by Cathryn Cade
Because she didn't want to think about moving away from him and the boys, or her house, she turned the radio up loud and drove into town to the sounds of Adele promising to 'go crawling down the avenue' if necessary to keep her man's love. Sounded about right, with the shit men put women through.
Sara drove back into her place that afternoon with a new project—another belt, because they were fun and she could use a brown belt as cute as the black one she'd put together. She'd had another impromptu lesson from Brad as well, and purchased a new beveling tool. It had a short but wicked, curved blade that Brad had warned her to very careful with, and shown her a nasty scar on his own thumb which he'd given himself from the same tool.
After her lesson, he'd invited her to have lunch with him at a deli, The Crusty Pickle, near his shop. Sara's thick ham-and-swiss sandwich had been delicious, although she still had half of it with her, wrapped up.
Now she had a new project, and an offer to have dinner and hear live music at one of Spokane's many brew-pubs. Regretfully, because even if he didn't send her body into a state of advanced craving, he was good-looking, funny and interesting, Sara took a rain-check.
Not about to go into details, she told him her younger brother had been hurt in an accident, and she'd most likely be leaving to go visit him in the next few days.
He'd taken this with grace, if clear disappointment, and given her a kiss on the cheek as he told her goodbye at her car.
Seth called as she was pulling into her drive.
"Hi," she said eagerly, leaving the windows up and the air conditioner running. "How are you?"
"Doin' better," he said, sounding much more himself. "Rita's been taking good care of me." His voice said that this Rita was there with him.
"Good," Sara said. "Tell her thank you from me. So, are you—that is, do you have any lasting injuries?"
"Lost a couple of teeth. Gonna have a few scars. But mostly, I'm just banged up."
"Those bastards," she said, gripping the steering wheel. "I'd like to run them into the river myself."
There was a startled silence, and then Seth gave a wheezing chuckle. "Uh, right. Best not talk about that on the phone, sis. Big brother, and all that."
Sara rolled her eyes. She personally figured the government had better things to do than spy on regular people's phone calls, but whatever. "So, can Rita drive you over here for a visit?" she asked hopefully. "Like, an extended one? You could stay with me—I've moved into Gran's house now."
"No shit? That's great, sis. But I don't know. We're not really making any plans right yet."
A soft voice spoke in the background, and he said something back. Sara couldn't make out the words, but she knew one thing—she had never heard that sweet, tender voice coming from Seth's mouth before. This girl was special to him.
"Well, you and Rita can come any time," Sara told him. "But, Seth, why did those gangers target you, of all people? I mean, it's not like you're wealthy."
He sighed heavily. "My job. I was working for a parcel delivery service, right? One thing they deliver is medical supplies--like painkillers, and other drugs. The Angelinos wanted me to start stealing from the shipments, and delivering to them instead of the customers."
"Oh, my God. So you said no, and they just grabbed you?"
"No, first they started showing up on my route," he said, in a tight voice. "Then they wrecked my car. That was supposed to scare me into working with them. Instead, it got me fired, because I live across town, and riding my ten-speed was a little dicey in traffic. I was late. So I borrowed a friend's car—the A's trashed it in the parking lot outside the parcel barn. No more borrowed ride, and no more friend."
"Well, I get that, but how did they think kidnapping you was going to help?"
"Ah, that was ... more like revenge. See, Rita is Margarita Estevez. She's beautiful, and she's a cousin of one of the Angelinos. He didn't think I should be dating his cousin, wanted her for his gang leader, as a way to move up in the gang. Rita objected, and so did I. He and six of his homies jumped me four days ago. I woke up in the back room of their trailer."
"Oh, no. You mean, her cousin is now ... uh, swimming with the fishes?"
Seth snorted. "Sarey-berry, nobody says that. You've been watching the Sopranos again, haven't you?"
"I admit nothing," she said primly.
"Right. Uh, Rita wants to speak to you."
