Tyler O’Neill’s Redemption by Molly O'Keefe

there, thinking the worst of him, counting the minutes until he left made him want to lose his mind.
    It made him want to ease her to the grass, take off those pants of hers. Feel those legs, endless and strong, wrap around his back. He wanted to cover her smart mouth with his. He wanted to lick her and bite her, feel her breath in his ear, her nails in his back. He wanted her under him, to remind her that even with all that smug superiority, bad, bad Tyler O’Neill could make good girl Juliette Tremblant want him so bad she’d scream with it.
    Juliette stepped away, a blush on her cheeks, and Tyler guessed he didn’t hide his desire very well.
    “I need to go find Miguel,” she said.
    “You want help?” he asked, knowing the answer before he asked it.
    She shook her head and Tyler nodded, feeling that if he opened his mouth there was no telling what would pour out.
    He didn’t watch her drive away. Instead he stepped up to the front door, now two feet above the ground with no porch.
    Stupidly, it had never occurred to him that having torn the damn thing down they’d have to rebuild it. And if this situation with Miguel was somehow over, he’d have to do the work himself.
    Great. Just freaking great.
    Once inside, his father crept out of the shadows, a bizarre housewife with a tumbler full of amber liquid at the ready. Tyler shook his head, waving off the glass.
    “What do you say we drive over to Franklin Parish,” Dad said. “Get ourselves some catfish and watch the dancing girls at Sully’s.”
    Tyler didn’t answer. He pulled his shirt over his head and draped it across one of the stools in the kitchen. His skin felt too tight, his head too full. The house was getting dark, night bleeding in moment by moment. Hours of time stretched in front of him with just his father for company.
    I’m going to lose my mind.
    “Son?”
    “I’m going out,” he said.
    “Where?”
    “Remy’s.” The old dance hall out in the bayou was exactly what he needed. Music. Beer. Beautiful women. And Remy. He wondered if Priscilla Ellis still worked the bar and he really, really hoped she did. He could use some kindness, a happy word in his ear.
    “Good idea. Let me just get—”
    “You’re not coming,” Tyler said.

    J ULIETTE FOUND M IGUEL pacing a hole in the carpet in Patricia’s living room. She was barely through the door and into the shabby living room that smelled like laundry soap and cooking ground beef before he was charging down the hallway toward her.
    “You said no social workers!” he yelled, anger making him somehow younger and older at the same time. The big baggy sweatshirt he was wearing made him look like a babe in swaddling clothes.
    “I didn’t call them,” she said, watching out of the corner of her eye as Patricia disappeared into the kitchen.
    “Then who did?” he demanded and she shook her head. She’d been wondering the same thing, torn between Dr. Roberts and Ms. Jenkins at school. His face was still pretty messed up; the burn had faded, but not the worst of the bruises, and Ms. Jenkins might have finally had enough of Miguel’s half truths and cover-ups.
    But something in Juliette’s gut said the surprise visit from the social worker had Owens’s dirty fingerprints all over it. It was just a hunch, but it felt right.
    “I don’t know,” she said, holding out her arms, wishing she could hug him and convince him that she would keep him safe.
    But she couldn’t lie, because the truth was, she might have screwed this up for everyone. Her mistakes might end up sending him into foster care.
    Maybe her father was right. She was too soft for this job. Perhaps what she wanted to accomplish couldn’t be accomplished from the Office of Police Chief.
    She pulled her arms back to her sides, leaving them empty, the need to help an ache in her muscles. A burn in her fingers.
    “But I am going to talk to the social worker and we’ll get this all squared away, I promise.”
    “Yeah, you