by Liz Crowe
She was on her back, one lush breast exposed, arm over her eyes to block the sun. He sat on her side of the bed and put the tray down, then gave her nipple a hard pinch. She yelped and smacked his arm.
“Time for breakfast, sleepy head.” He poked her leg. She moved so he could sit next to her, the tray across his lap. “Well, more like time for lunch. But it is Sunday.” He handed her a cup of coffee, expertly mixed with milk and a dollop of sugar the way she preferred it.
She sipped and sighed, cradling it to her sheet-covered chest. He took a bite of the eggs. “Mmm…perfection if I do say so myself.” He held a forkful to her lips. She smiled and ate it, then sipped some more. He fed her bites of toast, letting her lick the butter from his fingers. She’d gotten used to this little quirk of his—that at times, all he wanted to do was feed her, watch her eat, observe her enjoyment of something he provided.
She waved away the last half of toast, her mouth pursed. She sipped, frowned, then set the cup down and leaned back. “Ugh. Did we really drink all that beer last night?”
“Yes, my love. We did. It was fun, remember?” He grabbed the candle he’d used from the nightstand and waved it at her. If he weren’t mistaken, he was feeling a little frisky again, now that he had some food in his belly. “Want some more?”
“No,” she said, pushing his arm aside and lurching out of the bed. “Oh my God…I gotta…”
She barely made it to the bathroom where he found her, huddled over the toilet, her face pale and sweaty. He ran a washcloth under cool water, then handed it to her. “Jeez, if you don’t like my cooking all you have to do is say it.” He crouched down next to her, noting the glazed look in her eyes. “Come on. Back to bed.”
“No…no…I have to…” The sound of her hurling was not the sexiest thing in the world. But he waited, holding her hair to keep it from trailing into the mess. She flopped onto her butt, wiping her lips.
“All done?”
She nodded. He flushed, then pulled her up. She swayed a little, moaning into his chest. “Need to brush my teeth.” He handed her a toothbrush. “You’re hovering.”
He backed out, worried that she might have picked up the stomach flu that had laid several of his sub-contractors low, which meant more delays in his block redevelopment. Which had led to his need for lots of beer and rough sex the night before. He heard the shower come on so he took the tray back to the kitchen and tidied up before opening his laptop to study the latest bad news on his project.
She emerged a half hour later, looking a thousand times better. Her hair was up, but he let it slide. He was neck-deep in trying to reschedule inspections and other crap around all the incessant delays so barely noticed when she slid into the chair next to him and put her head on his shoulder. “Hang on, babe, I gotta deal with this a few more minutes.” She kissed his shoulder.
“It’s all right. I need to head to the bar.”
He glanced at her, but was too distracted by an email from one of his investors about a potential tenant for the building to pay close attention. “Today? Something wrong over there?”
“No. Well, maybe. Tia didn’t show up for work, so we’re short.”
“But it’s Sunday. How busy can it be?”
“Busy enough,” she said. He blinked, hearing the somewhat breezy tone of her voice. He knew that tone. It was the ‘I-have-something-I-want-to-say-but-won’t-because-you-need-to-read-my-mind’ one. He was no rookie in the woman game. But for this woman, he made the effort. He grabbed her arm and pulled her into his lap, kissing her nose, cheeks and lips. She let him but he sensed her withdrawal.
Deciding that since they had spent more or less every night together for a month, plus plenty of day time—she’d surprised him once, showing up at his office wearing nothing but a black raincoat, and he’d reciprocated, demanding that she meet him in one of the suburban parks, where he’d plied her with deli-prepared lunch, and they’d made out like teenagers under the trees—she was getting to a point where she needed some space. Not that she’d said anything like this but his female-mind-reading skills were keen and he believed that he had her mostly figured out.
“Okay, chica, go on. Pour the beer and flirt with the young dudes for a few hours. I’m good here, all by my lonesome.” He pretended to pout, hoping to pull her out of her looming funk. She licked her lips, started to say something then just kissed him instead. “I love you.”
