Love Trumps Game (15 page)

“Wake up. C'mon now. Open your eyes.”

The voice was clear but unrecognizable. Neema Jean's eyelids fluttered before opening. She remained calm even with the intense green eyes that stared down into hers. She'd never been so close to eyes that green in her life. At least not that she could recall. Green eyes in a pink face she'd never seen before. It was almost spooky. The white jacket he wore hinted toward the medical field. Lips smiled down at her.

“How you feeling?” Green-eyes asked, then sat in a wooden chair next to the small bed.

The room was large and nondescript. A bed, a small dresser, a wooden chair. Nothing on the off-white walls, but the smell of peppermint and strong ammonia was distinct. Her eyes swept around her unfamiliar surroundings. If this was a hospital, it looked cold and cheap. If this was someone's personal residence, they needed a serious decorator. Her trembling hand fumbled to the top of her head where it was bandaged.

“What happened to me?” she queried through dry, cracked lips.

“First things first, let's have a good look at you.” Green-eyes aimed a pin light at her eyes, raised one lid, then the other. “Pupils are more reactive. That's a good sign.”

“Who you?” Bad English, but that was the least of her problems.

“Relax. I'm a doctor. You've suffered a concussion from a head
injury. Do you know what day of the week it is?” He stood and produced a stethoscope to listen to her heart. “Take a deep breath and let it out slowly.”

“What day?” Neema tried to think. That information was on the tip of her tongue…somewhere. “It's…uh…”
Dang. What day
is
it?
Neema's attention flew to the door where another white man entered. Wearing a white knit shirt and dark Dockers, he was dressed as casual as Green-eyes. Average build, not too thin or too fat, his blue-eyed expression showed genuine concern.

Blue-eyes walked over to stand next to the doctor. “How's the patient?”

Dr. Green-eyes stood up. “She'll live.”

“I really appreciate you making a house call to check on her.”

“No problem. She might have some lingering memory problems for a while. That's normal for this kind of head injury. Aside from a couple of bruised ribs, she's pretty darn lucky for not wearing a seatbelt. Oh, and here's something for pain.” Green-eyes passed a bottle of pills to Blue-eyes. “Just follow instructions. Can't stay. I have another house call to make.”

“Thanks again, Doc.”

“Sure thing.” Dr. Green-eyes packed up a new-looking black briefcase and left.

Suddenly the idea of being alone with Blue-eyes hit her. Neema threw off the bedcovers and swung her feet to the floor. “I'm out of here.” Her attempt to stand up was greeted with a weakness to her knees. The room was spinning, making her clutch her nauseated stomach. “Oh God…” Her head felt like a container full of cotton balls. Blue-eyes rushed over before she hit the floor.

“Hey. Not so fast. You need to rest until you're feeling better.”

“I need to go home.” Home. She tried to think of where that place might actually be.

“Let me help you back to bed.”

If he meant to harm her, he could have done so by now. Neema felt nothing but good vibes radiating from his persona. He was a stranger with whom she felt an uncanny amount of relaxation. She allowed herself to be made comfortable. He fluffed her pillow.

“There. Are you hungry? I'm not the best cook, but I can make toast and eggs.”

“Who are you? How'd I get here, and where am I?” His attentiveness amused her, reminded her of a doting father. If she had to guess, she would put him in his early sixties. Warm eyes. Warm smile, but how did she know him?

Blue-eyes took a wooden chair, flipped it around and straddled it backward, which was pretty good for a man in his sixties. “John West is printed on my birth certificate. Friends call me West. I'm a private investigator. I was hired to follow you and that boyfriend of yours.”

“Boyfriend? Hired by who, and follow me for what?” Neema watched him with the sharpness of an eagle. She didn't dare blink lest she miss something.

“Let's just say that this guy named TJ wanted to see if you were creeping on him. Wanted dates and pictures. He hired me and I gave him what he wanted.”

“TJ? Creeping?”

“Yeah, you know, sneaking around behind his back. Sleeping with his friend, Slick. Damn adamant about it, too. The best-paying customer I ever had. I tell ya' if all my jobs paid like him, I'd be rich.” What he wanted to add was how much she reminded him of his late daughter.

She had no idea what he was talking about. “And was I cheating?” Her stomach was growling on the low, but eating could wait.

“Pretty much so. I kept some of the photos. The way it was looking, your man, your boyfriend, whatever you want to call him, was going to have you terminated. My job was to get him his
proof, get paid and be out the picture, but there was something about that guy TJ I didn't like. I could see murder coming. I kept following you, keeping track to see what was up.”

