She just shrugs. “In the technical sense,” she says, quirking a smile. “I don’t talk to him much.”

“But he lives here,” I say, trying to get clarification.

She nods and before I can say anything else, she climbs out of the truck, taking her purse with her.

Well, how many rooms can this place have if there’s another kid living here? Does she even have a bed?

She pulls a suitcase out of the back, swings her bag over her head, and leads the way. I grab a box and follow, grinding my teeth to keep my fucking mouth in check. I don’t know if I’m angry or worried or what, and I don’t know if I have a right to feel those things or if any concern is justified. She’ll probably be fine. This is her family. I just…

I feel like I’m going to explode at any second.

We walk up the few steps to the front door, and Jordan barely looks at her stepbrother and his friends as she opens the door.

“Ryan, this is Cole’s dad,” she mumbles. “Pike, this is my stepbrother, Ryan.”

I turn to the kid, and he straightens, holding out his hand. “Hey, man.”

I shift the box in my arms and manage to shake his hand. “Hi.”

He’s stocky and short for a guy, about Jordan’s height, but he tries to make up for it with a neck tattoo and a black leather jacket.

In summer.

“So, you home now?” he says to her, taking a swig from his beer.

“Yeah.”

One of Ryan’s buddies nudges him. “Is this the one who’s a stripper?”

I tighten my fingers around the box.

He snorts, nearly spitting up his beer. “Nah, man. That’s the other one.” But then his eyes take Jordan in, moving up and down her with a smirk. “This one can dance a little, too, though.”

They all laugh, and I feel a lump push up my throat like a growl. Steeling myself, I turn and push the door open for Jordan, forcing her inside.

I should be more forgiving. It’s not like I wasn’t the occasional little prick from time to time growing up.

How the hell does he know how she dances?

I give myself a mental shake and take a deep breath. Drop off her shit and go home. She’s not my concern. This is her choice. And if I were her, I’d do the same thing.

I’m actually proud of myself. She’s no stranger to my outbursts or pushy demands, and I’m keeping amazingly quiet given the fact that I hate this neighborhood, and this entire situation is grinding my gears. I can hang on for five more minutes, right?

And if I do, then maybe I’ll treat myself to Dairy Queen on the way home for keeping my mouth shut for once.

Her father, Chip, is passed out on a recliner to the left, the TV playing some sitcom at a dulled volume, while a couple of ladies sit at the kitchen table to the right. They smoke cigarettes with cans of beer in front of them. A car stereo blares in the distance, and a few firecrackers go off around us outside.

“Need any help?” a lady with dark hair asks from the table. She lifts up her beer, taking a drink and barely giving me any notice.

Jordan shakes her head and veers into the kitchen, around the ladies at the table. She doesn’t introduce us, and I certainly don’t care if this lady doesn’t. Your daughter—or stepdaughter—comes home with a guy you’ve never seen, and it doesn’t prompt a question, at least?

I assume it’s her stepmom, anyway, since she has the same small brown eyes as the guy outside.

I inhale the smell of Lysol mixed with a tinge of burritos and wet soil, like something got rained on or there’s rot somewhere. We make our way down the hallway, our footfalls creating a hollow thud as we come to the first door on the left.

“There might be some laundry we tossed in there,” the lady at the table calls back. “Gather it up and toss it in the washer, would ya?”

I take another deep breath. She’ll be fine.

She pushes the bedroom door open, and I look into her old bedroom. My jaw flexes.

“Where’s my bed?” Jordan calls out, sighing.

But no one answers her.

The room is littered with fucking junk. She has a dresser that’s missing drawers, a beach towel hanging over her window, and cobwebs in the corner of the ceiling. I can smell the pile of dirty laundry that her room now houses and narrow my eyes at the hole in the wall.

No.

Jordan sets down her suitcase and turns to me, grabbing at the box. “Don’t worry,” she says, smiling at whatever look I have on my face. “I’ll be fine. You know me. I’ll have this place spic and span by tomorrow.”

But I won’t let her have the box, keeping it secure in my arms.

I tear my eyes away from the mouse trap sitting next to the heating vent with no grate over it to keep rodents out and jerk my hard stare down to her. “Hell, no,” I growl. “I’m done with this conversation. We’re leaving now.”

