Two Family Home (13 page)

T
his was Walker's father?

Lindsey wasn't sure what she was expecting, exactly. Not someone quite so . . . hard.

According to Walker, he was a con man and an art forger, but maybe she'd seen too many movies because she was expecting a warm and charming guy. She wasn't quite prepared for the thick, wiry muscles. He was short, and he really didn't look like Walker at all, except for maybe in the nose and eyes. Walker's eyes had been wary and closed off when she'd first met him, but now she could read them like a book. His dad's were the same steel gray, but when he smiled, his eyes didn't look happy at all.

And he did smile—another difference between Walker and his father. Red Smith smiled a lot, and asked a lot of questions about Walker and how he'd been, and asked what Lindsey did and how she liked living here and he hoped his son was treating her well. Despite his scary appearance, he acted very friendly, like it was no big deal that he had broken into his son's studio and was now just sitting around making small talk.

Of course, she wasn't one to judge others for breaking into Walker's studio.

But the eyes really bugged her. Cold. That was what they were. Walker could be grumpy and private, but when he smiled, Lindsey knew he meant it. Heck, when he smiled, she felt it zap down through her core.

Red's smile made her squirm in an entirely different, entirely unpleasant way.

But he was Walker's father. And he hadn't actually done anything wrong in this case—at least, nothing that Lindsey hadn't also done, and Walker seemed to like her okay. Maybe Red looked that way because he was just out of prison. Maybe he just needed some time to get used to civilization again. Her opinion was probably clouded by Walker's own dislike. She wasn't going to give the guy a kidney, but she also wasn't going to let Walker kick him out into the cold night.

Which was exactly what Walker wanted to do.

“You don't just ‘swing by,' Red.”

Lindsey noticed that Walker didn't call him “Dad.” Clearly, the two were not close. But she didn't miss the hurt flinch through Red's face every time Walker did it.

“I told you I was getting out.”

They were sitting around Walker's kitchen table, all very cozy and domestic. Lindsey had changed into sweatpants, and helped herself to Walker's coffee pot. Red drank the coffee like it was going out of style—best coffee he'd had in ten years, he told her. She tried not to be flattered.

Walker just stared hard at his father, even when Red looked away and admired the house.

“Quite a spot you've got here,” Red told him. “You've done well.”

“All on my own,” Walker said quickly.

Red threw up his hands. “Hey, I never said otherwise. I always knew you were the real deal, son.”

“Don't call me that,” Walker muttered, then took a sip of his coffee. Lindsey put a hand on his knee and squeezed. Walker was doing a good job of being mostly polite, but she could see Red was pushing his buttons. She didn't really know what those buttons were, but Walker's muscles were tightly coiled under her hand, and she wanted to stand up and wrap her arms around him.

That might interfere with the tough-guy act he was putting on for his dad, so she stayed seated.

Lindsey let the silence linger between the two men. She had tried to fill it with small talk, but every time she engaged Red in conversation—that was another way he was different from his son, he actually knew how to make small talk—Walker got kind of a pre-transformation Hulk look about him. So she tried to keep her mouth shut. As a result, she was drinking a lot of coffee.

“What are you doing here, Red?” Walker asked again, despite the fact that Red had answered that question more than once. The first answer, “I thought you'd be glad to see me,” was clearly bull. It was pretty obvious that Red was not surprised by the cold reception he was getting from his son. Hurt, maybe, but not surprised. The second answer, “Just stopping by on my way out of prison,” was ridiculous.

Red sighed, as if Walker had finally worn him down and he was bracing himself to reveal the truth. Very dramatic, that sigh.

Lindsey gripped her mug tightly, trying not to die of curiosity.

“I got nothing, kid,” Red began. “I been inside for ten years. Got no money, got nowhere to go. I hitched a ride here—you know how hard it is to hitch a ride to Bugtussle, Kentucky?”

“Real sorry I couldn't live somewhere more convenient for you,” said Walker, oozing sarcasm.