“You're lying. I don't know a TJ, and I don't know you.”

“Your memory is on the blink right now, but your name is Neema. Neema Jean Sims. You have two kids. A boy, a girl. You were slammed from behind by a truck almost two weeks ago. It was a hit-and-run because the driver took off. You hit your head pretty bad. I loaded you back in your vehicle and brought you here before the police arrived. With that hidden cargo you were carrying, you'd be in jail by now if the cops had gotten to you first.”

“What hidden cargo? Wait a minute…I have kids?”

“They're with your mother right now. Her name is Hattie Sims. I'm very good at doing my homework.”

“TJ?” Neema forced herself to think as hard as she could, but the name was elusive. If what West was saying was true, she really was experiencing some kind of memory loss. “If my mother has my kids, where is she now?”

“Good question.” West ran a liver-spotted hand through his brown hair graying at the temples. “I've been too busy seeing after you.”

She wanted to see proof. “ID. Where's my driver's license?”

“That, I should be asking you. When I took you from the scene, I checked the vehicle you were driving. There was no purse. No wallet, just a cell phone that I tossed.”

“Why do that? I could have called somebody that knows me.”

“TJ would have found you by now. He's pretty cunning. He would have tracked you through your cell phone.”

Neema surveyed the room. “I told you, I don't know no damn TJ!”

“Don't worry, it'll come to you.” West stood up and looked at her.

“And where are we?” The room's drabness was bringing her mood down.

“A house I own in Palo Verdes. Nothing fancy, but I keep it as a place to crash when I'm in town. I brought you here after the accident.”

Her hand reached for her face to confirm a few cuts, scratches and bruises. “How long have I been here?”

“Close to a week, in and out of consciousness. Anyway, little lady, enough questions for now. I'll get you something to eat. You get some rest. I'll be right back.”

Neema must have dozed off. The next thing she knew West was back with a tray of food: Lightly scrambled eggs, crispy bacon, toast with jam, orange juice, and creamed coffee.

“Here you go. My friend Doc been taking real good care of you, keeping you hydrated, but you gotta be starving by now.”

“Hell yeah.” Her voracious appetite had her chowing down like a homeless person that hadn't eaten in weeks. In a sad way, that's exactly what she was. She stopped to reflect for a minute. She had kids somewhere, a mother, and probably a home, too. But where? Tears found their way to her eyes, but she went back to eating. Pleased, West sat watching her.

Much later, Neema had some of her strength back, enough for West to help her get in a tub of water. Soaking in some fragrant liquid was like floating up to heaven to ease her aches and soreness. West was the perfect gentleman that kept a towel draped around her the whole time. Not once did he try to sneak a peek or cop a feel on her bruised, slender body. Not that she had anything to be ashamed of. One thing she did know, her body was tight. A few stretch marks on her stomach, but still it was so flat
that it was hard to believe she was somebody's mother. Alone in the bathroom, she lifted her gown and ran her hand over her C-section scar. “Yeah, it looks like some birthing been done.”

She sat on the toilet. Taking up the hand-held mirror for a peek below made her smile. Still, it looked good and tight. On impulse she touched the pink pearl of her womanhood, ready to make pleasure, but there was a knock on the bathroom door. “Yeah?”

“Everything okay in there?”

“Yeah. Be out in a minute.”

“If you feel dizzy or you need any help, let me know.”

“Thanks, West.” Neema stood up and put on the T-shirt and thick, white robe West had given her, obviously his. “Wow, I can't believe I'm really somebody's mother.”

After her much-needed bath, West sat talking to her in his spacious kitchen, revealing bits of information about her that she should know. It was like he was talking Greek.

“Here's a picture of you and your kids.” West passed the photo to her. He always made extras of his work, in case a client lost the ones he turned over.

“These are my kids?” Neema experienced a tug at her heart, but that was all she felt. Try as she might, the two young faces held no recollection. “What's their names?”

“I believe I heard you call the boy Brandon and the girl Raynita.” He didn't tell her how he had once sat next to her on a park bench. She talked on a cell phone but took time to stop and yell at her kids on the playground equipment. He had taken pictures with a hidden camera each opportunity she moved away from him or turned her back.

“And my name is Neema?” She made a face. “I don't feel like a Neema.”