"Sara?" said a soft, cool voice. "This is Rita. I just want you to know, my cousin Cimo was a real low-life, a cucaracha. Nobody in my family will miss him, not even his own mama. Your friends did everyone a favor by ending him. And they saved Seth, so I'm grateful. And to you—he told me all about your phone conversation, and how you went to get help, and just like that, they came and saved him. You are all my heroes. And so is Seth ... he was so strong through his ordeal."
Sara was entranced by Rita's lovely accent, and her voice. If she was half as pretty as her voice, no wonder Seth was gone over her.
She held the phone away from her ear, trying to ignore the kissing noises on the other end.
"Well, this is good to hear," she said finally, when they continued as if she wasn't there. "So, you two stay safe, okay? And call me back soon. Oh and Seth? Call Momma, please. She's worried about you too."
"'Kay," he said. "Bye, sis."
"Bye." She ended the call, shaking her head. No question what Seth was going to be up to for the next while. Euww. She didn’t want to picture her little brother getting amorous.
But, it was better than picturing him dead.
Sara didn’t get a chance to start on her new belt. She was just putting together a salad for her supper when Pete Vanko knocked on her back door. He looked sunburned and cranky.
"Sara, hate to call in that favor so soon, but can you watch the twins for me?" he asked without wasting words on a greeting. "Both Velvet and Webb are sick. Turns out Webb didn't eat bad potato salad like he thought—it's the flu. I've gotta get them back to their house. Bring the boys next door, if you want. House is air-conditioned.’
“Uh ... sure,” she said. “I can do that.”
“Thank fuck. Here’s the keycode. Don’t lose it.” And with that, he was gone, and Sara had two small guests for supper. Luckily, she'd been feeling nostalgic while grocery shopping, and bought a package of hot dogs and buns, because chef salad was not a preferred supper for little boys. She settled them at the kitchen table with glasses of iced lemonade, and fixed supper.
However, the house was stuffy, both boys were tired, sunburned and cranky as their uncle, so neither ate more than a few bites.
"So, what did you do today?" she asked.
"Went to the car races with Unca Pete."
"Was it fun?"
Two tired nods.
"You must've had lots of snacks, hmm?"
Two more nods, and then Kick laid his head down on his arm on the table and sighed heavily.
Watching them droop in their seats, Sara put her fork down, her own salad only half eaten. "Hey, you guys want to go home and have a cool bath?" she asked. "Then maybe chill in front of some cartoons?"
"Okay."
Sara put away her salad, hurried to gather her tablet, phone and the tools from her workbench to begin stamping her new belt, tossed them in a red-and-white flowered beach bag, and led the boys outside.
She left their hot dogs in Blackie's food dish, while he watched from a safe distance. Sara walked the boys to their house and used the code Pete had given her. The big farmhouse was blessedly cool inside.
They all trooped upstairs, where Sara helped the boys choose some clean tees and underwear—Captain America for Dash and The Hulk for Kick, and followed them into the main bath. It was spacious and clean, she was thrilled to see. She turned on the shower lukewarm, and since they were not her children, and she was not their vetted baby sitter, turned her back while they undressed, and waited until the shower curtain slid shut before turning to pick up their dirty clothing, and toss it in the hamper.
<
"Okay." This Sara accomplished by reaching her hands into the shower through a crack between the curtain and wall, her gaze up. "Rinse," she ordered when his head was soapy.
Dash moved into his place, and they repeated the process, then Sara closed the curtain again. "Rinse off really well," she called. "Soap will make your skin itchy."
"Okay." They chorused, surprising her with their good behavior until one of them started to giggle, and the other followed. Sara peeked in to see the green shampoo squirting wildly onto the wall of the shower.
"The bottle is peeing!" Dash told her.
"Green pee!" Kick approved. “Hulk pee!”
"Hulk is done peeing, and you're done showering." She rescued the bottle, handed them each a fluffy towel, and ushered them out onto the bath rug. "Dry off. And if either of you have to pee, it goes in the toilet."
"I hafta pee," Kick said, and moved to the toilet, dropping his towel.
"Me too." Dash stepped in beside him.
