Page 10 of Hideaway Whirlwind (Big Boys of Berenson Trucking #4)

We go quiet when a car’s headlights streak through the room, and I discover Elliott staring directly into my eyes, wearing the same expression he wore at my apartment.

Murderous. The opposite of Quincy, whose eyes had turned soft and pitying, which I now know was performative.

Elliott, though, looks like he wishes he could travel through time and blow the compound up all over again.

Ready to shove my bleak past back where it belongs—in the past—I ask, “What about you? Are you married? Have any kids?”

Elliott shifts his gaze down, squeezing his hands together on his lap. “Not married. No kids.”

“You never wanted any, or—sorry, that’s none of my business.”

“It’s…it’s fine,” he says, though he doesn’t answer my question. Instead, he lies down and throws the spotlight back on me. “Not that it’ll change things, but…Kendall’s dad…he isn’t going to raise a stink about us suddenly taking off with her, will he?”

“No. He—” I cough to cover the nervous giggle creeping up my throat. “He died a few months ago.”

Thank the devil for that , as my grandpa would say. If only he’d stayed in Tennessee instead of moving his then-young family to Nevada, the cult never would have been able to worm its way into my mom’s life and destroy it.

Elliott lets out what I think might be a sigh of relief, knowing he hasn’t done anything illegal, like facilitating Kendall’s kidnapping. “That demon at the apartment? Who’s she?”

“Kendall’s grandmother. I don’t think she’ll come this far for her, but…you never know.”

“You never have to worry ‘bout her again,” he says gruffly, as if he really believes it.

“Maybe.” There will always be that what if lingering in the back of my mind. What if Priscilla risks coming after us? To get back at me, if nothing else.

“Definitely,” he promises.

I want to believe him. I really do. But how can I?

I’ll always be looking over my shoulder, just as I have for any of the old cult leaders, though I know all of them died in the explosion.

Deciding I’ve had enough of this grim trip down memory lane, though, I roll onto my back to stare at the low ceiling with its busted, dusty light fixture and whisper, “We should get some sleep.”

Elliott

I hadn’t known I’d fallen asleep after hoping Birdie would suddenly start our conversation back up again until Dustin kicks my shin, which sticks out farther than the bed, nearly tripping when tiptoeing past me into the restroom.

My eyes pop open, and I reach for my gun stowed beneath the bed before I remember where I am and who I’m with.

I stare blankly at the ceiling until my vision adjusts to the low light in the room.

The cheap frame squeaks when Dustin climbs back into bed, and Birdie rolls onto her side in her sleep with her arm thrown over the edge, the covers slipping down to her hips.

I sit up to pinch the comforter, slowly drawing it back up to her chin, reprehensibly letting the backs of my fingers skim over her smooth skin and across her lips.

I yank my hand away, sickened by my actions, and curl onto my side as well, facing away from her achingly beautiful—and too young—face.

My god, the horror she’s lived through .

Counting to ten repeatedly to rid my mind of her works about as well as a single ice cube does to cool a ten-gallon pot of boiling water.

Damnit.

Birdie whimpers in her sleep, and I turn over immediately, wanting to slay the demons that haunt her and have followed her into her dream world.

When she whimpers again, I reach for her hand dangling over the side and rub my thumb along her delicate inner wrist. Her next whimper is shorter, quieter this time, and I wonder if I’m there in her nightmare, protecting her.

Letting her know that she doesn’t have to be scared.

That I’m bigger and badder than anything she might face in there or out in the real world, and I’m on her side.

Another few seconds of rubbing her wrist leads to her relaxing, her lips parting on a puff of air until she goes quiet. I should let her hand go. Try to get back to sleep before we make the next leg of the trip.

But I don’t.

Can’t.

Worse, I prop myself up on an elbow so I can brush the back of her hand against my time-worn face.

And when that’s not enough, I do sit up, leaning back against the mattress, placing her hand on the crook of my bare shoulder, my ear an inch from her mouth so I can feel her breath on my neck, wishing for a song.

I’m disgusted by the abhorrent relief that filled me to hear the kids’ dads were dead.

Sickened that I was pleased more by the delusional idea that I could fit myself into that role for them after knowing them a grand total of forty-eight hours than I was by the knowledge that there wouldn’t be any trouble on our tails, at least where they were concerned.

And for the first time in nearly thirty years, I let a tear roll down my cheek.

