She parted her beautiful, kiss-swollen lips, clearly gearing up to argue. He didn’t intend to give her a chance. “Honey, you driving him home amounts to throwing kibble at the dog for pissing in the corner. He wants your attention right now. Give it to him and you train him to follow his worst instincts. None of it’s your fault,” he added, because he remembered spending too many hours of his life wondering why he couldn’t learn to stay the fuck out of Big Joe’s crosshairs. “But if you want a couple of minutes to talk to him before I come out and put him in my truck, better take them right now.”
To soften the words, or maybe to distract himself from the defeated look in her eyes, he traced his finger along her jaw.
“Tyler,” she sighed, infusing his name with a universe of pent-up emotion.
“Ellie,” he replied calmly, keeping his tone matter-of-fact, but unwavering.
She stared at him for another moment while she analyzed her options, and then turned and strode out of the bedroom without a backward glance.
He dressed fast, one ear on the conversation out front. Frank started into a rant about her telling Rawley’s not to serve him. Ellie denied telling anyone not to serve him, and suggested perhaps they refused his business because they were sick of dealing with him at times like this, when he was drunk and belligerent. She told him he’d feel better if he went home, ate something, and got some sleep.
The lower and cooler Ellie’s voice went, the louder and more agitated Frank became. By the time Tyler approached the door, Frank had resorted to shouting grievances. He didn’t need her checking up on him and telling him what to do. She disrespected him, walked around like she was better than everyone just because she had a few letters after her name.
Tyler stepped onto the porch and let the screen door bang shut. In the copper glow of the porch light, he watched Frank’s head swivel around and his squinty, bloodshot eyes try to focus.
“Time to go, Frank.”
It took a minute, but awareness finally dawned across the older man’s features. Then his attention bounced back to his daughter. His gaze raked over her disheveled hair, bare feet, and bathrobe. “You’re not better than me,” he yelled. “You’re nothing but a—”
“Get in the truck,” Tyler interrupted, out of patience. Frank didn’t move, so Tyler gripped the man’s withered bicep and walked him down the porch steps.
“Take your hands off me,” Frank growled.
He tried to jerk free, but stumbled instead. Tyler quickly had his hands full keeping them both upright, and took a fist to his jaw for his efforts. His head snapped back. He heard his teeth click together a second before he tasted blood.
“Goddammit,” he cursed.
“Come on,” Frank challenged, jaw jutting while he staggered around on the tether of Tyler’s arm like a muleheaded prizefighter. “Take a shot.”
Ellie rushed over and stepped between them, proving muleheadedness ran in the family. “Jesus, I’m sorry,” she said, and angled his head down so she could examine his jaw.
“Stop.” He turned, forcing her to his other side, using his body to block her from Frank’s reach.
She stuck to him like a spider web, wincing as she eyed him. “You’re bleeding.”
And hoping like hell to be the only one, so for God’s sake, back the hell away from the punch-throwing drunk. Instead of barking the words at her, he took a deep breath and counted to ten. Then, in a pissy-sounding voice he couldn’t believe came from his own throat, he said, “Don’t doctor me.”
She opened her mouth to object, so he pointed a finger at her. “You, go inside. You”—he swung the finger Frank’s way—“in the truck.”
They both blinked at him.
“Now.”
That got them moving. Frank clambered up into the passenger seat of the truck. Ellie retreated to the porch. Satisfied things were going to resolve without further bloodshed, Tyler pulled his keys from the front pocket of his jeans and got behind the wheel.
“I’ll be in touch,” he said to Ellie, and slowly reversed out of her driveway.
Chapter Fourteen
Ellie closed the door, rested her forehead against the smooth wood, and let tears burn their way down her cheeks. There were worse catastrophes than having her father show up drunk and punch the man she was sleeping with. None sprang to mind, but realistically, she knew they existed.
A few other thoughts did spring to mind, though. Thoughts like, she didn’t know how to handle Frank anymore. Their relationship remained as dysfunctional as ever, but now, with the added bonus of the diabetes and an escalating drinking problem, her old “do your duty” approach no longer worked. She needed a new one, but unfortunately, short of hiring round-the-clock caretakers—a solution he’d never accept and she couldn’t afford anyway—she had no ideas.
Sniffing back tears, she trudged down the hall to her bedroom. Big mistake. The ridiculous, hot-pink vibrator lay on the bed, reminding her of the excitement, passion, and plain old fun she and Tyler had shared earlier in the evening. A sound somewhere between a laugh and a sob hiccupped from her throat. She pressed her fist over her chest and faced facts.
She’d be lucky if he ever spoke to her again, much less laid a hand on her. Even if he did call her, what on earth would she say? Sorry about my dad. I promise it won’t happen again? Right. Pretty clearly she couldn’t deliver on such a promise. If she had the power to make Frank behave the way she wanted, tonight never would have happened in the first place.
She crossed to the bed, tossed the vibrator into her nightstand drawer, and faced another fact. The ache in her chest stemmed not from the permanent derailment of her master plan, or from losing her tutor, but from losing Tyler. That loss hurt the most, which didn’t even make any sense, considering their deal had been temporary by design. But somehow, whenever she spent time with him, he managed to fog her brain, sweep her off her feet, and make her lose sight of her plans.