Barreled Over

by Jenna Sutton

The sixth stage was severe decline, and it was characterized by loss of recognition of people and places, personality changes, inability to remember personal details, and wandering. Verbal outbursts and violent behavior were common as well.

  “There’s no way to predict how long this stage will last,” Dr. Hanna said, “but studies indicate it usually lasts two years.”

  Two years.

  She closed her eyes for a long blink. Sometimes she felt as if she couldn’t get through the next two hours without losing it.

  “During the examination, Kyle mentioned Chuck has experienced a few outbursts, both verbal and physical.”

  “Yes. It usually happens when he’s confused or afraid.” She glanced at the framed diplomas hanging on the beige wall before bringing her attention back to Dr. Hanna, a graduate of Harvard Medical School’s Class of 1988. “He seems more agitated when I’m around. Every time he’s had an outburst, I’ve been nearby. He’s okay when it’s just Kyle.”

  Dr. Hanna leaned forward and braced his elbows on his desk. “I know your father wasn’t part of your life growing up, and you’re probably thinking his current behavior is related to his past behavior.”

  She looked down at her lap. “He didn’t want to be around me then, and he doesn’t want to be around me now.”

  “Chuck’s outbursts aren’t personal, Ava Grace. Alzheimer’s isn’t a truth serum. It doesn’t reveal people’s true selves or their true feelings. It erases them. Alzheimer’s makes people do and say things they never would’ve done otherwise. That’s one of the most painful things about watching a loved one succumb to this disease.”

  Shrugging, she said, “It doesn’t matter if it’s personal. The point is, he’s more agitated when I’m around and more likely to have an outburst. I don’t know what to do.”

  “There’s a simple not-so-simple solution.”

  She shook her head in confusion. “I’m sorry … what?”

  “The simple solution is limiting your interactions with Chuck.” Dr. Hanna sighed. “But that’s not so simple because he lives with you.”

  She stared at Dr. Hanna, trying to process his words. “Are you telling me that I should stay away from my father?”

  “Yes, that’s what I’m telling you,” he replied, a solemn expression on his face. “And you also need to think about how you’re going to keep him safe. At this stage, he’s a danger to himself and the people around him.”

  “I’ve already hired one of Kyle’s Marine Corps buddies to help out.”

  “Chuck needs to be monitored every minute of the day, Ava Grace. I’ve had patients who’ve woken up in the middle of the night, while everyone was asleep, and accidentally set fire to the house by trying to make a cup of tea. I’ve had patients who’ve wandered away, fallen into ditches, and broken their necks. That’s why most people choose to put their loved one in a memory care facility. It’s safer for everyone.”

  He rolled his lips inward before saying, “I know I’ve thrown a lot at you today, but you need to know emotional and behavioral issues typically occur toward the end of the sixth stage.”

  It took her a moment to digest his statement. “You’re saying Chuck is already at the end of the sixth stage?”

  “Possibly.”

  “Is there anything that can be done to slow the progression of the disease?”

  “We’re already doing everything we can.”

  “Are you sure?” she asked, her voice tinted with desperation.

  He gave her a sympathetic smile. “I’m sure.”

  After a long silence, Ava Grace rose from the torture chair. “Thank you, Dr. Hanna.”

  “I’m sorry. I know this is hard.” He rounded his desk. “Have you thought about joining a local support group?”

  “I can’t do that.”

  Tilting his head, he asked, “Why not?”

  She laughed, but the sound held no amusement. “If I go to a support group, it would be all over social media and TV and in every magazine and tabloid in the world.”

  As a public figure, she had very little privacy. People thought they had a right to know everything about her life, and she accepted that reality.

  Unfortunately, the people around her—the people she cared about—were targets too. She did her best to protect them, mostly by being available to reporters and paparazzi so they didn’t feel compelled to go after anyone else.

  So far, she’d managed to keep Chuck’s illness a secret. Only a handful of people knew he lived with her, and an even fewer number knew he had Alzheimer’s. She wanted to keep it that way. Her father deserved his privacy, especially when it came to his health.

