Spitfire Suckerpunch (House of Pain Book 2) (40 page)

***

Tate went through the next few hours like he was on auto pilot. At his crime scene, he did his job, but his mind was on his girl, home alone in his bed. The second he'd gotten to his car, he told himself he should turn right back around and go back up to his apartment. She'd looked so small all alone in the bed by herself that morning. But he didn't want to smother her, either. She'd been hiding away in his apartment for almost two days, and it was time for her to get up and start moving again. If it was up to him, he would coddle her forever. He would put her in a bubble where she never felt pain and never cried and never hurt. But she had him whipped, so he wasn't quite in his right mind when it came to her.

No, it was best if he took a step back and let her find her footing again. When he was a kid and was going through all of his shit, Big J and Maria had let him have space when he needed it. They let him know that he was loved, but that was all they could really do. If they'd tried to smother him, he would have rebelled even more than he did. They were right to give him space and let him figure shit out for himself. When he was ready, he let them embrace him and he let himself be a part of their family. It had all worked out, eventually. He would do that for Shay, because he loved her.

But he'd be damned if he let her go again.

At dawn, he took a detour on his way back to the office. He drove over to 129
th
and Morningside and slowed down to peer across the street. It wasn't hard to find the spot where Sam Spears had met his final end. There was still yellow crime tape tied to a tree and flapping in the breeze. Although the scene had already been processed and cleaned up, he could still see the place where Sam had bled out. He pulled over at a fire hydrant and turned on his flashers.

He hopped out of his car and made his way back to the scene, his eyes scanning the street and the gutters for any possible evidence out of habit. He didn't see anything out of the ordinary and shoved his hands in his pockets as a frigid wind picked up. It was cold as hell, but he barely noticed. Gravel crunched under his boots as he slowed to a stop ahead of the dark stain on the gray street. It was a sizable stain. He wondered how long Sam had been in the street before someone called the police. He glanced around at all of the brownstones and apartment buildings lining the street. All of the windows. He wondered how many people had seen something and had chosen not to say anything.

He crouched down beside the spot and thought about the man whose life had ended there. Tate had no love lost for Sam Spears. In fact, Tate hated him for what he'd done to Shay. The man had been an enigma, a shadow, a criminal. But he'd been loved. Shay had given the bastard so much of herself and it had only bought her a lifetime of pain. In fact, even in death, the man was still hurting her. Tate wished he could shield her from it. He wished he could be the good guy who swept in and made everything better for her. He wanted to be that for her, so he had to let his anger go. No man deserved to be gunned down in the street. No man deserved for his killer to go free. Everyone deserved justice, even an asshole like Sam Spears. If Tate didn't believe that, he had no right wearing a badge.

Still. If it had been Shay who had been killed instead of Sam, Tate would have gone after him. If anything else had happened to Shay on account of her piece of shit of a father, he would have made Sam pay for it. So he didn't mourn Sam, hell no. Tate was going to do all he could to find the killer, but he wasn't going to shed one tear over the bastard. He couldn't help but feel relieved that Sam Spears was gone for good. He would've preferred that the criminal had stayed MIA instead of getting himself dead, but Tate didn't have any control over that. As far as Tate was concerned, it was for the best. It would take Shay a long time to come to terms with the violence and suddenness of his loss, but the scourge was out of her life.

For the first time in her life, she was free.

When Tate got home later that afternoon, he didn't know what he expected. She hadn't texted him at all, which was odd but he figured she was sleeping. He knew that eventually she would have to go home. He knew she couldn't hide in his bed forever. She would have to face the world. In is mind, he knew that. But deep in his chest, he still wanted her to be there. He wanted her to be in his kitchen, wearing one of his shirts. He wanted her to be baking something or cooking something, or just generally making a mess. He wanted her to complain at him for not bringing home some obscure ingredient that he was out of.

