by Shandi Boyes
“I can’t visit her today,” she mumbled, her voice the weakest I’d heard. “I can only visit her the first Sunday of the month. It’s not the first Sunday of the month.”
“Visiting hours are whenever you want them to be,” I replied, my eyes drifting between her haunted gaze. “You don’t have to stick to a schedule.”
Worry churned my stomach when her pleading eyes stared into mine, begging for me to drop it. Her face was ashen, and her eyes were pained. I drew in a deep breath before briefly nodding my head. Relief filled Clara’s eyes. Although I wanted her to open up to me, I knew if I pushed her too much, her retreating steps would have reached my front door. Willing to do anything to ensure she was still at my apartment when I returned from visiting my grandmother, I simply dropped the conversation and acted like I couldn’t smell the fear oozing from her pores. It was a fucking hard feat.
My grandma's rheumy eyes lift to the door when a creak announces my arrival. She sighs softly before shifting her gaze to the window illuminating her room with an orange hue from the afternoon sun beaming inside. My brows tack together when Penny—the nurse my grandma tried to set me up with—exits the bathroom adjoining my grandmother's room. Penny smiles a greeting as she saunters to my grandmother's bedside. Any concerns on my grandma conjuring up a ruse to force Penny and me together dampen when my eyes zoom in on a bruise on my grandma's wrist while Penny carefully checks her pulse.
After completing a set of observations on my grandmother, Penny mutters something quietly into her ear before gesturing to talk to me in the corridor. I lift my index finger in the air, requesting a minute. When Penny enters the hallway, I pace to my grandma. The twisted, sick feeling in my stomach intensifies when my eyes zoom in on a bruise on her right cheek.
Being mindful not to touch her bruise, I press a quick kiss onto her cheek before muttering, "I'll be back in a minute."
When my grandma's gaze remains arrested on the window, I spin on my heels and make my way into the hall. I cross my arms in front of my chest, hiding the shake of my hands before asking, "Is she okay? What exactly happened?"
Penny locks her green eyes on me. "We're not exactly sure. Your grandma is a very spirited woman—”
“Stubborn would be a more appropriate word,” I interrupt, mumbling.
Penny smiles softly. "We believe she took a tumble in the bathroom a couple of hours ago."
My heart beats triple time. “Hours ago?” The shortness of my reply doesn’t hide my anger.
Penny nods. “Yes. We only discovered the incident when another resident arrived at her room for an afternoon game of gin.”
"I thought you had protocol for stuff like this? Isn't there an aide button installed in her bathroom?" I gesture my hand to my grandma's door.
“Yes, there is. Grace refused to use it.”
I run my hand over the stubble on my chin. I shouldn't have expected a different reply. My grandmother is so determined not to grow old gracefully; she refuses to use any device with the stigma of age attached to it. Her phone? The latest fandangle device Hunter could design. Her watch? A brand spanking new Apple Watch. No, I'm not kidding. The day I see my grandma shuffling behind a walker will be the day I announce I'm never tattooing again. Neither have a chance of happening.
Penny brushes her hand across my forearm. "Go easy on her; she's still a little fragile after being informed her care is being upgraded from minimum to high." My personal bubble pops when she takes a step closer to me. "We would really appreciate if you could talk to your grandma about the possibility of having some grab bars installed in her bathroom."
I jerk my chin up. “Yeah, I’ll have a talk with her now.” I shrug my shoulders. “I don’t know what good it will do, but I’ll give it my best shot. Thanks, Penny, for all your help.”
“No worries,” she replies, her voice low and throaty. “If you need anything, Brax, anything at all, don’t hesitate to call me.”
My brow arches. Even in the seriousness of my visit, there's no way in hell I could miss the sexual ambiguity hidden in her statement. It is like seeing a pair of tits on a bull. Obvious and shocking. Although Penny is no doubt beautiful, my cock didn’t stir the slightest from her offer. Not even a twinge. Twenty-four hours ago, I would have been panicked my cock was broken, whereas now, I’m beyond ecstatic it wasn’t riveted by Penny’s offer. My cock only has one blonde on its radar. Penny isn’t her.