  “There are some online support groups you could join anonymously,” Dr. Hanna said.

  She nodded. “That’s a good suggestion. I’ll look into it.”

  He walked her to the check-out station. “You know how to reach me if you need me.” He hugged her. “See you in three months.”

  After scheduling another appointment for her father, she slipped on her newsboy cap and concealing sunglasses and took the elevator to the first floor. As she exited the cab, she remembered her phone was on silent.

  Worried Kyle might have texted her, she rummaged around in her purse for her phone. The automatic doors slid open, and she walked into the bright sunshine … and a throng of media.

  At least twenty reporters and photographers clogged the sidewalk in front of the medical office building, and she was trapped in the middle. They squeezed closer, jostling her between them, and shoved microphones in her face.

  “Ava Grace! Ava Grace! Over here!”

  “When are you due?” a female reporter shouted.

  Another voice yelled, “Who’s the daddy?”

  She abruptly remembered an obstetrics/gynecology practice also was a tenant in this building. Of course, the media would assume she was pregnant, as opposed to having problems with her nervous system or her ears, nose, and throat.

  A horn blared, and the knot of reporters and photographers loosened enough for her to break free. The horn blared again, closer this time, and she saw the hood of a black SUV. Her SUV, if she wasn’t mistaken. She couldn’t tell for sure, though, because the windows were tinted.

  She pushed and shoved her way to the passenger door. Just as she reached for the handle, the door flew open. She clambered in and pulled it shut, breathing hard.

  “Didn’t you get my texts?” Kyle asked, slapping his palm against the automatic door lock.

  “I was just about to check my phone when I walked out.” She exhaled harshly. “I wasn’t paying attention. They’ve never tracked me here.”

  As Kyle inched through the crowd, she twisted to look in the backseat. She was worried about her father—worried the crowds of reporters might have frightened him.

  Chuck sat behind her, earphones snug over his head. His eyes were glued to the small TV screen that dropped down from the SUV’s ceiling.

  “He’s fine,” Kyle muttered. “He’s watching Dukes of Hazzard.”

  She couldn’t help laughing. “No wonder his eyes are glazed.”

  The SUV finally cleared the horde of reporters. As Kyle steered the big vehicle toward the exit, she clicked her seatbelt into place. She waited until they were on the interstate to give him an abbreviated version of her conversation with Dr. Hanna.

  When she finished, she asked, “Have you noticed Chuck gets more agitated when I’m around, or is it just my imagination?”

  Kyle glanced sideways, his eyes shaded by sunglasses with mirrored lens. “It’s not your imagination.”

  “I can’t believe Dr. Hanna suggested I limit my interactions with Chuck.” She shook her head. “Can you?”

  Kyle’s silence spoke louder than words.

  “You think he’s right?” Her voice betrayed her shock.

  Flipping on the blinker, Kyle moved into the fast lane. “I think it’s something you should consider.”

  She stared out the window. Buildings and trees flashed by in a blur
of colors.

  “Even if he no longer recognizes me, I want to spend as much time with him as I can … while I still have the chance.”

  “I get it,” Kyle replied. “But that’s what you want. It’s not what he needs.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Hundreds of people crammed Trinity Distillery’s booth at the International Wine and Spirits Show. To be specific, hundreds of men crammed the booth. It had been that way since the show had opened yesterday morning.

  The visitors weren’t there because they were interested in bourbon. As Beck had expected, they were there to see Ava Grace. But he hadn’t expected to be so impressed with the way she handled the crowd.

  They all wanted something from her—a smile, an autograph, a picture—and she gave them what they wanted. She greeted each and every one with a smile, graciously signed whatever was put in front of her, from pictures to magazine articles to CDs, and patiently posed for pictures.

  Bracing his shoulder against one of the tall displays that illustrated Trinity’s distilling process, Beck crossed his arms. From his slightly elevated position, he could see Ava Grace clearly, and he let his gaze wander over her as she posed between two vice presidents from American Spirits Distribution.

  She smiled widely for the picture. Her shiny platinum hair was pulled into a low ponytail just below her right ear. It draped over her shoulder and curled under her breast.

