Page 89 of Playing With Love

“Tucker—”

“I’ll be quick.”

“Tucker—”

“Don’t worry, baby, I won’t schedule any viewings before ten.”

With that I slipped out the door—leaving Liza fuming—closed it behind me, and answered the call. “Hello?”

There was a beat of silence before Craig Monroe demanded, “Who is this?”

“I’m the man who answered your daughter’s phone,” I told him. “I’m also the man who’s seriously pissed off at how I heard you speak to your daughter during your last call. Which brings us to why I answered. That shit will never happen again.”

“Excuse me?”

“No, you are not excused.”

“Do you know who you’re speaking to?” the arrogant prick asked.

“Absolutely. A jackass who thinks it’s okay to belittle his daughter.”

“Put Liza on the phone.”

I didn’t bother taking a breath or waste energy in an attempt to calm myself down. I needed this call done and I needed to get back into the house, not only to put my woman at ease but because every second I talked to this asshole out in the open was dangerous. We didn’t know if there were cameras on the compound, which meant I didn’t know if someone was watching or could hear me. Allyson didn’t think there were cameras. She’d never seen one but that didn’t mean shit. There still could be and I didn’t need to blow our cover putting this assclown in his place.

“I’m getting the sense you’re not really good at listening. So let me be clear in a way even you cannot mistake. That shit you laid on my woman was just that—shit. And it will never… did you hear that part…never happen again. She is not your whipping post; you do not take your frustrations out on her that your wife is ill and you are needed at home. You do not waste her time calling her to complain that you don’t want to be the one to do it. But more than all of that, if you cannot speak to her like she is the most precious thing in your life you don’t ever call her again.”

“Yes, my wife, her mother, is ill⁠—”

“So be a man and take care of her,” I interrupted.

“This is preposterous,” he complained.

“You are more right than you have the mental capacity to comprehend. To the point this conversation is downright stupid.”

“I want⁠—”

“I don’t give the first fuck what you want.”

“I see my daughter has found an equally as foul-mannered man to align herself with. It was no surprise the last one couldn’t find it in him to put up with her dreadful demeanor and divorced her. A man of that upbringing and standing in the community, I was frankly surprised it took as long as it did for him to disentangle himself.”

Red hot fury shot through me.

“You’re talking about a man who cheated on her.”

“Yes, and who could blame him when he had that to come home to. I warned her, no man would put up with her attitude and certainly wouldn’t love a woman who⁠—”

I heard no more because I couldn’t take another second of listening to that motherfucker without losing my shit. After I disconnected, I went to Liza’s recent calls and blocked his ass. Then for good measure, I found her mother’s contact info and blocked her, too.

After I did that, I tipped my head back, closed my eyes, felt the sun on my face, and breathed. The oxygen burned going in and felt no better going out.

Back in the car, I thought I’d understood. Before that, back at the hotel when I told her I loved her and saw the fear in her denial, some of the pieces had started to click together. Again, more pieces when she’d spent the night at my house. But up until that moment, hearing her father—the man who was supposed to love and protect her—make excuses for her husband cheating on her, I came to the realization I hadn’t understood shit. I thought him making her feel like she was a waste of his time and his neglect was what I was up against, but it was deeper, uglier.

The motherfucker had told her she was unlovable.

Worse, he’d convinced her of that.

I took another breath, this one no less full of disgust, but it was one of resolve. I opened my eyes to a cloudless blue sky, exhaled the rage, and fortified my determination before I turned and went back into the house. I found the women sitting in Allyson’s supremely girly living room—Allyson and Liza on the couch, Colleen cattycorner on a plum-colored velvet stool that looked like it was meant to be used to prop your feet on while you kicked back on the sofa.