by Freya Barker
Bree is just coming out of the elevator when I walk up, immediately casting a suspicious glance over my shoulder at the door of the suite.
“He’s still breathing, if that’s what you’re worried about,” I bite off, which earns me a punch in the shoulder.
“Playing with fire, Hutch,” she admonishes me. “But I was actually hoping our golden boy had dragged his ass out of bed by now. I want to get going before too many crazy fans have a chance to gather. There’s a few circling the parking lot already.”
“He’s up. You may want to get him to shower first, though. He fucking stinks.”
“Wonderful,” Bree grumbles, walking past me toward the door, where she stops. “By the way, I was at the office at the butt crack of dawn, making sure you have everything you need. There’s a list with contacts and numbers I left with Radar, and you’ll need to let the GJPD know we are pulling out today. I wasn’t able to get hold of the guy in charge of the hit-and-run investigation, Bergland—he never returned my message—and we don’t want him getting the wrong idea when he finds out for himself we’ve pulled up stakes.”
“He wouldn’t be wrong,” I point out, earning me an eye-roll.
“Just don’t forget.”
“As soon as I get to the office,” I promise.
It looks like the place cleared out while I was upstairs, because other than Dimas, who is doctoring up a coffee in the coffee shop, the lobby is virtually empty.
“Everyone head out?”
“All but pretty boy upstairs, but Bree’s got him covered. The trailers are lined up in convoy along Third Street, I’m just grabbing a coffee for the road,” he smirks.
“You have the whole production waiting on you?”
Dimi grins wide. “Yup. Tit for tat. They’ve done nothing but keep me waiting for the past month or so.” He elbows me in the ribs in passing. “You better get moving too. They were loading the equipment on the trucks at the warehouse, last time I checked, but you’d better head over and make sure they’re on their way in short order as well. Just give me a heads-up when they leave.”
I watch him walk out the front doors, and get into the passenger side of a company Tahoe with the PASS logo on the side. One of our guys is behind the wheel, and he doesn’t waste any time pulling away from the curb, a long line of limos and trailers following behind.
Fucking Dimi.
ROSIE
Waiting is torture.
They’d warned us surgery would be two hours, minimum, but it could be longer.
Well, it’s been four hours and we haven’t seen anyone.
Since we ended up at St. Mary’s anyway, and apparently it was a busy morning in the emergency room, Hillary was pulled in to work. I guess it’s still busy in the ER because I haven’t seen her since. Luckily Grant showed up, so even after Jake left, I was not alone. Not that it matters much. Grant, tired from working the night shift and not feeling well, is curled up on the other love seat across from me in the small waiting room, snoring like a wild boar. I can’t sleep. I’ve tried, but my mind won’t let me rest.
Good thing I was somewhat prepared for emergencies, because when we got back to the trailer, all I had to do was grab the folder with all Mom’s medical and insurance information. Jake insisted on driving me to the hospital, and Hillary said she’d follow as soon as she packed a few things for us.
I guess she’d drawn her own conclusions based on Jake’s description of how we found Mom, and guessed, quite accurately, we’d be spending some significant time in the hospital. So she had grabbed some things for Mom, but also packed a change of clothes for me, along with a few toiletries I might need. The last thing she’d tossed in the duffel bag were a few bottles of water and some granola bars, one of which I’m munching on.
It’s well past lunchtime, and the last thing I ate was around midnight: a handful of fries and a bite of that burger that churned in my stomach all night. Of course, the horrible coffee from the vending machine, outside the closed cafeteria this morning, didn’t exactly help. The granola bar feels a little better in my stomach, although what would really be nice is a hot tea.
As if conjured from thin air, Jake walks into the waiting room, carrying a paper bag and a cardboard tray with four take-out cups bearing the logo of a coffee shop around the corner.
“Any news?” he asks, setting the tray and bag on the table.
“Still waiting.” I have my feet up on the love seat and move to make room for him, but he sits down and simply lifts my feet on his lap.