Holding the box in the crook of one arm, I reach down and grab her suitcase with the other hand and immediately turn, barreling back out of the house.

“Excuse me?” she burst out behind me, dumbfounded.

But I’m already gone. I ignore the women in the kitchen and don’t even turn to see if her father has woken up before I push through the front door and past the guys still loitering on the porch.

“Pike!” she yells after me.

I ignore her. I know she’ll follow me. I have all of her stuff.

Dropping the box and suitcase back into the bed of the truck, I dig out my keys and climb into the driver’s seat. She charges around the front of the truck and opens the passenger-side door.

She glares at me. “What the hell are you doing?”

“You’re not staying here.” I start the engine.

“What the hell’s the matter with you?” she blurts out.

I glance through my window, seeing the guys on the porch looking at us curiously. “Has that stepbrother tried anything with you?” I ask her.

“Nothing I can’t handle.”

“And his friends?”

She inhales a breath, and I can tell she’s trying to stay calm. She’s impatient with my concerns. “I’ll be okay,” she maintains. “I’m not your kid. My dad is here.”

“Your dad isn’t…” I bark but stop.

Insulting her won’t get us anywhere.

I press my back into the seat and grind my fist over the wheel.

Her father isn’t a bad guy. From what I know of him anyway. We’ve even talked a few times in passing.

But he’s weak.

He’s a drunk, and he’s a loser. He’s the type who does the bare minimum in life and puts up with scraps, because he’s too lazy to fight for better. He can’t be there for her.

“This is stupid,” I say. “You’re not trading in a perfectly good home, in a nice, safe neighborhood, for this. Swallow your pride, Jordan.”

“I don’t belong at your house!” Fury burns in her eyes. “And this is where I come from, thank you. Cole is going to be back, eventually, and he’s your son. How do you think that’s going to work out with both of us there? I have no right.”

“We’ll deal with it.”

“No,” she fires back. “This isn’t any of your business. This is my home.”

“It’s not a home! You don’t…”

I open my mouth to finish, but my heart is pounding so hard, and I’m afraid of what I was going to say.

I breathe shallow and fast, turning my eyes forward again and away from her. I lower my voice. “You don’t have anyone who cares about you in this shithole.”

“And I do at your house?”

I shoot my eyes to her, the answer to that question coming so easily and so heavy on the tip of my tongue that I want to tell her.

But I don’t.

And she stares at me, my unsaid reply hanging between us. She falters, realization softening her eyes.

“Just get in the truck,” I grit out, “and let’s go home.”

“But—”

“Now, Jordan!” I slam the steering wheel with my palm.

She sucks in a breath, her eyes flaring. I don’t know if I scared her, or if she’s worried about making a scene, but she quickly pulls herself into the truck and slams her door. She’s tense and pissed and probably thinks she’ll deal with me away from prying eyes later, but I don’t care. I’ve got her, and we’re out of here.

I shift the truck into gear and pull ahead, swinging around and then reversing to do a U-turn. Finally facing back the way I came, I lay on the gas and get us out of there, driving back down the lane and pulling onto the road leading back into town.

I have no idea what her stepbrother or stepmother were probably thinking, and I really don’t care about that either. Let them think what they want for the next five minutes, because that’s exactly how long it will take them to forget she exists again.

No wonder she moved out there in the first place. I don’t think she was abused or anything—I never heard talk like that about her father—but she was definitely neglected. She deserves better.

The trees loom on both sides of the dark highway, and I roll my window down for some much-needed fresh air.

She doesn’t say anything, just sits there frozen, and I could kick myself, because I should’ve just talked to her at the house instead of going through all this. I knew how this was going to end. There was no way she was staying in Meadow Lakes. I wasn’t seriously helping her move tonight. I was finding my mettle.

But what if she wanted to move in with her sister? Or stay with a friend? I still would’ve fought her. I know I would’ve.

It’s not that she can’t take care of herself. I know very well she can.

I just don’t want her to have to. Somewhere along the line I got invested.

No one else in her life can give her what she deserves, and until she can provide it for herself, then I’m taking that responsibility. Screw it. She deserves the best. She’s getting the best.