Mostly, he wanted to hear her voice when he walked in the door. After a whole day of not calling or texting, he craved it. He knew her thoughts were elsewhere and, everything they'd been through, he didn't want to push her. The problem was he wasn't used to caring so much. He didn't know how he was supposed to act. He hated being afraid of saying or doing the wrong thing, especially around Shay. He didn't like not knowing what to do for her.

And he hated that he didn't know if she loved him the same way he loved her.

When he opened the door to his apartment, he knew immediately she was gone. The air was still and quiet. Her scent lingered in the air, but it was only the ghost of her. There was a single lamp on in the living room, despite the daylight streaming in the windows. He closed the door behind him, trying to ignore the way his guts twisted. He told himself it was not a big deal. She was back with her aunt. She lived there, it was only natural she would return. Did he want her to go? No. Did he like the way it felt? Hell no. Although they'd been together for a couple of days, he knew they weren't technically together. Everything was still too up in the air. She still wasn't completely his.

He tossed his keys on the counter and the cat wandered out of the bedroom at the sound. He bent to refill her bowl with food and water, but there was already food in there. He wondered if Shay had fed Char before she left. For some reason, the knowledge made him smile, just a bit. Shay was finally warming up to the cat, it seemed. It probably didn't mean anything, but it still made him feel a little better. Like maybe everything wasn't spiraling out of his control. He wanted her and was willing to do anything to keep her. In the end, it was up to her, though. If she wanted make their break permanent, it would be her choice.

There was no way in hell he was going to make it easy for her.

He grabbed a banana from the bowl on the counter and went to the bedroom. Even though his day had already been long, he suddenly had no interest in sticking around in the empty apartment by himself. He was tired, but the thought of lying in his big bed all alone wasn't going to happen. Chewing on a big bite of banana, he kicked off his shoes beside the bed, the fact that it wasn't made not escaping his attention. Her side of the bed was a mess. The pillow was cockeyed and the sheets and duvet were tossed aside and wrinkled. Three glasses with various amounts of water in them on her bedside table. A pair of earrings was also there. He was being fucking ridiculous, but the scene was almost melancholic. She had gone but traces of her remained everywhere. He knew the sheets and pillow still smelled like her.

Christ, he was getting soft.

Shay Spears had crept up on him so slow and out of nowhere that he hadn't been prepared to love her. He wasn't prepared for the all-consuming need that came with it, either. The need to be with her and touch her and hear her laugh. Even when she was annoying and she pissed him off, he didn't mind all that much. He had more patience for her than anyone in the world. It made him weak, but it also made him happy. He hadn't been happy in so long, it was almost hard to get used to. Not that he was happy right that second, but the promise was there. The promise of love was so palpable. The promise of Shay being his was enough for him to fight for happiness for the first time in his life.

He dressed quickly for the gym, telling himself not to check his phone. She hadn't called or texted, he knew for a fact. Yet, the overwhelming urge to check and make sure had his fingers itching. He wasn't that far gone yet. So he tucked it into his hoodie pocket and grabbed his keys on the way out. He left the lamp she'd turned on shining in the living room, like it was some kind of beacon for her to find to her way back. Damn, in his old age he was getting cheesy as hell, he mused as he locked up the door behind him.

As he jogged down the stairs on his way out into the cold afternoon, he couldn't stop himself. He rooted around in his pocket, his hand closing around the silent phone. He pulled it out and clicked it on, checking the lock screen. No calls. No texts. A picture of Shay was his wallpaper, a shot of her that she'd sent him late one night. She stared up at him, eyes shining and lips pursed. She was such a fucking weirdo, he thought. But she was his weirdo. A beautiful, strong, sexy weirdo. With a sigh, he stuffed the phone back in his pocket and kept going, the need to punch something rising in him. Exertion was what he needed to get out the nervous energy that was coursing through him. Well, what he really needed was her, but he would just have to settle on the boxing ring.

