A tear slides down my cheek. I wipe it away and feel like an idiot.
Chapter 11
Raine
AFTER MY ENCOUNTER with Vanessa and a couple of shots to calm my nerves, the rest of the evening flies by in a cloudy haze. I breathe a sigh of relief when the clock strikes two and we shuffle the last of the patrons out the front door.
I’m alone in the employee locker room counting my tips, including the twenty for the come-on pool, when Fiona walks in. I won by a wide margin. Financially, it’s a good night.
She sidles up to me as I stuff my take into my pocket. “Mac, ya look like ya lost yer best friend tonight. Let Fi make it better,” she says, rubbing up against me with a wicked glint in her blue eyes. After the night I had, I’m tempted to take her up on her offer to soothe my insecurities—but only for about a second and a half. There are a whole host of reasons why that wouldn’t be a good idea. Not least of which is because I have my sights set on Jillian. I’ve already decided I’m going to follow it through as far as I can take it. The worst she can do is turn me down.
I shake my head. “I can’t, Fi. I’m sorry.”
She moves back and crosses her arms over her chest. “Why the hell not?”
I’m in no mood. “Because I’m interested in someone else.”
Her eyes flash and she purses her lips. “Sean mentioned you’d left a woman’s name at the door. But I don’t think she came, did she?”
“None of your goddamn business, Fi. If you want to keep me as a friend, respect that it’s over between us,” I snap at her, officially reaching my limit of taking other people’s shit for the night. Pushing past her, I head for the exit. I need out.
The drinks I had two hours ago have worn off, and the cool night sobers me even more as I head to my truck.
Halfway across Morristown, I realize I left my wallet in my locker at work.
“Fuck!” I bang the heel of my hand against the steering wheel in frustration. I never do that sort of thing. Between Vanessa’s visit and my run-in with Fiona, my brain is scrambled. As long as I can get home without being pulled over by the cops I should be fine. I can pick it tomorrow morning.
When I pull in the driveway, the house is dark but my father’s car is missing. I lock my cash in the glove compartment before I go inside and thank the Lord for small favors. I’m happy I’ll make it to sleep without needing to cross anymore proverbial land mines.
I brush my teeth, but I’m too tired to shower. I shed my jeans and drop into bed. I swear I pass out the moment my head hits the pillow.
My door bursts open and I spring upright; my heart hammers as I try to make sense out of what’s happening. The light from the hall blinds me a moment before I’m caught in a chokehold. I’d forgotten to put the chair in front of the door. I claw at my father’s arm.
“Where is it?” he hisses in my ear, and a cloud of whiskey assaults my senses. My father’s arm tightens around my throat.
I squeeze out one word at a time as I struggle against him. “What . . . are . . . you . . . talking . . . about?” I try to find some leverage, but my position on the bed makes it impossible. No doubt that was his intention. Even in the darkness, stars dot my vision and I struggle to breathe, trying not to panic. I tear at his forearm to get him to release me.
“Your mother’s engagement ring,” he grinds out. He loosens his grip.
“Don’t . . . have . . . it,” I choke. With unbelievable strength, he shoves me off the bed and I land on my hands and knees, gasping for air.
“I don’t believe you.” A swift blow to the back of my head sends me sprawling. My teeth slam together with such force I hear something crack before I collapse in a heap on the floor. My one and only filling lands on my tongue and I spit it out. Excruciating pain travels over my skull and shoots down my back. Panic grips me. I have to get out of here before I pass out or he kills me.
“Do you know how much I hate you?” he snarls. I crawl away and stagger to my feet. I move into a defensive position and turn around, but I can’t steady myself. The club he’s using lands with force against my ribs, and I hear another crack as the wind is knocked from my lungs. I stumble in a slow circle and groan.
“I never wanted you! I begged Selka to get an abortion. But she wouldn’t listen,” he says, more to himself than to me, but the words slam straight into my core nonetheless and I wince. Of all the horrible things he’s said to me since my mom died, this was the worst. Unable to hold my guard up, I fall backward when his fist lands on my right eye.
