Shame the Devil (Portland Devils Book 3)

by Rosalind James

  “No worries,” he said.

  “Your season’s over, I guess,” she said. “So are you someplace warm?”

  “Nope,” he said. “And, yeah, it’s over.”

  “I did know that,” she said. “With the Super Bowl today, and you not being in it, because you dropped that pass.”

  Well, that was sensitive. Did people really think you didn’t care? That the money was enough to insulate you? All he said, though, was, “Yep. But that isn’t why I’m calling. Listen, Annabelle’s having a pretty rough time at home with Dad. We’re trying to figure out something better for her. He doesn’t want her to come live with me. I thought maybe you could work something out.”

  “What?” He could imagine her, sitting on the edge of her bed the same way he was doing, her mind full of those to-do lists Jennifer had talked about. “What kind of something?”

  He sighed. “That she could come live with you. Just until the end of summer. Until she’s eighteen, in September. After that, I’ll take her.”

  “Are you kidding?” She laughed, short and sharp. “Yeah, let’s just add that. Harlan, to tell the truth, I barely know her anymore. It’s been six years since I left. Do you know what that was like, having to come home every day after school to take care of her? All summer vacation? Never to get to have my own life? I’m sorry it’s hard, but I know exactly what it’s like for her, because I already did it. Except that she gets to play sports and have friends and be anywhere but home. And you want me to do this again? Seriously?”

  “She’s great,” he said. “A great kid. And I could help out.”

  “How?”

  “Whatever you need. Housekeeper. Babysitter. Also, Annabelle cooks, and I’ll bet she cleans, too. She might be more help than trouble.” He didn’t suggest money. He didn’t know his brother-in-law that well, but from what he knew … He didn’t suggest money.

  She said, “Hang on.” Some crosstalk happening, and then, after thirty seconds or so, Alison back on the line, saying, “Steve says, hell, no.”

  “To which thing?” He tried to joke, even though he’d never felt less like joking. “Annabelle, or the extra help?”

  “Annabelle,” she said. “I’m sorry, Harlan, but … I can’t. Even if Dad would let her, I just can’t. I don’t have room. We only have three bedrooms and one and a half baths as it is, and I’ve got so much on me right now.” The background noise faded, he heard a door shut, and she said more quietly, “It’s a little hard at the moment. Steve and me. I just … I can’t. For seven months? He’d leave.”

  He paused a minute. He wanted to say, If he’d leave because you had to help your sister for a few months, he’s not worth keeping, but he couldn’t. It was her marriage. It was her life. Instead, he said, “What can I do?”

  “For me? Nothing. I’m all right. I’m fine.”

  “He drinking?” he asked. Steve had gotten drunk at their wedding. Not that he was the first groom in history to do that, but still.

  A hesitation, then, “Not really. It’s just that—I have to focus on my own stuff now. There’s nobody else to do it. And anyway, it’s not that long until she’s eighteen. We all made it. Annabelle doesn’t even have to wait until she graduates, thanks to you. Which makes me wonder—when did you get so concerned? Tell her the secret is, you get out and don’t look back. Like you did.”

  That was some stabs of guilt he didn’t need. “You want to tell her that?”

  “Look,” she said. “I’ll call and give her some advice as soon as I have time.”

  “Maybe call a little more often,” he said. “I think she’s struggling. Really.”

  She sighed. “I’ll do my best, OK? I’ll invite her for Memorial Day weekend or something. But I’m not going back there. I can’t anyway. I used all my personal days on Mattie. I’ve got literally zero left.”

  “I get it,” he said. “I’ll see you, then.”

  “See you. Oh—happy birthday.”

  He hung up, contemplated calling his sister Vanessa, checked the time, and decided to try her tomorrow. She was a United flight attendant, based out of Miami, and it was … nearly eleven o’clock in Miami. He hadn’t seen her in almost five years, but she’d sent Annabelle dolls from all over the world when she was little. She might let her sister stay in her apartment over the summer. Worth a shot, and their dad had always liked Vanessa best. She’d been bright and breezy, a pretty party girl who’d known how to tease him and make him smile. And she’d have settled down by now, surely. Things changed when you got within shouting distance of thirty. He, for example, felt about a thousand years old.

