Unraveled

by Allie Hawkins

  Repeated reassurances convinced him to let go of her hand. Even so, she continued talking to him as she found a flashlight, then pulled a can of OJ from the freezer. Having nursed dozens of Michael’s boo-boos, she knew from experience that food and drink often distracted wounded male warriors.

  “Talk to me,” she called.

  “...tired.”

  “I know.” She dumped the flashlight, first-aid kit, several clean towels, and a can of orange juice on the table. “Fresh coffee later. For now, how about juice?”

  “’Kay.”

  His terse, flat answers bothered her. The Pierce she knew delivered sharp, off-the-wall comebacks. At least, she soothed herself, he seemed to understand everything she said to him. She mixed water and juice. The full glass baffled him. He stared at it as if seeing a rare artifact for the first time. He pushed the glass away like a tired child, sloshing juice on the table.

  Quinn pulled the glass toward him, raising it to his mouth. “C’mon. One sip. Just one.”

  “Uh.” He tilted his head back to swallow and flinched when she parted his matted hair away from the wound.

  “It’s deep.” She worked quickly, using eyebrow tweezers to separate clumps of his bloody hair. “The good news is, I don’t think you need a stitch.”

  “Mr. Cement Head.”

  The tension in Quinn’s shoulders let go, and she exhaled loudly. He was lucid again. “You might need a tetanus shot.”

  “No way.”

  Disappointed he reverted so quickly to monosyllables, she said, “A tetanus shot—in case there was metal in those snowballs.”

  He started to shake his head, but stopped. “No way.”

  Inflexibility was a positive sign. She squeezed excess peroxide from several cotton balls, glanced at the wall clock and decided he couldn’t speak so clearly if he’d suffered a concussion. “No way there was something metal or no way you need a booster?”

  He didn’t answer so she gently tipped his head forward.

  He inhaled loudly, through his mouth. “Damn.”

  “Sorry.” She patted his arm and felt her throat close. “I said it was deep.”

  “Forgot.” He didn’t move while she tried to figure out how to bandage his scalp.

  “You’ve got too much hair. It’s too curly.”

  “Always liked...my hair.”

  Her heart banged. She hadn’t liked his hair, she’d loved it. He’d worn it longer four years ago, but it always smelled clean and shone like ebony. She routinely ran her fingers through his hair during foreplay.

  “Can I move?” he asked, his voice thin as an old man’s quaver.

  “Yes, I’m sorry. Yes.” She offered him her arm and came close to knocking him off his chair when her ankle suddenly gave way. “You’ll be more comfortable in the family room.”

  Muscles tensed, she stayed by his side as he shuffled across the tiled kitchen floor.

  “Feel like a-a geeze-a geezer.”

  “Our little secret,” she said, aware that even an insipid secret with Pierce sent goose bumps hopscotching on her arms.

  He grabbed her hand, and heat shot through her fingers to between her legs. “Golf course guy...garage guy...”

  An image from the garage collided with the figure in white. Could they be one and the same person? Quinn shook her head. Pierce had the head injury, but she was the one not thinking straight. She draped her favorite throw over his knees. “Shhhh. You need to rest.”

  “Need a kiss.” The corners of his mouth twitched.

  The phone rang, killing the mischievous grin she expected.

  “Take a little nap.” She bent, pressed her cheek against his and limped to the kitchen.

  What would she do about Pierce if Luce had gone into labor?

  Chapter 6

  “It’s me, Quinn.” Rex Walker, the last person on earth she expected, identified himself before she finished saying hello. “Is this a bad time? I hope I’m not bothering you...”

  She didn’t wait for him to launch an apology. “How’d you get my home number?”

  “Michael—”

  “When?” She hoped Rex understood she didn’t believe him. Tough unemployment times brought lots of computer whizzes to Alexander and Associates. Most qualified applicants were men. Michael would guard her personal info as carefully as movie stars guarded the name of their plastic surgeon.

  “I-I don’t remember. A while ago. Not recently.”

  “Okay. Why?” No use mincing words.

  “That I remember.” He rushed on, his voice eager. “In case there was a problem with Luce, and he couldn’t reach you.”

