Page 76 of Nailed (Dad Bod Contracting 3)
“Who the fuck is here?” he demands.
“None of your business.”
“Mom? Who is it?” I hear Nate ask.
I sigh. I don’t want Nate to see his father like this. I turn around and glance at him. “Nate…why don’t you go into your room, okay? Please?”
“The bus is going to be here in a minute.”
“I’ll drive you.”
He frowns, sensing something amiss. “Mom—what’s happening? Who is that at the door?”
“Nate?” Paul pushes at the door. “It’s me—it’s Dad.”
Nate frowns even harder. “Dad? Why are you here? It’s not your turn until next weekend.” He takes a few steps closer to the door.
Ryder is behind him, a towel dangling from his hand. “Say the word, babe—I’ll handle him,” he murmurs, his voice pitched low—he’s got his cell phone up, recording this.
“Who is that?” Paul demands, sounding unhinged, pushing at the door.
I put my weight against it. “Go away, Paul. This is enough.”
“LET ME IN!” Paul shoves violently at the door.
“Mom?” Nate asks, his voice tremulous. “Why is Dad acting like this? He sounds scary.”
I let my eyes plead for me as I fight to keep Paul out. “Paul—please. You’re scaring Nate.”
“WHO IS IN MY HOUSE? WHO’S BEEN TOUCHING YOU?” Paul shouts, snarling, raving.
I feel hands on my waist—Ryder pulling me away. I resist. “No, Ryder. Don’t.”
He hesitates, one hand on the door all it takes to keep Paul out. “Why not?” he asks, anger hardening his features.
“It’s—it’s my mess. I don’t want you to—to have to deal with it.”
He grins at me, light and unworried despite the anger I see in him. “Babe—this is what I’m here for. Part of being your boyfriend is dealing with your crazy ex.” He gently pushes me backward, out of the way, but I cling to his arm. “I’ve got it.”
“Ryder, I—”
He touches my lips, the cell phone pocketed now. “I won’t hurt him.”
I roll my eyes, despite myself. “That’s not what I’m worried about.”
Ryder lets his fury bleed through. “You should be. I’d really like to—” He glances at Nate, who’s watching and listening. “Nate, buddy. Why don’t you let your mom and I deal with this, and then we’ll talk, okay?”
Nate nods, turns wordlessly and goes into his room, slamming the door.
“OPEN THIS FUCKING DOOR!” Paul screeches.
As soon as Nate’s door is closed, I let go of Ryder and back away. “Make him go away, Ryder,” I say, my voice hard.
Ryder puts his foot against the base of the door and takes a big step away—Paul is hammering and pushing and kicking, cursing and shouting. I see him mentally count to three, and then Ryder moves his foot, and Paul tumbles inside, off balance at the sudden removal of resistance. He stumbles, and Ryder is there, his big hard hands grabbing Paul by the shoulders and shoving him effortlessly backward, back outside. Paul staggers backward onto the stoop, trips, and falls backward into the grass; Ryder stomps through the doorway to tower over Paul—Ryder seems ten feet tall, somehow, and every muscle is bulging, straining, raw furious power making him positively vibrate.
Bending, Ryder curls one fist into Paul’s shirt and hauls him upright, but keeps him off-balance. Paul is abruptly silent.
“Listen to me, you crazy fuck,” Ryder snarls. “As it stands, you still get to see your kid. What you don’t get to do is show up here, ever again.”
“Who—who the hell are you?” Paul stammers, somehow finding the gumption to sound pissed, despite the fury in Ryder’s eyes and the obvious threat in his posture and the power in his body.
“Who I am isn’t important.” Ryder’s voice is calm—a deadly, razor-sharp kind of quiet. “What is important is that you understand one thing—you are not welcome here—ever.”
“What are you gonna do?” Paul sneers. “Beat me up if I come back?”
“Much as I’d love to, no.” Ryder shakes him. “What will happen is you’ll lose what few rights you have left. Maybe you don’t really care all that much about the kid in there, but—”
“Don’t you talk about my son!” Paul shouts, struggling.
“Quit your squawking, fuck-face,” Ryder snarls, and Paul, pale, goes silent. “Here’s how this is going to go, okay? You listening? You go away, and you never show up here again. In the meantime, Laurel, whom you will never contact, never look at, whom you will never even think about again, will be making a visit to the court, where she’ll show the appropriate authorities the video I took of you acting like a fucking lunatic. If you manage to even acquire supervised visitation privileges, I’ll be surprised.”
Paul goes limp, the fight going out of him. “Let me go.”
Ryder keeps him in his grip. “One wrong move and you’ll be shitting your own teeth.” He lets go and crosses his arms, standing between Paul and my house.
“I’m sorry,” Paul whines. “I just—”
I stand behind Ryder. “Go home, Paul.”
