by J. P. Grider
I shake my head no, but the word doesn’t form on my lips.
“Please.” His finger now traces the inside of my wrist, causing a tiny stir beneath my stomach and an aching in my chest.
With a gentle pull, he tugs me toward him.
“Mick,” I whisper, with no conviction at all.
He either takes this as permission, instead of a plea to stop before he starts, or he’s still drunk and doesn’t care. His face moves in closer as he brings his hand behind my neck, but then just as he leans in close enough to kiss me, he pulls away and places my hand back on my lap. “Go. Sleep. You need to get up for class.” No longer is he looking me in the eyes, instead, he keeps his eyes cast downward on his lap.
Because I really didn’t think I should let him kiss me tonight anyway, I let it go and get back in bed. I reach over to turn off the light and lie there staring at the ceiling.
There is silence after that, and after a while, I assume he fell asleep. I drift into my own slumber, only after blocking out the very recent memory of our almost kiss. Instead, I think about Mick and the battle that lies ahead for him. If there is any way I can help, I want to. Regardless of my tumultuous feelings for him. It just makes me so mad that injustices, like his losing Kenna, even occur. In trying to protect children from harm, I think the powers that be end up hurting those that were never in danger at all. Yes, Kenna may have been in danger staying with her mother, but why take the child away from a loving uncle? Why make the two of them suffer like this? Couldn't they have kept Kenna with him while they determined if he was a suitable guardian?
A soft voice from somewhere inside me attempts to grab my attention.
Maybe Michael Ross is not a suitable guardian.
Maybe Kenna would still be in danger of harm or neglect if kept with her well-meaning uncle.
This little voice continues to talk at me.
Leave the decisions to the people who are actually trained in child custody cases. They may not be perfect, but they're doing the best with what they have to work with.
Why is this voice talking to me? It's crazy, because my own opinions differ from those coming from it. Michael Ross is perfect for Kenna. He loves her. He would die for her.
But is love enough?
SHUT UP!
***
As promised, Mick wakes me up in time for my eleven o'clock class. Precisely eight forty-five a.m. "Why so early?" I ask, my throat dry, the taste in my mouth rotten.
"I, uh, didn't really know what time you needed to get up." He rocks side to side, his hands fumbling to find something to do. "Maybe you need to, I don't know, shower, or get your books, or... I don't know. You didn't say what time, and fine, just go back to sleep." He tosses his hand in the air and walks away.
"Testy in the morning, aren't we?" I roll out of bed, grab my clothes from yesterday and go into the bathroom.
When I come out, he has a pot of coffee made. "You could have just gone home in my clothes. You didn't have to change," he says, his back to me, so how he knows I changed back into my clothes, I have no idea.
"Yeah, well, I didn't want to wash them." I lay his folded clothes on his couch and join him in the kitchen area, where he hands me a cup of coffee, milk already poured. "Thanks."
"Well, thanks for staying. It helped."
"Helped? I didn't do anything? Mmm. You make a good cup of coffee."
"I pissed in it."
"Delish. Anyway, really I didn't do any..."
"Yeah you did. Just by being here. Thank you," he says seriously, his eyes now focused on mine. Searching mine. “I’m sorry I almost…,” he shrugs, “kissed you last night. I just…” he stops talking to pull in his bottom lip and close his eyes.
My breath hitches a moment, before I bite the side of my own lip.
When he opens his eyes, I watch them make tiny movements while he seeks something in my eyes.
"I have my shit less together today than I did two days ago," he admits, still not taking his eyes off mine. "But I really need to kiss you right now. I was able to pull away last night, but today," he takes in a huge breath. Exhaling he says, “I just don’t want to stop myself this time.”
I place my mug on the counter. "You gonna fuck with me?"
He puts his mug down.
"No," he says straight-faced, and I watch his Adam's apple slip down his neck as he swallows...coffee? Courage? "But I do wanna fuck you."
