OUR TURN

by Wyatt, Dani

  OUR TURN

  By

  Dani Wyatt

  Copyright © 2019

  by Dani Wyatt

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof

  may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever

  without the express written permission of the publisher

  except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places,

  events and incidents are either the products

  of the author’s imagination

  or used in a fictitious manner.

  Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead,

  is purely coincidental.

  www.daniwyatt.com

  Cover Credit PopKitty

  Editing Nicci Haydon

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  OUR TURN

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  WHEN SHE’S MINE

  OTHER TITLES BY DANI WYATT

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  1

  GEO

  I NEVER THOUGHT THIS would happen.

  I’ve got a kid.

  A fucking twenty-year-old daughter who I knew nothing about, and now there’s a nurse on the other end of the phone expecting me to just get over it because apparently, she might need me.

  What. The. Fuck.

  “You’ve got a daughter, Mr. Klement. I know this is a shock for you, but she is a patient here at Detroit Receiving Hospital. She may need a transfusion, and she has a very rare blood type. Do you know your blood type, Mr. Klement?”

  Jesus. Not just a kid, a daughter.

  “No,” I answer, scratching my head as I sit in my black Suburban, the engine idling while I wait for a client to emerge from the strip club across the street. I know some people have darkened windows to look cool, but for me, they serve a purpose. When business is overdue, like now, the element of surprise works in my favor. “I don’t know my blood type.”

  “Sir, are you sure? You don’t know your own blood type?” The nurse sounds suspicious.

  “I don’t like the sight of blood,” I reply. “Never had it tested.”

  I don’t like the sight of my own blood I should have said. I quite enjoy the sight of other people’s blood. At least the ones that owe me money. Or, by my own personal moral code deserve to shed some.

  I’ve never been to the hospital for myself although there was plenty of time I should have. I’ve learned to stitch myself up when necessary. Crunched my broken nose back into place a couple of times. Taped up some broken fingers a couple of times.

  I’ve never been that sick besides the occasional cold or bad oysters. I’ve never even had blood taken for tests, so no, I don’t know my blood type, and up until right now, I didn’t think much about it.

  The nurse sighs into the phone before continuing, “Well, Mr. Klement, would you be able to come down to the hospital this evening and have a sample taken? It’s quite urgent. If your daughter needs surgery, she will need back up blood, and we are low. Family is best.”

  I palm my mouth with my hand, still processing the last sixty seconds. I’d asked the name of her mother, and when the nurse gave it to me, I barely remembered her. She hung out at this bar I used to frequent. We shared some drinks now and then, but I don’t recall anything outside of that sort of connection. I sure as shit don’t remember sleeping with her.

  Unfortunately, that doesn’t mean it’s out of the realm of possibility, I guess.

  See, twenty years ago I was a drinker, not just a Friday night tall-neck or around with the guys, we’re talking pro level intoxication. There are whole years I barely remember. I gave that up a decade ago, but I had more than my share of blackouts back then. Even so, man-whoring was never my thing, even intoxicated, so I’m surprised, but anything is possible.

  So, fuck me, I’m a Dad.

  I shake my head, the feelings swirling around me, unfamiliar and distasteful. I don’t have family — no connections or roots. I’m a rock, and I like it that way.

  People I barely know take from me, and I take back with twenty-five to forty percent on top. Or, if that doesn’t work, I take a few broken fingers and fifty percent. Sometimes more. Making friends isn’t part of my game, let alone having a family.

  “Sir?” The nurse sounds annoyed, and I heave out a sigh that steams the side window as I look out. “If you want to do a DNA test, we can recommend services. However, right now, the blood test is a critical path.”

  “Yeah. Okay. I’ll come.”

  Besides hurting people as part of my business, I’m a decent guy by my own standards, and that means I’m not going to turn my back on this girl even if I never heard of her until today.

  Refusing wouldn’t fit with my inner moral compass as flexible as it may be. Any fucker who would hurt kids or animals is a degenerate scumbag. Same goes for the elderly and vulnerable.

  As hard as I am, I’m still soft in some places. I help my neighbor, Mrs. Morrison, get to the senior center, the grocery, and her doctor’s appointments every week, and if anyone hurt a hair on her head, I’d fucking obliterate them.

  I met her one winter maybe five or six years ago. I was driving down the street, and there was about eight inches of snow covering everything from a storm the night before. As I approached her house, I saw something in the street in front of her mailbox.

  As I slowed, I looked to see the something moving. It was Mrs. Morrison. Back then she could still walk, albeit with a cane. She’d gone down to the mailbox to get her mail, slipped off the curb and fell into the slush on the street.

  I stopped, picked her up, gave her a stern talking to about being out walking in the snow like that. Looked up to see her porch and walk weren’t shoveled, so I got her into the house. Made her some tea as she fussed and told me there was absolutely nothing wrong with her.