“She promised she wouldn’t love you more than me, and she lied!” he says. “Now, give me that ring!”
I drag myself back onto my feet, and something snaps inside of me. My anger rises up in a tidal wave and adrenaline floods through me in one colossal burst. I refuse to let him take another thing from me . . . or allow him to ever hit me again. Our hate is mutual. My hand finds the wooden chair, and I grasp the leg firmly in my palm. I ignore the white-hot agony in my side and swing it at his head with all my strength. My vision swims as I make contact. The wood shatters and the chair bursts into pieces.
Time moves in fits and starts.
I vaguely remember pushing past his collapsed body, grabbing my pants with the keys still in the pocket and running for the door. I can’t see right, but I’m aware enough to know I want to be in the emergency room.
A vast field of swaying poppies lies ahead of me. I want to run through them, but I’m afraid to end up like Dorothy and her crew in The Wizard of Oz asleep in the field of flowers. All the images are juxtaposed on top of the dark road ahead of me in a continuous movie as I drive. My head feels like it might split open to liberate my throbbing brain. It hurts to breathe, but the sun feels so good on my face.
I think I park. I’m not sure as I stand looking at the keys in my palm. The lights are so bright here, but I can’t really see. My knees go weak, and they fold under me as my world goes upside down.
“Someone get a gurney!” I hear through a thick, white fog and then everything goes black.
Chapter 12
Jillian
“UHH.” A groan of sleep-filled frustration passes through my lips as my hand fumbles across my nightstand looking for my offending cell phone.
“Is this Jillian Grant?” An unfamiliar female voice asks.
“Yes,” I mumble into the pillow.
“Um, I’m sorry to bother you, but I’m hoping you can help me.”
I catch a glimpse of the red numerals on my alarm clock. “At 3:30 a.m.?” It feels like I just went to bed—because I did. After a bottle of wine, a pint of rum raisin, and a Downton Abbey marathon to ease the memory of my date, my head didn’t hit the pillow until 2 a.m.
The woman releases a breath on the other end of the phone, and I snap awake. “Wait a second, who is this?” Holy Shit, please don’t tell me someone died.
“This is Nurse Swenson at Memorial Hospital—”
“Oh, my God.” I sit up thinking the worst as my mind flashes to Vera. “Please don’t tell me—”
“No. Oh, no! I’m so sorry, it’s nothing life threatening,” she says, suddenly backpedaling to calm me. “We have a young man, a John Doe, here at the hospital. Your business card was the only thing on him. He has no I.D. and we’re hoping you can help us identify him.”
My heart lurches. It can’t be, can it? “Blond hair? Mid-20s?”
“Yes.”
Raine.
“Is he okay?”
“He has a concussion and is a little confused. He doesn’t seem to remember his name. It looks like he was in a fight. No broken bones, just some severe contusions. You know him?”
My heartbeat picks up steam, and I carry the phone to the closet and pull out a pair of jeans. “Yes, his name is Raine MacDonald. I’m coming.”
“Are you family?”
Before I can stop myself, I lie. “Yes.”
“How are you related?”
I don’t even hesitate. “I’m his aunt.” I th
ought about saying his mother, but that would've been way too weird. At least "aunt" leaves the possibility that he isn't as young as I'm afraid he might be. Not to mention, the thought of being anyone's mother scares the crap out of me.
“Oh, thank God we called you. We need to keep him until his test results are back. Do you know if he has insurance? We have some paperwork.”
Shit. I have no idea.
“We’ll figure it out when I get there.” I hang up.
I cast a glance at the jeans in my hand. They aren’t “Mom” jeans, thank God, but they aren’t super sexy, either. I pull out my favorite pair of high-heeled sandals. Yup. At least as his aunt, I don’t have to dress dowdy like my sister Kitty. Fuck it. I grab the clingy top—the one that hides my baby muffin top. I do the best I can to fix my face so I don’t look like I just rolled out of bed. My feet carry me down the stairs and into my car.
