by L. E. Rico
But then…
What? Something.
But then, I wouldn’t be here, sitting on the floor of a hallway experiencing an unprecedented level of confusion. And angst. And…attraction?
“Scott?”
“Yes, Jameson?”
“Will you sign my cast?”
“Later on, when it’s dry.”
“My cast’s got blank space baaaaaaby…. and Scott’ll write his name…”
…
She’s out cold when I stick my head in to check on her. In another hour, Walker will come home and relieve me, but until then, I’m keeping watch to make sure Jameson doesn’t do anything to hurt herself or anyone else. Like sing.
“Hi,” she says quietly, her eyes fluttering open as I pull the blanket up over her shoulders.
“Hi. Are you okay? Can I get you something to eat or some water maybe?”
She shakes her head and offers me a smile. “No, thanks. You’ve been great.”
“Obviously, or I wouldn’t have warranted the serenade I got while you were in the shower.”
She snickers a little. “Mmmm. I told you, Oxy and I have a love/hate relationship. I love the way it makes me feel…but I hate the things it makes me do.”
“Yeah, I can see that. Are you in pain now?” She shakes again. “Okay, well, it’s not your enemy then. Besides, what’s a little karaoke between friends?” I tease.
“Are we?” she asks, looking up at me.
“Are we…friends? I think so. I hope so…”
She closes her eyes, and just when I’m sure she’s nodded off again, she speaks.
“You know, Henny and Walker and Bailey…they all think I should be looking for another man.”
“Do they now?”
Her eyes are closed, but she’s nodding. “Yup. But how can I? How can I trust myself when I screwed it up so badly the first time? Besides, I wouldn’t even know where to start…”
I’m torn between comforting her and running from the room. I just don’t do this kind of intimacy. It comes with too many expectations. And I don’t do expectations, either. Not anymore.
“What if…” she begins softly, slowly, her brow furrowed with concern, “what if nobody wants me, Scott?”
“Oh God, Jameson, of course somebody’s going to want you! Jeez, you’re so smart and funny and—”
“He’s the only man I’ve ever been with,” she blurts, her eyes flying open now. “I don’t know how to be with anyone else… You know what I mean?”
This is so not a conversation we should be having.
“I…uh…well, yeah, I suppose…”
“And the thing is I’m not my sisters. Bailey with that blonde hair and blue eyes. Walker is so chic and edgy. And Hennessy, well, she’s like a walking definition of radiance. And then there’s me. Plain Jane… Oh, hey, that kinda rhymes!” She starts to giggle. “Plain James! No, I guess it’d have to be Plain Jame. But that doesn’t make any sense…”
“God, you’re beautiful,” I blurt out.
She stops. I stop. We both stop.
I hadn’t meant to say that out loud.
Okay, okay, don’t panic. She won’t remember any of this in the morning—she said so herself. Still…
I’m considering how best to extricate myself and make a run for it when she uses her good elbow to push herself up on the bed.
“Scott?” she whispers so softly that I have to lean in closer.
“Yes, Jameson?”
And then her lips are on mine, and I feel a smooth, warm hand on my right cheek—the scratchy casted one on the left. The kiss is sweet and tender…until it’s not. Suddenly, she’s putting everything she has into this kiss, and I have to hold my hands up to keep from touching her. Because, if I touch her body, I’m lost. But before I can worry about that, she pulls away—all too soon—and smiles at me. I can only stare back at her, stunned.
“Well, that wasn’t so bad,” she murmurs, allowing herself to slip back down onto the bed. “I’m tired.” She’s out like a light within a few seconds of hitting the pillow.
“And I’m screwed,” I reply to no one in particular.
Chapter Eleven
Jameson
When the dawn’s ridiculously early light starts to stream through my window, I groan and roll onto my side to turn away from it. Big. Mistake.
“Owwwwwww!” I howl, bolting upright to relieve the immediate and excruciating pain. Clearly, I screeched loud enough to wake the dead because, a few seconds later, Bailey’s golden blond head is poking through the doorway, tousled from sleep.