She nodded and touched her neck where his collar lay, making the only statement he wanted about them right now. They’d agreed at least on that—no big showy engagements or weddings. Neither of them required it, at least, not yet. He would eventually, but he was willing to give her the time and space she required first.
The Taylor thing still had to be addressed. She lived with him during the school year, and would be moving back in a few weeks. They had not discussed this in any depth and needed to do that, soon. But he saw she was still a little wobbly from her bout of puking this morning. Today was not the day to bring it up.
He stared her, noting that she was pale under light coat of powder. “Are you sure you feel all right?”
“Si, guapo,” she said, reassuring him. She only used her pet name for him when she was in a good mood.
“All right. Want to take the Jeep?”
“Um, no thanks. I need to get some gas in my car before tomorrow anyway.”
He frowned. “You know how I feel about that piece of shit you call a car, right?”
“Si, guapo,” she called from the kitchen. “You know how I feel about not wanting you to be my sugar daddy, right?” She stood in the doorway, putting the lid on her water bottle. “That car has seen me through some times and it has plenty of life left in it.” She flicked his head with her fingers, kissed him and smiled. “Stop hovering.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She picked up her purse and keys. He heard this but didn’t see it as he was back at work, composing a response to the investor about the potential, big-name tenant. That damn lease would pay the principal on the construction loan. He felt his pulse racing at the prospect and barely heard the metal door sliding shut behind her when she left. It was a solid three hours before he emerged from the intense back and forth on the lease, triumphant, exuberant, ready to celebrate, and remembered that she’d left.
On a whim, and without a second thought, he opened Melody’s laptop and found her sign-in page for her credit card. He’d observed the number over her shoulder once before, made a comment and been treated to the full force of a string of Spanish curse words. The loose translation of which was: “Mind your business. I’ve got this, asshole.” But he’d also noted that she never signed out of that account.
Today, he was a master of the motherfucking universe. And the master wanted to bestow a gift upon his woman. With a few strokes, he erased her five-figure debt on one card, eliminated her mother’s overdue hospital bills and paid back the loan she’d taken out on her paycheck back when she was working at the distributor. After informing those assholes that if they called her number again now that it was paid back with usurious interest he would call the fucking cops, he checked all her balances. The shiny zeros made him smile.
Noting that it was nearly five and that his stomach was rumbling, he put on shoes, grabbed his keys and headed down the elevator, eager to share the news about his new tenant and see Melody.
You’re a sap, Hettinger. She is not going to like that you did that.
He shook his head to clear it of the negativity. She’d be mad and cuss him out in Spanish for a bit, but at the end of it all, she’d be debt-free. The best gift any woman could get, really. Then they’d make up. The thought of that made him smile even wider.
He parked and hopped out of the Jeep, waving to a few people he knew lingering in the parking lot on the perfect, late summer Michigan day. As he shouldered his way into the Fitz Pub, he got a text from his investor stating that the lease had been sent and should be in his inbox as of now. His phone dinged with an inc
oming email.
Trent gave a whoop and glanced around, seeking the pair of eyes he needed. After a few seconds, he took a seat at the bar. The bartender, one of her new hires, Trent figured, since he’d never seen her before—an attractive, if haunted looking woman—would barely meet his eyes as she put a coaster down.
“Hi. I’ll have the double IPA. Is Melody around?”
The woman’s eyes darted to his left, then settled somewhere near the top of his right ear. He frowned, his scalp prickling in a way that made him nervous. He waited, impatient, but sensing the woman’s apparent nervousness. Finally, she raised her gaze and met his. He blinked, noting the unique shade of her eyes, the squared-off jaw, the distinctive nose. And her hair—a light brown with hints of blonde.
“Trent,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. Tears welled up and slid down her gaunt cheeks. “Oh my God. She said you’d be here one of these days.”
“I…don’t know what you…” But he did. He tried to breathe, but his throat had closed up and his chest wouldn’t cooperate. He stumbled off the tall bar chair, bumping into some guy’s shoulder. With a quick apology, he dashed around the end of the bar, took the girl’s hand and pulled her into the kitchen. He glared at her, his heart whamming around in his chest. “Kayla. It is you.”