Chapter Twenty-Three

W
hen Shay closed her eyes, she could still see her father's dead body, cold and stiff on the metal slab at the coroner's. The fluorescent lighting had highlighted the dull waxiness of his skin in a ghastly way; it was almost like he had turned into a sculpture. She'd been strong, though. She hadn't broken down and cried. She'd just nodded and then they'd pulled the white sheet back over him, hiding him from view. She'd almost yelled at them, almost told them that he was her father, not a dead body. But she didn't. She turned around and let Gina lead her out of the cold room. And then it was over.

But that wasn't the end. Tomorrow, there would be the trip to the funeral home and all the planning and the notifying of relatives and friends. Both she and Gina would have to be adults and push through it. Shay would have to stay still and mostly quiet, knowing that if she talked too much she would probably start howling and never stop. They would have to pick out casket and flower arrangements and all the bells and whistles. They would have to figure out how to officially say goodbye.

“You hungry?” Gina asked, startling Shay out of her thoughts. She stood in the doorway of Shay's room, her face weary and her eyes puffy. Shay felt her millionth wave of guilt that day for pulling a disappearing act on her aunt after the shooting. Gina was taking her brother's death hard. She didn't say it, but Shay knew. They had been estranged for so long. Gina probably felt like she missed that last years of Sam's life and she would never get them back. Shay couldn't be sure, but she knew that's how she herself was feeling.

Her father was not a saint, but he now was gone, forever. They'd argued the last time she'd seen him and she hadn't even gotten a chance to say goodbye. That fact would haunt her for the rest of her life, if she let it. She still wasn't sure what she was going to do with herself. She'd just been given a new life a few months before. Now she was dealing with the biggest tragedy of her young life and she was stumbling and fumbling around in the dark. The only bright spot on her horizon lived in Washington Heights and had a little annoying cat named Char.

“No.” She shook her head. “But if you are, I can make you something to eat.”

“Thalia brought takeout,” Gina said, shrugging. “From that chicken place on the corner. It's in the fridge if you want it.” Gina turned, moving away from the doorway.

“Gina!” Shay called out, leaning forward on the bed to catch her aunt before she left.

“Hmm? What, Sug?” Gina said, ducking her head back in.

“Thalia's been around a lot,” she said, sitting back on her haunches. “Seems like she really cares about you.” Gina smiled a bit, her face noticeably brightening up.

“She's been alright,” Gina said with a shrug, her attempt at nonchalance failing in every possible way. Things were getting serious with Thalia, it seemed. Tragedy usually brought people together or forced them apart, so she was happy that her aunt's relationship seemed to be going well, despite all odds. “And what about you?” Gina said, a teasing spark lighting behind her eyes. “I know where you been spending all those nights.”

“I don't know what you're talking about,” Shay said, scooting off the bed and standing. She went to the closet and opened the door.

“I've seen the way that policeman looks at you,” Gina continued. “Like the sun rises and sets on your annoying ass.”

“Pfft,” Shay scoffed, fingering through her hanging clothes.

“Mm-hmm,” Gina murmured, not fooled by her niece's attempts to downplay. “Are you going to ask him to come to the funeral?” she asked after a moment, her voice more somber. Shay tossed a few T-shirts and a pair of jeans on the bed, considering how to answer that question.

“I don't know yet,” she said, honestly. “He didn't like Sam.”

“But he likes you,” Gina said softly. “A lot.” Shay shrugged, grabbing her tote bag off the doorknob. She shoved the shirts inside, needing the action to distract her from answering the question. “He'd probably want to be with you. To support you. To hold your hand, maybe.”

“I have your hand to hold,” Shay said, shoving the clothes hard to fit them all into the bag.

“Girl, Thalia is going to be holding my hands,” Gina said, with a slight laugh, but her tone held an underlying sadness that sent a pang of pain through Shay's heart.

“Mm-hmm. I see how it is,” Shay teased, trying to keep things light. She didn't want to cry any more; she didn't think she could take it. She didn't want to see Gina cry, either. At that rate, they weren't going to have any tears left for the funeral.