After bidding farewell to Penny with a dip of my chin, I amble into my grandma's room. She tries to maintain an irritated attitude, but her composure slips the instant I sit in the reclining chair next to her bed. She quirks her vibrant red painted lips as her world-assessing eyes bore into mine. My brow cocks when she inhales a big, undignified whiff through her nostrils. Her eyes widen as they bounce between mine.
Before I can ask what her odd behavior is about, she blurts out, “Joy by Jean Patou.”
I stare at her, shocked and confused.
“The smell of the perfume on your clothes. It is Joy by Jean Patou.” She inhales a quick breath, her expression astounded. “The last time I smelled that scent was when you came to visit me months ago. When you were in my room with Clara McGregor.”
I move my lips, preparing to speak. My words become trapped in my throat when my grandma cuts them off with a fierce glare.
"Don't think you're too big for me to take over my knee, young man. I may be half your size, but that won't stop me from punishing a liar."
I wave my hands in front of my body, calming the dragon. "I wasn't planning on lying," I mutter. I'm not that stupid. I have no doubt she'd spank my ass if I were ever caught lying to her. Seventy-eight or not.
“I was just going to say we aren’t here to discuss why I smell like women’s perfume. . .” –I won’t lie; I'm grinning like the Cheshire Cat at the fact I smell like Clara— “. . . we are here about your turn.”
“Turn, ha!” she says, spitting her words off her tongue in a malicious snarl. “The only thing that is going to have a turn is your backside when I give it a good walloping before marching you right out that door.”
Her eyes snap to mine when I mumble, “Do I need to start scrutinizing your reading material? What’s with your sudden fascination with spankings?”
She tries to keep her eyes stern, but the corners of her mouth tugging into a lewd smirk gives away her real composure. There’s the grandma I know and love.
After releasing a deep sigh, she mutters, “I had a little tumble.”
Scooting across the cool leather, I sit on the edge of my seat. “Have you been feeling unwell? Dizzy?”
A heavy line of worry indents her forehead before she mumbles. “A little.”
I try to hold in my growl. I fail.
“Only a little bit. Nothing to worry anyone about. I'm fine. Look at me,” she babbles, gesturing her hand down the front of her body.
In her head, she believes she's gesturing to a twenty-something-year-old female, but all I see is a little old lady who hates the idea of getting old. I'm all for enjoying every day life gives you, but that doesn't mean I want to see her getting hurt for being too stubborn to admit she isn't as young as she once was. Her fall could be the result of something life-threatening or as simple as a low sugar count, but with her refusal to acknowledge she needs help, we'll never know.
Like she can read my thoughts, she says, “I’ll have a blood test. . . on one condition.” She connects her glistening baby blues with my eyes. “You have to tell me every detail as to why you have arrived at my room smelling like Clara McGregor.”
I arch my brow. “Every detail?”
“Every. Sordid. Detail,” she replies, her voice slow and calculated. “It couldn’t be any worse than the books I’ve been reading,” she adds on with a cheeky wink.
Forty-five minutes later, I'm leaving my grandmother's room with a less heavy heart but a more twisted stomach. Although I kept my half of our discussion on a clean and even playing field, my grandmother threw out curve
ball after curveball. It is lucky my grandfather passed away six years ago, or I would have never been able to look him in the eye. The only good thing about being told stories that will give a grown man nightmares is that my discussion not only has my grandmother agreeing to have the blood workup Penny requested, she will allow them to install a grab bar next to the toilet and in the shower. It isn't because she needs them. It is for any “visitors” she may have. That statement had me vomiting in my mouth for the eleventh time the past half an hour.
Slipping out of my grandma's room, I take a left instead of my usual right. I need to ask Daniel to have the railings installed in my grandmother's bathroom before she can change her mind. My quick strides slow to a snail’s pace when I walk past the room I spotted Clara exiting nearly six months ago. I'm taken aback when my eyes zoom in on a young woman lying still in the bed. I was expecting to see someone close to my grandmother’s age, not a lady in her early twenties.