  His gaze dropped to her chest and lingered there. Her Trinity Distillery T-shirt was slightly different than the one he wore. Hers was a dusky purple hue and clung to her curves. Real Women Drink Bourbon was printed across the front in a sparkly, feminine font. The Trinity Distillery logo was on the back.

  His eyes continued their path, trailing down her tight Rileys. They showed off her long legs, and even though she faced him, he knew the jeans shaped her ass perfectly because he could barely keep his eyes off it.

  She shifted from one brown leather boot to the other, and he glanced up just in time to see her wince slightly. When she quickly hid her discomfort behind a bright smile, he frowned.

  She’d pitched in as they rushed to get the booth ready this morning, and like him, she’d been standing for hours without a break. Her feet were probably aching like a bitch, but she hadn’t whined or complained.

  Pushing away from the display, he stepped down and weaved his way through the throngs of people. All the chairs in the Trinity booth were occupied, so he headed to the booth next door. It was nearly empty, only a few people milling around.

  After snagging an unused stool, he shouldered his way over to Ava Grace. When he reached her side, he placed the stool behind her. He waited until she had finished talking to a guy in an expensive suit before clasping her elbow and tugging her toward the high-backed chair. She glanced up, surprise etched on her beautiful face.

  “I got you a stool.” He cocked his head toward it. “I figured your feet must be barking.”

  Her eyes widened before she glanced over her shoulder. She slowly brought her gaze back to his. “Thank you,” she replied, a grateful smile on her lips. “That was really thoughtful.”

  The skin of her inner elbow was soft and smooth against his fingers, and he couldn’t stop himself from stroking his thumb over it. “No problem, sugar.”

  Her smile widened, and he grimaced, annoyed with himself for calling her sugar. He was worse than the starstruck fools who flocked to the Trinity booth. He dropped her elbow, and she slid gracefully onto the stool.

  Tilting her head, she said, “I finally figured it out: your middle name is Crispin.”

  “No.”

  “Am I close?”

  Not close enough.

  As he turned to leave, she stopped him with a hand on his shoulder. “Stay,” she requested softly. “Keep me company.”

  He glanced at the line of men waiting to meet her. “You have plenty of company,” he pointed out dryly, pushing down the urge to do exactly as she’d asked.

  She beckoned him closer with a crook of her finger. He leaned toward her, and she placed her mouth near his ear.

  “I don’t want them, Jonah,” she whispered. “I want you. I want your company.”

  His cock twitched, and he drew back to stare into her eyes, wondering why he couldn’t stay away from her … why he couldn’t stop wanting her.

  Suddenly, an accented male voice called out, “Ava Grace, my darling!”

  My darling?

  She jerked her head toward the voice, her eyes scanning the crowd. “Shy!” she squealed, jumping from the stool and plunging into the crowd.

  All the guys in line turned to watch her, giving Beck an unimpeded view of her and the tall son of a bitch who wrapped his arms around her waist and picked her up until she dangled above him.

  She laughed joyously. “Shy, it’s so good to see you!”

  Shy? What kind of name is Shy?

  The auburn-haired man let her slide down his body—fucking lucky bastard—and dropped a loud, smacking kiss on her plump lips. “When I heard you were here, I had to come and see you,” he said.

  “I’m so glad you did,” she replied, her eyes shining brightly under the harsh fluorescent lights of the exhibition hall.

  She patted Shy’s chest, and Beck eyed the other man, desperately searching for flaws. Unfortunately, he didn’t find any. Shy’s coppery mustache and goatee were neatly trimmed, and he looked fit enough. His light gray button-down shirt, charcoal gray trousers, and black leather shoes were obviously expensive.

  A couple of men waiting in line muttered irritably, visibly unhappy Ava Grace’s attention had been diverted. She gave them an apologetic glance.

  “Gentlemen, this is a good friend of mine,” she explained, smiling sweetly. “Can you give me a few minutes to catch up with him? I’ll be back soon.”

