Page 84 of Paco
She pulled away, straightening her hair and smoothing down her top. “I don’t want Peter to see us kissing. He’s weird enough as it is, and he’s had too much to drink.”
“You didn’t care about your aunt and uncle.”
“Aunt Sandy’s cool, and so is Uncle Dave. They’re more modern. They’re just a couple of years older than you.”
“Does your uncle snort coke?” he asked.
“What made you ask that?”
“Just the way his eyes looked and how he kept rubbing his nose.”
Looking around, she said in a low voice, “Yeah, and so does Aunt Sandy, but my mom and Peter don’t know. I’m not sure if Kate knows about it now. They’ve been doing it since I was in middle school.”
“Did you tell anyone about the money?”
“No. I’ve decided to donate it to Street’s Hope. It’s a nonprofit that helps women who are victims of sex trafficking.”
A crazy mix of emotions tore through him and, in a single flashing moment, he wanted nothing else but to spend his life with her. She was like the sun giving him heat and light when for years he’d only had cold and darkness. His feelings for her were an alchemy of possessiveness, tenderness, and something else that made him uncomfortable, but at the same time made him feel alive.
“What? Do you think it’s a bad idea?” Her soft voice washed over him.
Pressing her to him, he cupped her chin and tilted her head back. “I think you’re wonderful.” He crushed his lips to hers, ignoring Peter’s loud footsteps and the floating laughter and conversation from the dining room. Everything was suspended—it was just him and Chelsea and their passion for each other. It was a heady mix, and he wanted it to go on forever.
“What the hell’s going on here?” Peter stormed in, anger molding his features.
Paco winked at Chelsea, then glanced over at her stepdad’s blotchy red face. “We’re kissing.”
“Are you lovers?”
Paco sneered. “That’s none of your fucking business.”
Peter slammed down the platter of steaks. “Let go of my daughter and get out of my house. Now. You’re just as bad as all the men who abused her. You’re nothing but—”
Paco had him flat against the wall, his hand tight around his neck, his face barely a breath away from the shocked man’s. “Don’t you ever compare me to those fuckers again.” He squeezed tighter, and Peter’s eyes bulged as he choked and sputtered. “And no one tells me what the fuck to do.”
“Paco, please.” Chelsea’s small voice and soft hands on his arm focused him.
With one last squeeze, he let go and backed away. Peter stood against the wall, coughing and gulping for air. His gaze fell on Chelsea’s. “He’s crazy,” he stammered.
“You disrespected him. He’s nothing like those horrible men. How could you have said that? If it weren’t for Paco, I don’t know where I’d be.”
“What’s all the yelling about?” Chelsea’s mother asked as she stood in the doorway looking at all of them.
Peter pointed at Paco. “He tried to kill me. He’s crazy. He was kissing Chelsea.”
Linda stared at Paco. “Is this true?”
With narrowed eyes, he zipped up his leather jacket. “I didn’t try to kill him.”
“Yes you did. I’m going to call the police.”
“If I wanted to kill you, you’d be dead.”
Linda gasped and ran over to Peter, running her hand over his forehead. “Are you okay?” she asked softly.
“No, I’m not.” He pushed her hand away from him.
“Mom, Peter accused Paco of being like the men who kidnapped me.”