“I'm not going to tell you what to do. I'm not your mama,” Gina said, leaning against the doorjamb. Shay shot her a searching look, wanting to say that her aunt was more of a parent than the actual parents that she used to have. But she didn't. She had a feeling that would lead to more tears. At that point, the conversation was starting to feel like negotiating through an emotional minefield. She didn't want to explode into a million pieces, dammit. Not after Tate had spent two days putting her back together. She still had another thing to do that evening and she couldn't be a mess when she did it. “Where are you going?” Gina continued after a minute, gesturing toward Shay's tote bag.

“Nowhere,” Shay said automatically, even as she tossed her makeup bag into the tote.

“Okay, girl,” Gina said, holding her hands up in surrender. “You do you. I'm going to bed, because I'm exhausted.”

“Good night,” Shay replied, keeping her eyes on the bag. She didn't want to see the knowing look in her aunt's eyes. She didn't know why she couldn't admit it. Maybe because she hadn't talked to him yet. Once she talked to him, she would know for sure. Then she would yell it from the mountaintops. But until then, she didn't want to get too excited. She didn't want to have too much hope. She wasn't used to having hope and she wasn't used to being excited for the future, or planning for it either. She wasn't quite ready to be happy. She especially wasn't ready for the happiness to supplant the sadness. Not yet. But she wasn't an idiot and she wasn't a masochist. She wanted Tate and she wanted to be with him. She wanted to sleep next to him at night and make love to him and laugh and cook for him and buy him a TV and pet his dumb cat.

She wanted him to want her, too.

She wanted it more than she wanted anything else in the world. Now that Sam was dead, everything that had once been murky was so clear. She didn't like to think of it like that, but it was the truth. Her father was dead, shot down in the street. It was unfair and it was shitty and it was terrible. But it was also the end. The end of the life she had lived. The end of the years of pain and lying. Now it was time to live. Really live. Shay wasn't going to waste any more damn time, that was for sure.

“I love you,” Shay said, finally looking up and finding her aunt's eyes. “You know that, right?”

“Of course,” Gina said, her eyes glassing over.

“Good,” Shay replied, nodding. “Don't forget it.”

“I won't.” Gina blinked quickly and Shay took a deep breath, forcing the lump down out of her throat.

“Alright. Good night, then,” Shay said, clearing her throat and smiling. Gina smiled back and for the first time that day, Shay didn't see any despair underneath her aunt's expression.

“Am I going to see you on the way to the bathroom tomorrow morning?” Gina asked, raising an eyebrow, trying one more time to get a straight answer out of her niece. “Or at the salon at eight sharp?”

“I'll just surprise you,” Shay said, not quite sure of the answer herself. “How about that?”

“Mm-hmm, okay Sugar,”  Gina said, turning and heading down the hallway. Her laughter followed her and Shay couldn't help but smile wide. Her aunt knew her better than she did herself, she was well aware. She knew that she was probably crystal clear to her wiser aunt. But she wasn't going to get ahead of herself. She wasn't going to rush.

She was going to take it step by step and get her life right.

She owed it to her father. She owed it to herself. And she owed it to Tate.

***

It wasn't easy to walk into the police station. It took her a minute to work up the courage, in fact. It was hard, but she did it anyway. Shay's heart was beating a mile a minute as she walked to the counter and asked for Detective Ramirez. She knew in her mind that there was nothing they could do to her, no way they could lock her up, but it was still scary. It went against everything she'd always be taught to talk to the police and it didn't feel right. But then again, she knew she had to do it. She had to grow up and do the right thing.

And she needed answers.

“Miss Spears?” A female voice called out and she glanced up to find Detective Ramirez walking toward her, her face as blank as Tate's normally was. “I've been meaning to call you,” she said as she reached the desk.

“I needed a few days. But I'm willing to answer questions now. Whatever you want to know,” Shay said quickly, shoving her hands in her pockets so that she would have something to do.

