did that to you?”
“Nobody, kid. I’m fine. Fell off my bike, that's all.” He forces a smile, and a drop of blood spills from his split lip. “I’m okay, Princess. Promise.”
“Don’t worry, baby. Uncle Bane is tough,” I reassure her, squeezing Bane’s shoulder harder than necessary.
Before Saylor can ask any more questions, Foxy steps in, crouching down to my daughter’s level. “How did Panda do while we were gone?”
I shoot Foxy a grateful look, thankful for the redirection.
Saylor’s eyes light up immediately. “Oh my goodness! He climbed the big tree behind the clubhouse and wouldn’t come down. Pop-pop had to get the ladder, but then Panda jumped on his head!”
I hear Foxy telling my baby girl that Panda loves climbing trees as I help Bane down the hallway.
“She’s something else,” Bane mutters as we make our way down the hall.
“Who? Mom?” I ask, knowing damn well he doesn’t mean our mother.
“Shut up, asshole. You know who I mean.”
I help him onto the exam table in our infirmary, a room equipped with everything from bandages to surgical tools.
Dad follows us in, his weathered face set in grim lines. “What happened?”
“Sinners,” I tell him as Doc comes in behind him. “Ambushed Bane outside Dave’s. It’s like they knew we were coming.”
Doc, a gray-haired man in his fifties with steady hands and a perpetual scowl, pours alcohol on a cotton ball and dabs it on the gash on Bane’s eyebrow without warning.
“Fuck!” Bane hisses, jerking his head back.
“Be still,” Doc orders, gripping Bane’s chin to hold him steady. “So, you want to tell me what happened with the mayor? Word around town is he’s missing.”
