Stirred (Twisted Fox Book 1)

by Charity Ferrell

  I sit up at the shock in her voice.

  “Let me call you back, and I’ll be there.”

  She hangs up the phone, and her search turns frantic as she finds her clothes. Her hands shake as she slips her panties up her legs.

  “Jamie,” I drawl, panic pulling up my throat. “Are you going to tell me what’s going on?”

  Her shoulders droop. “Heather is in the hospital.”

  I freeze, my eyes wide.

  “She’s in the ICU in Vegas. My parents are booking me a flight now. I’m sorry, Cohen, but I have to go.”

  I run a hand over my face, taking in her words. “What happened?”

  “I have no idea. My mom is a hot mess. I could barely make out her words. She didn’t provide much info, except that I needed to meet them at the airport.”

  “Keep me updated, okay?”

  She nods.

  I rise, ready to slip out of bed and kiss her good-bye, but she rushes out of the bedroom before I can stop her.

  25

  Jamie

  I’m a shit person.

  A pathetic excuse for a sister.

  While Heather was being rushed to the hospital, I was having sex with her ex-boyfriend.

  Not that I knew it was happening, but still.

  The Most Terrible Person in the World award goes to yours truly.

  I couldn’t look at Cohen when I ended the phone call in his bedroom. I have no idea what his face looked like when I broke the news about Heather. I was scared to see it, so I stormed out, not giving him another word.

  I drive home and start packing a bag, and thirty minutes later, my mom texts me with flight information. Luckily, she managed to snag us direct flights to Vegas with our flight departing in only two hours. My father is the psychologist of one of their hotshot pilots, so that has its perks.

  “Is everything okay, honey?” my mom asks when I find them in the airport terminal. “You look exhausted. Did you not get enough sleep last night?”

  I am exhausted. I was fucking my sister’s ex all night.

  “I slept fine, Mom,” I answer. It’s not a lie. I did sleep perfectly in Cohen’s arms.

  She gestures to my leg in concern. “Why are you limping? Did something happen to your ankle?”

  “I think I sprained it.” I shrug. “It’s no big deal.”

  The issue—why I look like a raggedy bitch—was the wake-up call I received.

  My beautiful mother, whose chestnut-colored hair is usually pulled back into the perfect bun, resembles a different person. Her eyes are red and puffy, tears linger around her eyes, and she’s close to another breakdown.

  I wrap my arms around her, squeezing her tight, hoping to soak away some of her pain. I hug my father next, worry laced on his face, but he’s handling it better than my mother.

  We sit down, and I hold my mom’s hand until our flight is called. While we load into our first-class seats, I still feel Cohen’s hands on me.

  I still smell him on me.

  The words he whispered in my ear as he thrust inside me ring through my mind.

  He’s texted a few times, but out of guilt, I shut off my phone.

  I slap my eye mask over my face and fall asleep.

  Guilt and shame make you one tired bitch.

  As soon as our flight lands, we throw our bags into a cab and go straight to the hospital. Dragging our luggage through the waiting area, my mother charges toward the nurses’ station, crying as she repeats my sister’s name until a doctor comes out.

  “She’s in bad shape,” the trauma surgeon explained after introducing himself.

  As a doctor, I know the severity of those words.

  Whatever this bad shape is, it’ll break my parents.

  “What happened?” my father asks.

  The doctor lowers his tone and jerks his head toward a corner in the waiting room. “It seems to be a domestic dispute that ended violently.”

  “Domestic dispute?” my mother shrieks. “Are you saying that Joey hurt her?”

  Before the doctor can answer, a woman approaches us. “Are you Heather’s parents?”

  “Yes,” my father answers, stern-like.

  “He beat her up. He beat her up really bad,” the woman says. “And then he shot her.”

  Either she’s clueless to how terrible her delivery is, or she doesn’t care.

  A sob escapes my mother. “What?”

  “Your daughter suffered a gunshot wound,” the doctor says, shooting the stranger an irritated look. “The bullet hit her thigh, and luckily, it didn’t rupture any veins or arteries. It went straight through, leaving no dangerous shrapnel. Your daughter is very lucky the bullet hit where it did.”

  “So … she’s …” My mom’s voice shakes before she continues, “She’s not going to die?”

  “She’s not going to die,” the doctor confirms. “She’ll just need time to heal.”

  “Can we see her?” my father asks.

  The doctor nods. “Of course.”

  With our luggage in tow, we—including the random chick—follow the doctor through the emergency room and up an elevator, and we land in the ICU wing of the hospital. The door to Heather’s room is open, and my mother wastes no time in dashing into it, rushing to Heather’s side.

  I gasp as I circle the bed, and she comes into view.

  Her eyes are black and blue, IVs are pumping fluid into her, a breathing tube is in her mouth, and she’s hooked up to beeping monitors.

  My stomach churns with guilt.

  I really am a shitty fucking person.

  “Sweetie,” my mom sobs, grabbing her hand. Then she brushes her other hand along Heather’s forehead. “My sweet daughter.”