  “Why wouldn’t he be able to reach me?” Mind spinning, she pivoted toward the kitchen slider, the phone pressed against her ear, listening to him breathe as if in cardiac distress.

  “I-I don’t-I don’t know. I’m sure he had a reason...at the time. I don’t remember...what—what it was.” His voice grew higher, shriller, then faded to a whisper.

  Pockets of hazy light glowed through the clean blanket of snow, tempering Quinn’s impatience. But Rex started talking again in his whiny, defensive tone, and she resorted to biting sarcasm. “Do you remember why you called me?”

  “Of course. But do you mind telling me why you’re pissed? Did I wake you? Get you out of a hot bath?” He spoke in the stacatto cadence of a used-car salesman not letting the customer get in a word, rushing on as if he figured she’d hang up on him.

  The skin on Quinn’s entire body shriveled and tried to crawl off her skeleton. The idea that Rex Walker might think about her naked, anytime, anywhere, turned her stomach upside down, flooding her throat with a metallic taste.

  “Sorry,” he said. “My mother taught me better manners.” Maybe afraid Quinn might contradict this statement, he spoke faster. “Michael left a message on my machine at 9:30—”

  “Is Luce in labor?” Quinn bit her tongue. She’d choke before she asked why Michael called Rex instead of her. “Did she have the baby?”

  “No, Michael sounded—”

  “Is he all right? Why didn’t he call me?”

  “If you’ll let me talk—” Rex shifted the receiver so clumsily Quinn jumped, feeling dizzy and disoriented. He said, “Sorry, I have another call.”Hang up. Calm down. Check on Pierce. “Take it. I’m pretty busy right now.”

  “Probably Michael again.”

  “Why call you again? Why not call me?”

  “I can only guess.” Self-importance deepened Rex’s tenor and deepened Quinn’s doubts.

  Whether the caller was Michael or not, she now wanted details. “Check Caller ID.”

  “I don’t recognize the number. Maybe it’s a telemarketer. Or Michael’s at the hospital. I’ll call you back.”

  Heat stung Quinn’s cheeks, and her palms felt slick on the receiver. She swallowed her pride. “I’ll hold.”

  “I’ll get back to you as soon as I know anything.”

  White noise crackled on the line. Covering the mouthpiece, Quinn walked to the threshold of the family room. Pierce lay with his eyes closed, his mouth slack. Asleep—or in a coma? His breath came out in shallow, ragged spurts. The knot in her stomach contracted. What if Michael needed her? What if she had to leave Pierce alone? What if...

  “Shut. Up. Quinn.” She counted to ten, turned her back on Pierce and stared outside.

  Diamonds sparkled on the snow. The wind had stopped gusting. She stared at the loveliness. Serenity seeped into her bones. If she had to drive to St. Louis tonight, she could do it and expect to live. I-70 rarely shut down because of weather conditions. State snow blowers kept the East-West artery cleared for trucks running the route day and night.

  Imagining the four-hour trip, Quinn glanced at her watch, tapped her foot, rechecked the time. Rex had kept her on hold for less than a minute, but her pulse was accelerating by the microsecond. She felt as strung out as the hundreds of tiny bee lights wrapped around the trunks of the old oaks bordering the creek.

  Parad
ise. This was where she should have stayed this morning. Safe from masked creeps in tight pants or ski suits.

  A mental snapshot exploded. She saw the snowball knocking Pierce down. The white noise on the phone roared in her ears, and her heart pumped harder and harder and harder. She threw her hand out, placing it on the icy pane of glass, exhaling, steadying herself, wishing she didn’t feel so alone.

  ****

  “A dollar for your thoughts.” Pierce lay in the recliner, drowsy and relaxed.

  “You lucked out,” Quinn said. “I’m on hold. You won’t have to pay one dime.”

  “Anyone I know?” The way she stiffened clued him in.

  Fury burned the back of his throat, and he barked, “Forget it. None of my business.”

  He kicked off the crocheted cover she’d thrown over him but decided against standing until the room stopped spinning. He rubbed the back of his neck. His skull throbbed as if someone had driven a dull nail through hair and bones and brains.

  Common sense told him to shut up, but he said, “Know anybody else besides the weasel who’d wear a ski mask off the ski run?”