My bewilderment grows when my eyes scan her room. From the technical equipment attached to the motionless female, I can easily derive she's on a life support machine. And from her frail and withered body, I'd say she has been on it for a long time. My heart pains for the young woman. It is terrible to see someone who should be in their prime of their life more fragile than my grandmother.
My eyes drift away from the young brunette when my name is called from a deep voice on my left. Daniel is standing halfway between his office door and the corridor. Noticing my stunned expression, he pushes off his feet and paces towards me.
“I was unaware you knew Sophia,” he says, nudging his head to the door I'm standing next to.
“I don’t,” I reply with a brisk shake of my head.
Daniel seems surprised by my admission. I guess it would appear odd that I've stopped to gawk into Sophia's room without knowing who she is. The only reason I stopped was because I remembered Clara's rattled composure the day I bumped into her in this very hallway. Now her demeanor that day makes sense. I don't even know Sophia, and I hate that she's going through this. I can only imagine how hard it is for Clara.
I swing my eyes to Daniel. “Her last name isn’t McGregor, is it?”
I’m filled with relief when he briefly shakes his head. “No. Her name is Sophia Remy.”
My brows stitch as I try to recall the last time I heard that name. When the reality slams into me, the twisting of my stomach extends to my heart.
Chapter Twenty-Two
“Sorry,” I apologize when my thoughtlessness has me crashing into a gentleman exiting the foyer of my apartment building in a hurry.
A fit-looking man in his mid-thirties with a military style haircut dips his chin—accepting my apology—before increasing his pace. His brisk speed from the awning of my apartment building to a steel gray Audi parked at the curb a few spots up from the underground garage exposes he's carrying a semi-automatic weapon. My brows scrunch when I notice the burly man sitting behind the steering wheel of the Audi also has the same style haircut and is wearing an identical suit. I thought Ryan was holding off on putting an undercover unit on Clara?
Shrugging off my confusion, I adjust the bag of groceries I collected from the corner store and amble into the foyer. My mind has been working overtime since I left Caramine Care two hours ago. It could be a coincidence, but deep down in my soul, I know Sophia is somehow connected with Clara’s necklace. It isn’t just my intuition telling me this is the case, it is the fact Daniel advised me Sophia is Clara’s age, and before she was transferred to Caramine Care, she lived in Hopeton, the town Clara grew up in.
Just remembering the bleak look in Clara’s eyes when she asked about the possibility of her necklace being returned had me spending the last two hours scouring every pawn shop within a twenty-mile radius of Ravenshoe. Unfortunately, Clara’s necklace hasn’t been seen. Since the mugging was less than forty-eight hours ago, the local brokers believe it will be a few more weeks before it surfaces. I don’t care if it takes me weeks, months or years, I won’t stop searching until I find it.
When I walk into my apartment, I'm confronted by quietness. I don't fucking like it. I place the bag of groceries on the kitchen counter and climb the stairs to my loft. Although my room still smells like Clara, it is empty. I don't fucking like it. I check the laundry room, the bathroom, and the patio attached to my living area. Clara is nowhere to be seen.
I don't fucking like it.
I hated leaving her alone, but she assured me she could take care of herself and she didn't need a babysitter. When I failed to see any untruth in her eyes, I left, expecting her to still be here when I returned. Obviously, I can't read Clara as well as I thought I could. I hate that more than anything.
The seething rage bubbling my blood simmers to a slow boil when I catch the quickest murmur of a giggle. I stop frozen in my tracks and crank my neck. It is only faint, but there's no doubting who the little laugh belongs to. Clara. My eyes rocket to my bedroom when the soft babbling of a conversation sounds above me. Once my eyes travel from the living room to the loft, I notice the door to my rooftop garden has been cranked open.
The quiet hum of dialogue between two female voices grows louder as I climb the stairwell. From the high tone and limited vocabulary of the second voice, I can easily tell it belongs to a child.
I hit the stoop of the stairs when a female child’s voice asks, “Are you staying here long?”
