up.
The boy nodded blankly, clearly not okay but he put his hand in Dillon’s and Dillon pulled him to his feet. Once upright, the boy wobbled. Dillon felt a rush of sympathy. The kid was small and thin, and not the fighting type.
Dillon wrapped his hand around the child’s nape, keeping him on his feet even as his narrowed gaze swept the cluster of boys. His expression was hard and disapproving.
“Go home,” he said brusquely. “ Scram .”
The boys grabbed their school bags and raced off.
A s the boys dispersed Dillon noted the lone backpack left lying half-buriedhalf buried in the snow. “Is that one yours?” he asked the kid he’d rescued.
The small boy nodded, wiping blood from his nose.
Dillon reached down to pick it up, but it wasn’t zipped closed and crumpled papers and books spilled out.
The boy knelt and struggled to gather his things, his hands shaking as he stuffed it all back into his bag.
Dillon crouched down and finished putting everything into the backpack and then zipped it closed, sliding one strap over his own shoulder. “Come,” he said, rising and propelling the boy towards his truck.
In the truck, Dillon glanced at the boy. His nose was still bleeding and his upper lip was split. He’d have two shiners tomorrow along with plenty of swelling.
“You okay?” he asked, aware that the kid was anything but okay but a man had to be a man, even if he’d just had the snot kicked out of him.
The boy nodded his head once, a brief, barely perceptible nod before reaching up to wipe his damp eyes, and then his runny nose. Snot. Blood. Tears.
Dillon’s gut hurt. He hated seeing little kids cry. “I hope you got some good licks in,” he said, starting the truck.
The boy gave another half-shake of his head.
“Why not?” Dillon demanded.
The boy shrugged, winced. “Don’t know how.”
“That’s not an excuse. Your dad hasn’t taught you?”
Again, the child shook his head, looking even smaller and more miserable than before.
Dillon frowned, frustrated. “He doesn’t believe in fighting?”
The boy looked up at him then, his eyes pink, watery, and green, sea green. “He’s dead.”
Hell. Dillon exhaled slowly, hugely uncomfortable. Great. Nice one, Sheenan. He shifted the truck into drive, ignoring the sting in his gut, not wanting to feel for this pathetic little guy. “Where do you live?”
“237 Bramble Lane.”
“Well, let’s get you home then.”
The boy was silent as he drove and Dillon told himself he was glad. It was better to be stoic and quiet than crying and carrying on, but still...the kid was small. Really small. How old was he?
“What’s your name?” Dillon asked gruffly, breaking the quiet.
“Tyler.”
“You have a last name?”
“Joffe.”
Dillon shot him a swift glance, doing a double take. Paige’s boy ?
He looked the child up and down, trying to see Paige in him. She was golden and beautiful and this boy was, well, small and bruised and definitely not golden at the moment. “What grade are you in?”
Tyler folded his hands in his lap but they were shaking. “Second.”
The knot in Dillon’s gut pushed up into his chest. He was pretty sure the boy sitting on top of Tyler wasn’t a second grader. “Those boys...were they in your class?”
“No, sir.”
Sir.
The knot in Dillon’s chest grew, hot and heavy. It made his throat close and eyes burn. “What grade were they in?”
“I don’t know.”
“Not your class?”
“No, sir.”
“So you don’t know them?”
Tyler glanced at him and then away. “Not...really.”
Hmm. “And the kid who’d pinned you down? Don’t know him, either?”
The boy’s shoulder shifted.
Dillon lifted a brow. “Not going to tell me, or you don’t know?”
Another small shrug. “It’s not going to change anything,” he whispered.
Dillon frowned. “Has this happened before?”
Tyler hesitated. “Sort of.”
Dillon’s jaw tightened and he drummed fingers against the steering
The boy nodded blankly, clearly not okay but he put his hand in Dillon’s and Dillon pulled him to his feet. Once upright, the boy wobbled. Dillon felt a rush of sympathy. The kid was small and thin, and not the fighting type.
Dillon wrapped his hand around the child’s nape, keeping him on his feet even as his narrowed gaze swept the cluster of boys. His expression was hard and disapproving.
“Go home,” he said brusquely. “ Scram .”
The boys grabbed their school bags and raced off.
A s the boys dispersed Dillon noted the lone backpack left lying half-buriedhalf buried in the snow. “Is that one yours?” he asked the kid he’d rescued.
The small boy nodded, wiping blood from his nose.
Dillon reached down to pick it up, but it wasn’t zipped closed and crumpled papers and books spilled out.
The boy knelt and struggled to gather his things, his hands shaking as he stuffed it all back into his bag.
Dillon crouched down and finished putting everything into the backpack and then zipped it closed, sliding one strap over his own shoulder. “Come,” he said, rising and propelling the boy towards his truck.
In the truck, Dillon glanced at the boy. His nose was still bleeding and his upper lip was split. He’d have two shiners tomorrow along with plenty of swelling.
“You okay?” he asked, aware that the kid was anything but okay but a man had to be a man, even if he’d just had the snot kicked out of him.
The boy nodded his head once, a brief, barely perceptible nod before reaching up to wipe his damp eyes, and then his runny nose. Snot. Blood. Tears.
Dillon’s gut hurt. He hated seeing little kids cry. “I hope you got some good licks in,” he said, starting the truck.
The boy gave another half-shake of his head.
“Why not?” Dillon demanded.
The boy shrugged, winced. “Don’t know how.”
“That’s not an excuse. Your dad hasn’t taught you?”
Again, the child shook his head, looking even smaller and more miserable than before.
Dillon frowned, frustrated. “He doesn’t believe in fighting?”
The boy looked up at him then, his eyes pink, watery, and green, sea green. “He’s dead.”
Hell. Dillon exhaled slowly, hugely uncomfortable. Great. Nice one, Sheenan. He shifted the truck into drive, ignoring the sting in his gut, not wanting to feel for this pathetic little guy. “Where do you live?”
“237 Bramble Lane.”
“Well, let’s get you home then.”
The boy was silent as he drove and Dillon told himself he was glad. It was better to be stoic and quiet than crying and carrying on, but still...the kid was small. Really small. How old was he?
“What’s your name?” Dillon asked gruffly, breaking the quiet.
“Tyler.”
“You have a last name?”
“Joffe.”
Dillon shot him a swift glance, doing a double take. Paige’s boy ?
He looked the child up and down, trying to see Paige in him. She was golden and beautiful and this boy was, well, small and bruised and definitely not golden at the moment. “What grade are you in?”
Tyler folded his hands in his lap but they were shaking. “Second.”
The knot in Dillon’s gut pushed up into his chest. He was pretty sure the boy sitting on top of Tyler wasn’t a second grader. “Those boys...were they in your class?”
“No, sir.”
Sir.
The knot in Dillon’s chest grew, hot and heavy. It made his throat close and eyes burn. “What grade were they in?”
“I don’t know.”
“Not your class?”
“No, sir.”
“So you don’t know them?”
Tyler glanced at him and then away. “Not...really.”
Hmm. “And the kid who’d pinned you down? Don’t know him, either?”
The boy’s shoulder shifted.
Dillon lifted a brow. “Not going to tell me, or you don’t know?”
Another small shrug. “It’s not going to change anything,” he whispered.
Dillon frowned. “Has this happened before?”
Tyler hesitated. “Sort of.”
Dillon’s jaw tightened and he drummed fingers against the steering
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