But Winslow did know. She’d certainly heard how awful the lot of them were often enough. All except Ike. For whatever reason, he’d slithered under her mom’s dirt-bag meter.
“Tate’s different.”
Her mother grabbed her wrist and pulled her into her face, so close Winslow could smell the booze on her breath. “No, he isn’t. I saw him looking at you like you were a piece of meat. He’s a sneaky one, that one. All he wants is his hands in your panties.”
Embarrassment flamed Winslow’s cheeks at the picture her mother had just planted in her mind. Tate’s hand in my panties. Hmmm. Her tummy clenched at the deliciousness of that slim possibility.
She drew in a slow breath, weary from the drama. Her mother had a knack for wearing her down quicker than the cancer did. Resting a calming hand on her mother’s arms, she said, “Please don’t say that. It sounds… dirty.” And kind of hot. “Tate was every bit the gentleman while you were gone. You would’ve been proud of him.”
Her mother wasn’t a bad person, and she didn’t normally talk like that, she was just what she called, high strung. Temperamental. She’d always considered herself one of those sleek thoroughbreds at Kentucky Downs, those prancing, temperamental horses destined for fame and glory, the ones that had to be pampered and handled with kid gloves. Only she’d been blessed with a sickly child who was taking years to die, and so she’d failed being the petulant filly at the gate before she’d ever set one foot on the racetrack. At every turn, life had been unfair to poor Joyce, and Winslow understood how her mother felt. She truly did. Death was an ill-tempered and capricious master that cared for no one. Waiting so long for it to arrive made her death sentence worse. She wished, for her mother’s sake, that the cancer would kill her faster, so her mom could get on with her life. Maybe then she’d be happier.
“I don’t want to talk to you right now.” She sniffed and scraped Winslow’s hand off her arm. “Go play with your boyfriend.”
“Mom, he’s not my boyfriend. Honest. Tate’s just a…” Winslow shrugged one shoulder. He did seem like a boyfriend, but what did she know about such things? “He’s a friend.” A really good friend and a dynamite kisser.
“Tate, huh? You call him by his first name already, do you? You two sure looked cozy.”
“I suppose we did, but Mom. He came looking for me tonight, and he found me. That’s all. Then he walked me home—”
“Where were you? On that damned water tower?”
That took Winslow aback. How much did her mother know? “The water tower?”
Her mother nodded her chin at her with a huff. “You’re not as sick as you pretend. You’re stronger than I am some days, you just put on a good act.”
Winslow’s eyes widened. “I’m what? Faking cancer?” Now I’ve heard everything.
Her mother growled. “No, you’re not faking, it’s just that… I’m just… oh, damn. I’m just mad because he found you when I couldn’t. I looked and looked though, and when I was nearly about to give up…” She let her words hang.
“You went to Land’s End,” Winslow finished for her. “I know.” All bad days ended at Land’s End. Most good days too. That was the culmination point in their perpetual circle, the one they’d been locked in as mother and daughter for as long as Winslow could remember. A good stiff drink—or two—was her mom’s way out of difficult decisions. What kind of daughter would Winslow have been if she failed to understand that one fatal weakness? Hers was cancer. Her mother’s was a drink now and then. What was the difference?
“Never mind. I’ll go fix your medicine.”
Winslow made a face. “No thanks. Not this late. It’ll make me sicker on an empty stomach.”
“But you can’t miss a dose. That’s what the doctor said.”
“Which one this time?” She had so many.
“Bly.”
Winslow couldn’t help but grunt. What an awful moniker for a healer. Dr. Bly sounded like a murdering pirate on the high seas. “I forget. Is he the one who practices out of his home or the guy who looks like an eighth grader?”
“The one who practices from his residence.” Her mom lifted one shoulder. “Don’t you think he’s cute?”
“No, Mom. He’s not cute.” He’s old. “I guess you’re right though. I’ll have to take the medicine whether I like it or not. Could you put ice in it when you blend it this time? I can hardly gag it down when it’s lukewarm.”
“Why sure.” That seemed to do the trick. Her mom reverted to the gentle woman she could be. Running her fingers through several strands from Winslow’s black wig, she cocked her head into her daughter’s and crooned, “Hush little baby, close your eyes. Mama’s going to make you a big surprise.”