“Hey, you okay?” she asks hoarsely.
“Ohhhhhhhh Goddddddd,” I moan loudly. “No. No, I’m not okay. I think I need another pain pill.”
“They’re on your nightstand,” she says, tilting her chin toward a prescription bottle and a glass of water I hadn’t noticed before.
I pick up the bottle, pop the top off, and tilt it until one spills out into my hand. I stop, looking at it and then back at my sister who, seeing the wheels turning in my head, is already grinning.
“Oh, yeah,” she says. “Per-Co-Set, baby!”
“What?” I gasp. “No! No, no, no, no! They didn’t give me Percocet and send me home with…with…” I can’t even finish that thought. No worries, though, because my smarty pants little sister is only happy to fill in the blanks.
“Scott.”
I clap my good hand over my mouth and shake my head from side to side.
“Oh, my dear good God. Wh-What did I do? What did I say?” I gasp out in horror.
Bailey shrugs. “Dunno. You’ll have to ask Walker. She’s the one who came home and found Scott sitting on the couch. Apparently, he helped you take a shower and put you to bed. Which is exactly where I’m headed right now.” She turns to leave then, remembering something, pops her face back through the doorway. “By the way, Win called to say he’ll be dropping Jax by in about an hour. I told him I’d keep an eye on the kiddo today so you could get some rest. Just send the little booger into my room when he gets here.”
“Okay…Thank you…” I’m trying to process as fast as she’s speaking but I’m not doing a very good job of it. I can’t seem to get past the niggling feeling that there was something with Scott last night.
“Oh, and I have to go for my butter block fitting later so don’t hold dinner for me,” my sister continues.
“Butter…block…fitting?” Crap, these drugs are even stronger than I thought.
“I know, right?” She rolls her eyes at the ceiling. “Apparently it has to be just right or the sculptor won’t do it.”
“Oh!” I realize suddenly that she’s talking about the butter bust of her they’ll make at the state fair. “Right, right. Princess Mary… Uh, Bailey, are you sure you don’t know anything about what happened last night? Anything?”
She gives me her best Cheshire Cat smile just before she disappears around the corner again.
She does know something!
“Wait, Bailey…”
But it’s too late. She’s gone again, and I hear the door to her room slam shut before I can convince her to give up whatever intel she has on what transpired between Win’s brother and me. A shower? Really? A quick touch of my damp hair tells me that I have, indeed, bathed in the not-so-distant past.
I have got to sort this out. Like, now. I swing my legs over the edge of the bed and push off with my left hand while clutching my casted right arm tight to my body. What on earth had made me choose this horrid pink? But I already know the answer to that. An answer that starts with a big old capital P.
It takes some doing, but I’m able to tend to my morning rituals in the bathroom, sticking my head inside the shower curtain as if I’ll be able to find some clue as to what happened in there last night. But all I find is the normal complement of shower gels, shampoos, and conditioners amassed by three women with three very different hair types.
I’m tempted to call down the stairs until Walker emerges fro
m her basement cave, but I can’t bring myself to do it. She was working till after midnight and likely didn’t get to sleep before two or three in the morning. It’s barely eight o’clock right now. My interrogation will have to wait until a more civilized hour. In the meantime, I put on my robe and make my way around the kitchen, setting up the coffee pot one-handed before rummaging through the cabinet where we stash the prescriptions. There’s got to be something else I can take for the relentless ache in my broken bone. In the end, I settle on a couple of Tylenol—I’ll have to suck it up until I can get a prescription for something stronger.
When I hear Win’s car in the driveway, I take in an involuntary gasp. He was so angry last night…and now, I’m more than a little anxious about seeing him again. I’ve worked hard to keep our divorce as amicable as possible, and it will just break my heart if my impulsive actions have undone it all. I hear my ex-husband rap on the door before it flies open, Jackson all but tumbling in.
“Hi, baby!” I say.
