Sustained (18 page)

I pant against her neck and, after a moment roll to the side off her back so she can breathe again. Without a word, I pull her against my chest, holding on tight, my face buried in her hair. Chelsea’s heavy breaths eventually slow and just before I fall asleep, I feel her delicate lips press a chaste kiss to each of my knuckles. Then she tucks my hands beneath hers and drifts off.

•  •  •

My eyes open at five a.m. on the button—even though it’s only been two hours since they closed the last time. I stare at the fiery gold of Chelsea’s hair, still in my face, her warm body still encased in my arms. Carefully, I pull away and am able to disentangle myself without waking her. Like always, I head to the bathroom, to take a piss, brush my teeth. I stretch, crack my neck, feeling only slightly stiff.

I avoid my reflection in the mirror as I splash my face with cold water and slick back the unruly black hair. Then I pad silently to the closet for a T-shirt and sweatpants, giving Chelsea’s angelic sleeping features only a quick glance. I head to the kitchen and turn on the small flat-screen television, keeping the volume low, as I wait for the coffee to brew. When it’s done, I step out onto the balcony, watching the streetlights fade and the pink-gray sky of dawn turn to blue.

And I tell myself to breathe. Slow and steady. In and out. There’s a sick, churning feeling in my gut—and I tell myself to ignore it.

I step back inside the kitchen to find Chelsea leaning against the wall, squinting, looking adorable in my gray button-down, which almost reaches her knees. “You’re not a sleeping-in-when-you-get-the-chance kind of guy, are you?” she asks with a yawn.

“Ah, no,” I tell her with a straight face and a shaking head. Then I start the speech—and the words taste bitter. Wrong.

“I’m going for a run. There’s coffee in the pot and—”

“Coffee?” Chelsea cuts me off. “No way—I’m going back to sleep.” She steps closer to me, running her palm along my abs. “But . . . if you want some company in the shower when you get back from your run . . . I’ll definitely wake up for that.”

She stretches up on her tiptoes, kissing me quickly. And I imagine her in the shower, wet everywhere, her luscious tits slick with soapy suds. It does seem like a good idea.

She turns to walk back to the bedroom. But my voice stops her.

“Chelsea . . .”

Because direct is always easier. And I don’t do complicated. Honesty is . . . shit, I don’t remember the rest.

“Yeah?”

I look at her face, so open and giving and real. Her lips, so close to smiling. And I remember words whispered in the dark.

“. . . and I trust you, Jake.”

“I won’t hurt you.”

And all I can say is, “I had an amazing time last night.”

The smile comes to fruition. “So did I.”

•  •  •

The run is punishing. I sprint farther, push harder. Sweat pours down my forehead, my chest throbs, and my legs burn like my muscles are on fire as I try to figure out a way for the chaos that is Chelsea and her gaggle of kids to fit into my organized life. I have goals, priorities. I didn’t get where I am today by getting distracted by a piece of ass—no matter how spectacular the ass may be.

I walk through my apartment door an hour and a half later, still breathing heavily. Van Morrison’s “Into the Mystic” is playing from the speakers. I grab a bottle of water from the fridge, chugging it, as Chelsea stands at my stove—looking more delectable than she has the right
to—cooking. Still in the gray shirt, she rocks her hips in time to the music—then she uses the spatula as a microphone.

“I . . . want to rock your gypsy soul . . .”

And I have to laugh. That kind of fuck-hot, sexy-cute—it’s lethal.

“I thought you were going back to sleep.”

Chelsea glances back over her shoulder at me. “So did I. Apparently Ronan has ruined me forever—couldn’t fall back asleep. Then I decided to cook breakfast . . . except you don’t have any food. Judging by your refrigerator and your cabinets you exist on eggs, pasta, and the occasional beer alone.”

“I make a mean macaroni and cheese. Otherwise it’s takeout.”

She scoops scrambled eggs onto a plate and hands it to me, eyes sparkling with a playful, morning-after contentment. “Bon appétit. Here’s the best I can do under these conditions.”

I take the plate but set it on the counter. And I forget all about priorities and goals, honesty and schedules.

I just want to kiss her again.

Before I have the chance, my cell phone rings, my mother’s name flashing on the screen. Chelsea sees it too and she steps closer to me, her face shadowed with concern. I bring the phone to my ear. “Mom? Everything okay?”

“No, Honeybear, it’s not. You and Chelsea need to meet me at the hospital.”