Odd. That song used to help Winslow fall to sleep when she was younger, but tonight it sounded—off.
Tate hung out at the bar at Land’s End, a darkly lit POS stuck mid-block between a used car dealership and a vacant lot full of weeds and trash. The name fit though. Land’s End was the epitome of a dive, a real ass end if ever there was one.
He was not one of the drinking crowd. Never had a use for noisy drunks or people who frequented bars, but this was Mrs. Parrish’s stomping-grounds, so there he was. The pistol he’d left in Ky’s Corvette while on his ‘date’ was now holstered under his left arm, available and ready should trouble come calling, but concealed beneath a light jacket.
From the street, purple lights in squiggly neon announced this dive’s foremost reputation as a strip joint. No surprise there, not with the two-legged crud bellied up to the bar with him. It wasn’t so much a place to drink as a runway for the three trolls stalking under the spotlight in too much make-up, six-inch heels, and not much else. The strobe lights, mounted in a groove that ran down the center of the bar beneath them, blinked a harsh rhythm that accentuated their gyrations but cranked up the headache in Tate’s skull.
Just as he’d kicked back his stool to leave, Janice, the perky blonde waitress with too much black eyeliner smudged on her eyelids, peered around his broad bicep. “Can I get you another drink, honey? Whatchu having? Another Corona?”
He hadn’t noticed her husky smoker’s voice when she’d hit him up for his first order. “I’m looking for Joyce. You seen her?”
Down came the brows as the shutters closed tight. “You a cop? A lawyer? Her ex?”
Joyce had an ex-husband? Interesting trivia.
Tate tipped back the last of his Corona and let the barmaid wait. That’d be the day he looked like an ex. At the last swallow, he swiped the back of his hand over his mouth and added a bite to his bark. “I was her damned daughter’s prom date tonight. Just wanted Joyce to know I took Winslow home, safe and sound like I promised. Tucked her in myself.”
That did the trick. Janice knuckle bumped Tate’s bicep and all but gushed. “Well, look at you. What a gentleman. But no, Joyce and Ike left an hour ago. I won’t see her until tomorrow night ’less something comes up.”
“She didn’t mention no Ike to me. What’s he to her?”
Janice leaned her shoulder into his bicep, her fingers to her lips as if shielding her answer from prying eyes. “Pitt’s the biggest loser on the street, but hey. Maybe he’s got something in his pants she wants, you know what I mean?”
Tate let the innuendo slide, not interested in matching her lowbrow humor. “She comes here often?”
A vigorous head bob made all those blonde bangs bounce over Janice’s over-tweezed brows. “Hell, she works here, and Ike’s my best regular. He’s here every afternoon and all Friday until closing time. You wanna enter the competition?”
Tate wasn’t that kind of quick on the uptake. “For what?”
Hip bump, and damn, Janice could swing ’em. She about knocked Tate off his stool with that left hipster hook of hers. The woman would’ve been a looker if she’d hike that bustier up about three inches higher. Right then, she was giving Tate an eyeful of more than just her creamy flesh. He focused on the empty longneck in his hand. Wo
men who threw themselves at men annoyed him, not that he had much experience. But a cat in heat was the same in any species.
“Why, the competition to be my best customer, what else?” she shouted over the opening blare of the band in the corner, a sad looking trio of lead and bass guitarists and one stoner who had a difficult time gripping his sticks. “I wouldn’t mind getting to know you, big guy.”
Big guy as in big stupid guy if you think I’m falling for that line. Tate laid a twenty flat to the bar and sealed it with the wet kiss of the bottom of his empty bottle. “Thanks. I’ll do that.” As in never.
He tipped two fingers to his forehead in a quick salute and left Land’s End and Miss Janice’s come-ons behind. Out on the sidewalk where the air was fresh, he dragged his cell out of his pocket and sent Winslow a quick text: “U up?”
