by Terri Osburn
“He hasn’t come out yet,” Chance quipped. “That’s still an option.”
Harmon plucked the cigarette from his hand and tossed it in the garbage. “Forget about Dennis. Let’s grab some lunch so you can tell me about that pretty girl I saw through the window this morning.”
Chapter 24
After an hour in the office, an extended lunch with April, and a quick stop home to water her poor, neglected plants, Naomi swung by a pet store for a few feline essentials. Her parents had not been pet people, and she’d never attempted more than a goldfish in her apartment, but less than a week with Willie the Wonder Cat—who would be mortified to hear her call him that—and Naomi was suddenly one of those people. The people who spend sixty-five dollars on cat toys, tuna treats, and a windowsill perch.
Chance would tease her mercilessly, but she didn’t care. Willie had nothing of his own in the house but one well-used scratching post. No wonder he was always running through her legs without warning. It wasn’t attempted murder. It was a cry for help.
Uncertain what time Chance’s meeting would end, Naomi carried everything to the porch before checking the front door to find it unlocked. “Hello!” she called, scooting the large perch box in first, then bringing in the rest of the bags.
“Yeah,” Chance replied from the long table near the back door.
He didn’t look up, or offer to help her with the bags. The notebook she’d read earlier rested in front of him, and she worried that he somehow knew she’d been snooping. Chance had made his feelings clear on when he shared his songs. There was no excuse for her prying.
“You okay?” she asked, dropping the bags on the peninsula.
“Sure.”
Back to his one-word answers. Not a good sign.
“I got Willie some new toys,” she announced, pulling a pack of feather-tailed mice from the goodies. Opening the package, she tossed one on the floor not far from where the cat reclined on the back of the couch. He instantly jumped down to attack. “He likes it.”
Chance cast a glance Willie’s way. “Good for him.”
The words weren’t loaded with sarcasm, which would have been the case if he was angry about something. Since he’d declared his hand would fully recover, Chance had shown little emotion about the injury. But maybe reality had set in.
Joining him at the table, she said, “Did something happen while you were out?” This had been his first foray into the world as a one-handed person. Not that the ailment was permanent, but a man with Chance’s pride would struggle with any sort of perceived weakness, temporary or not.
“I had a confrontation at the meeting,” he said, eyes locked on the notebook. “Seems the only way a drunk can hurt himself is by falling off the wagon.”
Naomi didn’t understand. “Did they think you were faking the injury?”
Like a bullet from a gun, Chance shot out of his chair. “They thought I was drunk, Naomi. That we’d told one story to the press, but the meeting was where I should admit the truth.”
“But you weren’t drinking. Why would they not believe you?”
Chance paced to the kitchen and back. “Because it’s a room full of drunks.” He gripped the back of his vacated chair, knuckles white. “Which is why they’re the ones who are supposed to believe me. My whole life, no matter what I’ve done, people have always thought the worst. When I didn’t have my homework because Wayne got wasted at two in the morning and pissed on my book bag, the teacher called me lazy. When I got jumped in the student parking lot in high school and fought my way out, the police came to my house looking for the kid who’d broke a couple noses.” Dropping back in the chair, he ran his hand through his hair. “When I carried my best friend a hundred yards through enemy fire to save his life, his grieving mother blamed me for getting him killed.”
Slamming his fist on the table, he locked eyes with Naomi. “You want to know why I drink? Because why not? Because whether I do or I don’t doesn’t matter. I’m the screwup. The problem kid. The fucking lost cause.”
Naomi’s heart ached for him. She’d been just like the others. Thought the worst of him so many times. Regardless of his history, everyone deserved a little benefit of the doubt now and then. In Chance’s case, he deserved it more, because of the history no one got to hear. A few therapy sessions of her own didn’t mean she knew what to say in that moment, so she focused on the one thing she knew for sure.
