Page 122 of Smith

My smile got bigger.

I noticed the SUVs lining the street before the house came into view.

“For goodness sakes it looks like an FBI raid if the FBI drove Chaldaics instead of Chevys. Are we having a good riddance to the Sex House of Horror party?”

“Something like that.” Smith chuckled.

So far he was on the good side of fifty-fifty when he swung into the driveway.

That quickly changed when it hit me what I was looking at.

New siding, new shutters, new porch, new garage doors, new lighting.

“Smith,” I growled.

“Maybe it was more eighty-twenty,” my father joked.

“You think?”

Smith put the truck in park but left the engine running when he shifted in his seat and looked over his shoulder at me.

“For too many hours the men and women in that house were terrified for us,” he started. “Terrified they’d lose you and terrified if you were gone what that’d do to me. When they told me what they were going to do, I was going to tell them no. But I changed my mind. They needed to do something. They needed to find a way to show you they had your back. They needed to show you, you’re family. There was nothing they could do to take away your pain. They can’t erase the memory of that fucker. This…” He pointed to the house. “Was the only thing they could do to lessen your load. It’s not going to be what you envisioned. It won’t be exactly how you wanted it. What it is, is finished and ready for you to put your final touches on it and sell it.”

It was too much. Too big of a gesture.

But still I whispered, “It’s perfect.”

“You haven’t seen the inside and Cash was in charge so you might want to reserve?—”

“It’s perfect,” I repeated.

Though Cash being in charge did give me a twinge of worry, so I asked, “Just so I can prepare, are there mirrors on the ceiling in the master?”

Smith grinned.

Holy shit.

“I was joking,” I told him.

“I don’t think Cash was when he suggested it. Luckily for you, Kira was second in command and put the kibosh on that.”

Thank God for Kira.

I started to open the door. Smith’s growl slowed my progress but his warning halted it altogether.

“Don’t give a shit your father’s in the truck.” That wasn’t the best opener. “But if you open that door and jump down with broken ribs, that spanking I promised you will happen.”

I looked to my dad for help, though I’d take him shooting laser death rays at Smith.

“You’re looking at me like you want me to say something,” my father rightly surmised, then wrongly guessed what I’d wanted him to say. “I’m sure I’ve got some foamies somewhere floating around in my bag. Not the same as a headset but it’ll dampen the noise enough I won’t want to throw up.”

“That’s not helpful.”

“You know what would be?” my dad asked. “You remembering your ribs are broken, and as annoying as it is because you’re active, have a mind to those ribs so they’ll heal.”

“You know,” I said conversationally. “As much as I love you both, your overbearing, over-protective act is seriously infuriating.”

“Yeah, baby, it’s good you love us.”

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