I round the corner to discover my eleven-year-old neighbor, Clementine, sitting next to Clara on the frayed double couch. They have two half-full wine glasses of soda and a bowl of plain chips sitting on a makeshift pallet coffee table.
Clara finishes twisting a piece of Clementine's thick wavy hair into a fancy braided design before she answers Clementine's question. "I don't know. Brax said it could be days or even weeks before I can go home."
A grin curls on my lips when a mask of worry slips over Clara's face during the last half of her sentence. Clementine huffs and crosses her arms over her chest.
After placing a tie in Clementine's hair, Clara adjusts her position so she's facing the girl. "Don't you want me to stay? I thought we were having fun today?"
Clementine’s shoulders hunch forward. “It isn’t that. It’s just. . . just. . .you shouldn’t get comfortable. You won’t be here for long.”
“Oh,” Clara breathes out heavily at the same time I mutter, “Are you trying to scare off my girl, Clementine?”
Clara and Clementine's heads rocket to mine in sync. Clementine smiles a cheeky grin I've seen on her face numerous times the past six months. It's usually worn when she's creating mischief for Ms. Hartler who lives in apartment 2B. After shaking her head, denying my claim, Clementine turns her eyes back to Clara. Clara slants her head to the side and stares at me like she's shocked to see me standing on my rooftop garden. Her pupils are wide, and her plump nude lips are parted. I need those lips on me. Anywhere.
“Clementine, I think I hear your momma calling you.”
Clementine springs up from the sofa. “Really?” She angles her head to the side and hoists her ear into the air. “I don’t hear anything.”
Like the stars aligning in the sky, the faint holler of Mrs. Daphne bellows up the stairwell. If I were a religious man, I'd send thanks to God. Since I'm not, I just thank my lucky stars. Clementine's eyes bug before she rushes to the door.
Her brisk pace slows when I say, “Clementine.”
When she cranks her neck back to peer at me, I hold out the packet of Mars Bar Pods I’m clasping for her. Clementine smiles a broad grin before she crosses the space between us. Her steps are so fast, she reaches me in less than a heartbeat. I learned early on in life that candy is my best ally in keeping any female in my life happy. If only Clara was a fan of sugar.
Still grinning, Clementine snatches the pods out of my hand and presses a quick kiss to my cheek. My brow cocks over her audacity. She's always been a little showy around her friends from school, but she’s never taken it this far before
. She must be trying to impress Clara?
Clementine’s girly giggle is only just heard over the stomping of her feet as she gallops down the stairwell. When the front door slams shut not even two seconds later, I drift my eyes back to Clara. Her expression is even more shocked than it was earlier. In a nanosecond, she switches the appearance of her face, changing it from stunned to forthright.
“How’s your grandma?”
I smile. “She's good. A hurricane couldn’t slow her down.”
Clara releases a deep breath before a rare and genuine smile etches onto her mouth. I'm in trouble with this woman. I've only been away from her a little over three hours, and she hasn't left my mind. I knew the day she walked back into Inked she would be trouble. I just had no clue the type of trouble she would cause.
Clara curls her feet under her bottom when I take the empty seat next to her. “Tread carefully with Clementine, Brax,” she mumbles, brushing her hand over the sticky lip gloss stain Clementine left on my cheek. “She's too young to understand the repercussions of chasing an unattainable man.” Her voice comes in barely a whisper. “I wish someone had given me the same warning.”
My brows scrunch. “Isaac?” I ask, even knowing I could be throwing the first grenade in World War III.
Like I could be any more shocked the past twenty-four hours, Clara surprises me again by simply nodding. "Despite what everyone thinks, I did care for Isaac. . . a lot."
I nod. The fact she was going to get his name inked on her hip is a pretty compelling point.
"But I didn’t care about him because of his money or power. I just thought if two people with half a heart joined, they could have one whole heart again." Her voice is so weak my ears strain to hear what she's saying. "I just never considered his heart would heal on its own."
Seizing her wrists, I pull her to sit side-saddle on my lap. I fight the desire to bang my chest like King Kong when she doesn’t cite a single protest. Now is not the time for cockiness.