  Quinn’s lovely, luscious lips thinned like a frozen green bean. “He told me you didn’t like him, but—”

  “But I’m being ridiculous, right?”

  “Ridiculous sounds too bland. Personally, I think you’re being unfair.”

  “Oh-oh. This conversation leads only to the same dead end you and I have reached too many times.” Pierce examined his cuticles. “I’m going to shut up while I’m ahead.”

  “Promises, promises.”

  Pierce bit his tongue and shifted in the chair.

  An elephant stomped on his brain. Momentarily stunned, he sat there mute and considered the virtues of silence. The air between him and Quinn hung heavy, became awkward.

  The awkwardness deepened. He wasn’t up to reckoning with her stubborn pride.

  An eon or two later, she said, “Better spill what’s on your mind before your head explodes.”

  “Nothing’s on my mind.”

  “Riiight.” She gave him an eye-roll, then slapped the phone in her palm.

  Pierce shrugged and allowed a big, innocent smile to stretch his lips. Let her have the last word. But don’t tell him the phone wasn’t a substitute for his head.

  A muscle ticked under her left eye, and her jaw cracked. She gave no indication she noticed either involuntary reaction.

  The yearning to take her in his arm swelled, but he shut down the fantasy. Why keep banging his head against that particular brick wall?

  The brick wall always won, and his aching head needed a time-out.

  Nothing between them had really changed. Quinn wanted more from him than he could give. Which meant he had no right to tell her who to help and who to turn her back on.

  “I haven’t exploded yet,” he said, forcing his voice into neutral, “but my bones are weary. I’d better fire up the Gomobile and mosey—”

  “Shhh.” She wagged a finger, gave him her back and hugged the phone like a lover.

  No matter how hard he strained to hear, Pierce picked up none of Quinn’s words. Irrationally, her attitude got under his skin. He saw her talking to the weasel, and he wanted to punch out the lying little creep. Quinn couldn’t see her brother’s best bud as Abommie, but Pierce didn’t buy the out-of-the-blue appearance of their attacker.

  “Michael and Luce had a big argument.” Quinn materialized next to Pierce’s chair. She sounded—looked—ready to bawl, her eyes dull, her jaw slack. “He called Rex instead of me.”

  “I’m sorry.” Mine fields lay hidden on all sides, but Pierce risked patting the leather arm of his chair. “There’s nothing wrong with the baby, is there?”

  “Not yet.” Quinn watched his fingers caress the armchair with the intensity of a mongoose. “Luce and her obstetrician want to induce labor tomorrow.”

  Patting the chair began to feel obsessive-compulsive. His inability to stop, to say something comforting made Pierce feel stupid. He fumbled for the lever on the recliner. A tough TV-PI would be on his feet by now, holding the distressed babe in his arms.

  “Big decision. I mean, inducing labor...doing it tomorrow.”

  Brilliant conversation beat tough every time.

  “That’s why they argued.” Quinn looked past him into deep space.

  The recliner’s back slid forward, jolting the top of Pierce’s skull. A fleeting thought imagined Luce’s pain. Her risks. Her panic. “Luce must be scared.” He paused, added, “Michael too.”

  “I think he’s terrified.” Quinn hugged her waist. “He refuses—absolutely—to agree to the procedure tomorrow.”

  Why? The thump of Pierce’s feet on the thick carpet set off an explosion in the back of his head. Despite the fallout in his brain, he remembered Michael could say nothing dumb, make no bad choices, do no wrong in Quinn’s eyes.

  Pierce pitched his voice to neutral, “What about a second opinion?”

  “Michael got a second opinion.”

  Her words came at Pierce from outside his fantasy as the tough PI. His clammy skin and wobbly legs also weakened the image. Standing and taking her in his arms wasn’t going to work. He asked, “Do both doctors agree?”

  “He didn’t consult a second doctor.”

  Pierce leaned forward, frowning, unsure he’d heard. “He didn’t—”

  “He consultled Rex.”

  “Has he lost his mind?” A stab of pain honed the dullness of Pierce’s comeback. She’d clam up if he didn’t sound more supportive. He swallowed and summoned a tone he hoped wouldn’t sound sarcastic. “Any idea why?”