“Look, I know we have our differences.” Walker snorted, but Red continued. “I know you think I did you wrong growing up, and maybe I did. I was just trying to teach you how the world works. I know I'm not the world's greatest father”—Walker snorted again—“but I did my best. I taught you how to survive, didn't I? And look how you turned out. I'm proud of you, son.”

“Are you seriously taking credit for my life?” Walker's back muscles trembled under Lindsey's hand, even as she rubbed small circles with her thumb. He took a deep breath. “One more time. What do you want?”

“Ah, son, don't be so hard on your old man. It's hard for me to ask for help.”

“No.” Lindsey flinched at the coldness in Walker's voice.

“Just for a few days. Just until I can get my feet under me.”

“No,” Walker repeated.

The two men stared each other down, and Lindsey felt the residual chill coming off them.

This was ridiculous. He was Walker's father.

She cleared her throat.

Neither of them looked her way.

“Red,” she said, tentatively. She still couldn't believe “Red” was actually his first name. “I'm sure you understand why Walker has mixed feelings about you visiting.”

“They're not mixed at all,” Walker said, still staring down Red.

“But,” Lindsey continued, “I understand that you are going through a . . . transition period.”

Now both men looked at her. Red looked grateful. Walker looked like he wanted to dump his coffee on her head.

“I'm not suggesting he move in,” she told Walker. “Maybe just for a few nights.”

Walker's mouth opened, then closed. The muscles in his jaw clenched so hard, she thought his teeth were going to break.

“But Red,” Lindsey said, turning to the older man, “you have to respect Walker's space. He's worked hard for his success, and he's under a tight deadline.” Walker raised his eyebrow at her. She hurried on—she was no good at lying, and even if this was just a little fib, she didn't want to dwell on it. “So you need to give him room to work. And you need to stay out of the studio unless you're invited in. You can use these few days to find a job and a new place to live, but if Walker doesn't want to talk to you, you have to respect that, okay?”

Red smiled, but not at Lindsey. “You got a real sweet woman here, you know that?”

Walker clenched his jaw.

“Just a few days, son, I promise. I'll keep out of your way until I find my feet, and then I'll be out of your hair for good.”

“Promise?” Walker asked tightly.

“Yeah, I promise.”

“You can stay, Red. One week. I know your promises don't mean shit, but mine do. Today is Sunday. You're out of here next Sunday, no excuses. Got it?”

“Got it,” Red said, a little sadly, Lindsey thought. “Thank you, son.”

“And quit calling me that.”

 

I don't like the smell of this guy. I gotta keep an eye on him.

“I
meant it, son. You got a real sweet woman out there.”

Walker ignored his father, and instead focused on a mental inventory of the valuables in his apartment. He had the small fireproof box that contained his social security card and bank documents, and a copy of his contract with the Madison Kelly Gallery. A contract he needed to work on fulfilling, although not with any of the urgency Lindsey suggested earlier.

Lindsey. He stopped being mad at her as soon as she softly kissed him and thanked him for taking in his dad. She had no idea what Red was like, but Walker knew what Lindsey was like, and if there was any hope at all of a situation having a bright side, she would find it. He didn't hold out much hope that Red was going to turn into a model citizen, but she was right. He was just out of prison; he had nowhere to go. And even though Walker's first instinct was to tell his dad that he didn't owe him a thing—and, in fact, that had been exactly what Walker had done—Lindsey was right. A little human kindness wouldn't kill him.

He still wasn't leaving anything valuable in his apartment.

Lindsey brought over an extra toothbrush and found a clean set of towels for Red. He gave her that damn charming smile of his, but she didn't hang around to hear more of his sad story. Instead, she told Walker that she'd see him in a minute, and left the two men alone in Walker's bedroom.

Walker didn't know what she was expecting—a sudden father and son heart-to-heart, probably. Well, Walker might have been willing to give up his bed for a few nights, but that was about it.