Without breaking land speed records, I hyperventilate all the way to Memorial Hospital. How the heck am I returning to this place for another person in the same week? Concern for Raine consumes me. I can barely consider him a friend at this point, yet I can’t deny I care . . . too much.
The night nurse on Raine’s floor looks up as I scoot in, putting on my best “concerned aunt” face.
“Hi, Nurse Swenson called about my nephew Raine. Concussion?”
She glances at her roster and hands me a pass. “Room 512.”
It hits me as I round the corner, and I screech to a stop outside of Raine’s door. Does he even expect to see me?
Too late now. I swallow and peer inside.
My hand flies up to cover my mouth, but not before I gasp. His blond hair lies matted around his head on the pillow. Shades of purple and blue bloom around one of his closed eyes, and his bottom lip is cut and swollen. His skin looks pale and sickly under the fluorescent lights. I step inside, and he opens his eyes . . . rather, he opens one of them.
“Jillian?” he whispers hoarsely.
I smile reflexively hearing my name, and gather the courage to go to him.
“Hey.” My voice is soothing even to my own ears. I reach down and clasp his hand in one of mine and sweep back a strand of his hair with the other. “What happened?”
He winces and tries to swallow. “My father . . . drunk . . . cold-cocked me.” He stops and licks his split lip. “Was sleeping . . . fight . . . ended up here . . . no phone . . . no wallet . . . they didn’t know who else to call. Sorry to wake you.”
His father did this to him? Dumbfounded, my hand squeezes his harder, but my mouth won’t form words. I just open and close it a couple of times before I clamp it fully shut. I want to kill his father. Yes, for the first time in my life, I want to physically harm someone.
His eyes dart to mine, and fill, glassy and pleading. “I’m sorry.” His fear is palpable, and I realize he needs me to say something . . . right this second.
I lean in and kiss his forehead. “Shh. It’s okay. You have nothing to be sorry for. You didn’t do anything wrong,” I whisper and rest my cheek against his hair, his hand still in mine. “Don’t worry about anything. Okay?”
His head nods underneath my cheek. “Okay,” he whispers.
“Do you have anywhere to go?” I ask, and continue to stroke his hair to soothe him with my free hand. My fingers are almost numb as he crushes my other hand in his.
He shakes his head. He has nowhere to go. The thought unexpectedly guts me. I clasp my hand over my mouth to stifle a sob that threatens to rip from my lungs. I don’t trust myself to speak. Loosening my grip, I release my hand from my mouth and draw in a deep breath, letting it out slowly. “You’ll come home with me then. Can you do that?”
Very slowly he nods his head. I wipe my fingers over my eyes before I take in another deep breath. I don’t want him to see the tears.
I look down into his half-shut eyes. “I said I was your aunt to get in here. Don’t blow my cover, all right?”
He squeezes my hand harder, and his one eye opens the rest of the way. It flashes a not-so-happy sentiment at me, shattering his moment of naked vulnerability.
“What the hell?” he says in a raspy whisper. It didn’t occur to me that my lie would piss him off. Would it be so bad to have me as an aunt? It's not like I said I was his mother.
I cringe and give him a guilty shrug. “Sorry, it was the best I could do in my semi-comatose state when they called.”
He snorts and shakes his head.
“Hi. You must be Jillian.” I turn toward the voice behind me. The nurse comes at me with an outstretched hand. “Nurse Swenson. I just wanted to check in to see if we need to file a police report for your nephew’s altercation.”
An aggravated huff comes from the bed.
“He still doesn’t seem to remember what happened,” I lie. “When can I take him home?” I’m dying to get us both away from the antiseptic smell I hate so much.
She looks over my shoulder. “That depends. We stitched up his scalp, and the X-rays showed no fractures to his skull. But he really should stay the rest of the night for observation.”
A hoarse growl comes from behind me. “I wanna leave.”
The nurse purses her lips, and turns her gaze back to me. “If you take him home and he falls asleep, you’ll need to wake him periodically for the rest of the night and then bring him back tomorrow morning for a follow-up with the doctor.”
I nod vigorously. “Got it.”