  He had a couple of choices here. He could sit and marinate in thoughts of how he could have done a better job of holding his siblings together after their mom had left, instead of gratefully settling for the brotherhood of a football team, or …

  Or he could answer the knock on the door, eat his room-service dinner, text Annabelle back, and tell her he’d think of something else.

  He was just taking his first bite of chicken enchiladas when the phone rang again. Not his cell phone. The room phone. He chewed, swallowed, let it ring two more times, and picked up.

  It had better not be Owen.

  It pretty much had to be Owen. Saying … what? Asking him to make some excuse to Jennifer about why Dyma wasn’t coming home tonight? That wasn’t just going to be a no. It was going to be a hell, no.

  Also, how did a guy become the Protector of Women when he was so bad at it? Free and easy, that had always been him. It was going to keep being him. As soon as he got Annabelle squared away.

  And Dyma. Which was just for one more day.

  “Mr. Kristiansen?”

  “Yeah?”

  “This is Diane at the front desk. I have Ms. Cardello on the phone for you. Would you like me to put her through?”

  Just like that, there went his stupid heart again.

  Oh, wait. That could be Dyma, too. It probably was Dyma. What, now he couldn’t trust Owen?

  “Mr. Kristiansen?” the voice said again.

  “Yeah,” he said. “Please. Connect her.”

  A click, then, “You’re connected.”

  “Harlan?”

  He swung his feet off the bed and stood up, because there was way too much strain in that voice.

  “Jennifer?” he asked. “What’s happened?”

  A breathy attempt at a laugh. “You can’t believe how hard it was to get them to put me through, even after I reminded them that I’m in your party. I practically had to cry. I was going to tell them that I was your assistant, but your assistant would have your cell phone number. And your room number, too, because an assistant would have booked it. I told you I should’ve done it. Also, I’m extremely embarrassed here. I’m just going to say—this isn’t some weird ex-hookup calling you and telling you that she’s … I don’t know. What do ex-hookups call you and say, when they’re trying to be re-hookups? That they’re pregnant? That they’re suicidal?”

  He was smiling. Why was he smiling? “I can’t remember,” he said. “And you aren’t a hookup, ex or otherwise, remember?”

  “Yeah,” she said. “Because I didn’t sleep with you. That probably makes me unique.” She was sounding more cheerful.

  “Believe it or not,” he said, “I wouldn’t like you any less if I’d had sex with you.”

  “You say that now. How about if I was lousy at it?”

  He sat back down on the bed, stretched out his legs, grabbed his plate, and said, “You know what? I’m about a hundred percent certain you wouldn’t be. Did you get your dinner yet?”

  “I’m about to order,” she said. “Or I was.” Then she hesitated. Which was encouraging.

  “Want me to come over and eat with you?” he suggested. “Or, hey, even better. Bring it over here. The décor isn’t Moroccan, but it’s not bad.” Also, there was no Dyma here. Dyma could stay in the suite alone, because of course he could trust Owen.

  “I can’t,” she said, “becau
se I sort of … sliced my foot. Sorry, but I’ve made a mess. I’m pretty sure they’re going to charge your credit card.”

  25

  General Carnage

  He got to her room fast.

  When he knocked, she called, “Coming!” Then he heard a lot of muttering. He got, “Oh, shoot,” from the other side of the door, then, “Darn it,” and tried to remember how long it had been since he’d heard either of those expressions from a pretty woman.

  Then she opened the door, and … well, yeah. There was blood.

  Blood on the carpet. Blood seeping through the once-white towel she’d wrapped around her foot. Blood on her hands. Lots of blood.

  She said, “Sorry,” and laughed, sounding a little giddy. “This is some kind of record,” she told him. “I mean, there’s awkward, and then there’s this scenario. I’d have called Dyma, but … well, that’s the problem with being the mom. I’d have to tell her what to do, and I’m not sure what to do, other than call the front desk for some Band-Aids, and even then …”

  He wasn’t listening. He’d hoisted her into his arms, was carrying her over to the couch and putting her down. “Lie down,” he said. “You need to be on your back.”