His face is still serious, but suddenly mine is not. I feel a smirk appear on my face, and I step closer to him, flattening my palm against his chest. "If you don't fuck with me, I just may let you."
Just when I think his face couldn't drop into a more serious look, his eyes grow wide, his lips tighten, and he's clearly running something through his head.
Mick grabs my hand at his chest, squeezing my wrist and the pad of my palm, but he keeps it snug against his chest. With his other hand, he yanks me forward by my shirt-hem, then cups his arm around the back of my waist.
I melt into his arms as all my thoughts vanish with the warmth of his tongue in my mouth. His hand lets go of mine, and wraps around my waist with his other arm, pulling me closer. Tighter. A moan escapes my throat while a groan escapes his. When one of his hands roves my back, it ends at the nape of my neck, where his fingers tangle in my hair, causing tiny volts of electricity to charge through my veins. As my hands begin roaming his back beneath his shirt, his hands find my face, and with him holding me on either side of my jaw, he breaks the kiss and looks me in the eyes. Searching again. Running more thoughts through his mind.
Softly, he speaks. "I'm not fucking with you. I do need to get my shit together. I need to be clear-headed before this turns into anything more." He sucks in a breath and expels air when he breathes out, "God I want you." He taps my nose with his lips. "But I don't want you to get half of me, and right now," he seeks my eyes, peering curiously through them for my own thoughts maybe, "right now, that's all I can give. Until Ken..." he closes his eyes, breaking the visual contact, his hands still warm and holding my face, "until I have Kenna back, I can only give you half of me. I'm sorry."
My hands grasp his, still on my face. "I get it. And I totally understand." And I do, that's no lie. But why would I want someone who can't give me his all?
His eyes are back on mine, still seeking. Still probing. I suppose he's wondering how I feel about him. Or maybe he's looking for me to say it's okay—that he can have me despite his finite offer.
"I want to see you get her back, Michael. You both deserve that." I nod, encouraging myself to go on. "I'll be here for you...as a friend. As a friend."
He nods now.
"Because that's all I can give right now." Because that's all I will give until he can give me more. But I totally get it. I totally get why he can't give me more. "Listen, Michael." I've gotten used to calling him Michael to his face. I like calling him Michael. I like how his face brightens when he hears me call him Michael. "I better get going. That shower and all. And class and..."
"Yeah, yeah. Right. Go. And thanks...for everything."
I smile. "Anytime." I pick up my mug and take one last swig of my coffee. Holding it up to him, I also say, "Thanks."
"You working tonight?" he asks when I reach the door.
"Yeah. You working today?"
He shakes his head, "No. Tonight. Today I'm meeting with the lawyer. I'm gonna try to see Kenna before court next Friday."
Dropping my hand from the doorknob, I shove my purse up my shoulder. "You never told me. You...you wanna talk yet?"
He takes a few seconds before shaking his head. "Maybe later. I need to accept this all first."
"Okay. At least you have a court date?"
"Yeah. I just wish it weren't nearly two weeks away."
"Yeah." Pulling my psych book closer to my chest, I grab the doorknob again and tell him I'll catch him later.
What I really want to do is grab him in my arms and let him have his way with me.
But I won'
t allow it.
I may let my dad make decisions about my career life, but I'm smart enough to not let any other man have control of me.
It's actually the whole reason I'm still a virgin. I'm afraid of succumbing to the dominance of a man. I see enough of that between my dad and mom.
But although Mick has temper issues, there is something very vulnerable about him. Something that makes me think I wouldn't mind giving myself to him fully—once he's proven he's got his shit together. It's that whole my-life-is-a-mess thing that makes men do things without thinking. I want Mick when he's thinking clearly. And if I can help get him there, then I will.
I believe he just may be worth it.
41
MICK
"Uncle Michael."
She hesitates before running up and jumping on me. I hug her so tightly that I feel that I may break her. "Oh, Kenna baby. I missed you so much."