When no reply came back, he hit remote unlock, and the Corvette blinked at him from the curb. Once in the driver’s seat, he started her up and texted Winslow to call him. It’d be good to hear her sleepy voice while he pictured her snuggled with Pepe in her bed. But his other phone didn’t answer. Winslow was probably asleep, which was just as good. She had to be exhausted, if only from all the fresh air she’d gotten.
Tate gunned the engine, slammed the shifter to drive, and peeled onto the street. As prone as he was to silence, he hated it now. Something was off in that little home on Maple Avenue.
Winslow swallowed hard, needing the retching in her stomach to cease. A woman could only take so many dry heaves, and she’d been heaving for hours. Her ribs and back ached. Her stomach. The worst medicine in the world was that brown gunk her mother mixed in the blender with bananas and rice water every day. If Winslow never saw another banana in her life, it’d be too soon.
Not like that mattered. She didn’t have many days left. Still…
She’d like to live out what was left of them in semi-comfort. Not this.
Her mouth watered with the upcoming spew. Her throat twitched. Winslow swallowed hard, battling for control over her body’s reflexes. Early morning. Every day. She heaved until she had no strength left to hang onto the toilet. Some days, her body’s reaction to the chemo drugs gave her no choice but to lie down and accept the comfort of the tile floor. Cold sweats raked the back of her neck and sweat dripped down her spine. Death surely couldn’t hurt worse than this.
Not certain if her stomach was finished torturing her, she crept up the counter to the sink and flipped the faucet handle to cold. Just one sip. That was all she dared take. If it stayed down, she might be done. If not...
Too shaky to hold the plastic glass that she kept by the sink for early mornings, she dragged her knees off the floor and hunkered her hips against the counter. That way, if she cocked her head, all she had to do was tip her mouth under the faucet. The cold trickle hit her lips in a splash that dribbled down her chin, but it was oh, so, so good. She sucked up another small swallow, but stopped at just the two. There was no sense downing what would only come back up if she drank too much too soon.
Nothing felt or tasted so good as that first drink of cold water after—that.
She let her weary body slide to the floor in a crumpled heap and turned her back to the cabinet, her sweaty hands in her lap, and a new day begun. Life sucked rocks. It truly did. Every day. It was hard to remember how happy she’d been up there on that tower last night, but she was, was being the key word. The word she’d been fated to live by. Was...
If only death would step on it and end this misery.
“Are you still in there?” her mother yelled from the hall.
You’d think the women would speak softly. Didn’t she know vomiting induced awful headaches? She should. She’d had enough hangovers.
Winslow growled a pathetically breathy, “Yes,” the best she could give after what her poor body had just been through. Where else would she be? It was morning, right? Wasn’t this where she ended up every darned day at this time? Why do you have to ask?
But instead of voicing her frustrations to the woman who truly was doing all she could to help, Winslow lifted a shaky hand and erased the evidence of her body’s harsh betrayal from her lips. She only wished she could hide the sour fragrance of Eau de Vomit in the air as easily.
When her mother didn’t call out again, Winslow rasped louder, her voice thick with fear that any exertion might start the whole throwing-up-shebang all over again. “You can come in now.”
Knock. Knock. Knock. Apparently her mother hadn’t heard a thing she’d said, or she wasn’t listening. For heaven’s sake, put your cell phone down and pay attention. I’m sick. I can’t keep answering silly questions.
At last the door opened wide, shoving Winslow’s stocking feet out of the way. Mom stomped in, her hands on her hips, the cell phone still in her fingers. “Why didn’t you answer me? Didn’t you hear me call? I need to use the bathroom too, you know. You can’t sit in here on your butt and tie it up all day.”
Sitting on my butt? Yeah, that’s me all right, just sitting around with nothing better to do than vomit my guts up. Winslow stabbed the heels of her hands into both eye sockets. She couldn’t deal with her mother’s drama. Not yet. Joyce made being violently ill sound like Trivial Pursuit.
Rolling to one hip, Winslow grabbed the edge of the counter with one hand, the toilet seat with the other. It took time and concentration to get on her feet as unsteady as her legs were, but she made it. Bile lifted up the back of her throat, but she forced it down like a trooper. A whimpering trooper. Please. No more. Let me be done.
