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As promised the meeting wrapped up quickly. Within forty-five minutes, Rachel was climbing the stairs to get the kids. She gave a quick rap with her knuckles on Lucas’s bedroom door before pushing it open to find the dim space illuminated only by dueling computer screens. Eyes adjusting to the darkness, she spied Lucas and Dylan each wearing headgear complete with microphones and speakers. Lucas was seated in a rolling chair facing a large screen while Dylan sat on the floor, his laptop balanced on his thigh, where he was obviously playing some interactive video game that included abandoned buildings, a military force, big guns, and lots of blood.
Dylan’s back was propped against the foot of the bed, on which, in the dim, eerie light, she saw Harper and some boy she didn’t recognize. They hadn’t heard her. They were locked in a tight embrace, lips parted and kissing wildly, one of his hands in her hair, their jean-clad legs entwined.
“What the hell’s going on here?” Rachel stepped into the room, knocking over a cup of half-drunk soda as she slapped on the light switch.
Immediately the room was illuminated.
“Mom!” As if she’d received an electric shock, Harper jettisoned away from the boy, nearly a man by the looks of him. Her feet hit the floor and she stood, thankfully, still in her clothes, blinking against the light. Her flushed face instantly turned ashen. “What’re you doing here?”
Rachel ignored her daughter, her focus laser sharp on the unknown kid—was he a kid? His beard shadow was pretty thick. “Who are you?”
“Xander.” He rolled off the bed on the near side and Rachel tried not to notice the bulge in his jeans, evidence of his hard-on. At least he had the decency to look embarrassed and tried to hide his arousal with the hem of an oversized sweatshirt.
Dear God.
Rachel turned her glare to her daughter. “What is this, Harper?”
Dylan turned his head, as if suddenly realizing there was more going on in the room than the war game he was playing. He pulled off his headgear and scrambled to his feet, all the while shooting worried glances at Rachel.
“Mom,” Harper said, her voice thin, her chin lifted defiantly. “This is Xander Vale. He’s . . . he’s a friend of Lucas’s and . . . and mine.”
“Good friends, obviously,” Rachel said dryly. When Xander took a step forward and extended his hand, she took it for the briefest of seconds. What to do next? No parent manual for this one.
“Nice to meet you,” he said, this near-man in a gray U of O hoodie, torn jeans, and bare feet. Apparently he was attempting, and having some luck at, growing a beard. A beard! His eyes were dark and there was a hint of arrogance beneath the veneer of embarrassment.
I don’t trust you, she thought. Not one inch. What are you doing with my seventeen-year-old daughter?
“Get your things,” she said to Harper, her voice tight.
“Back off,” Lucas grumbled as Dylan nudged him with the toe of his running shoe. “I hit you! You are done, man!”
“Hey!” Dylan said into his microphone.
“What—?” Lucas snapped, yanking off his helmet. “What’s your problem?” Then, from the corner of his eye, he caught sight of Rachel and realized the lights were on and the jig was definitely up. “Oh.”
“Yeah. ‘Oh,’” Rachel said, and for the first time caught a whiff of marijuana smoke. Great. She motioned to both her kids. “Now,” she said. “Downstairs. Move it. Your dad’s on his way.”
“Dad?” Harper nearly squeaked out the word and she glanced around the messy room frantically. “My stuff is in the car.”
“Get it.” Rachel was in no mood for any kind of excuse.
Eyes wide, Harper said softly, “You’re not going to tell him about . . .”
“About Xander?” Rachel asked. “Oh, yeah. You bet I am. Not only that, but you”—she pointed at the man/boy and looked him straight in the eyes despite the fact that he stood six or seven inches above her—“you, Xander Vale, are going to meet him.”
Harper let out a little sound of protest. Her makeup was smeared and she appeared so damned young.
In the ensuing silence, Rachel kept her eyes on Xander and was vaguely aware of sounds drifting up from downstairs, music punctuated by voices floating up through the vents. With a tenuous grip on her emotions, she said, “Harper’s dad is a great guy.” Glancing at her daughter, who was frantically shaking her head, Rachel added, “I hope she didn’t fail to mention him.” She tried to maintain what little of her cool she still held on to.
The boy, staring at the floor, plunged his hands into the front pocket of his sweatshirt and had the good sense not to try to argue or butt in.
“Cade,” she said. “That’s Harper’s dad’s name. Detective Cade Ryder.” She waited just a second, hoping to let that final bit of information sink in. The kid, to his credit, stood his ground. “As I said, he’s a cop. And trust me, he’s going to want to meet you.”
CHAPTER 12
Cade had barely closed the door of his truck when he saw his ex-wife and kids fly out of the front door of his father’s house and gather on the porch. Another kid was with them as well. Not Lucas. Maybe older. In an Oregon sweatshirt, jeans, and flip-flops, the boy looked to be pushing twenty or twenty-one. So not a boy. Beside him a white-faced Harper appeared positively apoplectic. Dylan was sullen and distant in his earbuds, and Rachel’s expression told him she was pissed. Make that really pissed.
Great.