Grinning, Sara stuck her head into the shower and sluiced the streaks of shampoo down the drain, using the removable showerhead.
She was incredibly relieved when they all exited the bathroom without any more incidents. This was like herding raccoons.
The boys settled with their blankets on the big sofa, and Sara found a cartoon show they liked, and sat in one of the big, comfy chairs with her tablet and a new romance.
Twenty minutes later the boys were sound asleep.
Forty-five minutes later, Pete Vanko called. His deep voice was hoarse. "Sara ... you okay there with the boys for the night?"
"What?" she asked, sitting up in alarm. "Why can't you come back?"
"'Cause I'm puking by the side of the road," he told her. "Thought I just had a headache from the sun, but ... I've got this flu shit too."
"Oh, no. Um, sorry you’re not feeling well."
He groaned his agreement. "Seriously, I have just enough juice left to get home to my place. This shit hits fast. Even if I came over there, wouldn't be able to do anything to help with the boys. I ache like a truck ran me over."
"What should I do?" she asked, eying the sleeping boys. "Call Stick?"
"No! He's in the middle of shit, can't come. And he can't be worrying about the boys. Can you just ... I dunno, call someone—Marta. Her number's on the frig."
His voice faded as he spoke. Sara winced in sympathy. "Okay. I've got this, Pete. You just get home and get to bed. Call me in the morning."
"Thanks." Then he made a horrible, retching sound and Sara clicked her phone off in a hurry. Poor guy, but there was nothing she could do for him, and if she had to listen to him hurling, her own stomach might rebel.
Okay, first thing was to get the twins to bed. They weren't that heavy, so she could carry them one at a time. Once they were settled, she'd call this Marta and get her to come over.
She carried the boys each upstairs, her heart melting a little at how trustingly they clung to her. They might be little bikers-in-training, but they were also cuddly and sweet. One at a time, she got them into their beds, like two little sunburned angels snuggled with their blankies, bodies curving toward each other like mirror images in their separate beds.
Sara took a moment to admire how angelic they looked asleep. Then she zipped back downstairs and called Marta. The woman answered at last, but she sounded as awful as Pete had.
"I'm so sorry," she told Sara in a pretty Russian accent. "This flu, it's everywhere in town. Be glad you are not sick ... yet, anyway."
Okay, then.
Sara went to the next name on the list, a Mrs Dunbar. The woman was friendly, but also unhelpful. "I'm sorry, hon, but I can't help you. My husband is home sick, from the sheriff's office, and two of my boys are down—the others are looking peaked. I've got my hands full. If you don't feel you can watch the boys, you best call Stick, even if he is on the road."
"Oh, no, we’ll be fine. Sorry to bother you," Sara said. "The boys are fine so far. Good luck with your own family."
The next phone call went un-answered, and after that were listed Fire, Sheriff, and Poison Control, which she was certainly not using without a true emergency.
So, she was on her own with the boys. She had experience with children, she felt fine herself, and she truly liked the two little mischief-makers. The three of them would be okay for a night.
Her phone rang again. It was Pete again. "Baby monitor on the desk next to the kitchen," he croaked. "You can sleep in the spare room. Anything you want—use it. Da?"
"Da, I mean, okay," she said. "Bye, Pete. I got this."
And she did, for a few hours.
CHAPTER THIRTY
Sara carried her phone and the monitor with her back to her place, put her long pajamas and a robe in her bag along with her travel wash kit and makeup, and a fresh outfit to wear in the morning, locked up the house, made sure Blackie had water in his bowl, told him to have a good night, and went back to Stick's big farmhouse to spend the night.
Her life really had taken a turn for the weird.
Next, she gave into her curiosity about Stick’s home. He would no doubt scowl and call her a snooper, but hey, he wasn't here and she was. She admired the kitchen first, because it was stunning. Whoever had remodeled this place had been into traditional country. The windows were large, double-paned with oak molding.
The spacious cabinets were oak, with arched moldings, and pewter knobs. Those next to the sink were glass-fronted, to show off pretty dishes—which not surprisingly, Stick did not own. Sara tried not to think about how pretty her Fiesta-ware would look in this kitchen, with some other colorful decor.