Her mom was already leaning over the sink, primping in the mirror, spiking the tips of her already spiked hair. “Don’t you just love this new cut? My girlfriend Janice styled it for me. She used a new kind of mousse. What do you think?”
I think I don’t care. “Looks good, Mom. Real good,” she murmured, but thought, ‘Since I’m nearly spit-and-polish hairless. Thanks for nothing.’
Afraid if she moved too quickly she’d hurl on her mother’s shoes, Winslow made her way to her bedroom at the end of the hall, the single safe place in the house where Pepe, if he knew what was good for him, had better be hiding out. One good kick from her mother’s pointy heels could hurt him. He might get rambunctious, but he needed to keep out of sight for a while.
Her mother slammed the bathroom door behind her, on the phone, still as self-absorbed and as clueless as ever. Winslow had come to terms with her mom’s seeming lack of concern years ago. Nothing Joyce said could hurt her feelings anymore simply because that was what happened to people after they’d suffered through their loved one’s long-term illness. They developed tough skins and callous points of view when they realized they were just as helpless. They pulled in their tender feelings and they built walls to protect themselves from the inevitable. If anyone understood walls, Winslow did.
Only now, in one short night, Tate had breached the wall she’d built. He’d climbed the castle tower of her heart (so to speak), and he’d even fought a dragon to get to her. Ha! Pepe a dragon? Hardly. But it fit the knight-in-shining armor dream she seemed caught up in.
The drunken stagger to her room took longer than usual. Winslow kept both eyes squeezed tight to block the gazillion megawatts of sunlight peeking through her sheer drapes. The wonky way her brain reeled after a bout of vomiting offered no clue as to that precise word. She used to know such things since she’d devoured any reading material she could get her hands on. Books were intimate friends that allowed escape from bitter reality.
This latest episode of nausea was the worst yet. When she’d first started this particularly nasty regiment of chemotherapy, she’d been sick, but nothing like this morning’s bout. Her body felt burned to the core. She collapsed to her stomach, hoping to quell the nervous flutter that foretold more retching. At times like this, she knew she could never be an atheist. Prayer was her only refuge. God, please no more. Make it stop. I promise, I’ll be good.
A sweet dog’s nose snuffled at her sweaty neck bef
ore Pepe caressed her cheek with puppy kisses. Tugging him into her arm, Winslow stuffed her nose in the short fur on his hard little head. “I’m going to miss you in heaven, my baby Honey Munchkin. I love you so much,” she told him from the depths of her dying heart. A tear trickled out of her eye. Just one.
That was all the moisture her body had left to spare.
Chapter Eleven
“What do you mean I can’t see her?” Tate asked as politely as he could, his arms crossed over his chest, his feet spread at the barely cracked Parrish front door. Once more he’d left his pistol stowed in his vehicle out of respect. Aggravated, he couldn’t get a decent look at Mrs. Parrish through that narrow view she maintained, much less a glimpse of Winslow or her dog. What now?
“You heard me,” Joyce snapped. “Beat it before I call the cops, boy.”
Where does she get off calling me boy? “The police? Seriously?” He rolled his neck, tired of arguing with this obstinate game player. It wasn’t as if he’d come to steal Winslow away like that imaginary kidnapper last night. “All I want to do is see her, ma’am. I told her I’d be back today. Please let her know I’m here.”
Joyce scraped those Halloween fingernails over her forehead like he was giving her a headache. Without offering further explanation, she closed the door another inch. “Thanks to you, she’s been up sick all night, so no. You can’t see her, and she wouldn’t want you to see her the way she looks anyway. You have no idea what we’ve been through with this cancer or what you put her through yesterday. Get off my porch or so help me—”
That did it. “What I put her through? The prom was your idea Mrs. Parrish, not mine. I’m the one who found her after you called the television station and turned the night into a circus, remember?”
“Is that what she told you?”
Another poisonous glare flew down the hall, and damn. He shut his big mouth before he caused Winslow more problems. Her mom had a short, unpredictable fuse. “Listen. Please. I don’t want to cause trouble, but I made her a promise last night, and I’m a man of my word.”
Joker Joker (The Deuces Wild Series Book 2) Page 8