“That's the name my client referred to you as. I ran the license
on your Land Rover and it's registered to a Neema Jean Sims.”

“Wow. I have a Land Rover?” She had no idea what a Land Rover was but it sounded like something worth having. “And you say my kids are with my mother?”

“The last time I checked. The problem is, your mother might be in danger as well. I drove by her home the other day and saw some fire damage.”

“And?” The more she heard, the more the story sounded like a bad dream.

“Her house was boarded up. I doubt she's staying there.” He passed her a picture of a woman standing out in front of a house watching a black car pull off. “That's Hattie, your mother. You have a sister that spends every other Sunday at your mother's house. Her name is Myra. Here's a picture of her and her kids leaving your mother's house. I ran her license plates to find out she lives in Victorville. I'm thinking that your mother might be there. I'm sure they're very worried about you by now.”

“Hattie?” Nothing he was saying sounded familiar. She accepted the next photo from him. “And this is?”

“The father of your children. My client. The man that's probably looking for you as we speak. He introduced himself as TJ, but I checked him out as well. Topps Jackson, one of L.A.'s biggest druglords. Hiring my services was probably his way of keeping a lid on his personal business.”

“I…I don't recognize any of these people.” Hattie Sims. Raynita. Myra. Brandon. These were the names of her people, yet they were all the names of strangers to her. She kept challenging her brain cells to come up with something but couldn't. Nothing. Nada. It was all so frustrating, not to mention, exhausting. “I must be a bad person.” Neema wiped at the tears that welled. “That's why my life is jacked up. I was a bad person, right?”

West stood up from the table. He cast sympathetic eyes down at her. “Not bad, just involved with some bad people. It happens.” He sniffed and looked away before running a hand through his hair. “You remind me of my daughter. Her name was Sandy, but she's gone now. Murdered by a cold-hearted drug dealer like TJ. I waited too late to save her.”

Neema's eyes met his. “Is that why you're helping me? Because I remind you of your daughter?”

“You need to get some rest.” West moved to the kitchen window and peered out. The sun was just slipping behind a purple-pink horizon. He could smell the honeysuckle he'd planted last spring. This was his temporary crib, and he missed his Kent, Washington home. “Look, I have to go out for a few hours. You'll be safe here.”

“You're avoiding my question?” Neema persisted, keeping her eyes on him. “You don't know me and I have no money to pay you. Why are you doing this for me?” She tugged the robe close to her. “What's in it for you, West?”

“I don't know.” West shook his head before heading out the room. “Another young woman with kids. Lives in danger. It's like I said, it's too late to save my daughter the first go-round. Maybe it's my way of saving her the second time around, through you. Call it restitution.” He perked up. “Anyway, I'll bring some dinner back. Stay in bed and get some rest.” After throwing that out into the universe, he left.

“G
len, this is my family we're talking about. Surely you don't expect me to just throw them out to the wolves.” Myra felt close to tears, not that tears would help. They had never been effective on Glen. Maybe it was something that they taught doctors in med school.

“Myra, I'm doing what we should have done to begin with.” They were in the massive kitchen where Glen was stirring sugar into his morning cup of black coffee. He took three sips from the cooled brew before sitting the cup down. “I don't want another incident like the one that happened the other day.”

“Mama needs more time before the insurance company repairs her house and she can move back home.” She thought about what she'd just said. Even that didn't seem like the right solution, not with that…that maniac still out there.

“That's understandable, Myra, but she can't stay here. Not with some lunatic on her trail. If you'd told the truth about this situation to begin with, I would have paid to put them up in a nice hotel. Admit it. You lied about what was going on.”

Glen had finally expressed that Hattie and the kids would probably be safer at another location. Normally, to keep peace, Myra went along with whatever program was passed down from Glen. But, for crying out loud, this was her family. “Glen, Mama is scared, and I'm scared for her. She needs to be around family
that can help her with this. Not kicked out like some dog that has too many fleas.”

“Look, Myra, I understand what you're saying, but you're being overly emotional about this. I care about your mother and your niece and nephew, too, but we have to consider the safety of our own family. I'm scared for you and the kids. You never mentioned some crazed maniac burning her house. And then he burns the car she was driving. Sorry.” He shook his head. “It's too dangerous.”

“I didn't care about that old car.”

“Myra, that's not the point. My mind is made up about this. I called and talked with Mr. Kelly. He assured me that he could keep her and the kids safe until this mess clears up or blows over. He'll be greatly compensated.”