“Stay,” he orders. “I didn’t know what you wanted, so I brought a couple of coffees, a hot chocolate, and a tea. I also snagged a few sandwiches because I wasn’t sure if you’d eaten.”
It takes me less than a second to find the tea and am pleased to spot a few containers of milk in the bag.
“Thank you,” I mumble after having taken my first sip. That feels so good in my stomach.
I notice Jake watching me, one side of his mouth tilted up, and I realize I may have moaned out loud.
“What are you doing here? Aren’t you supposed to be working?”
“Just came from the office, thought I’d check on you before I head home. Haven’t been there in weeks, for all I know, it’s no longer standing.”
“You didn’t have to go out of your way,” I indicate, trying hard not to show I’m fishing for info. Judging from the flash of a smile on his face as he digs a sandwich from the bag, I failed.
“The office is near the airport and I have a place on the corner of Cortland and Twenty-eighth,” he says, taking a hearty bite of what looks to be a club sandwich. My stomach starts rumbling on cue. “There’s a few more in there.” He gestures at the bag and I dive in.
We eat in companionable silence for a bit, when Grant says something unintelligible in his sleep, and promptly resumes snoring.
“He been here the whole time?” Jake wants to know.
“He wasn’t feeling well. He’s been asleep almost since they wheeled mom into the OR. He’s dead to the world.”
The words have barely left my mouth when the door opens, and a doctor I’d seen briefly earlier today walks in wearing surgical scrubs. Grant shoots up in his seat, disoriented, and rubbing the sleep from his eyes.
“Ms. Perkins? Is this all family?” he asks, and I quickly nod. Grant is as good as, and Jake’s the one who quietly talked to her to keep her calm while we waited for the ambulance, and the one who held me as I fell apart after. He’s already seen the worst of us. “Very well,” he responds to my acknowledgment. “The surgery itself went well. We were able to stabilize the neck of the femur, where the fracture was located.” He takes a breath and I brace myself, because it’s already clear from his demeanor that not everything went smoothly. “Your mother didn’t respond well to the anesthesia,” he continues, “something that is always a risk in elderly patients. Especially those who already have some medical issues. We had to restart her heart twice in the OR, successfully, and she’s been taken to recovery. You’ll be able to see her in a little bit, but only for a few minutes. Given the problems she had during surgery, we need to monitor her closely. It’s too soon to know what, if any, long-term effects she will have, but I think it’s safe to say if you have already looked at possible placements in nursing homes, you may want to narrow it down. If not, you’ll want to start looking in short order. Even just the recovery from the hip surgery will require at least a few months of rehabilitative care in a full-care facility.”
My head is spinning, trying to process the information without letting panic set in. I can feel Jake’s warm hand wrapped around my ankles, but I can’t concentrate on anything.
Mom almost died. Twice.
Even as I try to come up with questions to ask, the two things that keep flashing in my mind are the facts I almost lost her, and the modest balance line on my bank account statement.
“Will someone let us know when Rosie can see her mom?” Grant asks on my behalf, and I manage to shoot him
a little smile.
“A nurse will come get you and we will make sure you’re kept up-to-date at all times.”
“Thank you,” I manage, as he nods and leaves the room, letting the door fall shut behind him.
The nurse finally comes to get me forty minutes later.
I just sent Grant home, he still wasn’t feeling the greatest and wanted a shower and his bed. Jake, on the other hand, was unmovable. He insisted on sticking around, no matter what I said.
Hillary popped in to check, on the first break she had since we got here this morning. Apparently things still haven’t let up in the ER, and she’ll likely be busy for another few hours before she can hand off to the next shift. She promised to check in with me first thing in the morning; after I assured her I’ll be all right by myself tonight.
I’ve also just hung up with the hotel’s night manager, to update him on my mother’s condition. I mention needing to take some personal time, something Grant strongly suggested and Jake agreed with, to make sure my mother is looked after. He didn’t give me too much trouble, said I wouldn’t be docked for time missed so far, but since I have no vacation time saved up, it would have to be unpaid leave.