  After that, I shoveled her walk and spent the afternoon with her listening to her tell me crazy ass stories about being a spy during the war and that I was her long-lost son.

  Her mind is a trip and has gotten more creative over the years. Her body has given in in a lot of ways as well, but she makes me smile and doesn’t take any shit from me, which I have to admit deep down I love. She’s as close as I get to family or friends.

  But having kids of my own? Fuck no. No way. This is not me.

  I’ve never been much of a lady’s man, to begin with, and as the years have gone on, I’ve been more of a monk than a player, even though I’ve been offered a whole lot of pussy in exchange for loan repayments.

  That shit offends my sensibilities as well. I’ve had guys offer their wives, girlfriends and even their daughters as repayment to save their sorry asses.

  Do you know what happens to them? I’m not going to recount those Hallmark moments. Let’s just say, they lost
their own ability to enjoy the more intimate moments in life.

  The nurse rattles off where I should go and what time and I scribble it in the notepad I keep in my shirt pocket, then hang up and try to process what’s happening while somehow keeping my head in the game.

  It wouldn’t do for me to make a mistake right now, not with the court appearance coming up as well. A short stint inside I can cope with. Last time I was sent down, it actually increased my bottom line, because there are a lot of people in jail that need a short-term injection of cash, either when they get out or to take care of business on the outside while they’re away.

  Thanks to a few connections I have at my bank, I’m still able to move money around while I’m inside with a few phone calls and some well-developed code words. It seems bank tellers don’t get paid very much and there are a few I’ve developed relationships with over the years in exchange for compensation of their own.

  Right now, the simple assault I’m up for, and a few priors are likely to land me with a six-month sentence. I’ll be out on probation in three. Depending on the judge, I might get lucky and get off with community service.

  Dare to fucking dream.

  But if the prosecutor can demonstrate a pattern of behavior? Yeah, I might end up with a year, and that long inside means my business suffers. And that’s unacceptable.

  My head is still spinning from the phone call, but I’m working when I spot the scumbag that owes me twenty-three G’s sliding out the back door of the strip club and into the alley, and my instincts take over.

  He thinks he’s slipped under my radar but see that’s the trick. With some of these fuckers, you come after them right away the first time they’re late, give them another deadline. Then, when they don’t show, you just hang back.

  Let them think I’m soft. Giving them some wiggle room.

  Fuck wiggle room. I’m stalking them like a cheetah on an antelope. Slow. Methodical.

  Let them sniff the air. Look around. See nothing. Feel safe. Go back to chomping the grass.

  Then.

  BAM.

  I’ve got them by the jugular, and there’s no room for escape.

  I take one more minute to clear my head as the idea of being a father sinks in. Then I flex my neck listening to the bones crack and pop, shove the nine-millimeter into the back of my pants, pull my olive army jacket on and make sure my six-inch switchblade is slipped into the correct pocket. Then, just for good measure, I slide my stainless-steel knuckles over the fingers of my right hand.

  The outline of the figure slinks down the alley as I get out of the truck and go to take care of my business, wondering how the fuck they even got my phone number.

  I shake my head, unsure about so many things at the moment, but knowing I have to push it aside. There is business to take care of.

  NICCI

  I REACH OVER TO SQUEEZE Beth’s hand as the doctor comes back through the curtain, frowning over the top of his glasses.

  I may be sick. I may have to have surgery.

  But the illness it’s what’s at the forefront of my mind.

  It’s my father. The man I’ve never met. The man who doesn’t know I exist.

  Until today.

  I’ve been lying in this bed in the emergency room of the hospital for hours now, and I can’t tell from the doctor’s expression what’s coming. I doubled over early this morning with pain in my side, thinking it was my appendix, but apparently, I failed anatomy 101 because it’s my liver.

  “We’re waiting for the results. Just to be clear here, there are two possibilities I’m leaning toward for your pain. One is there are fat deposits on your liver, and you will need to adjust your diet. This doesn’t sound like much, but they can be acutely and suddenly painful with no prior symptoms.” He gives me a raised eyebrow and a nod. “The other, given the growth on the back of your liver that showed up in the MRI, is obviously more serious. I’m hoping the growth has nothing to do with it, but we are sending that to the radiologist to analyze, along with your blood tests. Now, as I explained, if that growth needs to be removed, it’s not an easy surgery. The liver is very vascular, like a giant blood sponge, and making sure there is enough AB negative on hand will be critical. Then, of course, if the growth is a tumor and not just a cyst, then we will determine if it is malignant.” His voice lowers, and I see his Adam’s apple move as he swallows.

  Malignant.

  He looks like a dad. Like Mr. Brady but more serious and with gray hair. I bet he has kids. I bet he’s a good father.

  Is my father a good father? Does he have other kids?