* * *

The next time I wake, I’m slumped over, my back screaming at the uncomfortable position, with the shower running in the background.

A slobbery little hand pats my cheek. “Santa. Santa.” Kendall slaps my cheek harder and jumps on my side before popping her thumb back in her mouth.

“No, Kendall! Mommy’s gonna be so mad.” Sydney scoops up the toddler, who kicks her feet in the air, crying to be let down.

“It’s ok,” I say, gingerly sitting upright and stretching my arms above my head, wincing and sucking in a pained breath when a muscle in my side spasms. “You can put her down.”

“Mommy said don’t bother you,” Sydney says, out of breath, trying to keep control of the toddler.

“I’m not bothered.” I hiss as my muscle continues to cramp and spasm every time I shift, especially when I try to pinch the comforter to wipe away Kendall’s drool from my smarting cheek.

Grinding my teeth through the pain, I roll over to lie flat on my front, breathing deeply until the spasm passes, only for it to start up again when I try to push up off the floor.

That’s what I get for what I did last night .

“Are you ok?” Dustin asks, bending over to look at my face, his black brows pinched together.

“Yeah,” I answer gruffly.

“You have scary pictures on your back.”

“Yeah,” I grunt again.

“They’re awesome,” he says with a huge smile and big brown eyes.

I bark a laugh next, my side spasming even worse .

Sydney can’t hang onto Kendall any longer, almost dropping her on the floor, and the toddler immediately jumps on my back as if doing a cannonball into a pool with a squeal, knocking the breath right out of me but providing a brief moment of reprieve from the pain, giving me an idea.

“Do that again, kiddo,” I say. “Someone help her.”

Though Dustin is confused by my request, he lifts Kendall off, letting her go a moment later so she can jump on me again.

“Who wants to walk on my back?” I ask after Kendall’s third jump, needing more steady pressure.

The kids laugh riotously each time they take a turn holding onto each other for balance while walking up and down my back and pounding their feet with my encouragement. I can’t breathe for shit, but at least their bony heels digging into my muscles help work out the knots.

“What are you doing?” Birdie asks shrilly, lifting Dustin off of me after she’s finished with her shower, dressed in my flannel and skin-tight leggings again. “I told you not to bother him.”

Perfect . “It’s ok. I asked them to.”

“Why?” she asks with bewildered amber eyes, leaning over so I can look her in the face, my flannel falling away from her chest. It’s too bad she’s wearing one of her shirts beneath it.

“Muscle spasms from sleeping on the floor,” I answer.

She winces apologetically.

“It’s fine.” I get all the way up onto my knees before my back spasms again, and I collapse. Eyeing Birdie, I ask, “Want a turn?”

“To walk on your back?”

“Yeah. No offense to them, but I think you’d do a better job of it than the kids.”

“Are you sure?”

I grunt.

Looking back and forth between my eyes with one of her brows raised, she finally says, “Be careful what you wish for.” And then she braces her hands on the mattress and steps onto my back on her little bare feet. “I’m not too heavy?”

“No. You’re perfect.”

Any remaining tension leaves me as my eyes drift shut while she carefully walks up and down my back. I’m in paradise.

“I forgot I used to do this to my grandpa when I was a kid,” Birdie says with a little giggle, as if she’s having as much fun as her children did. “Can you breathe?”

I nod when the answer is actually no , but who cares? Not me.

“Oh,” Sydney says as if something has just clicked, finally making sense of things. She sits on the floor with her legs crossed like a pretzel, peeling open an orange for Kendall, spilling juice down her forearms to drip onto her nightgown. “Are you my grandpa? How come I never met you?”

I don’t have to answer since Birdie does so for me. “No, baby, I told you. He’s just helping us out for a little bit. We’re not related.”

Paradise shattered .

“Gu-pa, Gu-pa!” Kendall squeals, clapping her hands together and jumping maybe an inch off the ground before losing her balance and falling on her butt.

“Grand–pa,” Dustin sounds out.

“No! Gu-pa,” Kendall insists.

They go back and forth a few times until they settle on something Kendall can pronounce: Papa .

“I think I’ve been upgraded from Santa,” I say with as much breath as I can muster beneath Birdie’s feet and my crushing grief and longing that I really were their papa.

With my back no longer spasming, I suddenly push up off the floor, catching Birdie before she can fall after being unbalanced.

As soon as her feet are flat on the carpet, I head into the restroom to be by myself.