by Robin Kaye
CHAPTER 8
Storm took the last sip of his quad-shot Americano and checked the address he’d scrawled on a piece of paper. Francis and Patrice’s house was a rehabbed row home in a gentrified neighborhood about a block from Coffey Park. There were still signs of the ramshackle neighborhood he’d pictured while taking down the address, but the neighborhood had changed and Francis’s home was one of the nicest in the area.
He climbed out of Pete’s ancient Jeep Cherokee and locked it before rubbing his tired eyes. He hadn’t slept for shit. He spent most of the night roaming the empty apartment and kicking his own ass before he gave up and went on a punishing sunrise run. Nothing helped.
Francis opened the door, holding on his hip a beautiful toddler, who, thank God, looked just like her mama. Francis’s smile fell. “You look like crap.”
“Thanks.” Storm looked past him into the formal living room to find high ceilings, crown molding, and beautiful hardwood floors with surprisingly formal couches. A flat-screen TV hung from the wall, and a big plastic dollhouse sat in a corner littered with half-naked Barbie dolls, plastic furniture, cars, and doll clothes.
“Nicki,” Patrice called as she walked out of the eat-in kitchen, wiping her hands on a towel, and stopped at the bottom of the steps, “your big brother is here.”
Brother? Shit. Storm rubbed his aching head. He’d never thought about it, but he guessed he and Nicki were related—the same way he was related to Logan and Slater. He had never thought of Nicki as anything more than a kid he had to deal with. What kind of big brother did that make him? Damn.
Nicki ran down the hardwood stairs in socks and slid to a stop in front of him. One of her pigtails was tied higher than the other, making her look crooked. “Where’s Bree?”
Storm couldn’t very well say she was at home wishing him dead, so he just shrugged and handed Nicki a bag of clothes he’d scavenged from her drawers. He didn’t know what little girls wore, but he tossed a few things together after Patrice reminded him to. “Why don’t you go change so we can go pick up Pop? He’s coming home today.”
“Sure. Is Bree meeting us there?”
“No need, kid. I’m here now.”
She gave him a worried look. “Bree always picks me up. How come she’s not here?”
“Because I am.”
Nicki took the bag from him, looked inside, and glared at him. “Bree knows I hate these shorts.”
“Yeah, well, I didn’t. You can change later if you don’t like what I brought.”
She let out a groan and headed back upstairs, but not before shooting him that universal pissed-off-female glare.
Francis, Patrice, and their squirming daughter watched him. He was batting a thousand today. He stuffed his hands in his pockets and rolled his neck. “What do they do, Patrice? Pull girls aside in preschool and teach them how to shoot daggers at unsuspecting males?”
“No, I think it’s a genetic trait.”
“Good to know.”
“So,” Patrice said, stepping toward him, “I take it things didn’t go well last night.”
“That’s putting it mildly.” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “It’s probably better this way.”
Francis laughed. “Could have fooled me. You look like you’ve crawled through the nine circles of hell since you got back.”
“I have. I’ve been back less than forty-eight hours, and people wonder why I rarely come home.”
Francis handed the ankle biter off to Patrice and punched Storm in the arm. “It has nothing to do with coming home; it has to do with the way you left. You need to make up for sins of the past.”
“Frankie, if I wanted to talk to a priest, I’d go to confession.”
“If only it were only that simple.” Francis picked up a stray Barbie shoe. “It’s going to take a lot more than a few Hail Marys and a couple trips around the ol’ rosary to solve all your problems. But it will be a hell of a long visit unless you and Bree get your shit worked out.”
Patrice put the little girl down and gave her a pat on the tush. “Little ears, Francis. Little ears and big mouths.”
Francis put his arm around Patrice and kissed her temple. “Sorry, babe.”
Storm blinked his gritty eyes, wondering if he was seeing things. Frankie, Patrice, kids…It was too weird. “How long is Nicki going to take? I’ve got to get Pop home.”
“You can leave Nicki here with me, and I can drop her off later.”
