Kept (7 page)

He grabbed eggs and milk, tomatoes, green onions, and cheddar cheese from the refrigerator. His stomach tightened and growled, jabbing him from deep inside.

He should have eaten first.

He mixed eggs and milk, then set them aside to chop vegetables.

What next? He pulled a skillet from the cabinet. Oh, salt and pepper.

He set the skillet beside the cutting board, but his aim was off. The skillet’s handle banged the knife, and the knife flipped over the edge of the counter, somersaulting toward his feet.

Dillan jumped out of the knife’s way. His toes hit the floor but slid from beneath him. The floor came up fast, and he flung his hands down. His chest smashed on top of his arms. Something snapped, and pain rocketed up his right arm while his forehead smacked the bottom corner of a cabinet.

A warm, sticky liquid filled his eye. Oh no.

He rolled onto his back and wiped his left hand across his right eyebrow. Blood slid down the side of his head, into his hairline, into his ear.

This was bad. He forced himself up, wincing at the slightest movement of his arm.

Blood poured down his face, a thick, wet curtain over his eye. His pulse throbbed in his wrist.

On his feet, he teetered and leaned against the counter. He had to stop the bleeding. He rooted through the few kitchen towels Garrett had, streaks of blood following his hand. “Sorry, Gare. I owe you towels.”

Not that these were in good shape anyway.

With his left hand, he held a beige towel over his right eyebrow, his right arm tucked against his chest. It felt like a bad game of Twister. How was he going to get to the hospital? He couldn’t drive.

Dizziness washed over him, and he sagged against the counter. He’d have to call 911—over a cut and sore wrist. Man, this was messed up. He’d never hear the end of it.

Where was his phone?

He used his one clear eye to scan the kitchen and living room. The phone wasn’t in sight, and he couldn’t make himself think. This wasn’t good—

Miska.

While he growled at the idea of asking
her
for help, relief sagged his shoulders. He couldn’t drive, he couldn’t find his phone, but Miska was home. She would have to do.

The drive home from the hospital was less tense with rush hour over and Dillan no longer bleeding. Miska peeked at him, crammed into the front seat of her Volvo, his fingers tapping his jeans.

The ER hadn’t been busy. By the time she’d parked and made her way inside, they were stitching him up. When they finally let her see him, X-rays had already shown a broken bone by his wrist. She waited while they splinted his arm. What were neighbors for? Besides, Mark was probably still sleeping. She’d be home before he knew she’d been gone.

Dillan sighed.

Miska glanced at him. “So what story are you going to tell Garrett? That you were making breakfast or shaving with a chainsaw?”

“I might go with the chainsaw.” He shifted and gritted his teeth. “You look like you’re going out.”

She glanced at her dark skinny jeans and gauzy, scoop-necked shirt with cutaway shoulders. “I’ve got plans later on.”

“Hope I didn’t ruin them.”

“You didn’t.”

“Good.” His fingers resumed their tapping. “Have you heard from Garrett?”

Dillan had asked her to let Garrett know he’d miss a couch delivery. “No.”

He shrugged, hissed in a breath, and resumed staring out the window.

She parked in their building’s garage. Silently they rode the elevator to the building’s main level where she called an elevator for their floor.

He adjusted the sling around his black splint, wincing again.

“How will this affect your work?”

“It’ll make typing difficult.”

“You type a lot?”

An elevator opened, and he motioned her ahead of him. “When I’m working on stuff for church.”

“Stuff?”

“Youth group lessons, Sunday School lessons. Stuff.”

She held up a finger. “Ah, stuff.”

He rested against the wall and watched her.

She held his gaze.

“Thanks again, Miska. You didn’t need to wait at the hospital, but I appreciate it.”

“No problem.”

“Somehow I’ll—”

“Make it up to me. I know—you keep saying that. We weren’t there that long, and it made no sense to leave when they were close to releasing you.”

“So how do I make it up?”

“Dillan.”

“Humor me.”

“Fine. Next time I hurt myself, you take me to the ER. Deal?”

“Deal.” He stuck out his left hand, and she shook it. His fingers were long and slender, his palm smooth, his hand so different from Mark’s.