She nodded. “It’s me. Melody found me a few weeks ago, maybe three or so. I was cleaning hotel rooms, and…other things. Living in a shelter. I’m clean though, Trent. I swear to God. I have been for a year now.”
He took in the yellowish tint of her eyes and sallow skin. “Kayla, my God. Where have you been?”
“You don’t want to know,” she whispered.
“How did she find you?” His heart was racing now, galloping along so fast it made his head hurt and his ears clog up. “Kayla,” he whispered, remembering the last time he’d seen his older sister, her nose broken, her eye black. She’d pulled him into the closet and told him stay there until their mother got home from the store, to not tell her what their daddy had just done. That she was leaving for a while. That he had to watch over their mother now. She’d kissed him. He’d cried for hours, going hoarse from it, eventually dropping into sleep out of pure emotional exhaustion. Their mother didn’t get home until the next morning. And by then Kayla was long gone.
“Trent?”
He glanced over Kayla’s shoulder and spotted Melody. Alarmed because she looked like hell—even sicker than before—he could also tell she was more concerned about this. About how he’d react.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” He let go of his sister and tried to get hold of his emotions.
“Don’t blame her, T,” Kayla said, using the nickname she’d used years ago. “I wouldn’t let her. I needed to do this on my terms.”
“Where are you living?” His mind wouldn’t stop spinning. It careened from awful memories of hearing her screams and cries into the night, to fond ones—of her reading him stories, making him peanut butter sandwiches on white bread and eating them sitting outside behind a row of bushes, hiding from their father. He glanced over at Melody who was leaning on the bar, her eyes closed.
“I have a place, don’t worry. I already did, before she found me.”
“I…don’t know what to say.” He swallowed hard, studying how old she looked, how rung out, how ruined. Fury flared in his chest. “I want to kill him all over again.”
“I know, T. I know. It’s all right.”
He blew out a breath, and pulled her tight, holding her until she put her arms around him. “You don’t have to tell me it’s all right, K. I know it is. I made it that way for myself.” He let her go and stared into her eyes again. “I will help you. I’ll make things better for you, I promise.”
She sighed, and glanced over at Melody, who shrugged in an I-told-you-so way. He stood straighter. “You should have told me.”
Kayla gave his arm a weak punch. “Leave her alone, T. I mean it.”
“Great, now one more woman to boss me around.”
“Best I can tell, you like it that way.”
He nodded, rendered speechless by the sight of her, his K, his big sister he’d loved so much and lost. Standing right here, in his girlfriend’s bar with a job.
“I need to get back to work.” He nodded, still dazed. When Kayla ducked back into the bar, he was left staring across the kitchen at Melody.
“Oh, bella,” he said. She held up her hand, put it to her lips and ran for the bathroom.
Trent watched her. When he glanced at the kitchen staff, worry was etched on all their faces. They adored their boss. She was the perfect balance of in-charge and friendly, of concerned about their wellbeing and focused on the bar’s bottom line. It engendered fierce loyalty, he realized, as he also realized that the head chef, a tall, ex-Marine, African American man named Walt could very possibly kill him with his glare.
Confused, Trent headed for the bathroom, but was waylaid by some of the other staff. “Not now, pendejo,” one of the guys said, pointing him back toward the bar. “Give her some space.”
He was about to shove his way past the smart ass little fucker, his danger radar going into high alert all of a sudden, when he saw Melody’s mother emerging from the bathroom holding a wet cloth. “Hola, Trent,” she said, wiping her brow. “I was helping out in the kitchen today. My Melody knows I get bored. So she lets me—”
Trent held up a hand. “Hello, Josefina. I’m sorry but I need to check on—”
“Oh no, mi’ijo. Not now. She’s very sick. She doesn’t want you to see her.”
“But…I’m…” The woman, a force to be reckoned with he knew, turned and guided him away from the bathroom with a soft but firm hand. “I need to check on her.”