“Thanks, Patrice, but I’ll take care of Nicki and Pop.”
“Oh, you will, huh?” She threw the towel over her shoulder. “Did you think to go grocery shopping?”
“No.”
“When were you planning to do that?”
Shit. “I don’t know.” He hadn’t so much as looked in the refrigerator. “Pop owns a restaurant; I’m sure I can order something up.”
“He’s on a special diet.”
“He is?”
Patrice rolled her eyes. “A heart-healthy diet. Lean meats, low cholesterol, no processed food, fruits, and vegetables.”
“I’ll take care of it.”
“I guess you’ll have to arrange a visiting nurse.”
“I will?”
“Didn’t you talk to Bree about any of this?”
“No.”
“I see. Does she even know you’re here?”
“Not exactly. I told her last night that I’d take care of Pop and Nicki, and that’s what I plan to do.”
“All alone?”
“Hey, I’m a capable guy. If Bree can do it and run the restaurant, then I should have no problem handling Pop and Nicki.”
Patrice shook her head. “Bree couldn’t do it. That’s why she called Logan. At least she was smart enough to know she was out of her depth.”
“Are you insinuating I’m not?”
“I’m not insinuating anything—I’m stating a fact.” She crossed her arms and raised an eyebrow. “If I were you, I’d get on my fancy cell phone, call Bree, and at least tell her your plans. The two of you are making this a lot harder than it has to be.”
Patrice had no idea how hard it was last night to let Bree go. He kept telling himself he was doing the right thing, but he didn’t know why it felt so damn wrong. “I’m the last person she wants to talk to.”
“It doesn’t really matter what either of you want. We’re not in high school anymore, Storm. It’s time the two of you started acting like adults. You have Nicki and Pete depending on you now.”
“Don’t you think I know that? Hell, that’s why I’m here in the first place. If it weren’t for Pop and Nicki, I’d be a world away.”
“Right now you’re working at cross-purposes. Unless you and Bree figure out how to work together, you might as well go back to Auckland. They’d all be better off without you.”
Patrice couldn’t have done more damage if she’d had Francis take him out back to beat on him. His mouth opened, but the invisible grip she had around his windpipe hadn’t relaxed, so he was unable to choke out a response before she turned on her heel and went upstairs, hopefully to hurry Nicki along.
Francis leaned against the wall, his eyes following Patrice’s progress up the steps. “Looks like you really stepped in it this time.” Storm wasn’t sure if he was talking about with Patrice or Breezy. “What the hell happened last night?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing? The way you carried Bree up the stairs didn’t look like nothing to me.”
“Mind your own business, Frankie.”
“Hey, man. I’m trying to help you out here. Did you talk at all? I’ve been married for a while now—long enough to pick my way through a female minefield or two. You don’t stay married and alive without surviving a few of them.”
Storm rubbed the back of his neck, hoping to relieve some of the tension. “I’m not looking to navigate Bree’s minefield. I just need to take care of Pop and Nicki and stay as far away from Bree as I can.”
“Good luck with that.” Fra
ncis laughed. “You’re living in the same apartment, bro.”
“She went home.”
“Storm, you do realize she lives across the damn hall, don’t you?”
“After what happened last night, I couldn’t be any farther away from Bree Collins if I were sitting in an igloo in Antarctica.”
Francis whistled through his teeth. “That bad, huh?”
There was no need to answer. Storm just shoved his hands deeper into his pockets and rocked back on his heels.
Francis checked his watch and then snatched his uniform shirt off the banister, dragged it on over his T-shirt, and looked up the steps. “Patrice, girls, I have to leave for work.”
Patrice and three little girls—one of whom was Nicki—ran down the steps and took turns hugging and kissing Francis good-bye. Storm had never seen anything like it. It looked like something out of a freakin’ 1950s TV show. All that was different were the clothes and Patrice’s lack of pearls. Francis pulled Nicki into his arms and gave her a smacking kiss on the cheek before tugging on one of her off-kilter pigtails. “You keep Storm in line for me, Nicki. Okay?”