“Do you mind?” Ramirez asked, gesturing her to follow her outside. “I need a smoke.” Shay nodded and obediently followed the female detective out of the stuffy building and back out onto the street. As soon as she was outside of the precinct, she felt infinitely better. She no longer felt like a vice was closing around her chest, that was for sure. Ramirez dug around in her pants pocket and pulled out a crumbled pack of smokes. “You want one?” Shay shook her head and glanced out toward the street as a city bus rumbled by. It was dark; the sun had already set. It was chilly too, but Shay hardly noticed.

“How was your holiday?” Shay said, feeling awkward as the detective lit her cigarette.

“I worked,” Ramirez said, blowing out a short, smoky breath.

“Tate did, too,” Shay said, shoving her hands in her pockets. Ramirez narrowed her eyes at Shay at the mention of Tate's name, like she was studying her. Shay didn't like being looked at like that, so she immediately changed the subject. “So what do you want to know?” Shay asked. Ramirez waved her smoke away, not breaking eye contact. Shay was used to such direct eye contact from Tate, so she didn't stand down. She just squared her shoulders and refused to be intimidated.

“A '64 Chevy Impala,” Ramirez replied after a moment.

“What?”

“A '64 Chevy Impala,” Ramirez repeated patiently. “How much do you think that would be worth in parts? On the street, I mean?”

“Is that a trick question?” Shay asked, furrowing her brow.

“Do you know the answer?”

“Maybe,” Shay said, crossing her arms over her chest. “How original was it? Under the hood?”

“Oh, I don't know,” Ramirez said, shrugging. “I didn't ask.”

“Well the value varies. But you know that,” Shay said carefully, watching the other woman take another puff.

“How valuable would a '64 Chevy Impala be to your father?” Ramirez asked, smoke hanging between them like a fog. “Hypothetically?”

“Well...” Shay spoke even more carefully. It was stupid, she knew that her father was dead. Still, speaking openly about his business felt wrong somehow. Like airing out dirty laundry that should have just been tossed in the trash. But she told herself to answer, because Tate would want her to cooperate, if for no other reason. “Probably about ten grand in parts. A lot more for an original 409 diesel quad.” Ramirez's eyes widened and Shay knew instantly she'd given away too much information. She was insanely knowledgable about old car parts, but no one needed to know that beyond Tate. “Hypothetically,” she added for good measure.

“So it would have been fairly difficult for someone like Sam Spears to simply walk by a '64 Chevy Impala if he saw one on the street?” Ramirez asked, narrowing her eyes as she took another drag of her cigarette. Shay let out a low breath and a shock of pain went through her chest at the memories of her father that bombarded her in that moment. She knew for a fact he would have seen nothing but dollar signs if he happened across a vintage car of that caliber on the street. Especially if he needed money.

“He needed money,” Shay heard herself saying. “That's why he was back in the city. To hit me up for money.” Her throat tightened up, trying to prevent her from spilling the information, but she still got the words out despite her body's protest.

“Did you give him any?”

“No,” Shay said, dropping her eyes to the street as she felt the sting of tears in her eyes. An hour ago, she would have said with confidence that she had absolutely no more tears to cry, that her tear ducts would have been dry as the Sahara. And yet, here she was, outside of a police precinct with a detective, about to cry her eyes out.

“So, your father was hard up for cash and he saw a goldmine, just sitting on the street,” Ramirez said, her voice lowering. “He tried to steal it and, when the owner caught him, they exchanged words. Eventually shots were fired.”

“What?” Shay glanced up at the other woman sharply.

“The owner of a '64 Impala came in a couple of hours ago,” Ramirez said through smoke. “He admitted to shooting a man he believed to be in the process of stealing his car. Two nights back. Gave a statement and everything.”

“Where is he now?” Shay heard the hint of hysteria in her voice. It dawned on her that she knew exactly what car Ramirez was talking about. She'd seen it around the neighborhood. And her father had died over it. He'd died as he lived, over a car. It was all so meaningless, and somehow, it was a lot less worse than what she was imagining but a lot more horrific as well. It was all so stupid. So preventable. The worse part was she'd suspected for two days that if she'd given her father the money, he would still be alive. Detective Ramirez had simply confirmed what she already knew.