He let her go as the elevator opened to the seventh floor. A fifty-something man, straight from the gym, entered and sent Dillan and his blood-stained shirt a double take.

Dillan nodded at him. “Know how to get blood out of a shirt?”

The man frowned. “Pretty sure you wash it in cold water. Better Google it, though.”

“I will. Thanks.”

The man nodded.

Dillan smiled at her over the guy’s head. Miska bit her lip into submission.

The elevator stopped at ten, and the man left.

Dillan shifted. “So what are you up to?”

“Just—stuff.”

“What kind of—oh. Hah. Funny. Editing stuff?”

“Friend stuff. I took today off.”

“And I messed it up.”

“Will you stop? You didn’t mess up anything. My plans aren’t until later.”

“Good. There’s nothing worse than messing up someone else’s stuff.”

“So true.” She gestured to his arm. “Much better to mess up your own stuff.”

“Except it hurts.”

“Poor baby.”

He raised his chin. “I’m tough, though. I can handle it.”

She laughed. “No painkillers for you.”

“Not while people are looking, anyway.”

Her smile faded. How was Dillan single? He was that wholesome, surprisingly attractive guy next door who would do anything for his lady. He was someone a girl could grow up with and suddenly view as a man she could—

Could what?

At the least, he seemed to be a man she could trust.

Which was saying something. After the debacle of her fifteenth birthday slumber party, she’d never trusted her brothers again. And her brothers’ friends—guys you wouldn’t leave any girl alone with, no matter how much you disliked her. Then there was Dad, all of Mom’s boyfriends. Men in general—untrustworthy.

So what made Dillan seem trustworthy?

He was single, and not once had he come on to her.

Then again, she’d caught him watching her a time or two. Maybe instead he was the worst kind of pervert, lulling you into false safety with the real man hidden from the light of day.

The elevator opened. Dillan held out a hand. “After you.”

He couldn’t be a pervert.

In their hallway, he adjusted his sling. “Next stop, bloodbath.”

“It can’t be that bad.”

“You have seen my shirt, right?”

“Tell Garrett your arm hurts. He’ll have to clean it.”

“Except he’d get Tracy to do it.”

Dillan’s door opened. Garrett stepped out—tie flung over his shoulder, dress shirt rolled past his elbows, wadded paper towels in his hand.

Dillan glanced at Miska. “I stand corrected.”

“Next time you don’t want to deal with a delivery, just say so,” Garrett said. “I walked in and thought I was on a slasher set.”

“That bad?” she asked.

Garrett gestured to the door. “There’s a bloody handprint back here. Do you have any blood left?”

“It was touch and go. I saw a bright light, heard someone calling my name—”

“But you had too much left to do, right?”

“The Memorial Day cookout
is
coming up.”

“Lucky for you. Hey, Miska, did you see he bled all over your door?”

“He what?” She feigned shock. “I can’t imagine how that happened with blood spurting out of his eyebrow.”

“Spurting?”

Dillan sighed. “She exaggerates.”

“He had a towel over his eye when I opened the door. He lowered it to show me, and the blood went—”

Her door opened. Mark poked his head out. “Miska, I’ve been—” His gaze traveled from her to Dillan and Garrett.

He was already here? “When did you get in?”

“Hey, it’s you!” Garrett pointed at Mark. “Dillan, it’s him. It’s déjà vu all over again.” He whacked Mark’s shoulder with the back of his hand. “See how I did that? That’s a baseball quote. Yogi Berra. Nice, huh?”

Mark sent him a look as he stepped into the hallway and spoke to Miska. “Ten minutes ago.”

“We really need to stop meeting like this. In case you forgot, I’m Garrett. My brother, Dillan. This should make you thankful he only collided with you. Obviously it can be—and is—worse.”

Mark eyed Dillan. “What happened to you?”

“Paper cut.” Garrett set a hand on Dillan’s shoulder. “Bad one. He almost didn’t—”

“Will you shut up?” Dillan shook his head, his face an emotionless mask. “Broken arm and stitches. Miska was kind enough to drive me to the ER which is why there’s blood on her door.”

Mark pointed out the drops. “I saw that. I was starting to wonder if you were okay.”

“You were worried?” She laced her fingers through his. “That’s so sweet.”

Mark raised his eyebrows at the guys.