“You are not a lost cause. Against all of that adversity, you’re still here. You’ve accomplished more than that teacher or those cops ever would have believed. And you did it while fighting an illness few understand.” Clasping his hand in hers, she leaned forward. “I know it’s easy for me to say that your past doesn’t have to define you. But it’s true. There’s good in you, Chance. Deep, abiding goodness. Others might not see it, or maybe they don’t want to see it, but I do. And I’m willing to spend all my days helping you see it, too.”
Chance pressed his forehead to her hand. “I’m tired, Nay. I’m tired of fighting and nothing changing.”
“You’ve changed. You’ve overcome what so many don’t.” Naomi needed him to hear her. She needed him to believe. “Forget what anyone else thinks. I know you’re an amazing person. And so does Shelly, and your niece and nephew. I bet the guys in your band and your sponsor, Harmon, all think so, too.”
Warm lips pressed a kiss to her knuckles. “I don’t deserve you, Nay.”
“You deserve everything, Chance. And so much more.”
“I think he likes his perch,” Naomi said, tucked in tight along Chance’s right side. “Now he can sit and watch the birds outside.”
“If he wasn’t so fat, he could still perch on the windowsill.” Chance trailed a finger over her hip, glad he’d splurged on a couch big enough for two.
“Tell him, Willie. You aren’t fat. That’s all fur.”
Chance chuckled. “That ain’t fur swinging when he walks. His belly about touches the floor.”
Naomi tapped on Chance’s chest. “Stop that. You’re going to hurt his feelings.”
“And you’re going to spoil him rotten.”
“That’s what I do for boys I like.” Wiggling in closer, she made Chance wonder when they could take this upstairs. “I spoil them.”
Other than the time he’d upgraded to a fancier tour bus, Chance didn’t have a whole lot of experience with being spoiled.
Twirling the button on his shirt, Naomi asked, “Was there anyone who was nice to you back when you were little?”
Thinking for a second, he dragged up a memory that made him smile. “I spent one summer with my dad’s mama. Grammy Rosa. She was a stout woman who could put the fear of God into you with one look, but she was also the sweetest lady I ever knew. I’d just turned six, and Daddy had only been gone a few months. Debra met Wayne while I was gone, so I didn’t know what would be waiting when I got home.”
“Why didn’t this Grammy Rosa step in when things got bad?”
“You’ve obviously never lived around abuse. No one talks about what’s going on. Folks either don’t know it’s happening, or they don’t want to get involved.” Chance tucked Naomi’s head beneath his chin and held her tight. “Grammy was gone by the time I was eight. She never knew what Wayne was doing.”
“What about Shelly?”
“What about her?”
“She’s older, right?” A denim-clad leg curled over his. “Did she protect you?”
Chance relaxed into the leather, for once not vibrating with anger while talking about his childhood. “She tried. Shelly had more experience reading his moods. Knowing when a fight was coming. Course, you couldn’t always predict things with Wayne. But she’d get me out of the house when she could.” And had taken a beating more than once when she wouldn’t tell where Chance was hiding.
“She cut out at eighteen and put herself through community college. Since I was bigger than Wayne by then, Shelly thought I’d be okay. But it’s hard to defend yourself against a lit
cigarette when you’re sound asleep.”
“I don’t understand that kind of meanness in a person.”
“When I got older, I figured someone was probably mean to him first. Didn’t make me hate him any less.” There was no forgiving Wayne Ransick, no matter what his reasons were. “Then again, maybe he was just an asshole with a complex. All I know is that I never wanted to be anything like him.”
“Mission accomplished.”
Chance was starting to think Naomi had a selective memory. “Are you forgetting that I’m an alcoholic with a history of violent outbursts?”
“If you’re talking about that assault arrest back when you were dating what’s-her-name, I know that the guy jumped you because you wouldn’t let him maul your girlfriend.”
And just how did she know that? “You got sources I don’t know about?”
“Just April,” she said. “One of her clients is married to an NPD officer, and when she mentioned he was involved in your arrest, April pushed for details.”