  “That’s surprisingly sexy, under the circumstances,” she said. “Who knew you were so kinky?” But that towel was even redder now, and she was grabbing for it like she thought she could keep the blood contained. “And I can’t lie down here. I’d bleed all over the couch. Can you get me another towel, please? I was trying to just bleed in the bathroom, where it’s tiled. Why’d you have to get such a fancy room? The phone was way too far away. If we’d done that motel in Wyoming like Owen said, this would be a much cheaper date. Especially since they’d have plastic glasses.”

  “Would you shut up,” he said, “and lie down? This isn’t a joke.”

  “Well, yeah,” she said. “It kind of is. It’s not a disaster. It’s just really, really stupid. And I’m going to bleed on you, if you sit there.” But when he didn’t move, just stared at her, she sighed and lay down.

  He put her legs in his lap and started unwrapping the towel, and she said, “Don’t put that on the floor! You need to get a clean towel from the bathroom and put it on the coffee table first, then put the bloody one on top. Good thing they give you so many, because paying for these towels is going to be a whole lot cheaper than paying to clean this couch.”

  He didn’t pay attention to that, either. He took a look, then pressed a single layer of toweling against the arch of her foot, and the heel, too, because she’d cut both places. Deeply. He pressed hard, and she jumped and called out.

  “We need to stop the bleeding,” he said. “Have you been putting pressure on it?”

  “Yeah. I tried. But it kept bleeding.” The words came out breathy, because it was hurting bad. There’d better not be glass still in there, or he’d be making this worse.

  He grabbed the phone from the side table, and she eyed his bloodstained hands, breathed hard, and, for once, didn’t say anything. He hit 0 and said, “Yeah, hi. This is Harlan Kristiansen. I’m in the Morocco Suite with Jennifer, uh …”

  “Cardello,” she said.

  “Cardello,” he said. “We need a doctor up here. Fast as you can get him.”

  “Harlan,” Jennifer was saying, and some other stuff, but he wasn’t listening.

  “No ambulance,” he said. “No police. But we need a doctor.”

  “Police?” Jennifer said. “And there’s no way a doctor’s coming here.”

  “You think not?” he said, still pressing hard on her foot. “That’s the least of their worries. The clerk’s calling the manager right now, and he’s trying to figure out whether to call the cops, whatever I said. Ten bucks says they go with the cops. They can’t afford the publicity otherwise, if they allowed a woman to be injured to the point of bloodshed by an NFL player in one of their rooms and didn’t even report it when they found out. There’s too much blood here. The maids are going to talk. Also, you’re probably not somebody with … status, since I couldn’t remember your name, which will make it worse. What happened?”

  She said, “I … I cut myself. And it’s not my fault you can’t remember my name! What, I’m a hooker now?” The last part was a gasp. The wounds were still seeping despite the pressure, and he could tell they hurt like crazy. He couldn’t even tell exactly how much she was bleeding, because the towel was soaked. He thought about tendons and the arch of a foot, and started to worry.

  “I got that you cut yourself,” he said. Keep her talking. Keep her from freaking out. Although so far, she was about the least freaked-out woman he’d ever met. The only thing that seemed to be exercising her mind was that he’d actually care about her. “How did it happen?”

  “Dropped my wine glass,” she said. “In the bathroom. I slipped. Wet. And I was crying, which is stupid and embarrassing, but there you go. I knocked the glass off the counter with my elbow. I was jumping out of the way, and I jumped right down on some broken glass, I guess.”

  “Are the pieces still in there?” he asked. “In the cuts?”

  “No. They were, but I pulled them out. But they were big and sort of … wedged in, and then I wouldn’t stop bleeding. And I just realized what I should’ve done. I should’ve asked them to send a car to take me to the ER. My insurance is never going to cover a doctor coming here. Out of network. The ER’s bad enough. Oh, man.” She put a hand over her face. “This is going to be a thousand dollars even with insurance. If I’d gotten hit by the snowmobile, it would’ve at least been worker’s comp, since Blake sent me on that trip. For a stupid reason, but he did. Could I time travel back there, please? How do I explain this to him?”

