“You don’t have to be ‘on,’ right now. She’s not here.”
Phoebe gives me an odd look. “What?”
“You don’t have to wear your game face all the time. It’s okay to be upset. Your kid is hurt.”
She shrugs off my hand. “I’m not a damsel in distress.”
“I know, but…” I can’t think of anything else to say. But what?
I pace the hall while Phoebe sits in the side chair, looking broken and exhausted until Carrie rolls back in followed by a doctor.
“She’s going to be fine,” he says to Phoebe. “She needs to ice it for a few days and rest. It’s not a sprain, but it was close.”
Phoebe nods, relief plain on her face.
“Thank you.”
“I’d give her Advil, but not too much. Don’t give her more than four a day, every six hours or four hours while she’s awake.”
Phoebe nods.
“It’ll keep the swelling down and do something for the pain. Otherwise, she can go ahead home now, no need to keep her.”
I brush the nurse out of the way and lift Carrie into a wheelchair. They put a brace on her foot, but I don’t want her making it worse. Phoebe wheels her outside, and I lift her into the front seat of her Tahoe.
While Phoebe drives her home, I peel off to a Walgreens and walk inside.
The clerk at the counter says, “Holy crap, you’re--”
“Not now,” I growl.
From the first aid aisle, I grab a big bottle of the ibuprofen. Bearing one of those little baskets in one hand, I fill it with snacks and candy, then scowl at the clerk at the front while I pay for it in silence and walk out.
“Jerk,” the kid mutters under his breath.
I resist the urge to flip him the bird and head over to Phoebe’s. She answers the door when I knock.
“What?”
I step inside, holding up the bag. Carrie is on the couch with her foot propped up on a stack of pillows on top of an ottoman. She looks better already. The bowl of ice cream propped on her tummy probably helps. Phoebe changed her out of her uniform into a set of pajamas.
“She’s fine,” Phoebe says.
I walk into the kitchen and set down the bag.
“What happened to eating healthy?” Phoebe says, going through the snacks.
“I find cheese curls are the best thing for a joint injury.”
She glares at me.
“She needs it, trust me.”
I pop open the bag and offer her one.
“So do you. Here.”
Phoebe looks at the cheese curl like it’s been handed to her by a leper, but eventually snatches it and tucks it between her teeth. We stand crunching for a few minutes.
“Go sit with her. I’ll make dinner and bring it out to you. Nothing huge.”
Phoebe gives me a silent nod, and walks out of the room. Her shoulders slump and she looks so tired. The urge to reach out and put my hands on her is overwhelming, but I hang back and stay in the kitchen.
Pork chops are quick enough. I plate them up with some kid food, mashed potatoes and boxed macaroni and cheese that I grudgingly allowed Phoebe to keep in her kitchen, and carry it all out.
I don’t want to crowd them on the couch, so I sit on the floor and eat, silently watching cartoons with Phoebe and her little girl.
After eating ice cream and dinner and a second round of ice cream, Carrie is getting droopy.
“I’ll get her,” I volunteer, as Phoebe moves to carry her upstairs.
We both take her to her bedroom. I step out after I lay her on the bed and let her mom set up the pillows propping up her leg and tuck her into bed.
“Mom?” Carrie yawns.
I leave them alone. Downstairs, I turn down the television and sit on the couch, listening to Phoebe’s voice. It’s too soft to hear what she’s saying, but from the cadence of her words, she’s reading her daughter a story.
By the time Phoebe comes down the stairs, I’m a little sleepy myself.
She flops on the couch and doesn’t say anything for a good long while.
I glance at her but don’t break the silence. She’s still visibly upset.
“Tough kid. She’ll be fine.”
Nothing. Phoebe is still quiet. Then she says, “What’s up with the car?”
“What?”
“I want to talk about something else.”
“Oh. It was my mom’s.”
“You still drive it.”
“Yeah. The Ferrari is just for joy rides. Wish I’d never bought the thing. You know what an oil change costs?”
“A lot,” she says, dryly.
“Yeah. Oldsmobile’s more reliable anyway.”
“Weird to see a guy with all your money driving a car like that.”
“Yeah,” I shrug. “Guess you figured I’d have a Bentley or whatever, right? Something flashy and trashy.”
“Is a Bentley trashy?”
“Trashier than a Rolls. I don’t think any of that shit makes you look like anything but an asshole with more money than brains. Obey the speed limit and a $500,000 car and a $5,000 car get you there at the same time.”
“If you obey the speed limit,” she says, a droll touch to her voice.
“I like to drive fast.”
She chews on that for a while, then says, “Why?”
“I’m not sure.” I shrug.
“There must be a reason. What else do you do?”
“Exercise. Eat. Sleep. Football.”
“What about all your girlfriends?”
“They’re not my girlfriends.”
“Oh, so you just sleep with famous women.”
“Not usually. Most of them aren’t interested. I just pick up some bimbo because Lou told me to take her to dinner, then drop her off and don’t bother with her again.”
“Who’s Lou?”
“My agent. You saw him in court.”
“Yeah. Him,” she says coldly.
“You have a problem with him?”
