Page 75 of Creeping Beautiful

She’s not my little sister. And she’s not my daughter.

So yeah. This is probably why I let McKay do this shit. There is no word for what Indie is to me.

Except the actual description of what Indie is to me. Which is my little bought-and-paid-for psycho assassin kid.

But I can’t really say that.

So I stop just off to the left side of the house to think about this for a moment.

Hello, Mr. Grandpa St. James. I’m here to have a talk with you about your grandson’s intentions with my…? My what?

Friend? Not really.

Ward? That sounds very Charles Dickens.

Minor dependent?

I go with that and continue towards the house. It’s as good as anything. But I’m just coming up to the front when I hear giggling.

And you know what? It’s not the kind of giggling you do when you’re watching a funny movie.

It’s soft giggling. And then a word. “Stop.” Just one giggly word. “Stop it.” And again.

And that rational voice inside me is screaming, Go home. Talk to her later. You do not want to know what’s happening in there.

Which is very good advice. And I should listen to myself.

But I don’t. I walk to the window and peek in.

Indie and Nate on the couch. Heads together. Lips, if not touching, just about to. His hand squirming its way up her shirt.

She giggles again. “Stop it! I told you. Not until later!”

“Not until later?” I echo.

And then I realize the window is open and they just heard me.

“Adam!” Indie squeals and she’s up on her feet so fast, I almost think I was seeing things.

But no. Her shirt is pulled crooked, one bare shoulder exposed.

“What the fuck is going on here?” My voice is low and growly and threatening.

“Oh, fuck,” Nate says. “I’m sorry. We were just messing around.”

I stare at him. No. Glare at him through the window. And then the next thing I know I’m inside, grabbing him by the fucking shirt. Pushing him up against the wall. Knocking shit over as he struggles to get away. Indie is tugging on my arm, and then a picture falls off the wall, and somehow Indie is on the floor. Looking up at me. Screaming. “He was teasing me! That’s all! It was a tease!”

I hear it. I get it. I do. But I can’t bring myself to take my fucking fingers off this kid’s throat.

He’s choking now, his hands gripping mine. But he’s a fifteen-year-old kid and I’m a twenty-eight-year-old asshole. So there’s no hope for him at all.

And then there’s a blinding flash of light in front of my eyes and ringing in my ears as something very hard and solid hits the side of my head.

I wake up with a piercing headache and McKay bent over me, shaking me by the shoulders.

“He’s coming around.”

That’s McKay.