I’d figured that already, but there’s little I can do about it. It is what it is. Technically, today and tomorrow are my weekend, but come Wednesday, I’m officially without income.
I don’t get much of a chance to fret about it, because just then the nurse pokes her head in and introduces herself as Kim.
“I’ll wait here,” Jake rumbles when I get up to follow her. Almost instinctively, I open my mouth to tell him there’s no need, but just as quickly shut it. I don’t know what to expect when I see Mom, and I don’t really want to come back to an empty room.
The nurse leads the way down the hall, where she stops in front of a double door that reads Intensive Care Unit, and turns to me.
“Just so you know, your mother woke up briefly earlier but was quite confused and combative when we attempted to do some cognitive tests on her. We had to sedate her so she wouldn’t hurt herself, and moved her here to the ICU for now. She will be sleeping and is hooked up on monitors. I want you to be prepared,” Kim adds in a sympathetic voice that almost has me in tears, but I steel myself and follow her inside.
“You can hold her hand and talk to her, she may be able to hear you, even if she doesn’t respond,” she says, pointing at the stool beside the hospital bed that holds my mother.
It’s amazing how small she looks; lying there hooked up to IVs and attached to wires. Her hair, which had just been done a few days ago, stood out from her head in clumps, making her face look even more gaunt. She looks like she’s aged twenty years in one day.
Tears burn in my eyes as I dig through my purse, looking for the hair pick I usually carry on me.
“Gave me quite a scare there, Mom,” I mumble, as I gently work the tangles from her hair. “If you’d have waited for me to come home, I would’ve gone with you to feed the ducks. I know you love that pond. It’s such a pretty spot, like a little oasis in the dry land around us.” I prattle on, spouting mostly nonsense. Anything to keep me from focusing on the beeping of the machines she’s hooked up to. “That’s looking better already,” I tell her, running my hand over her soft, rather sparse hair, now spread on her thin pillow like a halo. “You always did have pretty hair.”
Not long after, Kim pokes her head around the curtain.
“Looks good,” she says, smiling at me.
I know it’s time to go and kiss the top of Mom’s hand, noticing how papery thin her skin has become. How fragile she is.
They say roles reverse. That those who raised us, looked after us growing up, become the ones who need to be nurtured in the end. I don’t know that my mother could ever have been considered nurturing, that would’ve been more my father, but there is no doubt I feel fiercely protective of her.
Jake is standing by the window, talking on his phone, when I come in.
“Gotta go.” With his eyes on me, he hangs up the phone, just in time to open his arms for me to walk into, planting my face in his chest.
“Ah, Rosie,” he rumbles, cupping the back of my head in his big palm.
CHAPTER 10
JAKE
“I put a few towels by the sink for you.”
Rosie throws me a little smile and disappears into my bathroom, pulling the door shut behind her. Other than Dimas, I’ve never had anyone in my house before.
It had been surprisingly easy to get her to come with me. She looked worn, emotionally drained, and plain exhausted when she walked into the waiting room, and it took me all of one second to see she’d had enough. All I did was mention my house was close, and that after a shower and a little rest I’d have her right back at the hospital, for her to concede. We stopped by the nurses’ station to tell them we were leaving and made sure they also had my name and phone number, just in case.
She let me guide her to my vehicle, not even mentioning her piece of shit I left parked at the hotel this morning when I grabbed my truck, and stared blindly out the window for the five minutes it took me to drive home.
Thankfully, my fridge holds half a carton of eggs that still fall within the best-before date, and I keep some bread in the freezer. It’s been a while since I’ve been home, let alone grocery shopping. I’m also not a great cook, by any stretch of the imagination, but I can do the scrambled eggs and toast she seems to like. The woman currently naked in my shower—something I’m trying not to linger on—needs to get some food in her before she collapses. I think she took two bites from the sandwich I brought her and that was a few hours ago.
