Wearily, he trudged up the stairs to the wraparound porch, opened the screen, and unlocked the front door. As he entered the house, he tossed his keys in a bowl on the wood table beside the door, then stomped up the stairs, yanking his shirt over his head along the way.
What he wanted was a nice, long shower and then eight hours of good, solid sleep. Though he knew that was asking too much. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d slept longer than a four-hour stretch. Between taking the job at Coolier, and his wrecker service which he worked twenty-four seven, three hundred sixty-five days a year, he didn’t have time for sleep. Or much else. Including his daughter.
As he stepped onto the landing of the second floor, he stopped at the first bedroom. At the sight of the darkened room, his chest tightened. Flicking on the light, he stared at the empty twin bed with its dark pink bedspread covered in light pink pigs.
Goddamn it. He missed her. Missed her laughter. Missed hearing her bounce around the house. Hell, he even missed yelling at her when she wasn’t listening.
How quickly things changed. Wasn’t that the story of his life?
Just a few months ago, his schedule hadn’t mattered as much. Gayle, his quirky neighbor, had worked mostly from home unless she was on a storm chase. She loved Skylar and would keep her anytime Lance needed her to, even if he received a late night call for service. Skylar had been with him overnight a lot more back then.
Unfortunately, chase season was over, and Gayle had started working at the local news station as the chief meteorologist. She was hardly home now, and if she was, she was spending some much needed time with Mac, her fiancé.
That meant Skylar rarely stayed over any more, and he had to settle for daddy/daughter dates. He fucking hated it.
He flipped the switch and backed into the hallway. The creak of the wood floors beneath him echoed loudly throughout the empty house. The silence, the emptiness of the place was starting to get to him. When he’d bought this house in foreclosure a few years ago, it’d been run into the ground. It’d needed so much work and he’d painstakingly done all the renovations himself, one project at a time. He’d wanted to give Skylar a home with him, too. Not just the one she had with her mom and stepdad.
Unfortunately, it was just him most of the time now in the huge house. It fucking sucked.
He went into the bathroom then turned on the shower. Bracing his hands on either side of the sink, he looked in the mirror and grimaced at the light bruise under one eye. Other than some soreness in his side, the three assholes hadn’t inflicted too much damage. Once they’d gotten him to the ground and ganged up on him, he’d been in some serious shit. He had that mystery woman to thank for showing up when she had.
Too bad she’d refused to give him her name.
He pressed on the area. Not too sore. Probably be discolored for a couple of days. He’d definitely had a lot worse from a simple sparring session at the gym. No one would notice it.
He wasn’t sure what had sparked today’s encounter with the McNealys’ thugs. The gamblers only sent the bushwhackers out when their dirty work needed to be done. Yeah, he still owed them about sixty-five thousand dollars, but he was completely current on his payments.
As long as he paid on time, they weren’t supposed to have any issues.
Apparently, they were now having issues. It was only a matter of time before he found out what.
…
As Lance slammed the door of his Jeep, he looked around the alley for any sign of the bushwhackers. The last thing he needed was to get jumped again. Thankfully, there wasn’t any sign of them, so he hurried down the sidewalk.
He was late…again. Two days in a row was something he tried not to do, but he had no control over when a call came in for his wrecker business. He got a call. He went. Period.
He grabbed the door handle, rushed inside the gym.
“I set your appointment up with Billy until you got here.” Mac greeted him with a slight, irritated edge to his voice.
That would be the extent his best friend and pseudo boss would show to let him know he was annoyed by his late arrival. Lance was thankful Mac knew better than to outright say anything. He’d known the deal. If he said something about him being late, Lance was liable to flip the fuck out.
When Mac moved to Kansas permanently, deciding to retire from fighting because of a head injury, he’d taken Ragin up on his offer to help manage and coach the facility. The moment his friend had accepted the position, he’d started bugging the piss out of Lance to come in and help with training. At first he’d declined, but Mac could be a persuasive motherfucker, and Lance had finally caved, with the understanding that his wrecker business came first. Mac could take it or leave it. He’d taken it.
“Who is it?” Lance asked.