  Beth puts her other hand on top of mine. “We are going to hope for the best like you said, but prepare for the worst. You got in touch with her dad, right?”

  I press my cold fingers to my forehead and try to hold back the whimper caught in my throat.

  “My father,” I correct trying not to sound too pissy.

  Dad sounds too familiar like he’s been around. Been in my life.

  The doctor nods at us both, and I feel the curtained walls closing in — the noises from the emergency room filter through the fabric. Beeps and alarms on monitors going off, people moaning and talking about bodily functions I’d rather remain ignorant about drift all around through the curtains.

  He puts his hands down in the front pockets of his white lab coat. “Are you comfortable for now? Your pain is tolerable?”

  I nod, trying to remember to breathe, thinking the man I’ve been following around for six months is going to be here in a matter of hours and I have to decide if I want to meet him or not.

  The doctor makes his retreat, and Beth touches my face. “Are you okay? You’re ghostly white all of a sudden.”

  “Yeah, I’m fine. Just the idea that he’s going to be here in the same building as me.”

  “I know. Jesus fuck-n-a.” Beth gives me a soft smile. Her potty mouth is such a contrast to her otherwise controlled and professional manner, but I find it funny because I never swear and I’m the girl from the wrong side of the tracks. “Remember, you don’t have to meet him.”

  “I know.” My heart flutters, and I get that funny feeling in my stomach that I get when I think about him. “I can’t believe I’ve been sort of stalking him for six months and haven’t gotten the courage to meet him.”

  Beth blows out a deep breath and shrugs. “You can’t write this shit. Holy fucked up Batman.”

  She runs her hand down her throat fingering the sterling silver Tiffany choker I admire every time she wears it. Her jet-black hair always immaculate in a banged bob that brushes just at her neckline. Her shoes cost more than I probably make in a month and whenever she drives me around in her Mercedes, I sit up straighter hoping I look like I belong.

  But, for all of her success, she treats me no different than I’ve seen her treat her millionaire—maybe even billionaire—clients. In fact, I think she treats me better. Kinder for sure. She’s sweet, but a brutal negotiator and I’ve heard her take after people with the viciousness of a wolverine in a leg trap.

  As far as my father goes, I know why I’ve not bolstered the courage just to walk up and introduce myself before.

  I‘ve seen him. Gosh, have I seen him.

  When my mom got arrested for the sixth time almost a year ago for DUI, the judge brought the hammer down. She’s now a resident of the Middletown Women’s Correctional Facility in Cramer, Oklahoma where we’d lived for the last few years before I came here to Detroit.

  Where she said, my father lived.

  I don’t know what happened, but when she got sentenced to four to eight years, the judge gave her forty-eight hours to surrender. She finally broke and told me who my dad was — his name and where he lived.

  He wasn’t that hard to find either, which surprised me. I wondered why mom had never gone after him for child support. Because God knows we sure could have used the money.

  When I pressed her, she said he wasn’t a good guy, and she thought our lives would be better
without him.

  She said a lot more than that, but she was a half a fifth into her vodka and truth be told I wasn’t entirely sure she even remembered telling me the next day. It didn’t all add up, but just the glimmer of hope that I could find my father was like fairy dust to me.

  My whole life, all I’ve wanted was what I saw the other kids at school had. Normal. Quiet. I wanted the gingerbread house painted three colors with a wraparound porch and a mother who was there when you got home from school, wearing an apron and holding a plate of fresh baked cookies.

  I swore, when I grew up, my life would be different. No alcohol. I mean ever. Absolutely no drugs. No violence of any kind. I saw it all growing up with my mom, her boyfriends, her friends...I hated that life. I won’t go back to that no matter what.

  Not ever.

  After she surrendered, we lost our subsidized apartment, and I had to go somewhere, so Detroit was where I went. I’d been working since I was sixteen and had saved a few thousand dollars for emergencies because mom was always having emergencies like getting evicted or needing bail money.

  When I got to Detroit and stepped off the bus just in time to see a Chihuahua run out into traffic. Instinct just took over, and I chased after the bundle of fur, cars, and trucks screeching to a halt around me as I swept him up off the road and gave him a stern telling off.

  That Chihuahua just happened to belong to Beth who came running over, practically breaking her ankles on her Jimmy Choo’s and crying thinking her baby almost got squashed in the middle of Woodward Ave.

  It turned out, she’s a big-time real estate broker. She took me to lunch to thank me, which was great because I was starving. We hit it off, and we’ve been friends ever since.

  Nice to have a friend first day you move to town.

  Which was kind of lucky for me, I guess, because when I told her a bit about my situation, she helped me find a job right away with the county, driving the senior citizen bus. I’d gotten my commercial driver’s license back in Oklahoma when I was working for a nursing care center driving their bus. I love working with seniors.