"Are you okay now?"
I pull back, looking at her face, then at her foster mother walking apprehensively across the playground toward us. "She knows you and her mother haven't been feeling well enough to take care of her, so..." the woman, whose name I've been told is Patty, says with a wink.
I nod in understanding. To Kenna, I say, "I'm getting better, baby, yes. I'm so sorry."
"Where's mommy?"
Kissing Kenna on her forehead, I tell her that Mommy is a little more sick than I am, and is in the hospital getting better. I don't want to lie, but telling the awful truth is going to get lost on a three year old.
"Kenna, Aunt Patty's going to be in the car, okay?" the forty-something year-old tiny woman tells my niece.
"Okay," Kenna says.
I put her down and walk her to the slide. It's not a high slide, so I let her climb while I walk around to the front of it. When she slides down giggling, I sweep her up at the bottom. "Are you happy with Aunt Patty, Kenna?"
"Uh-huh," she says giggling and running back up the slide. "She's funny. And I like being with Tori and Katie."
"Tori and Katie?" I grab Kenna's hand and walk her to the swings. Sitting her down in one, I proceed to push her. "Who are they?"
"They live there too. In the big house."
"Oh. Are they your age?"
"No, Uncle," she giggles again. "They are like six I think."
The tension I've been feeling all week slips away a bit. Kenna's happy. From what the child services lady told me in the parking lot before Patty showed up with Kenna, the foster family is a wonderful family who has two adopted daughters of their own. Tori and Katie, I guess. It's nice to hear that Kenna likes them. And it's good to see that she's happy.
After about thirty minutes of running around the playground playing with Kenna, I ask her if she wants to go get an ice cream cone at the ice cream bakery up the corner. Of course, she screams, "Yes."
So I walk up to the bench where the child services lady, whose name always escapes me, is sitting and watching us, and I ask her if we can walk up to the corner.
"Yes. I will follow behind, but you won't know I'm here."
Oh, I'll know she's here. I've been highly aware of it since the moment I pulled up on my Harley and she was standing there, arms folded, against her Buick. Carmine Abate, the lawyer, told me this visit would be supervised. I'd rather it not have been, but at least I get to see her. I get visitation on Saturday afternoon also. Carmine was able to pull some strings and get me an hour today and an hour on Saturday, so I wouldn't have to wait until the judge decides our fate.
We sit on the stone ledge, Kenna and I, she with her vanilla cone and rainbow sprinkles, me with my chocolate-dipped vanilla cone. Kenna is a heavenly sight, her food dripping all over her.
"Oh, Kenna. Are you having fun on your little vacation with Aunt Patty?" It kills me to call her that, as if Patty is family instead of a stranger who has possession of my precious niece.
She slurps her cone and nods, her eyes bright and smiling. I rub the back of her head. "Kenna, babe, Mommy and Uncle Michael love you lots. You know that, right?"
"Yeah," she says between licks.
"Always, always."
"Am I going to live with Aunt Patty all the time?" she asks, appearing unconcerned, but then I wonder.
"Of course not, Kenna. No. You're coming back to us. I promise." The moment I say it, I get nauseous. How can I promise her something I'm not even sure of? "Right now, Mommy needs to get better. Get healthy. So she can take better care of you. And, well, I need to get better too," I say truthfully, because I realize, I am not what anyone would call a fit parent by any means. My history speaks for itself, and well, if I'm to be honest, if Kenna were being guided by someone like me, I'd be very worried. I need to fix what's wrong with me. And I need to do that for Kenna.
***
When Holly clocks in for work tonight, I'm nervous. More nervous than usual. After that kiss this morning, I really wanted to pick her up and carry her to my bed. But I knew it'd be wrong. For one, we've only been friends for a week. Yes, I've known her for about three years, but had I ever had any type of conversation with her? No. So after just one week, I'm thinking it wouldn't be smart to sleep with her. Especially since I work with her, and until this past weekend, we weren't even friends. And two, she intimidates me. Big time. She's smart, she's sassy, she's sarcastic. She's a smart-alec, pert ball of fire whose classic beauty disarms me and renders me a bumbling idiot.
