Page 12 of Traitor
“Expecting someone?” I ask as I sit up straight. There’s no way she could have called someone to come over. She’d barely been here a half hour. If I know Mercy, and sometimes even though it shames me to admit it, I wish I didn’t; she’d told her new flavor of the week to meet her at my place because here she has a built-in babysitter. I may say no to Mercy, but we both know I’ll never say no when it comes to my niece.
Lexie keeps her eyes squarely on the TV as her mother snatches the door open so quickly I fear for the hinges. “You made it,” she says to the person on the other side.
“You know I’d do anything for you, sugar,” comes the responding male voice.
A part of me wonders what she would have done if Ihadtold her about my troubles, about the debilitating injury, the nightmares. But it had been a long time since I confided anything to her. Not that she didn’t try. After my first deployment, she made it a point to come by and talk, but at the time I wasn’t interested. Sometimes talking about things makes them all the more real. And there are some experiences I don’t need to be more realistic. There are enough complications from the hell I’ve endured—I don’t need to add a pissed-off Mercy to them.
“Ready to go?” the guy asks.
Mercy glances at me from around the door and I wave to her. I don’t have the energy to argue and Lexie and I will probably have more fun by ourselves as it is.
Mercy squeals and grabs her purse. “It’ll only be a couple hours, I promise.”
“Yeah, right,” Lexie says with a large dose of sarcasm.
The door shuts behind them, cutting off Mercy’s exuberant laughter. I hear the revving of a motor, then the squeal of tires, and spitting of gravel. I shake my head a little. Some things never change.
“That was…”
“Disgusting?” I supply.
Lexie laughs. “Unappetizing,” she counters.
“I’m sorry, kiddo. I’ll order pizza. Apparently, I haven’t gotten any better at cooking the last year since I’ve seen you.”
“I told you that you should have let me cook.”
“Noted. Next time, you’re the chef. Grab my phone and order some, would you? My card info is already saved on the app.”
“You’re hopeless,” she says.
“Hopelessly awesome,” I call out after her.
It’s been a couple hours since Mercy left, but Lexie doesn’t seem to notice. Or at least, she tries pretty hard to make it look that way. I did my level best to distract her with a couple movies and a relentless stream of teasing. Accompanied with the horror shot that is dinner, I think I did all right.
The meatloaf I’d attempted to make was probably the low point, I decide as I scrape what’s left of the charred block into the garbage can. Not my fault. Most of my food in my adult life came ready-to-eat so I can’t be held responsible when I’m put in charge of making it.
Another knock comes at the door as I’m elbow-deep in suds, trying to scrape the congealed disaster off the pan. “Can you get that?” I call out to Lexie. I’m not technically working today, but as the owner of one of the most prominent tourist locales in the town of Windy Point, I’m always working.
I hear the door open and the low chatter of the delivery guy, followed by Lexie’s response. Stomach growling, I think,Screw the dishes,and leave the whole lot of them to soak in the sink. I’ll worry about them later.
Lexie’s still at the door when I get to the living room. She’s juggling two large pizza boxes and a package from some mail delivery service on top of that.
“Need some help with that?” I ask, but her response is interrupted by the familiar sound of an engine revving.
I look past Lexie in the doorway and see a douched-up Ford Mustang in my driveway. Mercy’s in the front seat. At first, I try to pull Lexie back inside. No one should have to see their mother MILF-ing it up with some prick. Then, Mercy jerks back, but not because of anything good.
The motherfucker hit her.
A surge of adrenaline propels me to maneuver Lexie back inside with one hand. I don’t know how I manage to do it without dumping everything in her hands on the sidewalk, but I do. My long strides eat up the distance between the front door and the car in seconds. I see Peyton out of the corner of my eye, but I don’t have time to worry about her. In another few steps, I throw open the door with one hand and yank Mercy out with the other.
She screeches like a pissed-off alley cat and I shove her in the direction of the lodge. “Get inside,” I tell her without looking at her.
“I can handle it, Ford,” she protests, and tries to force her way between me and the car, but that’s not happening.
I turn and pin her with a glare. “Go inside with your daughter,” I say slowly.
The mention of Lexie has Mercy pausing long enough for me to scoot her a couple more feet in that direction. She sees Lexie peering out from behind the curtains, and whatever maternal instincts she must have pull her toward the lodge. Peyton gives the scene one last glance, then scurries back around to the front entrance.