A big, scrubbed oak table on the south side of the kitchen was surrounded by eight sturdy chairs.
The counters were caramel-hued marble, the sink a triple basin, with a huge pantry in one corner. A door led into a spacious laundry room, currently empty except for a washer and dryer and stacks of baskets with male clothing in them. Sara could picture counters for folding laundry and an ironing board, cupboards on the empty walls, and shelves over the appliances.
The house had been painted one color through-out, a warm white. The floors were oak, except in the big living room, which had been carpeted in a caramel shag. This carpet extended up the stairs and through the upper floor.
The living room was furnished in what Sara could only describe as 'man cave'. A huge brown leather sectional sofa, two matching chairs, a massive oak coffee table and three leather ottomans all faced the TV. There were a few heavy lamps, and a basket in one corner overflowing with toys.
Past the wide staircase, which led up from the area dividing the kitchen and living room, over the top of the laundry room, there was a hallway leading back to another room. It was locked, to keep the boys out, Sara assumed. A home office, maybe?
She yawned, and decided it was time for big girls to be in bed, too. She checked on the boys, then donned her pajamas and brushed her teeth, washed her face and moisturized.
Then, drawn like an iron shaving to a magnet, she padded silently into the master bedroom at the end of the upstairs hallway. This room took up the back half of the house, as if someone had knocked out interior walls. It contained a king-sized bed covered in a black duvet and sheets, a big oak bureau, and a chair, this one an old recliner with a stack of paperbacks on a small table beside it.
The books were thrillers, she saw. But next to the table was a basket overflowing with children's books, as if a loving father read to the twins here. Sara closed her eyes and turned away. She did not need to have a heart-warming glimpse into Stick Vanko's private life. She did not like the man, she intended to have little more to do with him after she thanked him for saving Seth ... which didn't explain why her next move was into the big walk-in closet at one side of the room.
Here, she caught her breath. Wow, there was more than enough storage here for a couple. The big closet was nearly bare. Stick's jeans, tees and other shirts were stacked on shelves, his boots set in a ragged row, and a few jackets and leathers hung from the rack.
Sara tiptoed closer, and inhaled. God. God, she was so stupid to come in here. His scent, musky and masculine, drifted from the battered denim jacket, and the heavy cold weather jackets. And just like that, her body and mind responded to his pheromones, leaving her aroused and wanting.
She scurried from the room, and along the hall to the guest room. Like all the other rooms, it was plainly furnished with a queen bed, a bureau and a nightstand. Her bag sat open on the single chair.
She called Kit and Lindi, knowing they would appreciate the irony in the situation. Kit didn't answer, but Lindi did.
"Oh, my gosh," she said. "Who'd have thunk you'd wind up watching his boys, huh? You're so sweet to do it. Good thing you and the boys are feeling all right. There are people coming down with it here too. Oh, and Jack says a bunch of the Flyers are sick. Too macho to get a flu shot, I guess."
"I had one, I hope it works," Sara said.
"No kidding. Hey, how is your brother?"
Sara filled her in, and then Jack came on the line. "You okay out there by yourself, babe?" he asked her. "You want, I'll find one of the guys not down in bed to come out and stand guard. I gotta stay here, with construction startin' up at sunrise, and Remi and Lindi have to be at the BeeHive. Carla’s down sick."
"Oh, no, we're fine," Sara assured him. "This place has motion-sensor lights, cameras and keypad locks. Feels safe as a fort."
Did she like being alone out here with two little boys? Not so much, but that was an illogical fear, and she refused to succumb to it, because this house truly was a safe place to be. Probably imbued with Stick Vanko machismo.
"All right. Well, you've had a helluva time, let's hope things calm down now," he said. "Here's Lindi."
Sara and Lindi chatted a little longer, and then said goodnight.
Sara sat and read, although her new romance did not hold her attention in the usual way. She kept thinking the dark hero would be much sexier with blond hair, and that he was also kind of wimpy.
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