Thinking he might know the answer, Chance asked, “Why would she do that?”
Honest to a fault, Naomi said, “For me.”
Dragging her on top of him, he wedged her up for a kiss. “You’re something else, darling.”
Not ready to drop the subject of his formative years, she touched a finger to his lips. “I’m sorry about your friend who died. What was his name?”
Chance didn’t mind the question. Talking about Davy kept him alive in some way. “Davy Parker. We met in first grade, and by third were like brothers. I spent a lot of time at his house trying to avoid my own. When I enlisted the day after graduation, I convinced him to go in with me.”
Which was why, despite his efforts to save him, Chance was responsible for Davy’s death.
“It’s so senseless. Sending young boys off to war. I’m grateful for those willing to do it, but I don’t understand why anyone would put themselves in that position.”
“A lot of guys sign up for the same reason I did. The alternative was worse.”
Soft fingers trailed across his forehead. “I’m sorry about your friend, but I’m really glad you made it home okay.”
Sliding his thigh between hers, Chance muttered, “You and me both, baby.”
“Just take it off,” Chance ordered.
“I’m not taking it off,” Naomi argued. “Neal will take care of it as soon as they call us back.”
Monday morning was Chance’s follow-up appointment, which could not come soon enough. The incision had starting itching Saturday night, and it had taken all her efforts to keep him from ripping the bandage off. Naomi had even had to hide the scissors and knives. Toddlers listened better than this man.
“Then Neal needs to hurry his ass up.”
The surly patient hadn’t made many appearances in the last week, but the few times he did, Naomi had considered several ways to knock him out. The day before had been the worst. The tip of the gauze had gotten wet, which led to childish whining and heightened demands for relief. If their budding relationship was going to implode, it would have happened by midnight Sunday night.
“Mr. Colburn?” said a nurse who’d come to fetch them from the private waiting room. Due to the high number of celebrity clients, Neal’s office included both a VIP elevator and lounge.
Naomi hopped out of her seat. “That’s us.”
They followed the nurse into another small room where she told Chance to have a seat on the exam table. She ran through the usual routine—blood pressure, temperature, listened to his heart. He snarled through it all, but the nurse never lost her smile. She’d obviously dealt with his kind before.
Taking a seat on the little round stool, she wheeled herself to a computer. “Now that we have that out of the way, my name is Tracy, and I’m going to ask you some really easy questions, just to give Dr. Nelson a place to start. How is the pain from one to ten, ten being ‘the hounds of hell are in my hand’?”
Wow. Naomi hoped these questions were specific to each patient. She’d hate to see a seven-year-old handle a question like that.
“Six,” Chance answered.
“So, hand went through a window. Got it.” Tracy winked at Naomi, who giggled. The patient did not see the humor.
“Have you tried moving your fingers at all?”
“Yeah, I’ve been trying.”
“You have?” Naomi asked. He hadn’t mentioned that.
“Good,” Tracy said. “That’s going to make today much easier.”
Despite the cheerful delivery, Naomi began to worry. Surely they didn’t expect him to make a fist or something. Not after a week.
“Do we need to call in a refill on the pain medication?”
“No,” Chance snapped.
Tracy stood and rolled the stool under the desk. “Then you’re finished with me. I’ll let Dr. Nelson know you’re ready and we’ll be right back.”
As the door clicked shut, Chance muttered, “Did she say we?”
“She did.”
“Great.” He began picking at the gauze around his wrist. “Give me something sharp to stick in here.”
“If I get my hands on something sharp, I’m going to stick it somewhere you aren’t going to like. Now stop being a baby and just wait.”
“It itches, dammit.”
“I’m going to itch you.”
Two knocks sounded on the door, and Neal stepped inside. “Good morning. How are we doing today?”
Naomi replied, “Good,” while Chance demanded, “Get this thing off.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake.” She should have made him come in alone, but then he’d have shredded the bandage the moment the nurse had left him alone. “Will you give it a rest?”