She looks at me and scowls. “He threatened me. My career, my kid.”
I sit up. “What?”
“He said if I like giving out tickets so much, he’ll make sure I never do anything else. He also said he wonders how I take care of a little girl with no one else around to help me with her. He said child services might wonder, too.”
I straighten in my seat and she flinches. Rage pounds in my chest, burns in my lungs, and through my veins. My hands clench into boulders and my shoulders knot up. I’m on my feet already.
“He said that?”
“Yeah, why?”
“He and I are going to have words.” I reach in my pocket for my phone.
She grabs my wrist. “Don’t bother. I don’t care. He doesn’t scare me. Sit down.”
I blink a few times, then let go of my phone and sink back into the couch. I like this couch. I just wish the back was taller.
“I can concentrate,” I say
“What?”
“I like football, exercise, and driving fast because I can concentrate. Forget shit. I have a lot running through my head.”
She nods. “Yeah. I get that. Focus. Worst part of my job is between tickets when there’s nothing to do but sit and think.”
“Can’t you do something else?”
She shrugs. “The guys fuck around when they’re on traffic duty, but I don’t. Feels wrong.”
“So you sit there and think.”
“Yeah.”
“About your husband?”
She gives me a sharp look.
“I don’t want to talk about that.”
“I saw the ring. Just wondering.”
“You know, I overheard Carrie telling you.”
I sigh. “Yeah. Hard being on your own?”
“I’m not on my own. I have my little girl.”
“Right, I mean…”
“I’m not going husband shopping if that’s what you’re implying.”
“It just seems like a lot f
or one person.”
She scowls at me. “So what are you trying to distract yourself from? Something in a hospital, right?”
I flinch. “How did you know?”
“I’m a cop. You ever read Sherlock Holmes?”
“Yeah. Don’t look shocked I read a book.”
She glances over her shoulder. “How many stairs do I have? You’ve been up there what, twice now?”
“I don’t know. I never counted them.”
“Exactly. You’ve seen them, but you didn’t observe. I’m a cop. I observe. It’s nine, by the way. The stairs. Nine.”
“Right. Okay, you got me. I had a bad time in a hospital once. Well, more than once, but you know what I mean.”
She nods. “I’m surprised.”
“By what?”
“You’re human. I thought you were just a giant walking dick.”
I snort. “Right.”
She works her jaw as if chewing something, and speaks without looking at me. “Thank you for your help. I appreciate it. You got to her so fast. She adores you.”
“Just hero worship. I hope I don’t let her down.”
“I didn’t think you cared.”
“I didn’t used to.”
She nods. “I hope she doesn’t start hating football now. You know how kids can be.”
“She won’t. She’s too tough. Weird they let the girls play, though. Not like they can keep going.”
“That will take care of itself. You still drive your mom’s car and something bad happened to you in a hospital.”
I look at her.
“Sorry. Cop. I looked you up and there’s nothing. Official team bio and all that crap starts when you’re in college. Says you went on scholarship. Nothing about any family.”
“I have a dad. Don’t talk to him.”
“Where is he?”
“Prison,” I grunt.
“Oh.”
I watch her. The wheels are turning in her head. I can see the thoughts bubbling behind her eyes.
“I don’t like to think about it.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Yeah. You want help with your dishes?”
“No. I’ve got it. You can go.”
I rise to my feet, and she walks me to the front door.
“When do you leave for work?”
“I have to be in by eight.”
“I’ll be here at seven thirty.”
“What?” she says. “Why?”
“Watch the kid for you.”
“I’ll call my sister.”
“Don’t trouble her. I don’t have anything better to do, remember? She’ll probably sleep all day anyway. I just have to sit on the couch. It’s not a big deal, that’s all I’d do over there.” I point my thumb at the house next door.
She bites her lip. “I’m not sure I…”
“Seven thirty.”
“Look. This isn’t going to get you a date.”
“I don’t expect anything from you.”
She sighs, and blows the hair out of her eyes. “Fine. Seven thirty.”
“Yeah.”
The door closes behind me and I trudge back to my rented house, open the door, step inside, and flop down on the couch. I flip channels for a while, but nothing on television can ever pull me out of my own head.
Truth is no matter what I say, I do want something in return. The way she was smiling today.
Be nice if somebody smiled like that for me.
Chapter Six
Phoebe
This morning, I found Carrie lying awake when I got up, probably because she went to bed so early last night. After helping her to the bathroom and wiping her face down with a wash cloth, I put her back to bed where she was still lying when Alexander knocked on the door.
He filled the whole damn door frame, standing in sweat pants and a T-shirt, carrying a McDonald’s bag.
“I brought Egg McMuffins,” he announced and carried them through the door.
How he knew they were Carrie’s favorite, I have no idea. She is a kid, after all; maybe he just guessed.
As I drive home after my shift, I suck in a breath. His car is parked outside his rental and there’s no sign of any reporters or anything. The story is probably cold by now.
Something is bugging me. I’ve been training myself for years to listen to my instincts, to trust my gut reactions to things. Ignoring that could get me killed. Traffic stops are still dangerous. I’ve had someone try to run me down twice, and once I searched someone passing through town and busted them for heroin and an illegal pistol.