I
can’t tell you how awful I feel. I’m so sorry.” My mother looks like she’s on the verge of tears—and she’s not a crier.

Chelsea rubs her shoulder. “It’s okay. These things happen—especially to my nieces and nephews. Riley broke her collarbone when she was two, Raymond broke his leg last year—and my sister-in-law was always on top of them. It’s not your fault, Gigi.”

“I knew as soon as I heard him yell, somethin’ wasn’t right . . .”

They continue to talk in the emergency room waiting room, while I crouch down in front of Rory where he sits in an orange plastic chair, cradling his right arm against his chest. Pain has bled his face of color. His eyes droop with agony and he takes in air slowly, every move hurting.

“How are you doing, kid?”

“It hurts.”

“Yeah, I know.” I brush my knuckles against his knee, not wanting to jostle him, then I glare at the triage nurse and tell her to hurry up, that I think he could be going into shock.

She can tell I’m full of shit but it makes me feel better to try.

The story goes that the kids were playing in the backyard, under
Owen’s watchful eye, while my mother made breakfast. Riley bet Rory that he couldn’t climb to the top of the oak tree. Which, of course, Rory could—and did. Getting down . . . posed more of a challenge. And here we are.

“Why don’t you head back to the house, Mom?” I tell her, rubbing her shoulder. “Owen’s probably losing his mind with the other five by now.”

“Okay.” She nods, caressing Rory’s head. “I’ll see you soon, sweetie.”

“Don’t worry, Gigi, I’ll be fine,” Rory says kindly, proving that my mother has definitely won the kid over.

“Rory McQuaid?” a nurse with a wheelchair announces, ready to actually take us into the ER.

“Thank Christ,” I mutter.

•  •  •

Later, Rory’s propped up on an exam table while a George Clooney lookalike explains to Chelsea that her nephew’s arm is busted.

“He fractured the ulna. It’s a clean break, and we won’t need surgery to set the bone—that’s a positive.”

“Good.” Chelsea nods her head, nervously glancing at Rory.

The doctor gestures toward the door. “So, if you could both just step outside, I’ll set the bone and we’ll get Rory fitted for his cast.”

“Step outside?” Chelsea asks, frowning.

“Yes, it’s hospital protocol. Closed reductions can be painful, which is upsetting for parents and guardians, so we have them wait outside the room during the procedure.”

“I prefer to stay with my nephew.”

“I’m afraid that’s not possible,” George replies.

All her nervousness fades away, and Chelsea is rock-solid, sure. She’s poised and polite—but there isn’t any way she’s taking no for an answer.

“I appreciate your position, Dr. Campbell, and I hope you’ll appreciate mine. I will sit next to Rory and I’ll hold his hand while you set his bone. Neither Mr. Becker nor I will make a sound or say a word. But I’m
not
leaving him. If necessary, I’ll take him to another hospital.”

The doctor thinks it over—and then he completely caves.

“That won’t be necessary.”

Chelsea sits in the chair beside the table and clasps Rory’s left hand in hers. Her smile is so loving, so tender, my chest aches looking at her. The doctor adjusts the table so Rory’s flat on his back, then he shows me where to brace his shoulders, holding him still. They gave him some pain meds, but even with them, I know from experience, getting two halves of your broken bone rubbed together doesn’t fucking tickle.

“Just breathe, Rory,” the doctor tells him—like that’ll help—and my chest starts aching for a completely different reason. Then he holds the kid by his wrist and near the elbow and starts.

“Ahh!” Rory yells. His voice is sharp and shocked and hits me like a shank to the stomach. “Ahh!” he calls again, trying to grit his teeth.

Chelsea tightens her grip, looking at him earnestly, letting him know she’s here, sharing his pain—even if she can’t save him from it. And I whisper to him, right against his ear, giving him the only comfort I can, wishing like hell that I could take this pain for him.

“You’re doing so good, kid. It’s almost done.”

“Ahh . . .”

“Almost there, Rory . . . almost there . . .”

•  •  •

“This cast is totally badass!” Rory admires the camo-patterned plaster that now covers his arm from elbow to hand. I chuckle because he bounced back quickly, and obviously his sparkling personality is intact.

Chelsea gives him the obligatory chiding for his language—but she’s smiling too.

“Hey—could you draw a tattoo on my cast? Like yours?” Rory asks, pointing to the tats visible in my short-sleeved T-shirt.

“Sure.”

