Page 14 of Daddy Defender
The ocean hums behind us, the streetlamp buzzing, and I see it—the fear he’s trying so hard to hide.
The boy is tough, but he’s in over his head, and he knows it.
Bodie’s hand stays on his hip, his pout stubborn, but his eyes flicker to the van, then back to me, weighing his options.
What’s it gonna be, Bodie?
Trust a stranger, or roll the dice with the shadows?
Chapter 5
Bodie
“Okay,fine,” I snap, my hand still on my hip, pout locked in place like it’s gonna protect me from this arrogant jerk. “Check the stupid van. But if you touch anything that’s not yours, I’ll make you regret it.”
Henry’s dark eyes don’t waver, just hold mine with that steady, unshakeable calm that’s starting to get under my skin. Not in a bad way, exactly, which is the worst part.
It’s like he’s seeing right through my bravado, peeling back the layers I’ve spent years building.
“Two minutes,” Henry says, voice low, authoritative, like he’s used to giving orders and having them followed. “Stay close and don’t touch anything. I’ll sweep for bug, tracking devices, any obvious signs that the van’s been tampered with. Hold tight.”
I roll my eyes, but my stomach does this annoying flip.
Don’t touch anything?
Who does he think he is, my father?
Or worse… a Daddy?
The thought makes my cheeks burn, and I shove it down hard.
No way. I amnotgoing there.
Henry’s just some overbearing guy who can’t mind his own business, and as soon as he’s done poking around Shred, I’m outta here.
Anywhere but Sunny Ferns, where creepy trucks and nosy strangers seem to be my new normal. And it’s not like I can’t usually handle myself. I’ve been in enough sticky situations over the years. But this is all taking it way too far.
I watch as Henry steps toward Shred’s open side door, his broad shoulders filling the space, and I trail behind, arms crossed, trying to look like I’m in control.
The streetlamp casts a weak glow over the lot, the ocean humming in the distance, but all I can focus on is Henry’s hands—big, steady, moving with this deliberate precision as he starts checking the van’s undercarriage.
He’s got a small flashlight, the beam darting over bolts and seams, like he’s done this a hundred times. Probably has, with that scar above his eyebrow and that “don’t mess with me” vibe.
It gets me thinking…
Military, maybe? Cop? Whatever he is, he’s too comfortable in my space, and it’s making my skin itch.
“Can you, like, hurry up?” I pout, kicking my feat in the dust.
Henry doesn’t reply. He’s quite clearly a man on a mission right now, and apparently basic politeness doesn’t come into the equation as far as he’s concerned.
I lean against Shred’s side, watching Henry work, and my mind slips to a memory I’ve tried to bury…
Sophomore year, Mr. Hargrove, the math teacher with a permanent sneer and a vendetta against me. I was the kid who never fit—too loud, too restless, always doodling waves in my notebook instead of solving equations. Hargrove had it out for me from day one, said I was “disruptive,” which was code for “not like the other boys.” I knew he had my cards marked and there wasn’t a damn thing I could do about it. Math was never my strong subject which probably didn’t help my cause either.
Anyway…
One day, he caught me passing a note—nothing bad, just a dumb joke about his sweater looking like a cat threw up on it—and he lost it.
