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“We need both, babe. For both Fluffy and Judge Ford.”
Whoa. Lucas was inviting the police to come into our home?
Chest tight, I gave Fluffy another quick glance—hell, he didn’t look good—and hurried to find my phone. The last time I remember having it was in the kitchen.
I heard Lucas murmuring to Fluffy as I dialed 911. I heard Fluffy murmur something back. I don’t know what. All I could make out was “do with her” before 911 answered.
I remember staying calm. I remember emphasizing that the person shot was a Marine. I don’t remember if I named Maureen as the unconscious woman responsible for shooting said Marine.
Hurrying back into the living room, throat tight, worry for Fluffy—and Lucas—gnawing at me, I confirmed our address into the phone.
Lucas was checking Fluffy’s wound. Fluffy sat in a chair at the dining table, his eyes closed.
“Please do not leave the premises,” the dispatcher said into my ear. “The paramedics and the police will be arriving short—”
The front door, already ajar, swung open farther and my parents—my freaking parents!—stood on the threshold, gaping.
“Ronnie?” Disbelief filled Dad’s voice. His stare jumped from me, to Lucas, to Fluffy, to the unconscious judge on the floor, and back to me again. “What the hell is going on?”
“Miss?” the 911 dispatcher asked. “Is everything okay?”
“Veronica?” Dad’s gape turned to a glare. “What the hell is going on?”
“Please hurry,” I said into my phone, before stabbing the end key with my thumb and shoving my phone into my back pocket. I stared at Mom and Dad. “What the hell are you doing here? You’re should still be on your—”
“Lucas fucking Pratt!” my fat
her roared, glare jerking to Lucas. “What the fuck have you done to my daughter?”
“William!” my mom wailed.
Dad charged, fists balled, into the living room, running straight at Lucas. “I’m going to fucking—”
“Dad!” My brain jolted my feet. I stumbled towards him. But not fast enough.
He reached Lucas—standing stock still, watching him, probably just as shocked as I was—and smashed his fist into his face. A wild right hook to the jaw.
Hard. Hard enough to snap Lucas’s head to the side.
Hard enough for Fluffy to wince and shout, “Hey!”
“Dad!” I yelled, grabbing for him.
Fluffy intercepted me, strong hands on my arms. Protecting me, I know. From my father? Or Lucas’s reaction to Dad hitting him?
“Dad. You don’t—”
Dad spun to point a finger at me. “Be quiet, Veronica. Shut it. Now. I don’t know what you’ve been doing with Pratt, but it stops now. He’s taken advantage of you and made you do God knows—”
“Hey!” Fluffy protested again, stepping us towards Dad. “You need to stop—”
I squeezed Fluffy’s arm, my fingers slipping on his bloodied skin. How was he even still conscious? “Dad,” I shook my head. “Dad, you need to let me—”
“I said to shut up!”
“Hey,” Lucas said. “William.”
Dad spun back to him. Just as Lucas swung his fist in a tight, blurring punch. Knuckle smashed against jaw. Bone against bone.