  My father joins her, wrapping my mother into a hug as she lets loose into his shoulder. I’m frozen in place, the need to comfort my mother barreling through me, but I let my father do the job. As a doctor, I’m used to seeing grief, tears, family members breaking down, but it’s different when it’s your family.

  “We treated the injury, and the surgery was successful,” the surgeon explains. “We’re keeping an eye on her, but recovery is very promising.”

  “Thank you,” my father says, giving him an appreciative smile.

  The surgeon leaves, and the stranger steps to my side.

  “I’m Pat,” she says, “Heather’s neighbor and the one who called your parents.”

  “Thank you,” my father says. “We don’t know what we would’ve done had you not called us. We might not have found out about this.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  They introduce themselves—my mother, Regina, and my father, Jack—and then I do the same.

  Pat explains that her apartment is next to Joey and Heather’s, and hearing them argue wasn’t anything new. She also says that him putting his hands on her wasn’t new either, but it was the first time she heard a gunshot. She immediately called the police, and they were there in minutes. They arrested Joey and rushed Heather to the hospital.

  “You have my phone number if you need anything,” Pat says when she’s finished. “Can I come check on her tomorrow?”

  My father tells her, “Yes,” and thanks her again before she leaves.

  I pull a chair up for my mother, softly asking her to sit down, and then do the same with my father. Taking the one in the corner of the room, I sit and stare at my sister. The room is quiet, the beeps of the machines the only sounds, and I don’t bother turning my phone on.

  I sit there.

  I think.

  I question my actions.

  And I hate myself.

  Four hours later, the breathing tube has been removed.

  Her recovery is quickly improving.

  “Gentry girls are strong,” my father claims.

  We stare at Heather and wait for her eyes to open.

  When they do, my mother jumps for joy and calls out for the doctors, and they rush into the room.

  “Sweetie,” my mother says, tears swelling in h
er eyes—tears that haven’t stopped since we entered the room. “I’m so happy you’re okay. We’re here, honey.”

  “What happened?” my father asks. He’s a man who gets straight to the point, no matter what.

  “Joey beat the shit out of me,” Heather snaps.

  I wince, my mother flinches, and my father tilts his head to the side at her harsh tone.

  Whoa.

  I was not expecting that.

  She definitely woke up on the wrong side of the hospital bed.

  Why’s she so angry?

  Her eyes cut to me. “I don’t want to hear any shit either. None of that I told you so bullshit.”

  What the hell?

  “Never!” my mother says. “We’re here for you, honey. No one, even you, knew Joey would do something like this.”

  I did.

  Dude’s a fucking psycho.

  “Good.” Heather’s eyes cut to me in disdain. “I don’t want to hear anyone’s judgmental bullshit. I’m stressed, and I don’t know what to do.”

  I look around the room.

  I’ve never had a patient wake up this angry, especially after surviving a gunshot wound.

  “Don’t know what to do?” my father asks. “You’re coming home. That’s what you’re going to do.”

  “I need to talk to Joey first before I do anything drastic.”

  I shut my eyes, inhaling a deep breath, and wait for my mother’s freak-out.

  “Talk to him?” she screeches. “You need to stay away from him.”

  “Pat said they arrested him. The jerk is in jail,” my father says.

  “He’ll bond out,” Heather says. “He always does.”

  “What do you mean, always does?” my dad asks, pushing his glasses up his chubby nose. “How many times has he been arrested for this?”

  “I need to talk to him,” Heather says, ignoring my father’s question.

  “He could’ve killed you!” my father yells, gesturing to her in the bed. “He did this to you, and you want to talk to him?”

  “Jack,” my mom whispers.

  “No, don’t Jack me,” he seethes. “This has gone on for too long, Heather. It’s time to dump the trash and come home.”

  “He’s my husband.”

  “Leave him,” I finally say from my corner. “Divorce him.”

  Heather rolls her eyes. “Of course that’s your almighty input, Jamie.”

  I look away, choosing to ignore her.

  “Honey, you need to close this chapter of your life and come home,” my mother says.

  Heather shakes her head, her voice cracking. “I’ve burned too many bridges there. That’s why I’ve stayed here for so long.”

  My mother grabs her hand. “You haven’t burned any bridges. We all love you.”

  “I hurt Cohen … I gave away my son. I can’t go back there and see him. What if I run into him with another woman? I’ll die, Mom. I’ll die!” She glances at me. “Does he have another woman?”

  I shrug. “I don’t know.”

  Her eyes narrow. “Don’t you see him all the time since you see Noah?”

  I cringe when she says his name.

  She’s never said it before.

  Never acknowledged him.

  Now, she wants to know about his life?

  I shrug again. “We talk sometimes.”

  “Move home. Maybe you can reconcile with him,” my mother says in an attempt to give Heather hope. “Apologize. It’s been years.”

  She sighs. “I don’t know.”

  “You were perfect together. You’re older now. Maybe you can mend what you broke.”

  “Excuse me.” I stand. “I need to make a few calls and get some fresh air.”

  I inhale deep breaths when I step out of the hospital, take a seat on a bench, and pull out my phone. Hesitation runs through me as I power it on and stare at his name.