“You wear this shit for a week and see how you like it.”
Neal looked from one to the other. “So we’re good, then.” As he reached for the injured hand, the nurse returned with a pile of metal tools. “Chance, you’re about to get your way, but we need to remove the bandage slowly, so we don’t damage the work we’ve already done.”
The pair worked for ten minutes, removing layer after layer of thin white gauze. Once the outside strips were gone, the remaining gauze changed to a dark yellow, then orange. When the fingers were finally revealed, the tips were swollen to twice their normal size. The last layer of gauze emerged, dotted with blood, and Naomi looked away. The process slowed, she assumed because they were nearing the incision, and Chance’s occasional grunts of pain increased the nausea churning in her stomach.
“That’s the last piece,” Neal said, and Naomi made the mistake of glancing over his shoulder.
“Oh my God,” she mumbled.
“I know.” Neal leaned closer. “Looks great, doesn’t it?”
Three jagged lines of stitches fanned out from a point just below Chance’s middle finger. The hand itself looked red and swollen, and if that’s what Neal considered great looking, he needed his eyes adjusted.
“Does it hurt?” she asked Chance.
“Not bad,” he replied. A second later, Neal moved his middle finger. “Motherfu—”
“I don’t think you should do that again!” Naomi yelled over the outburst. “I mean. Clearly, you’re hurting him.”
Neal appeared unfazed by both of them. “Moving the fingers is necessary to assess the healing.” Looking up at Chance, he added, “The cursing is fine, but if the pain is too much, I can give you a local to temporarily numb the hand.”
“I’m good,” he muttered, chest heaving and jaw tight. “Go ahead.”
With a gentle touch, Neal moved the ring finger. Chance nearly shoved him through the wall.
“A local is a good idea,” Naomi said, helping the doctor to his feet. “Why don’t we do that.”
The surgeon nodded. “Let’s. Tracy—”
“I’m on it,” the nurse said, already halfway out the door.
Chapter 25
PT was going to be a bitch. Chance walked out of the doc’s office with a
smaller bandage, a numb left arm, and a date with a physical therapist for the following Tuesday. He’d been instructed to use the hand, moving the fingers as much as possible, within reason. To hell with that. After the pain that shot up his arm with one little twitch, Chance would be babying the hell out of the thing for as long as he could.
“I’m glad that’s over with,” Naomi said, standing beside him in the elevator. “I thought I was going to lose my breakfast.”
“Yeah,” he said with sarcasm. “Neal was really tough on you up there.”
She hugged his good arm. “Okay, so I had the easy part. But still. That hand is ugly.”
“Uglier than it was with half a window sticking out of it?”
Glossy lips curled. “No. But I didn’t do great that night, either. Good thing that lady in the ER recognized a panic attack when she saw one.”
How had he missed that? All Chance remembered was a calm and commanding Naomi, who’d likely saved his life. “You had a panic attack?”
“Not until they took you back and made me stay in the waiting room.” Hazel eyes rolled. “Not my finest moment.”
Feeling like a class-A jerk, he said, “Sorry I put you through that.”
Naomi kissed him on the cheek. “You’re getting good at this ‘I’m sorry’ stuff, but no need on this one. The adrenaline crashed and my brain didn’t know what else to do.”
“Still.” Chance made a silent vow never to put her through that again.
The elevator doors parted, but neither he nor Naomi moved to get off. Standing before them was the last person either expected to see.
“Hello, Naomi,” her mother said. With a subtle nod his way, she added, “Chance.”
“Mother, what are you doing here?”
Silk scarf tied neatly around a slim neck, the older woman hugged a leather purse to her side. “I knew today was Chance’s appointment. Since you haven’t taken my calls, I decided to come see you in person.”
The doors started to close, but Naomi stopped them. Chance would have done that for her, but she was holding the only good hand he had in a vise grip.
“I haven’t not taken your calls, Mother. You sent one text demanding that I call you. One text.”