  She pressed her elbows into her ribs so hard Pierce winced. She whispered, “Mrs. Walker delivered Rex after-after...her doctor induced labor...”

  ****

  By 10:30 Pierce looked ready to keel over. So Quinn swallowed her tears. Time for bawling her eyes out later. After she fed him.

  Contrary to culinary myth, she knew that making scrambled eggs wasn’t child’s play. Outstanding scrambled eggs required a chef’s full attention. So no thoughts about Michael.

  Or the golf-course creep.

  Or the garage nutcase.

  Or even Pierce, who kept trying to make her feel better by asking questions for which she had no answers. She banished him back to the recliner. The clink of eggs cracking against the metal bowl brought back memories of late-night summer snacks she’d whipped up for her and Michael. More often than not, they ate their eggs and pretended Daddy was on an extended business trip.

  Thirty years later, English muffins popped up in the toaster and brought her back to dishing up the eggs. Barely moist, their fatty fragrance of butter and cheese mingled with the yeasty scent of bread—which triggered a memory of Lamar’s.

  “Yo! Mama!” The off-the-wall greeting bounced around in her mind.

  SPLAT! The first spoonful of eggs hit the tiled floor.

  She snatched a paper towel off its roller and mopped up the glop.

  No crying over spilt eggs. She grimaced and inhaled a long whiff of her creation. Her stomach growled. Deftly, she filled their plates. She’d made enough for six people so they wouldn’t starve. They ate off TV trays—a habit Quinn hated admitting she’d acquired, but justified because the trees and creek and wildlife in the backyard always soothed her after a long day. Pierce inhaled his eggs—convincing her she could’ve set his plate on the floor.

  He kissed his fingertips, then threw the gesture to her. “I’ll clean up.”

  “Don’t think so.” She swallowed before speaking again. “I think you should go to bed.”

  “After I do the dishes.”

  No question about where he should go to bed she noticed, but said, “While I do the dishes. You look like hell, Podner.”

  “I told you I needed a bandage and a kiss.”

  The eggs in her stomach rolled. “You were delusional.”

  “I’m not now.” He pushed his TV tray aside.

  Alarmed
by the heat rising off her, Quinn got to her feet first. “The downstairs guest room’s quite sexy.”

  Oxygen evaporated around her. She heard her gasp and felt ridiculous as heat ignited in the pit of her stomach and went straight south.

  “Sexy sounds good,” Pierce drawled.

  “Comfy,” she whispered. “I-I-I meant comfy.”

  “As in, how you feel after you come?” He took a step away from the recliner.

  Quinn’s heart hit the inside of her skull. She stepped backwards. “Did you say that?”

  “You started it.” He took another step.

  “I’m ending it.” God, her legs wouldn’t move. “Right now.”

  “Why? Why not give each other a little...comfort?”

  “Stop that.” She couldn’t breathe. “My views on sex haven’t changed in four years.”

  He cocked an eyebrow. “Tell me you’ve been celibate.”

  “Don’t question my celibacy.”

  Pierce tugged his earlobe. “I saw you with Justin Carpenter—”

  “Justin’s a teddy bear.” She threw up her hands, warning Pierce to keep the arm’s length between them. “After he broke up with Stephie Stone, he needed a friend.”

  “So since you and I had gone our separate ways, you and Justin helped each other. That about it?”

  “It—whatever it is—doesn’t remotely fall in the same category as Brittany.”

  “Okay.” A shrug. “But didn’t you go skiing with Bob Matthews a couple of times?”

  “What is this?” Even as Quinn pretended outrage, heat flared between her legs.

  Disgusted by her hormones’ betrayal, she picked up his plate, laying it on top of her own. “How could you live with Brittany and keep tabs on me?”

  He spread his hands wide in the universal gesture of openness and friendship. “We lived together for three months. Then, she met someone and married him a week later.”

  “A week later?” Quinn stumbled on a chair leg, rattling plates. Red-faced, she motioned Pierce to sit down. Dammit, she passed that chair a dozen times a day without mishap.

  He grinned. “Brittany and I were sorta like Julia Roberts and Lyle Whatshisname.”