Nicki nodded, looking as uncomfortable as Storm felt. They were two outsiders looking in—afraid to get too close, afraid to get too big a dose of the happy-family vibes ricocheting around them, afraid to want to be part of something like that. It cost too much to want what Francis and Patrice had—people like him didn’t get happily-ever-afters. Storm didn’t deserve one, but Nicki did.
As soon as Francis released Nicki, she backed away and wrapped her arms around herself like a shield. Storm looked down to find he’d done the same thing. Damn. He had to help the poor kid out, so he put his hand on Nicki’s shoulder and gave it a squeeze. Nicki looked so all-alone watching the Red Hook version of Father Knows Best. “Come on, kid. Let’s go pick up Pop.”
Patrice squatted down in front of Nicki. “Give me a hug and a kiss good-bye, sweetie.”
Nicki shuffled her feet and allowed Patrice to envelop her in a hug. She stood stiffer than one of the Queen’s Guards outside Buckingham Palace. Shit, couldn’t Patrice give the kid a break? Didn’t she see how uncomfortable all her hugs and kisses made her?
Nicki pulled out of Patrice’s hold as soon as she could and turned to the door. “Can I go home?”
“Don’t you want to pick up Pop?”
She shook her head, looking at her sneaker, which was trying to dig a hole in the hardwood floor. He’d seen that before; the kid was hiding something.
“Sorry, kiddo. I need to pick up Pop, and I don’t think you’re old enough to stay alone. You’re stuck with me.” He opened the door and turned back to Patrice. “Thanks for everything. We’ll see you around.”
Patrice sashayed to him, pulled him into a hug, and gave him a smacking kiss on the cheek too. Nicki smiled up at him, enjoying his obvious discomfort. Damn, he wasn’t used to all this touchy-feely crap any more than Nicki was. He gave Patrice an awkward pat on the back, not exactly sure of what to do.
“Get used to it, Storm.” Patrice rubbed something off his cheek, probably lipstick. “People who care about you want to hug you.”
“Yeah, just don’t let your husband see you doing that. He’s beaten the crap out of me one too many times already.”
Patrice rolled her eyes. “Francis has changed a lot more than you know. He’s fine with me hugging friends. You’ll get used to it if you hang around long enough.”
“Not gonna happen. Thanks, though.” He didn’t think she bought the gratitude, but right now, he was so damn uncomfortable, he was past caring. He grabbed Nicki’s arm and dragged her along with him. “Is she always like that?” he asked under his breath.
“Like what? Hugging and stuff?”
“Yeah.”
“Pretty much. I can’t leave without getting a hug and a kiss. It’s weird.”
“Tell me about it.” He feigned a shiver.
“You kind of get used to it after a while. It’s not as awful as it used to be.”
“Good to know.” Storm crossed the street and went around the car to open the door for Nicki. When he looked around, she wasn’t there. He looked across the street and saw her standing on the curb. “Nicki, come here, kid.”
“I can’t.”
“Why the hell not?” He slammed the door and went back around the car.
“’Cause I’m not allowed to cross a street without holding a grown-up’s hand.”
“Aw, for crying out loud. That’s ridiculous.”
“Yeah, but Bree said she’d ground me for a week if I tried it again, and she’s got spies everywhere.” Nicki looked over her shoulder to the house where Patrice watched through the front window.
“Fine.” Storm crossed the street in three strides, took Nicki by the hand, and walked her across the street, cursing under his breath. He opened the passenger door and waited for the kid to get in.
Nicki stood there, wide-eyed.
“What’s the problem now?”
“I’m not old enough to ride in front. You gotta be twelve years old or ninety pounds, and I’m neither.”
“Seriously? Who the hell made that rule?”
Nicki shrugged and climbed into the backseat. She fastened the seat belt, and Storm tossed the bag of dirty clothes in beside her. He got in and looked at her through the rearview mirror. “Hell, I was younger than you the first time I drove a car.”
“Really?”
“Yeah.” He didn’t mention that he and a few of the guys in his gang hot-wired it and took it for a joyride.