  I have to do this.

  I’m a grown-up.

  I’ve never been one to run from my problems.

  “Hey,” Cohen answers after one ring as if he’s been waiting by his phone. There’s an edge of relief in his voice. “How’s everything going? What happened?”

  My head throbs. “Her husband shot her.”

  “Holy shit. Are you serious?”

  “I am.”

  “Is she …?”

  “She’s going to be okay.”

  “Good, good.” He blows out a long breath. “Are you staying there? When are you coming home?”

  “We’re going to stay in a nearby hotel for the next few days while she recovers.”

  “Will you call me when you can talk?”

  “Yes.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Tell Noah I miss him.”

  We say good-bye, and I sit on the bench, contemplating my life choices for thirty minutes before going back inside.

  “Let’s hope your sister finally leaves that jerk,” my mom says, throwing down a fry and scraping her hands together, removing the salt.

  Visiting hours ended twenty minutes ago, and we stopped for a quick burger before going to the hotel. My mother offered to stay the night with Heather in her room, but Heather declined, claiming she wanted to rest in peace.

  “She’d better,” my dad says, dipping his fry in ketchup. “She might be a thirty-year-old woman, but I’m going to put my foot down on this.”

  My father, an award-winning psychologist, is used to people taking his advice. Well, everyone except my sister. He’s smart, a great father, a straight shooter, but he doesn’t take any bullshit. I grew up proud that my father was a doctor, and there were tears in his eyes when I graduated from medical school.

  My mother taught high school English for years before retiring last month. She and my father have the perfect marriage, the perfect balance of sweet and strict. They’ve made it thirty-five years, and I only anticipate they’ll make it another thirty, happily married.

  My mother pats his arm. “She’s scared, honey. She knows life won’t be the same as it once was when she was home, and Anchor Ridge is only twenty minutes out of town. She’ll see Cohen, and if he doesn’t accept her apology, it’ll break her every time.”

  Not as much as she broke him.

  “Will it?” I chime in. “She made it clear she didn’t give two damns about Noah when he was at your house.”

  If my parents think Cohen will take her back, they’re setting her up for failure.

  A surge of panic hits me.

  What if she does come home and begs for Cohen back?

  What if she wants them to become one big, happy family?

  I can’t see Cohen reconciling with her, but I also couldn’t see her leaving them years ago.

  You never know what’s going through people’s minds.

  “Jamie,” my mom says, breaking me away from my thoughts.

  “Huh?” I blink at her.

  “I asked if you thought Cohen would be open to talking to her.”

  “Do you want the truth?”

  She nods.

  “No.”

  Her face falls. “Cohen doesn’t seem like a man who holds grudges.”

  I give them a really look.

  “It took him years to allow us to see Noah. Do you think he’ll let Heather walk back into their lives? And we don’t even know if that’s what she’ll do. She’s flaky—”

  “Your sister was shot. Have some compassion,” my mother says. “You’re a doctor. You know the pain people suffer through these situations.”

  “I’m not trying to be mean. All I’m saying is, let’s see what happens, and when the time comes, I’ll talk to Cohen.”

  We have more to talk about than just that.

  On the way to our hotel, I call my work and explain Heather’s situation, apologizing and swearing to make sure my shifts will be covered. The hospital is understanding, telling me not to worry, but I still do. I tell my parents good night, kiss my mother on the cheek, and am exhausted by the time I walk into my room.
/>   I collapse onto the bed face-first, yell into my pillow, and breathe when lifting myself up.

  I needed that.

  I get ready for bed and wait until after Noah’s bedtime before calling Cohen.

  “Hey,” he answers, his voice sleepy.

  “So …” I drawl, searching for words.

  “This feels a little off,” he says for me.

  “Just a little.”

  “Do you regret it?”

  My heart quickens at his question. “I don’t know,” I whisper around a tight throat.

  “How do you not know?”

  I give him honesty because it’s what I’d want from him. “I’m scared, Cohen.”

  “Why?”

  I rub my temples, hoping to release some tension, but it doesn’t help. “This seems like a slap in the face, Karma, for what we did.”

  “What happened to Heather was not your fault,” he grinds out.

  All my frustrations, my lack of sleep, my exhaustion rise. “You dated her for years. Years!”

  “What the hell? We’re back to that?” he seethes. “I told you not to take that step with me unless you were certain it was what you wanted, unless you were certain that I didn’t give a shit about my past with Heather.”

  Hurt clenches my heart as memories hit me.

  Memories of him and her.

  Of their love.

  Why is this happening?

  “You had a baby with her,” I say, sobs approaching. “Even if that love isn’t there any longer, it once was, and I slept with you.” I lower my voice as if I’m telling a secret. Hell, everything we’re saying is practically a secret. “If my family finds out, especially after this, they’ll hate me.”

  “Heather moved on and found someone else. I moved on and found you. That’s how breakups work. The moment she turned her back on us was the moment any love I’d had for her was gone.”

  “How would you feel if the man she moved on with was your brother?”

  “I don’t have a brother.”

  “Hypothetically!”

  “Fuck hypotheticals.”