“Hi, Mama,” he replies as he runs past me without so much as a second look. He makes a beeline toward Bailey’s bedroom.
Win looks at me quizzically. I put a finger to my lips indicating he should be quiet, and then I gesture for him to follow me. We reach the end of the hallway and peer around the corner just as Jackson stands on his tippy-toes so he can push open the door, which Bailey’s left slightly ajar for him. He disappears inside the room, and a few seconds later, I hear my youngest sister’s groggy voice.
“Hey, buddy. Whatcha doing?”
“Beddy-bye!” Jax demands.
“Beddy-bye? You want to go beddy-bye with Aunt Bailey?”
“Beddy-bye Bailey!”
“What do you say?”
“Pleeeeeeze.”
There’s some shuffling.
“No, the shoes have to come off,” I hear her say.
Thunk. Thunk. They hit the ground. And then there is silence.
Win follows me into the kitchen. “Well, clearly he’s not traumatized by what happened,” he says with a chuckle. That sound triggers a flood of relief in my body.
“Well, that makes one of us,” I mutter. “Coffee?”
“Only if you let me pour,” he says with a nod toward my damaged arm.
“Fine by me,” I agree, taking a seat at the kitchen table, watching as he makes us both a mug.
“Are you okay?” he asks once he’s seated across from me.
“Yeah, I’ll live,” I mumble, examining the cast that stretches from my wrist to my elbow.
“By the way, nice shade of pink there,” he teases.
“Yeah, well, let’s just say I wasn’t in the best state of mind last night.”
“Oxy?”
“What?” I set my mug back down with enough force to create a tiny tidal wave that spills over onto the table. “How’d you know?”
He snorts. “Seriously? James, you wouldn’t be caught dead in pink. Last time you wore that color was in college. Remember the student nurses all wore hot pink scrubs? God, you complained about it for four semesters straight,” he reminds me.
“Redheads shouldn’t wear pink.”
“So you’ve said a million times. That’s why I know you wouldn’t be caught dead in pink unless you were under the influence of something heavy duty. And we both know Oxy is like your Kryptonite.”
“Yeah, well, I guess you’re right about that. I have no recollection of last night. I hope I didn’t embarrass myself in front of your brother.”
Win puts his mug down. “Did he come home with you?” he asks suspiciously.
“Well, yes, Win. Someone had to bring me back from the hospital, and I wasn’t exactly in the best state to be on my own,” I reply, matching his suspicion with my own irritation.
“James, I don’t think you should be hanging around with Scott.”
“Hanging around? Win, I wouldn’t be sitting here in a flipping hot pink cast if you two hadn’t started a bar brawl in the kitchen! What was that, by the way? Scott said he just asked you for his birth certificate.”
He scowls and then takes a sip of coffee—like he’s buying himself a little more time to think of an answer. “Yeah, well, he was being a—” Win stops short, recalling this is a no-profanity zone because of our son. “He was being a smug little bass bowl.”
“I’m sorry—bass bowl?” I snort. “That’s got to be the lamest fake curse I’ve ever heard.”
“What? It’s not like there are a lot of things that rhyme with—”
“Don’t you dare!” I warn, cutting him off.
“Besides, what’s wrong with it? You eat those acai bowls and noodle bowls…why not a bass bowl?”
I wave my good hand at him. “Okay, okay, let’s get back on track here. What was he doing that made him so…bass bowlish?”
“Look, Jameson, there are thing that you know nothing about. Things that go way back to before I ever even knew you. Things that shouldn’t be rehashed. Not now, not ever.”
“Whatever it is, you can’t keep your brother’s things from him. Get the documents out of the bank box. Now.”
I use my best “stern wife” tone on him, but he’s not buying it.
“Sorry,” he replies, getting to his feet. “We’re not married anymore. And even if we were, there are just some things that should stay in the past.”
“Win—”
He comes around to my side of the table and plants a kiss on the top of my head.