And three, I'm falling in love with her.
And I am so afraid of falling in love and leaving myself vulnerable.
"Two chocolate martinis and a coffee with Kahlua."
"Let me guess, the three old ladies in the front?"
"Now, Michael, are you stereotyping based on an order?"
I love when she calls me Michael. "I didn't realize that was considered stereotyping."
"Isn't it? You're assuming that since these are considered sissy drinks, that only old ladies would be drinking it. Tsk, tsk, Michael. Here I thought I knew you better than that."
"Am I wrong?"
She raises one eyebrow at me then stifles a laugh. "Yes."
I slide the drinks across the bar, she places them on her tray, and I watch her walk over to the table in the front. Where she delivers the drinks to the three old ladies. I shake my head and silently laugh.
Beneath the bar, Holly's phone vibrates all night. I see her check it from time to time, but she always presses a button and forcefully puts the phone back in its place, frowning as she does so.
"Someone bothering you?" I ask.
She just shakes her head and goes back to the kitchen.
I'm tempted to check her phone to see who it is she is ignoring. I mean, I really don't know if she even has a boyfriend or not. I suspect she doesn't, because I never see her with anyone but her usual friends, and I don't get the feeling that she's seeing any of them.
When she comes out of the kitchen with a food order, I notice she's still frowning, and now her pout seems to have reached her eyes. However, when she catches me watching her, she greets me with a wink. She never lets me see her true emotions. It annoys me.
By the end of the night, and about thirty phone calls later, I finally say, "You know, your phone does have an off button. I can show you how to use it."
"Can you? Because I lost the manual, and I haven't been able to figure it out. I'd be mighty pleased and indebted to you forever if you can show me how to turn it off."
Okay. I've pissed her off. She doesn't sound like she's kidding, and she is not smiling.
I hold up my two hands in an effort to say, "I'm backing off."
She cleans off the tables and turns over the chairs without as much as a peep. Whoever has been calling her has gotten to her. My instincts say to go to her, ask her, help her, but her scowl tells me to mind my own fucking business. That's when I can't help but laugh out loud.
"What's so funny?" she snarls.
"Nothing. Just a joke I remembered."
Her shoulders drop and neck bends. She conti
nues mopping the floor, but she looks more sad now than mad.
"You okay?" I ask, keeping my voice quiet.
Holly stands in place and closes her eyes. "It's my father."
"Is he okay?"
She turns toward me, but stays in place. "Unfortunately."
42
HOLLY
"So then what is it?" Mick presses.
"I'm supposed to start that Wall Street job immediately." The words spill out like vomit.
Mick stops moving behind the bar and says, "What about school?"
Stepping forward, I meet Mick on the other side of the bar and sit on the stool next to him. He pours some Malibu in an ice-filled glass and then follows it with cranberry juice and pineapple juice.
I take the drink from him, sip it, then proceed to explain. "He wants me to work part-time, after my classes each day."
"Every day?"
"No. Three days. Monday, Wednesday, Friday. He says he knows I can do it, 'cause he knows my classes are early and mid-morning. I don't have any afternoon classes. And he says his employees don't even leave work until eight, nine o'clock every night, so I'll still have plenty of time to learn from them," I say the last sentence with such contempt, like all I wanna do is learn finance some more. "He says it’s going to help me do better on my finals to get in some practical experience."
"Oh geez. I'm sorry."
"I'll have to quit here."
"What? Why? You can work here on Tuesdays, Thursdays, Saturdays, Sun..."
"Mick. I can't work seven days a week. Shit, before last week, I never worked a day in my life," I say this nervously, because I just want to go back to living a carefree, work-free college life.