“And a sweet house,” Red said, apparently unaware that Walker was giving him the silent treatment. “You got it all, don't you, son? The dog and the yard and the sweet woman. You done good for yourself.”

No thanks to you, Walker wanted to snap back at him. The only thing that stopped him was that he didn't want to give Red the pleasure. Because if Walker fought him, Red could say that his own son, his only flesh and blood, had kicked him when he was down, and that was why he wasn't able to turn his life around. Instead, Walker just walked downstairs and outside, made sure his studio door was locked and padlocked, then headed back in through the open laundry room door. He whistled for Booger, who looked at him from the top of the stairs, then went back into Walker's bedroom.

Great. His dad was even taking his dog.

He ran into Lindsey pulling sheets out of the dryer. “I think Booger is guarding Red,” she told him.

“What does he need guarding from?”

“No, I mean I think Booger's keeping an eye on him.”

Smart dog, thought Walker.

“You want to help me make the bed?”

Sure, he could help her make the bed.

He took the bundle of sheets from her and she led the way up to the bedroom. She tossed the pillows onto the floor. Walker fished the fitted sheet out of the pile and handed her one end.

They stood across from each other, snapping the sheets tight and pulling the quilt up. It looked cozy.

“Uh,” said Walker, like a genius, “do you have another blanket?”

“Why? It's not that cold.” She looked puzzled. Walker took that as a good sign.

“Wait,” she said, not so puzzled. “You don't have to sleep on the couch.”

“I didn't want to assume—”

“Unless you want to sleep on the couch.”

“Hell no.”

She smiled at him. “Good.”

“That couch is way too ugly to be comfortable.”

“Hmph.” She walked around the bed toward the dresser. “I could make you test it out.”

He grabbed her around her waist and pulled her close. “No way.”

She laughed and swatted his shoulder. “Come on. I have to get up early tomorrow.”

Well, so much for that.

She took out a pair of pajamas—nothing at all like the maroon thing she'd been wearing earlier, dammit—and went into the bathroom. Walker sat down to pull off his shoes. They were really going to sleep together. Just sleep. That would be a first for them. He thought he should probably go next door and get some pajamas. Did he even have any pajamas?

But then Lindsey came out of the bathroom, looking adorable and clean and sexy. He recognized her little shorts as one of his favorites, and her tank top was doing all kinds of great things for him. Her face was scrubbed clean and as she got closer, he smelled her minty fresh breath.

She nudged him off the bed and pulled back the quilt. She climbed in and he thought, forget it. No pajamas. He tore off his shirt, stepped out of his jeans, and climbed in right next to her. They snuggled down and he put his arms around her. She sighed and put her head on his chest. He rubbed her back.

It was all very cozy.

He had a dog, a white picket fence, and now he was sleeping with his sweet woman. Just sleeping.

“So. Your dad.”

He should have known they wouldn't just be sleeping. This was Lindsey. Of course they'd be talking.

“My father.”

“He seems . . . nice.”

“Yup, he seems that way.”

“But he's not so nice?”

“He's fine, as long as you don't count on him for anything.”

“Or try to buy art from him.”

Walker hissed out a laugh.

“Does he look different? After ten years in prison, I mean.”

Walker shrugged. “More muscles. Less hair.”

She was quiet for a while, and Walker braced himself for whatever she was going to ask next.

Instead, she said, “You did the right thing, letting him stay.”

“Yeah, well, apparently I'm a good person now.”

She squeezed around his ribs.

“So you didn't know he was getting out?” she asked.

“Yeah, I knew.”

“You seemed surprised to see him.”

“Wishful thinking. Or maybe I was surprised to see him sneaking into my garage, ogling my—” His what? His girlfriend? His sweet woman?

She leaned up on her elbow and smiled at him. “What?” he asked her.

“I didn't say anything!” But she was still hovering over him, smiling down.

“Something funny . . .”

“What?” she asked.

“What happened to that slinky thing you were wearing?”

“I don't know. It didn't seem appropriate.”

“No, probably not.” He sighed.