“But Glen, honey….”

“Myra, it's end of story.” Banging down his mug, Dr. Glen Bradshaw huffed and stalked out of the cheerful, yellow room.

Myra watched his wide shoulders walk away from her. She felt like taking off her shoe and throwing it behind his big, stubborn head. Glen made her sick—sometimes made her question why she'd chosen him for a husband. This was one of those times. He wasn't the most handsome man she'd dated, not with his head seemingly too large for his frame. He possessed the most piercing gray eyes that could stare clean through you one minute and melt you down with his warmth the next. An average girth looked good on his five-foot-ten frame, but it was his confidence that made him appear taller. Once he spoke, anyone with a brain could tell that he was educated, cunning and articulate with his speech. Glen could sell a box of fresh air.

“What if this were your mother? Would you be so quick to put her out?” The master bedroom was on the first level, a vanilla-hued room with a custom-made, round bed dressed in vanilla
trimmed in burgundy satin. Potted plants were everywhere. Like a petulant child, Myra stomped behind him.

“To answer your question, my actions would be the same to keep my family safe.”

“Family should stick together,” Myra persisted.

“True, but if you're not careful, family can get you killed. If it wasn't for family, your mother wouldn't be in this precarious predicament.” Glen was standing at the wide sweep of mirror running a charged shaver over his caramel-hued face. His attire consisted of dark Dockers, a light-blue shirt and sensible shoes. His tone softened when he spotted the stress that was blatant on Myra's face. “Sweetheart, I know you're upset right now, but I've already taken the liberty to make arrangements for your mother. You have to trust me on this one. It's the right thing to do, and she'll be fine.”

“What kind of damn arrangements?” So what if she sounded ghetto or loud; no one treated her family like crap. Her mother had loved and supported her through four years of college and wouldn't accept a dime for rent and food. If it hadn't been for her going to college, she wouldn't have met Glen in the nearby donut shop.

“Instead of us taking a chance driving Hattie to Mr. Kelly's place, we thought…”

“We?”

“Let me explain now. Mr. Kelly and I both felt that it would be better if he came here for her. He should be here at nine to pick your mother and the kids up. This is a huge favor he's doing for me, so try to be understanding.”

Myra kept staring at the side of his head. If her eyes could shoot bullets, he'd be dead.

“I need you to make sure everyone is packed up and ready to
go. On my desk in the study, I left two envelopes with some cash. One is addressed to your mother. It should be enough cash to hold her over until she gets her business straight with her bank. The other is for Mr. Kelly.”

“And what if Mama don't wanna go into hiding with some stranger? I tried asking her how she felt about it…”

“Sweetheart.” Glen stopped her with a professional glare. “Sometimes we don't have choices in life. I gotta go.” He fetched his briefcase, then gave her a quick kiss. “Any news on your sister?”

Myra's heart squeezed at the mention of Neema. “No. Not yet.”

“That's too bad.”

“Yeah, it is.” She and her baby sister had never been the closest. Too much sibling rivalry for their mother's attention was the culprit. Still, she'd give anything to hug Neema about now, to talk to her, to know that she was safe. Tears welled up.

“Just keep checking with the detective that's working the case. Something is bound to turn up.”

Myra stood with her hands folded at her chest. “God, I hope so.” She wiped her tears away. Every time she tried to think positive, negativity kept slipping in. What if Neema was dead? What if she was being held hostage and being tortured? How long could her mother keep her distance from the kids' father? All thoughts overwhelmed her. She wasn't eating, wasn't sleeping good. And her pet grooming business was being run by her staff. It was no doubt they were doing more goofing off and stealing her blind than work in her absence.

“I have a meeting at six, and late patient rounds at the hospital. I'll grab something to eat while I'm out. Maybe you should keep the kids inside for the rest of the week, and keep the doors and windows locked until Mr. Kelly gets here.” Glen stood for a few seconds and looked at her good. “Honey, I know you're worried,
but if anybody can help your mother through this, Mr. Kelly can. You know he's an old gangster himself?”

Myra nodded. “Yeah, you told me.” Over and over again. Glen had met Bruno Kelly over three years ago when he came to him as a patient in the early stage of colon cancer. It was Glen's aggressive course of treatment that had sent Bruno Kelly's cancer into remission. The man had been grateful ever since, striking up an odd-couple relationship between a polished doctor and a ruff-neck patient. According to Glen, the two still shared lunch once a month. Bruno kept it real that he was forever in Glen's debt. Glen was God, at least to Mr. Kelly he was.