“Can you teach me to drive?”
“Sure. We have some time to kill before Pop will be ready.” He looked around and turned down a street that looked familiar, heading toward the docks. There were always empty parking lots around the falling-down warehouses. He pulled into one and opened the driver’s side door. Nicki jumped out and came around. He pointed out the gas pedal and the brake, showed her how to shift from park to drive and reverse, and slid across the bench seat of the old Jeep. She crawled in behind the wheel, and he adjusted the seat until she could reach the pedals. “Okay, now, be gentle with it. Don’t go stomping on the gas, or we’ll go flying. Just get a feel for it.”
“Okay.” Nicki pressed on the gas, and the car lurched forward.
“Lightly, kid, and don’t forget to steer.” He helped turn the wheel so they didn’t run over the grass separating the parking lot from the street. She let off the gas, and the car rolled along. “Okay, step on the brake, and then back up.”
Nicki slammed on the brake, and the two of them—neither of whom was wearing a seat belt—slid forward. “Maybe you should buckle up.”
“Yeah, okay.”
He grabbed Nicki’s seat belt and pulled it around her little body. The kid was so small, she could barely see over the dashboard. Was he ever that little? He didn’t think so, but he must have been. He braced his hand on the dash. “Now put the car in reverse like I showed you, and look over your right shoulder so you can see if anyone is behind you.”
“I can’t see over the seat.”
“Yeah, next time, we need to bring a pillow or a phone book for you to sit on.”
The kid looked over at him and smiled so wide, she nearly blinded him. “You’re gonna let me drive again?”
“Sure, you’re a good driver. You haven’t hit anything yet.”
“There’s nothing to hit.”
“Kid, when I was your age, I could find shit to hit. You’re doing great. Really.” He patted her knee and was surprised to find himself smiling back at her. “Okay,” he said while looking over his shoulder, “throw it in reverse and remember when you’re going backward, you turn the wheel in the direction you want the back end to go, but watch because the front end will swing the other way. Give it some gas, hold the wheel, and I’ll help you out.”
He turned the wheel toward himself, and the car moved slowly toward the right; then he turned the wheel to the left, and together they made an S.
&
nbsp; “That’s so cool!”
“Yeah, I guess it is.” He checked his watch. “Okay, kiddo. Time to go pick up Pop. I’ll drive.”
“Oh, Storm, do we have to? Can we take one more run around the parking lot?”
“One more and then you promise not to pout?”
“I don’t pout.”
“Yeah, right. You’re female; you pout.”
“Boys don’t pout?”
“No. Women pout; men brood.”
“What’s the difference?”
“When pouting doesn’t work, it leads to crying. When brooding doesn’t work, it leads to fighting.”
“I don’t cry.”
“How come?”
“It doesn’t work, and it makes me feel bad. Why bother?”
“Crying is a little girl’s way of getting rid of hurt feelings and frustration—it always works.”
“You don’t cry much, do ya?”
“Nope.”
“Then what do you know?”
“Not much, I guess.” The longer Storm hung around Bree and Nicki, the less he knew. Patrice was right—he was completely out of his depth.
* * *
Storm leaned over the counter of the nurse’s station. “What do you mean, Pete Calahan left?”
The nurse checked her notes. “His daughter came to pick him up about twenty minutes ago.” She looked back at him, bemused. “He went willingly.”
Storm scrubbed his hand over his face. “Yeah, but they told me they wouldn’t release him until noon. I was early.”
“Sir, I’m sorry you and your wife got your wires crossed.”
“She’s not—” There was no point in telling the nurse that Breezy wasn’t his wife. “Thank you for your help.” He turned and made sure Nicki was with him. He’d almost lost her once today. On the way to Pop’s floor, Storm got on the elevator and didn’t realize Nicki hadn’t made it in before the doors closed. After nearly having a heart attack, he got off at the first opportunity, ran down two flights of stairs, and found her waiting in front of the elevator bank. He wasn’t going to take any chances with losing the kid again. He reached for her hand.