So when my gut tells me there’s something funny going on around my house, I listen to it. I circle the block twice, trying to find the source of the itching on the back of my neck.
When I pull out of my driveway and step out, I find it. As I slap the Tahoe’s door closed, an orange Volkswagen hatchback, parked up the street, starts up and pulls away, rolling down my block.
I wave, but the driver doesn’t spare me a glance. My cop eye takes in all the details. The plate number, make and model of the car, and her description. She’s skinny, has mousy hair in a ponytail, and wears oversized glasses. She never once looks at me even though I’m a cop in uniform and I am very pointedly looking at her drive by, following her down the street with a turn of my head.
I chew my lip for a moment, thinking. Her plate number and the make and model go in my notebook, just in case. She doesn’t live on this block, and I’ve never seen her before in town. Ohio plates.
Probably nothing, but it pays to be alert.
In the house, I find Alexander sitting on my couch, half asleep with his chin drooped onto his chest. He perks up when he sees me.
An inviting scent wafts from the kitchen, and my stomach rumbles. Loudly. A blush heats my cheeks as Alexander smiles at me.
“Hungry?”
“Long day and I skipped lunch.”
“Go get changed and we’ll eat. I’ll help Carrie down the stairs.”
I’m halfway up the stairs before I realize that he doesn’t tell me what to do, but by then it’s too late to snap at him. Resigned, I stop in my daughter’s room first.
“Hi, honey.”
She looks up from her book. “Hi, Mom.”
“How are you feeling?”
“It hurts,” she says. “Feels better today.”
“No school tomorrow, either.”
“I’m bored.” She pouts. Hard.
“Tomorrow you can sit in the living room. We need to make sure you heal up right. Almost dinnertime. Let me change and I’ll get you downstairs to eat.”
By the time I’ve slipped out of my uniform, put up my gear, and changed into something comfortable, Carrie is halfway down the steps, leaning on the wall. I rush down and take her arm and steady her when she reaches the bottom.
Alexander spots her, walks over, and sighs.
“What did I say, kiddo?”
She looks abashed. “I don’t want to lay around all the time.”
He picks her up and sets her on the couch.
“You need to rest so your foot gets better. Sometimes you have to do something you don’t want now, so you can do something you want later.”
“Okay,” Carrie sighs.
“Help me out in the kitchen, Phoebe,” Alexander says.
I bristle a little at him giving me a command in my own house, but I follow him anyway. He’s got stew bubbling in a pot on the stove, rolls in the oven, and by the looks of things, he made it all himself.
“You really cook like this at home.”
“I don’t exercise every minute of the day. During the season, I make it in bulk and stick to simple shit. Rest of the year, I like to cook.”
“Where did you learn?”
“My mom.”
I nod. “What is this?”
“Beef and barley stew with vegetables.”
“Carrie hates vegetables.”
“She said she’d try it if I puree them. Let’s eat on the couch.�
�
He ladles out big bowls of the stew and puts them on plates with the rolls. It all smells so good. My mouth actually starts to water, and my stomach growls angrily. The blush is even hotter this time. Alexander smirks at me and carries out a tray to rest on Carrie’s lap.
He sits on the floor. I scoot to the middle of the couch and pat the side where I usually sit.
Alexander takes my spot and the way he sinks in makes me fall against his side. I can feel him breathing, his massive body expanding with every breath.
Carrie’s eyes light up when she tastes the stew. She eats hungrily, pounding down a second bowl after she empties the first.
Alexander grins proudly. “So you like it, huh?”
She nods, vigorously, then burps. Loudly.
I suppress a laugh, and try to scowl at her, but I ruffle her hair instead and put my arm around her shoulders. She leans against me and I sink into the couch, warm and surrounded.
Alexander lays his arm across the back and my head falls against the crook of his elbow.
I freeze. So does he. I feel him holding his breath, wondering what I’ll do next.
His skin is warm, and he has an earthy, manly smell I haven’t known in a long time. The feel of another person’s skin, a man’s skin, is so far gone from me, I forgot I ever knew what it felt like.
Alexander shifts his arm down a little, until he has it around my shoulders. I should say something, but I’m pressed into his side, overwhelmed by his heat and scent and sheer size.
Carrie starts to snore, then abruptly pops her head up.
“Can I go back upstairs now?” she says and yawns.
“Yeah,” I say, shaking loose of Alexander. “Come on.”
I help her up the stairs and into the bed and sit with her a minute.
“Alex likes you,” she says.
“I can tell.”
“I mean like, like,” she says in a soft, conspiratorial tone.
“Did he say something,” I ask, anger bubbling up in my voice. If he thinks recruiting my kid will help him into my pants…
“Nah, uh. He didn’t say anything about you all day. Promise.” She’s telling the truth. I just know.
“What did he say?”
“He told me stories. About football.”
“I’m sure you loved that.”
She nods vigorously. “I’m bored, Mom. When can I go back to school?”
“We’ll see where you are tomorrow, and if you’re ready, you can go on Friday, okay?”
Man of the House Page 27