“Gotta run. We'll talk later.” Glen kissed her forehead again.

After Glen pulled away from the house, Myra checked all the doors and windows before engaging the house alarm. She went to the kitchen where the aroma of beef stew filled the room. Not having to cook much since Hattie had been staying with them was a blessing. “Something smells good, Mama.”

Hattie was at the Viking stove stirring a large pot. “Just heating up the leftover stew from last night for breakfast. We still have some salad left, too, and the cornbread is almost done. Will Glen be eating with us?”

“No.” Myra sighed as she ambled over to the table and sat down. “He has a full day planned with patients and meetings.”

Hattie cut a side glance at her. “You okay? You look tired.”

Myra ran a hand through her shoulder-length, auburn hair. She needed a touch-up, but with everything going on with her sister and mother, her life was on hold. Her business was suffering. Her kids complained about having to share toys and space. And lately, she could feel her heart fluttering as it sped up when she tried to rest. “Mama, remember when I was telling you about this guy Glen knows named Mr. Kelly?”

“The killer? Umph. I certainly do.”

“He's like an equalizer, or what you could call a protector of sorts. He steps in when people need help with a problem they're having. It's something he does for a living.”

“I understand all that. What about him?”

Myra took a deep breath. “Glen…well, uh, Glen seems to think that you and the kids would be more protected staying with Mr. Kelly until this situation you're in is resolved.”

Hattie stopped stirring the stew. “Glen thinks that?”

“Yeah. He's adamant about it. I tried to tell him that you need to be around family, but he's so….so damn stubborn at times.”

“He's putting us out?”

“Mama, no. It's not like that. Glen is trying to find protection for you. He's so worried because he's away a lot and the idea of that fool busting up into this house on us, you know, hurting his kids…”

“I see,” was all Hattie could say.

“Mama, Glen has total confidence in Mr. Kelly. He's a good friend of his. He says if anyone can help you with this problem, it's Mr. Kelly.”

Hattie squared her jaw. She couldn't look at her. “When do we leave?”

“Tonight. Glen said that Mr. Kelly will arrive to pick you guys up. He left money for you to live on until you have access to your bank account. He left money for Mr. Kelly as well.”

“All this money being passed out…” Hattie grunted toward her, drying her hands on a towel. “How you two expect me to pay all this money back?”

“Sounds like something for Neema to worry about when she shows back up.”

That's when Hattie broke down sobbing.

“I'm sorry, Mama.” Myra jumped up and went to her, allowing her mother to get it out of her system. “Please don't cry. I can't stand seeing you like this. I don't know what else to do.” She patted Hattie's back hoping that a good cry would purge and renew her mother's good spirit. Hattie was a strong, proud woman who stayed in church. She supposed that even the strong can become disheartened.

“I'm sorry, baby.” Hattie wiped her eyes and took control of her emotions. “I'm just so tired of running. Tired of worrying. Tired of waiting, and tired of being tired.”

“I know, Mama. This is a strain on all of us.”

“I swear…” Hattie sniffed. “If I felt that he was any kind of decent father, I would end this madness and turn the kids over to him. I would, but I promised your sister. I promised.”

“Mama, I understand.” And in a crazy way, she did. If the script were flipped, she wouldn't want a maniac like Topps getting his hands on her kids either.

“I've been praying so hard for Neema. Praying for all of this to be over with. I need her to come home to her kids, Myra. Don't she love them anymore?” Hattie looked ready for round two of crying.

“Mama, please. Don't even think such a thing. Neema loves her kids more than life. She may not be the best mother, but she does love her kids.”

“Lord, I hope so.” Hattie wiped her eyes. She managed a weak smile. “I'll go tell the kids to pack up their stuff. Nita's been crying and asking when her momma was coming back, and I keep making up dates. I don't know what else to tell her.”

“Just tell her ‘soon,' Mama. She'll be home soon.”

“Yeah, you're right,” Hattie agreed, putting on a brave face. “What time will we be leaving?”

“Between nine and ten tonight.” Myra looked at her Cartier Tank Française watch. Lately, the only place she felt comfortable wearing the expensive piece was around her house. “It's after eight now. Maybe we can watch some movies after we eat our breakfast.”

Hattie kissed her cheek. “You're a good daughter, Myra.”

“I love you, too, Mama. I wish I could do more.”