I’m about to go check on her, when twenty minutes later I hear the shower finally turn off. It takes her another ten minutes to come walking into the kitchen. She’s changed out of the work clothes she’d still been wearing, into the clothes Hillary packed for her. Some stretchy pair of pants and a large T-shirt with a scoop neck, which seems to keep sliding off her shoulder. Not sure if it’s supposed to or not, but it makes for an enticing picture.
“Have a seat.” I point to the stools tucked underneath the kitchen island.
My kitchen isn’t huge—it’s just a small, two-bedroom, adobe bungalow—and when I’m here, I either eat at the island or on the couch in front of the TV. I never bothered to invest in a dining room table, since I don’t really spend much time here anyway. In fact, I don’t have much furniture at all, other than a couch, coffee table and TV, and a bed and dresser in the master. The other bedroom holds only my treadmill and weight bench. It takes the crew of two, who come here once a month, maybe an hour to clean the place.
“Want some eggs and toast?” I ask, already popping the bread down in the toaster, without waiting for an answer. I take out the pan of scrambled eggs I kept warm in the oven.
“Sure.” It’s the first word I’ve heard her say since she saw her mother. A small blush makes the freckles stand out on her pale cheeks, when she catches me watching her braid her wet hair. “If I don’t, it turns into a Brillo pad,” she explains. I doubt that gorgeous red hair of hers could look anything but lush, but I keep it to myself and just smile.
“I’m out of jam,” I mention as the toast pops up. “But I have some butter.” Not sure why I said that, I’ve never bought a jar of jam in my fucking life. I don’t even like the stuff, it’s too sweet, but I find myself wishing I could offer her some.
“Butter’s fine.”
She ends up eating only some of the eggs and half a piece of toast, but it’s something.
I install her in front of the TV on the couch, since she says she’s too restless to sleep. I busy myself washing the few dishes we dirtied, and doing some work on my laptop sitting at the counter. I don’t know how long it’s been but I find myself yawning constantly, and when I look over at the couch, Rosie is curled up on her side, fast asleep. At some point she must have loosened the braids in her hair, because most of her face is covered with the curls.
; It’s getting dark outside, and a quick glance at my computer screen shows it’s almost nine. I’m willing to bet she hasn’t slept much in the past few days, and frankly, I haven’t either. Resolutely I close my computer, turn off the TV, and carefully scoop Rosie in my arms, carrying her to the bedroom. She is dead to the world and doesn’t even flinch when I lay her down, covering her with only a sheet. I’d love nothing better than to crawl in bed with her, but I’m not so sure that’s a good idea. I leave the room, pull the door almost shut behind me, and hit the bathroom for a quick shower.
It’s tempting—standing under the hot stream and thinking of Rosie, naked in my shower a short while ago—to slide a fist over my hard cock and jerk off. Something about that seems wrong though. Doesn’t matter that the woman, at the top of my current spank bank list, is currently sleeping on the other side of a very thin wall—I can’t bring myself to rub one out.
Fucking hell.
Still tired, but now painfully frustrated as well, I step out of the shower and quickly dab myself dry. I slip into the bedroom, dig a pair of boxers from my drawer, and bend over to put them on, dropping the towel from around my hips. I thought she was sleeping, but the sharp intake of breath from the bed behind me tells a different story.
“You’re awake.” I point out the obvious as I quickly tug my underwear over my ass. Not that I have an issue being naked, but she may.
“Erm...yes.” Her voice is thick and drowsy with sleep. Sexy as hell.
“Go back to sleep,” I urge her softly, as I head for the door.
“Where are you going?”
Something in the tone of her voice has me stop in my tracks and turn around. She looks like a fucking wet dream; her long shiny hair draped all over my pillow, one of her legs slightly cocked at the knee and falling open, and her eyes sparkling under heavy eyelids.
“The couch,” I answer after clearing my throat. “I’ll crash on the couch.” I’m not sure why I’m repeating myself; I guess I need the extra push. I still stand unmoving with the door in my hand, but my eyes feasting on her, when she pushes up on an elbow.