“I’m sorry that dinner turned out the way it did last night. And I’m really sorry you were a casualty. But please, just stay out of this business between Scott and me. In fact, just stay away from Scott. The second you start to count on him, he’ll be in the wind. It’s what he does.”
“Oh, come on—”
“Good-bye, James.”
He’s out the door before I can finish my protest.
Well, if he was hoping to squash my curiosity about this whole mess, he’s failed miserably.
I sip my coffee and try to reconstruct the events of last night. I remember up to the hospital…but after that, not much. The shower…? No, that’s a blur…except for maybe something about Taylor Swift and…popcorn? What the— Oh! Oh, no! Oh, good Lord! Did he have to undress me? There’s no way I could’ve gotten out of my jeans or…or my bra!
I smack a palm to my forehead. “Ughhhh,” I groan out loud and shake my head. Suddenly, it’s as if I’ve actually jarred the memory loose from the deep dark recesses of my mind. The place where I like to bury things that should never, never, ever be remembered. Or spoken of. Ever.
Holy. Crap. Did I… Did I kiss him?
Scott: “Hey, Siri, do you believe in God?”
Siri: “My policy is the separation of spirit and silicon.”
Chapter Twelve
Scott
She kissed me. And it’s the only thing I’ve been able to think about for the last twelve hours. Even as Doctor Douglas delivered the news that my father’s conditioned has improved—ever so slightly—I found myself gently rubbing the spot on my cheek where her hand touched me. She was impaired, of course, and it’s not likely she’ll even remember that it happened. But I’ll remember. I’ll remember the smattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose and the way her long lashes are an exact match for the auburn in her hair. Oh, yeah, this is one memory I’m gonna hang onto for a long time.
I sigh and, not for the first time in my life, wish things were different. If only she weren’t my brother’s ex-wife—not that it would matter to anyone but Win; it just adds another layer of crazy to an already complicated situation. If only her heart hadn’t been so badly broken…Kiss aside, she’s terrified of letting another man into her life. Into her heart. She told me as much last night. And who could blame her?
There’s no denying I’m attracted to Jameson. Her personality, her intelligence. And I’d be lying if I didn’t include her smokin’ hot looks. What’s not to love? But I know myself well enough to know I’ll never commit.
And, even if I do, I’ll never honor that commitment. Because, as my brother says, I’m a runner. And I could never risk hurting Jameson…So that’s that.
If only.
Before I can give this any further thought, the door to the hospital room opens and Father Romance steps in. We may not have been a Catholic family while I was growing up, but everyone in Mayhem knows—and loves—Father Grigory Romanski. AKA Father Romance.
“Scotty, my boy, so good to see you!” he booms. When I extend a hand to shake, he grabs it and pulls me into a hearty embrace.
“Thank you, Father,” I manage to squeak out through my oxygen-deprived lungs. “You too…”
“I’m looking forward to hearing all about your adventures with Project Peace, but first things first. I hear your father has had some improvement.”
“Very minor, Father.”
“Still, Rome wasn’t built in a day,” he quips. “No reason not to have faith.”
“True,” I reply, gesturing to a plastic yellow chair.
He takes it and leans forward toward me, placing his forearms on his knees as he does so.
“I understand there was a bit of an incident yesterday,” he says quietly.
“How could you possibly know that?” I ask, dumbfounded.
The good father shrugs and glances upward toward the ceiling. “I have my sources, Scott.”
He can’t possibly mean… Can he? I give him my most respectable “you’re full of it” expression. “Father, are you trying to tell me that God Himself told you? How does that work exactly? A dream? A vision?”
“What?” He looks at me, his dark brows pulled together in confusion. Then all at once he sits up, slaps his knee, and throws his head back in deep laughter. “No! No, Scott, I didn’t mean it came from that far up! I was talking about the fourth floor nurses’ station. Those ladies do love to gossip!”
I join him in the laughter but then stop myself with a nervous glance at my father, lying unconscious in the bed beside us. Father Romance catches my look and puts a hand on my shoulder.