“Are you complaining about my pajamas?”

“No! I would never . . .”

“Or are you just trying to change the subject?”

“No! I like these.” He brushed the strap of her tank top off her shoulder and placed a kiss there. He felt her heartbeat speed up against his chest and she leaned heavily into him. “Sorry,” he said, sliding her strap back in place. “You have to get up early tomorrow.”

She scrunched up her nose in a pout. But then her face softened, and she brushed some hair off his forehead. “Thank you for letting him stay.” She rested her head on his chest again. “I know you didn't do it for him.”

How did she do that? Cut through whatever crap he was telling himself before he even knew it was crap? She was right. He didn't do it for his dad. He wasn't sure why he did it, not until Lindsey thanked him.

He'd let his father stay for her.

He wanted to believe what she believed, that people defaulted to good and that everyone deserved, if not a second chance, then at least common decency. He didn't believe it, but wanted to, so he'd given Red his bed because he knew that's what Lindsey would've done, and he knew it would make her happy.

There was no way she was getting to sleep now.

 

She wasn't sure why she said it. She knew it was true, but she planned on keeping it to herself. But then he kissed her shoulder and that one little brush of his lips had her primed and ready for all kinds of fun that would make it hard to get out of bed in the morning—and then he stopped. It wasn't a sense of revenge that made her speak the truth. She wanted him, not because he was hot (although he was) and not because he knew how to make her feel good (although he did), but because he was Walker and he did that nice thing for her even though it meant doing something nice for his dad and, at that moment, she really loved him for it.

But she didn't want to say that. So she said, “Thank you,” and then she was airborne, lifted on top of Walker, his hands digging under her tank top, his mouth rough on hers. She pulled her shirt over her head and was just getting down to the business of reveling in the feel of his strong, bare chest against hers, when she was thrown off balance again. This time Walker was on top of her, and his hands were everywhere—on her breasts, in her shorts, down her legs. And everywhere his hands went, his mouth followed, biting and licking and not at all the gentle Walker she'd experienced that night on the kitchen table, but she liked this one, too. She might like this one even more, she thought as his teeth closed around her nipple and his hand squeezed her butt. She gasped and groaned and bucked up into him. Everything was happening at once and too fast and she couldn't keep up, though not for lack of trying.

“Hold still,” he whispered, and she almost laughed at the impossibility of that request. Instead, she just squeaked out “I can't!” as his clever fingers worked their way around to the front of her. So he pulled her arms up above her head and gave her the crookedest, wickedest smile she'd ever seen and that almost had her losing it right there. But then he took one of his hands and touched her again, then guided himself into her, and she gasped and tried to keep her hips still but whatever, she was a bad listener. He twined his hands in hers, but pulled them down so they were next to her ears. He propped himself up on his elbows, their fingers intertwined, and he started moving.

It didn't take much for her. One, maybe two—she was completely and happily incapable of counting at that moment. She just shouted and arched and Walker was right there with her, squeezing the life out of her hands while he shuddered and growled.

She heard Booger howl from next door, and then she thought she might die because if the dog had heard, then Red had probably heard.

“Do you think he heard us?” she asked when she had enough breath back to form words and make them come out of her mouth.

“No,” Walker gasped, then flopped down next to her. She decided she would just believe him. He put his arm over his eyes, and she did the same.

She thought she might have died for a second there.

But she didn't. She just mildly had her mind blown. Her ears were kind of ringing.
All those nerve endings freaking out,
she thought.

“Hey.” When he pulled her arm down, she saw him leaning over her. “Are you okay?”

“Mmpsh,” she said, meaning, “nerve endings” and “dead.”

“Did I hurt you?”

You killed me,
she thought. But it didn't hurt. She shook her head, but it didn't wipe the worried look off his face. “No,” she assured him, putting a hand on his cheek. She pulled him down for a kiss, and lifted a knee to cradle him close to her. “No,” she whispered against his lips.
But if you keep looking at me like that, you will.