  She hooked her arm through Shy’s and pulled him toward the back of the booth. Beck watched as she visited with the other man, wondering who he was and what she’d meant by good friend.

  Were they friends with benefits? Had she fucked him?

  Shy caressed Ava Grace’s cheek with the back of his fingers, and Beck had a sudden, overwhelming urge to snap the bastard’s wrist. A fire ignited in his gut and spread to his chest, and he abruptly realized he was jealous.

  He didn’t want any man to touch Ava Grace … any man except himself.

  With his insides smoldering like a foundry, Beck stalked to the other side of the booth, where they’d set up the tasting area. He was tempted to throw back a shot of bourbon. He needed something strong to wash away the sour taste in his mouth—the sour taste of jealousy.

  Gabe stopped beside him, and Beck spared him a brief glance before returning his attention to Ava Grace and Shy.

  “Why do you look like you want to kill someone?” Gabe asked.

  Beck didn’t bother to answer, and Gabe followed the direction of Beck’s gaze.

  “Oh,” Gabe said, amusement coloring his tone.

  “Do you know who that guy is?”

  “Yeah.”

  Beck jerked his gaze from Ava Grace to spear Gabe with an intent look. “Well?”

  “I’m surprised you don’t recognize him. That’s Andre Shiroc,” Gabe answered, pronouncing the man’s last name as Shy-rock.

  Beck’s eyebrows arched. He certainly hadn’t expected Ava Grace’s good friend to be a celebrity chef. Andre Shiroc had his own TV show on The Food Network, and he owned several restaurants in Seattle, San Francisco, and Los Angeles.

  “I didn’t recognize him without that checked bandana he always wears on his head and his chef jacket,” Beck said. “And he’s usually clean-shaven.”

  He glanced at Shiroc again, clenching his teeth when the chef dropped his hand to Ava Grace’s slender waist. Fucker.

  “How does she know him?” he asked, his voice little more than a growl.

  “Why don’t you ask her?” Gabe suggested with an arch smile.

  “I’m not going to ask her anything,” Beck muttered. “
I don’t care.”

  Gabe chuckled. “I can see how much you don’t care.” He tapped Beck on the forearm with his surface tablet. “You need to read this.”

  “What is it?”

  Gabe handed the tablet to Beck. “The San Francisco Living article. It came out this morning.”

  “Shit. I don’t want to read it. Just tell me how bad it is.”

  Gabe pointed to the article. “Read it.”

  Beck dropped down into one of the chairs behind the tasting station. He really didn’t want to deal with this right now.

  Gabe sat down beside him. “Read it, Beck,” he urged quietly.

  Beck took a deep breath and began to read. Although the article didn’t start off negatively, he had no doubt it would go that way eventually. It took him several minutes to read through it, and when he finished, he placed the tablet on his knee.

  “Well?” Gabe asked. “What do you think?”

  “I can’t believe it,” he answered, shaking his head in disbelief.

  He double-checked the byline. There in black and white: Ethan Maynes.

  “How did that article come out of the interview we did?”

  The article wasn’t positive; it was damn near glowing. Beck sounded like a trailblazer, and Trinity sounded like the best bourbon in the world.

  It didn’t mention Beck’s dad. Nor did it mention Beck’s arrest for assault.

  “This is the best media coverage we’ve ever received,” Beck added, incredulity making his voice higher than normal. “How the hell did this happen?”

  “Ava Grace.”

  “What?”

  “Ava Grace made it happen. After you walked out, she spent two hours with Ethan. She saved our bacon.”

  Beck nodded emphatically. “She sure as hell did.”

  “You should fall to your knees and thank her.” Gabe’s mouth curled into a smirk. “I’m sure she’d enjoy that.”

  When Beck finally realized what Gabe was suggesting, he didn’t know whether to laugh or groan. Now he wouldn’t be able to stop thinking about “thanking” Ava Grace with his mouth between her legs.

  Gabe nabbed the tablet. “There’s something else I think you should see.”

  He tapped the screen a couple of times before handing the tablet back to Beck. The first thing he saw was a headline: Who’s the Daddy?