  Harlan said, “Maybe you should assume you did the right thing, calling me, and that I’ve got this, and stop worrying about it. You know what’s funny, though?”

  She eyed him dubiously, but at least she’d taken her hand away from her face. “That I’m clumsy?”

  He smiled. “Nope. Annabelle just told me that my dad was throwing things when he got home from the Super Bowl party. Lost a bet, she thinks. So there’s broken glass over there, too. Another ten bucks says she’s the one who cleans it up.”

  “Yeah,” she said, “that’s hilarious. Harlan, that’s awful. You must be so worried about her. Is she all right?”

  He gave a shrug. He hoped it looked casual. He was afraid it looked helpless. “He’s the same as always, or close. I tried to get my other sister to take her, but … not so easy. She’s got her own life. Kids. Job. If my dad would even let Annabelle go.”

  “Couldn’t you go to the authorities?” she asked. “If he’s drinking that much, if he’s violent …”

  “He’s not violent. I told you. Not enough to count. And as far as I know, there’s no law against getting drunk around your kids.”

  She had one leg across his lap while he held her other foot in the air, and now, she reached out and touched his knee. “What have you tried? If you tell me, maybe we can think of something together. There must be something we can do.”

  He’d have answered, but there was another knock at the door. He said, “Hold that foot up. Prop it on your other knee, and keep the pressure on.”

  When he opened the door, it was the cops. Of course it was. Two of them, the older one in the doorway and the other one standing back, covering his partner. When they saw the blood on his hands, his arms, and his jeans, the atmosphere got a whole lot more interesting. Harlan sighed, kept his hands in view, and said, “Come on in, guys.”

  It was the Keystone Kops in here, Jennifer thought semi-wildly, half an hour or four hours or a day and a half later. The cops had turned to go—finally—after one of them had lost his professionalism enough to ask Harlan for an autograph for his son. A man in a black suit who had “resort manager rousted from bed” written all over him was coming in the door, and Owen and Dyma were following after him fast, Dyma calling out, “Mom? Mom?”

  Above Jennifer, the doct
or asked, “How long has it been since you’ve had a tetanus shot?”

  Jennifer giggled. She didn’t mean to. It was the pain medicine, probably. Probing and cleaning those wounds had hurt a lot, and she hadn’t been able to stop from making some noise. Now, though, she was feeling good. Floating. That shot had worked fast. It was seriously strong, too. She said, “Hey, wait. Did you give me that pain injection because of the cuts, or is it actually because NFL stars get the good stuff?”

  The doctor said, “Nope. We expect NFL stars to bite on a rolled towel,” and Harlan laughed. “Tetanus shot?” the doctor prompted.

  Jennifer giggled again. Maybe it wasn’t just the pain medicine. It could be the cops, the blood, Harlan, and the fact that her robe kept sliding above her knees, until she remembered and grabbed it. Or until Harlan did, because Harlan had been on Robe Duty quite a bit tonight. Given that her foot was resting on the back of the couch, and she was still naked underneath the thing. He was going to have to pay for that, too, because this robe would never be the same. Bleach could only do so much. She waved a hand and said, “I’m going to say … childhood? Infancy? In other words, I have no idea. But I don’t think this resort has tetanus in their bathroom. Do you have tetanus in your bathroom?” she asked the manager. “I’d love to think you clean better than that.”

  “Mom,” Dyma said, “what happened?”

  The doctor said, “Tetanus shot, then. I’ll give that in your upper arm, if you’ll just slip it out of that robe for me.”

  Jennifer said, “Yeah, maybe not. Then I’d really be naked, and Owen didn’t pay for a dance in the Champagne Room.” Which made Harlan laugh again, and Dyma say, “Mom. What?”

  The doctor said, “We’ll do the thigh, then,” Jennifer said, “Plenty of meat on there,” and Harlan grinned.