Page 66 of Sterling Clay

Judd’s head tips up. His blue eyes aimed directly at me. “He insulted Dutton.” A hint of a growl mingles with his explanation. A fire dances in his eyes. Judd might understand better than anyone how much words can hurt, especially when the insults imply a young boy isn’t acting masculine. Or masculine enough for a small-minded dickhead. Our father had plenty of slurs for his son who cried easily and complained often about missing our mama.

Tears aren’t bringing her back, you baby.

Our mother was as gone as our father’s compassion.

“And I appreciate the defense of Dutton. But seriously, where did you learn to hit like that?”

Judd’s position the other night was next to me. One slip of that left hook and he would have gotten me in the side of the head instead of that jackass’s face. His aim was impeccable. The hit direct. A punch like that took practice and skill, not beginner’s luck.

Judd shrugs. “I took self-defense classes.” The corner of his mouth curls upward, reminding me of Sebastian.

“When?”

Judd’s expression falls, giving away that he’s trying to be cheeky. He hasn’t taken a class. He doesn’t need protection like that.

“A while back.” His eyes lock onto mine and for the first time I’m stunned by him, and it’s not his ability to hit someone.

“Why are you lying to me?” I lean back in my chair, setting my elbow on the arm rest and leaning my cheek against two fingers. Watching him, I’m trying to puzzle him out. What’s he thinking? What’s he been doing? Because there is a good chance, he isn’t going to tell me.

Judd turns his head, giving me his cheek, so I can’t see his eyes. He sits straighter in the chair. “So, I learned to fight. No big deal.” His tone isn’t as dismissive of the thought as he intends it to be. Instead, he’s quiet, uncomfortable.

“Why?” I might have understood when he was a kid. God knows, our dad provoked him enough, but Knox and Sebastian often got in the way to protect Judd from the violent stuff. Even when Judd was nearly a man and bigger than our dad, it didn’t stop the old man from going after Judd, often accusing him of looking too much like our mother. His hair was lighter than the rest of ours, like Vale’s and Mom’s. He had mannerisms like hers, like the way he tilts his head or the way he laughed, a sound he quickly learned to mask as a child.

“I just did.” With his elbows perched on the armrests at his sides, he continues to stare off toward the window in my office. His answer might be as good as I get.

“You okay?”

Judd turns his head, bringing those sad eyes back to me. He never seemed to recover from Mom’s death. Not like any of us had, but he just took the loss of her harder. There has been an emptiness in all of us that we’ve struggled to fill. Most would say our father stripped us down, making that void within us. But the hollowness started with our mother passing away too young, and those of us who remember her have a special place in our hearts reserved only for her memory.

“I’m good.”

He’s lying again but this is a fib I’ve heard for a long time.

“How’s Heather?”

Judd snorts, knowing I don’t actually care, I’m just being polite because I care about him, and I want her to treat him right. I also think he should be fair to her. If he doesn’t love her, he should let her go. The last thing he should do is ask her to marry him.

“Still getting hitched to the auto sales princess?” I tease. “Get it? Hitched. Autos.”

“Good one. You practicing up on your dad jokes?”

I purse my lips. “Never know.”

Judd arches a brow at that answer. “Something you want to share with the class, principal.”

“I’ll page you over the intercom when there’s something to announce.”

Judd chuckles. I don’t know that he knows what an intercom is, even if he is only two years younger than me.

“Now get out of my office,” I joke, shoving up from my seat at the same time as Judd stands from his. I open my arms, wordlessly demanding we embrace. He rolls his eyes like a child but hugs me hard.

“Good talk,” he mutters, pulling back fast but I catch his shoulder.

“And you’ll come talk to me if you need something, right?”

“Yes, Dad,” he groans.

“I think I like being called the principal better.”