Chelsea looks around. “I wonder what’s taking so long with the discharge papers? I’m going to go ask . . . oh, hey, Janet!”

A woman steps within the curtained area where we’re waiting. She’s a black woman, in her midthirties, with tightly cropped brown hair and a bright smile, wearing a beige suit and white blouse.

“Hi, Chelsea.” Her eyes fall to Rory, on the bed. “Hi, Rory, I heard you had an accident.”

Rory shrugs, his earlier smile replaced with a distrusting scowl.

Janet looks me over and I notice her gaze pause at the tattoos on my arms.

“Jake, this is Janet Morrison,” Chelsea says, introducing us. “She’s our social worker from CFSA. Janet, this is Jake Becker, my . . .”

She searches for the word. “Lawyer,” I supply, offering Janet my hand. “I’m with Adams and Williamson.”

Janet nods her head. “That’s right—you negotiated Rory’s release with probation after . . . the car incident.”

It might just be the nature of my job, but I’m not a big fan of government agencies—or their employees. Too much power, too many people—too many mistakes that can so easily be made without any accountability. That’s what has me asking, “So, Janet—did you just happen to be in the area?”

“No.” She glances at the open file in her hand. “Whenever a child in our system has an incident at school, at a hospital, or with the police, we’re automatically flagged.” She turns to Chelsea. “Do you mind if I ask you my questions now before you go?”

“Sure, that’s fine.”

“Great. The doctor said Rory fell out of a tree. Did you see him fall, Chelsea?”

And I suddenly get a bad fucking feeling about this. Chelsea doesn’t appear to share my concern.

“No. I actually wasn’t home when he fell out of the tree.”

This is news to Janet. “Where were you?”

Chelsea’s eyes slide my way. “I was . . . with Jake.”

“Your lawyer?”

“It was sort of a working breakfast meeting,” I explain smoothly.

“I see.” She writes something down on the file. “So who was with the children while you were at your meeting?”

“Jake’s mother,” Chelsea answers.

Pen poised, Janet asks me, “Your mother’s name and address?”

“Giovanna Becker.” Then I rattle off her phone number and address and tell Janet it’s fine to contact her whenever she wants to.

She closes her file. “That’s all I need from you right now, Chelsea. Is it all right if I speak with Rory alone for a few minutes?”

“He’s a minor,” I tell her.

“In cases like this it’s standard to speak with children alone.”

“Cases like this?” I ask, schooling my tone. “What kind of case do you think this is, exactly?”

Janet isn’t the backing-down type. “It’s a case where an injury has been sustained and abuse needs to be ruled out.”

“Abuse?” I half-laugh, half-choke. “You think she did this?” I point at Chelsea.

“No, Mr. Becker, I don’t. However, if she had, Rory would be much less likely to divulge that information with you both in the room.”

And I do actually see her point. I just don’t like it.

I look to Rory. “You up to talking, kid? It’s your call.”

Rory’s smart and I can see in his eyes that he senses this is something that needs to be dealt with now. “Yeah, I’ll talk to her, Jake. No big deal.”

I squeeze his shoulder. “We’ll be right outside.”

•  •  •

I guide Chelsea through the curtain and into the hall, out of Janet’s earshot.

“What’s wrong with you?” she asks once we stop. “Why are you antagonizing Janet?”

I grasp her elbow. “I wasn’t antagonistic. But it’s important that she knows that you know your rights.”

She shakes her head, confusion gripping her features. “Janet is the nicest person I’ve met at CFSA. She’s my social worker. It’s her job to help me.”

“No, Chelsea, it’s not. Her job is to make sure you’re a stable guardian for the kids.”

For the first time she realizes the difference—the distinction—and her mouth turns tight with worry.

“Do you think . . . I mean . . . could I get in trouble for this? Are they going to give me a problem about Rory’s arm? About being with you last night?”

My hands move to her shoulders, squeezing and rubbing at the tension that stiffens them. “No—listen to me—it’s okay. You didn’t do anything wrong and they’re not gonna give you a hard time.” I pause then, wanting to make her understand without freaking her out. “But you need to think about how you phrase things. Sometimes how a statement reads in a report doesn’t represent the way things actually are.”

I see this often in my cases. Words like
terroristic threats
being applied to six-year-olds who shoot finger guns at classmates and claim they’re “dead.” Or a charge of “possession with intent to distribute” makes some moron sound like a member of a goddamn drug cartel, when in reality they’re a slacker fuckup who happened to get their hands on a big stash.