Fireside. Сьюзен Виггс
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his mind and stuck it in his pocket. In the drawer, he spotted a box of rubbers. Whoa. He shoved the box in the cabinet under the sink, back behind the pipes, then gave the place a once-over to make sure there weren’t any other sketchy things lying around.
He didn’t consider himself the kind of person who kept secrets, but for the time being, there was a kid in his life, and he had to make room for that. The sudden responsibility felt crushing, but what was he going to do? Clean up his act, for one thing.
When Bo himself was a young boy, his mother had shielded him from nothing—not the late-night visitors, not the laughter or the fighting, not the strangers he encountered in the house when he got up in the night to take a leak. Things like that had taken a toll on him, made him a distrustful and cautious child, who had grown into a distrustful and reckless man.
He had enough sense to know there were some things a kid just didn’t need to see. At least until someone other than Bo could explain them.
Although Bo and his brother, Stoney, had grown up without a father, they’d had a lot of uncles. Not uncles by blood, of course. “Uncles” was a euphemism for whatever shitkicker or oilfield trash happened to be banging his mother.
So even though he didn’t know a damn thing about raising a kid, he understood that you didn’t put stuff in their face before they were ready to deal with it. He remembered lying awake too many nights, feeling sick to his stomach as he listened to the low voice of a stranger through the thin walls of the trailer where they lived. One of his earliest memories was hearing his brother say, “I swear, if you piss the bed again, I’ll pound your face. Swear to God, I will.”
He and Stoney had taken to peeing in empty Coke bottles rather than getting up in the night and risking an encounter with Uncle Terrell or Uncle Dwayne, or whoever else was keeping their mama from getting lonely that night.
That was how she explained the visitors to her boys. “It keeps me from feeling too lonely.”
“I can do that,” Bo used to tell her, when he was really little and didn’t understand. “I can keep you from getting lonely. I’ll sing to you, Mama. I’ll play the guitar.” He wasn’t very good, but he knew all the words to “Mr. Bojangles,” his namesake song.
His mama had tousled his hair, offered a sad smile. “This is a different kind of lonely, baby boy. It’s the kind you can’t help me with.”
In time, Bo had grown into an understanding of what she meant, but he never forgot the feeling of being a scared kid. He would never subject AJ to that. For the rest of the weekend—or however long the boy was with him—Bo Crutcher would be a monk.
Yeah, right. He could just hear his friends now. People who knew him had never seen him go more than a week or two without a date.
He tried to be as quiet as possible as he moved around the apartment. Until last night, he had considered it a luxury to live in a place that didn’t require him to get behind the wheel at the end of the night. Situated above his favorite bar, where he worked most nights, it allowed him the world’s shortest commute after work. He simply went upstairs and did a face-plant in the bed.
Unless, of course, he got lucky, which he did with decent frequency. It was always a pleasant feeling, waking up with a woman in his bed. He loved everything about women. He loved their soft skin and all the good-smelling preparations they used to keep it that way. He loved the sound of their sweet voices, laughing at something he’d said or sighing with pleasure in his ear when he held them close. He’d had a lot of girlfriends over the years and he’d loved each and every one of them as thoroughly as he knew how.
And when each one left him, she always walked away with a piece of his heart. He never told them, though. Never complained. He was grateful for whatever time and whatever loving they’d given him.
Most of his girlfriends left believing he’d forget them the moment they were out of sight. They couldn’t be more wrong, though. The women he’d loved and lost were etched in his mind like beautiful dreams that never quite vanished with the morning.
Knowing how to love a woman had never been a problem for Bo. Knowing how to keep her, now, that was a different story. A lot of them left as soon as they realized he didn’t know shit about sharing his life, planning a future, keeping a bond strong enough for a lifetime. Others took off when they discovered that all professional ballplayers were not created equal. Yes, the Can-Am League was an organization of professionals. But the players were in it because they purely loved the game, not because they were being paid a fortune. To some women, this was a bit of a rude awakening.
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