Fine. Like they didn’t know what was going on. “Garrett, I hope your couch makes it in one piece—”

“It’s here. Come try it out sometime.”

Flirt. He’d said that for Mark. “Dillan, no more running with paper. If you need anything, I’m next door.”

His gaze bore into her doorknob. Did he think she was making fun of him?

“He’s a big boy.” Mark tugged her toward her door. “He can take care of himself.”

“And if he can’t,” Garrett said, “I’m here. You and Mark go have fun.”

Mark smirked and pulled her closer.

Yes, Mark was here. Mark was the one who mattered.

Not Dillan. Not the boy next door. Not those dark, trustworthy eyes. She let Mark lead her inside and wrapped her arms around him as the door fell shut.

When Miska walked into the living room after fixing her hair, Mark was bent over her laptop. Her heart jolted. “What are you doing?”

He jerked upright and spun, shielding her desk from view. “Miska.”

“Yes, it’s me. Surprise.” She stalked toward him. “What are you doing to my computer?”

“Just checking the radar. Heard it might storm—”

She reached around him and opened the computer.

A wad of cash lay across the keyboard.

Her shoulders slumped. “I thought you were messing with it.”

“Why would I do that?” He held her close. “I just wanted to leave you a gift. It’s getting hard to find new hiding places.”

She accepted his kiss. “Why do you have to hide them?”

“You want me to hand it to you? As I walk out the door?”

Good point. But some part of her wanted to push him. “Why not?”

“I don’t think you want that. Wouldn’t it make you feel…”

She ran her tongue over her teeth, crossed her arms. “Feel what?”

He plopped onto the couch and tugged her onto his lap. “I just want to take care of you. I don’t want it to come across any other way.”

“So take care of me.”

He grinned and snuggled her close.

“We’ve already done all of that. There’s more to taking care of me than sex.”

“I know. I want to take care of you. I want to give you everything.”

Did he? She studied his blue, blue eyes. “What’s keeping you?”

“We agreed to wait until August.”

“I said that was the longest I’d wait. But if you know you want to take care of me—and you know I want to take care of you—”

He kissed her again, pressing her tightly against him.

Miska shoved him back. “Mark!”

He swore. “What is the matter with you?”

With her? “I’m sorry. What was I thinking, trying to have a conversation? Will you answer my question instead of trying to start things again?”

“We agreed on August, Miska. Don’t push me.”

“
Push
you?”

“After what I witnessed with those two idiots, you think I’m ready to make that call?”

“Wait, you—what? What are you talking about?”

“You flirting with Beavis and Butthead. Makes me wonder how close you’ve been with them since I’ve been gone.”

Miska slapped him.

He dumped her onto the couch and shot to his feet.

She jumped up, her hand stinging. “Get out.”

“With pleasure,” he spat.

He glared at the island and stalked there, grabbed his keys and phone, and shoved them into his pockets. He stormed back to the laptop and grabbed the pile of cash. Shook it in her face. “Here.”

She crossed her arms.

He swore again and threw the money at her feet.

He marched away, his words stinging worse than her hand. Her gaze landed on his wallet beside her laptop. She looked up—he was at her door, his hand on the knob. “You left your wallet.”

Mark stilled. Tilted his head back. Frustration screamed through his clenched fists.

She waited. He wouldn’t leave without his wallet.

Slowly he turned and made his way back.

She picked up the wallet before he could. “All I did, Mark, was be a good neighbor. I’d think you’d want a woman like that, a woman who cares about others.”

He yanked the wallet from her hand. “All I want is a woman who’s faithful to me. Forget everyone else.”

He left, slamming the door.

Miska stayed where she was, hoping he’d come back to apologize, but after a minute passed, she figured he was really gone.

She collected the money scattered across her floor. Each bill was a fifty, and she counted them, finally ending at two thousand dollars. He’d never left this much. Not for one day.

And she’d ruined it.

Her mind ran through all the ways the money could sustain her. Health insurance. A mortgage payment. Utilities. Advertising if work ran low. Gas. Taxes. Yeah, taxes.

She rested her head against a couch cushion.
Don’t ever call them
, she could hear her mom saying.
If they walk out, let them. If you beg them to come back and they do, you’ll never feel secure.