“Oh, no, no. I will handle this. You go and sit. Go on.” She gave him a hard shove for such a petite woman he actually stumbled, not expecting it. The staff tittered. He straightened and headed out, knowing he’d catch up with her and figure out if she needed to go to the hospital or something.
He made a quick decision and sent Taylor a text, telling her he needed her to meet him here, then sat and stared at his sister as she worked, still so flabbergasted that she was actually here, he got tongue-tied more than once. Once the teenager arrived, she took one look at Kayla and squealed in delight, then, thankfully, dominated the conversation a while. Once he felt that Kayla had been put at ease, he had another beer and talked with his investor on the phone, firming up a few details on the new lease. Finally, around seven-thirty, Josefina appeared, smiling and looking so much like her daughter, it made Trent smile back at her. Even though he anticipated her words before she said them.
“I have sent her home to her apartment. She needed to sleep.”
Trent sensed himself getting angry, but tamped it down, knowing this woman’s legendary temper would only match his if he crossed her. “Oh, all right. I’ll go there and check on her.” He motioned for his check. Melody’s mother put her small hand on his arm, pinning it in place. “Josefina, I don’t want to argue with you.”
“We are not arguing, mi’ijo. I just want you to go home to your house and wait for her. She needs to rest. She doesn’t want you hovering.”
“I will hover when I feel like it, god damn it.” He yanked his arm out from under her hand, threw some money down and stood. He was approaching a full-blown panic attack. “And for your information, I think she needs to go to the hospital. The flu going around shouldn’t be ignored. She might need an overnight stay, for hydration, or something.” Both Kayla and Josefina were staring at him now, making him feel like a toddler having a tantrum in the grocery aisle.
As he was opening his Jeep door, anger still pinging around in his brain, he felt a tap on his shoulder. “Trent?” It was Josefina. She was wringing her hands and looking worried.
“Yes?” He crossed his arms. As much as he wanted this woman to adore him, he was not about to let her boss him when it came to Melody.
“Mi’ijo…” She bit her lip. “I told
her that you are a good man. That she should tell you. That you wouldn’t care or mind. But she is muy terca. So damn stubborn. I’m sure she gets it from her father.”
Utterly confounded by her words, Trent leaned back against the Jeep, studying the woman as she spluttered and curse in Spanish. Finally she grabbed his arm tightly. “You will love her, right, chamaco? I mean…she loves you so very much but this…I don’t know. This might kill her.”
Trent rose to his full height and took Josefina’s hands in his. “Señora Rodriguez, I would do absolutely anything that your daughter asked me to do—I’d do it twice to make sure she was happy—whatever it is. Please believe me. I adore every inch of her and want to spend the rest of my sorry life with her. Now please, por favor, tell me what’s wrong.”
She pulled away, hand over her mouth. “I cannot. I swore to her I would not.” Tears slipped out of her already bloodshot eyes.
“Por favor, mi suegra. Estuviste llorando. ¿Qué tienes?”
“You really don’t know?”
He shook his head.
She sighed. “Mi’ijo, she is pregnant.”
Trent’s brain went on high alert. “No, no, that’s not possible. I can’t, you see. I had the…operation after Taylor was born.” He stopped, his face flushed hot.
The woman was staring hard at him. He took a step back, his rational mind clicking in and taking over before he started screaming and running around the parking lot like the pendejo the kitchen guy had called him. Yes, he’d had a vasectomy right after the horror of Taylor’s actual birth. But since then, he’d never once forgone condoms, until Melody. And with her, he’d been foolish at first, too eager and blind with lust to worry about diseases but his days worrying about having another oh-my-fucking-god-Trent-I’m-late conversation were well behind him.
He’d told her as much, after they both had a full gamut of tests, and could compare positive sexual health reports over a bottle of wine. He’d said to her, “I don’t regret it,” when she’d asked him, her huge brown eyes earnest. He’d said, “I don’t want any more kids. It’s too much work, emotionally, physically and financially. It’s not practical at my age anyway.” He’d even said, “Thank God we don’t have to worry about me knocking you up, eh, chica,” more than once. And by God he’d meant it.