“I’ll need insurance information in order to process his release.”
“No problem. I’ll meet you out at the desk. Can he get dressed?”
“Yes, he’s free to dress,” she says unhappily.
I turn to Raine after the door latches shut. “You wouldn’t happen to have insurance, would you?”
He scowls at me and shakes his head. Just great.
I grasp the sides of my head. “Fine. I’ll be back.”
I arrange to pay Raine’s hospital bill personally, since we can’t produce insurance for him. We figure out that he drove to the hospital—I’m still wondering how—and decide to leave his truck there until he’s able to drive tomorrow. But not before he retrieves a duffel bag he has on the floor by the front seat and an extra change of clothes from boxes in the back.
Raine sits silently on the passenger side of my car, staring out the window. He hasn’t said much since we left the hospital.
“Are you okay?” I ask quietly.
“I’ll live. Just tired.”
His hair and clothes are still bloody. I bite my lip not wanting to press him for details.
“Why did you say you were my aunt?” His voice echoes in the dark next to me. It holds an edge of anger I don’t understand, putting me on the defensive.
Seriously? “Because I know the drill in that place all too well. Family members get full access to the patients. Why are you so upset about it anyway?”
He doesn’t answer, just stares out the window.
“You’re not that old,” he says softly.
For some reason, instead of being flattered by his response, I’m mad. “Yes. I am that old. You realize I was probably eighteen when you were born, right? In case you haven't done the math, that's old enough for me to be your mother, much less your aunt. So, yes, goddamn it, I am that old.” A flush rises in my face, and I realize my diatribe is more for myself than for him. God, I hope I wasn't any more than eighteen when he was born. Stubbornly, I refuse to think the gap in our ages could be any wider. That's already enough to make me flinch.
“Is that the way you think of me? As a dumb kid? As your nephew?” Hurt is laced through his murmured words, and my heart softens. I want nothing more than to put my arms around his broad shoulders and soothe him, and not in an aunt-like way.
Exhaustion grips me, and I slump. “No. That’s not how I think of you at all,” I say softly, and touch his shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze.
“Good. That’s good,” he whispers into the window, still twisted away from me.
&
nbsp; “What happened tonight? You don’t have to tell me. But I’d like to know.”
He snorts. “Honestly, I’m not really sure. When I got home after my shift ended at the bar, he wasn’t home. I was beat, so I collapsed into bed and fell asleep.” He pauses and swallows, continuing on slowly. “The next thing I remember is the smell of whiskey in my face and getting nailed on the back of the head. He thought I had something and demanded it back.” He hesitates. “If I’d been awake, he would’ve never gotten the jump on me or hit me with that bat.”
“He hit you with a baseball bat?” I yell, tightening my grip on the steering wheel. My pulse jumps and I hunger for blood.
“More like a billy club, and it wasn’t the first time,” he whispers and touches the back of his head, flinching on contact.
“He could’ve killed you!” I shout, feeling helpless and homicidal.
“Please don’t yell. It hurts.”
“I’m sorry. I’m furious that your own father could do this to you,” I hiss, trying to keep my voice low.
“It wasn’t always like this . . . Can we save the rest for tomorrow?”
“Sure we can.” Without thinking twice, I find his hand and take it. He twines his fingers in mine and squeezes.
“Thanks for everything, Jillian.”
Suppressing a yawn, I smile weakly in the dark and try to wrap my head around the fact that I’m about to have a house guest.
Chapter 13
Jillian
DAWN IS DUE TO BREAK in less than an hour when I get him to the guest room. His injuries look worse in the light, marring his handsome face and obscuring any resemblance to Drew. I shove back another surge of anger toward his father. He sets the duffel on the bed and seems unsteady on his feet.
I point to the private bathroom. “Everything you’ll need is in there. Shampoo and conditioner are in the shower, there’s a new toothbrush and toothpaste in the drawer next to the sink, and extra towels are in the closet.”
He turns his back to me and his shoulders droop as he fumbles with the zipper of his bag. “I need help.” His voice is small and weary, catching me off guard.
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