On the Steamy Side - Louisa Edwards [39]
Who started weaving through the running cooks, ducking hot trays and steaming pots. “Where’s his mother?” Devon asked.
That made Frankie drop a steak back onto the grill. Checking his going concerns, Frankie determined the meat could all be let go for a minute or two. This was too good to pass up. He followed the Tosser to the back of the kitchen, noticing that Grant’s sweet piece, Lolly, appeared to agree—she was drifting toward the incipient drama like she was magnetized.
The cop regarded the Tosser coolly, unimpressed with his bluster. She was evidently a woman of great perception and insight. “Heather Sorensen was arrested earlier this evening; she’s being brought up on charges of driving while intoxicated and reckless endangerment.”
“Your son was in the backseat,” Grant supplied softly from Devon’s right.
Instant meltdown. Frankie could’ve sworn he heard the sound a vinyl album makes when the needle scritches over it. Or maybe that was only in his head.
Bloody hell. The Tosser had a kid. Frankie stared at the boy’s still, pale face. Poor little bugger, with a dad like that.
Falling back on aggression, which Frankie knew to be his default setting, the Tosser rounded on the cop. “And let me guess, Heather needs my help. After spending the last ten years as her personal ATM, I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. Well, Officer, my checkbook is in the office downstairs, I’ll go get it and we’ll clear this whole mess up.”
“I’m afraid that won’t be necessary, sir.” The calm voice of the cop stopped Devon’s move toward the stairs.
“Why is that?” he ground out, sounding like he was speaking around a mouthful of broken glass.
“Because Ms. Sorensen isn’t asking for bail money. She has voluntarily agreed to enter a rehabilitation center and is asking that you assume temporary custody of one Tucker Sorensen for one month.”
The boy, Tucker, squirmed his hand out of the cop’s grasp and folded his arms across his chest.
Devon stared down at his son, and the expression on his face hit Frankie hard. There was something there, as the man watched his child make the same defensive gesture he himself made on a regular basis. Something torn and bleeding that made Frankie want to stand shoulder to shoulder with Devon and maybe help prop him up.
“I can’t,” Devon rasped into the awkward silence. “I’m not the kind of . . . I don’t have time for a child. What would I do with him?”
A high, distressed noise came from Frankie’s right. So soft nobody else probably heard it, but it made Frankie turn to look at Lilah. Tears stood in her pretty green eyes, her throat working visibly.
The policewoman—Officer Santiago, her badge said—gave Devon a long, appraising look. Then she glanced down at Tucker, who was staring at his scuffed sneakers. Angling her body away from the boy, Santiago tilted her head to indicate she wanted a private word with Devon.
Stepping forward, Devon leaned in to hear what she had to say. Without thinking twice about it, Frankie followed suit.
“Sir. If I were to understand you to be declining custody at this time, my next move would be to contact Child Protective Services and get Tucker started on the foster-care process. Ms. Sorensen indicated to me that there was no one else, no other family to turn to. Is that your understanding as well?”
Devon’s eyes closed. “Yes. Heather was a runaway. I’m not even sure where she was from originally.”
“And what about your family?” the officer probed. “Do you have anyone who could come stay with you for a few weeks, help out?”
Devon laughed, the sound as harsh as a gunshot. “I haven’t spoken to my family in years.”
“That’s too bad,” Santiago said. “In situations like these, it’s best if the child can stay with a close family member. But if that’s not possible, or if the family members aren’t willing to accept that responsibility, then perhaps foster care is best.”
With that chilling pronouncement, she turned back to Tucker and wrested his hand back into hers. The boy