Trouble (24 page)

“She's already had surgery and started chemotherapy,” he said, voice cracking. “She didn't even tell me when she was in the hospital the other day.”

Dara swallowed her irritation. Apparently Halley's Comet was a more frequent occurrence than Sean's communications with his mother, who lived right here in town.

“She probably wanted you to focus on school.”

“She told Mike,” he said bitterly. “She always turns to Mike.”

It was getting harder to handle her annoyance, especially when the situation with Mike already had her so edgy. “Now is not the time for sibling rivalry, Sean. What can you do to help her now that you know?”

Sean shrugged helplessly. “I—I don't know. I was so upset I didn't really hear her. She left and said she'd call me later.” His head dropped into his hands. “What am I going to do if Mama dies?”

Nice pity party, Sean
, she thought. No wonder his mother hadn't told him sooner. What help could he possibly be to her when he was so busy wallowing in me-me-me?

But then she felt terrible for judging him when she knew everyone handled grief in his or her own way.

“It'll be okay, Sean. Everything will be okay. Come here.”

A hug seemed to be just what the doctor ordered, because he got up, walked straight into her open arms and held on for dear life.

“It's okay,” she murmured over and over. “It's okay.”

“What's going on here?”

Startled, Dara let Sean go and looked around. Mike stood in the doorway, watching them with eyes like black ice. His hard gaze swung back and forth between them, then settled on Dara.

“I thought you were leaving,” she said.

“Yeah, well, I came back.”

“Why didn't you tell me about Mama?” Sean asked quietly.

Dara suddenly had an image of a younger Sean, scared and needing comfort and reassurance from his older brother. Now was the time for Mike to step up to the plate and offer Sean a comforting word. Only Mike had the power to help Sean at this moment.

One glance at his thundercloud face told her it was never going to happen.

“Why don't you bother calling her once a year?” Mike asked, just as quietly.

Sean flinched and turned away.

Dara got in Mike's face and glared him down, driven by her fury with everything he said and did these days.

“If that's all you've got to say,” she said, “then I wish you'd leave. I was having a conversation with Sean.”

Animosity seethed in the air between them until, looking murderous, Mike wheeled around and strode out without a word.

Cursing, Mike walked into his office and slammed the door shut behind him, making the windows rattle. He circled his neat, work-laden desk, knowing he needed to calm down and sit—to think carefully and clearly—but that was impossible with a red haze of anger clouding his judgment. His galling frustration buzzed inside his head like a hive of agitated bees—Dara; Sean; Dara and Sean—testing the little bit of control he had left.

And then he blew.

With a stifled shout, he lunged for the desk and swiped his arms across it, sending dozens of files, notes and assorted office supplies crashing to the floor in an unholy mess. When he straightened, he realized he'd missed the office phone, so he grabbed it, yanked the cord out of the wall and lobbed it at the top of the pile.

There was a final flutter of paper, then silence.

“What're you doing?” asked a quiet voice on the threshold.

Mike recoiled, blinking. He hadn't heard the door open.

Jamal, he realized with relief. It was only Jamal.

Not that he wanted anyone to see him for the disaster he was at the moment.

“What the hell do you want?”

Never one to take a hint, Jamal stepped inside the office and shut the door behind him. “Listen, Pops—”

“Not. Now.”

“You can't keep up like this, man,” Jamal told him quietly.

“I'm fine,” Mike lied, kicking the phone's trailing cord out of the way as he turned toward the window and stared blindly out.

“Bullshit. You gotta work things out with Dara, man.”

“I am not having this discussion with you.”

Jamal shook his head and regarded him with eyes that were huge and disbelieving. “Dara belongs with you. You know it and I know it.”

“Yeah, well, she's in there”—he violently jerked his thumb in the direction of Dara's office—“all hugged up with Sean. My brother. Who seems to be in love with her.”

“She doesn't want
Sean
,” Jamal cried.

Mike leaned against the window, tired down to the marrow inside his bones. Every day since he'd met Dara had aged him two years. “My personal life is not up for discussion,” he said, looking around for his briefcase. “I'm going home and you have English to work on with Dara. Bye.”

Jamal lingered, opening and closing his mouth.

“What?”
Mike barked.

“So that's it? You're just gonna be a … a … martyr because your brother wants her, too? Is that all you got?”

Jesus
.

“What do you want from me, Jamal?” he shouted.

“I want you to work things out with Dara.”

“I can't!”

Jamal shook his head sadly. “Then you're one stupid punk. And you don't deserve her anyway.”

When he got home, Mike showered, threw on some sweatpants and stretched out on the bed for some TV. But after he'd made one full circuit of flipping channels, he tossed the remote aside in disgust. Five hundred channels and nothing to watch.

He went downstairs to the kitchen, rubbing his shoulders as he went. They felt like they'd been encased in twin boulders, and nothing helped to relieve the tension. Not running, not hot showers, nothing. Sex might help, and he briefly considered calling someone—Lisa, maybe—to come over. She'd be willing, with no questions asked, and straight sex with no emotions would give him some temporary relief.

But what fun would sex with a woman other than Dara be?

The fridge was fully stocked, so he leaned in to find a snack. Cheese and crackers? Yogurt? A bowl of cereal? Ice cream? Nothing looked appetizing, and all food tasted like dust to him these days.

He wasn't really hungry, anyway.

Slamming the fridge shut, he went through the French doors onto the dark deck. The cold air smacked him across the face and made the gooseflesh rise on his bare chest and back, but he didn't care. Anything that might help clear his mind was fine by him. The only problem was that nothing cleared his mind. Not anymore.

Dara hated him. Bottom line.

He didn't know how he'd expected her to act at work, but cool detachment sure wasn't it. She'd looked right through him like he was nothing. It was all his fault, he knew. It was a matter of choosing between his family and Dara, and he couldn't choose her.

Whatever the consequences were, he deserved them.

He'd made his bed, yeah. He just didn't want to lie in it.

He debated whether to go inside before he developed frostbite, not that he'd care if he did. This, then, was his nightly ritual. Come home, more work, run, shower, no snack, no sex, roam the house. Eventually, he'd make his way up to his bed and pretend to fall asleep for several hours.

Tomorrow, he'd do it all over again.

There was no plan, no grand design. One day at a time was all he could manage. One day at a time for a few more weeks, until her internship ended. He refused to think about whether he'd ever see her again after that—

Hang on. Was that his phone?

It was, ringing on the kitchen counter.

Mike hurried back inside and snatched it up.

“Hello?”

“Mike? It's Miller. District one.”

One of his Cincinnati police acquaintances? That couldn't be good.

“What's up?” Mike asked, stiffening.

“I was called to a two-car accident on Liberty. Couple of your employees, a male and a female, got themselves T-boned at a light. The other driver failed the field sobriety. We charged him.”

Mike blinked and rewound all that information. The words took forever to saturate the working part of his brain, and when they did, stark terror nearly knocked him out. He had to lean against the counter or risk a butt plant on the floor when his knees inevitably gave out. The levelheaded, good-in-a-client-crisis person he'd always been had left the building. In his place stood a man whose mouth and voice refused to work together.

Jesus, God, please
.

Not Dara, not Dara, not Dara
.

“Is she—?”

Mike had to stop there. His screaming emotions prevented him from saying either
alive
or anything else.

“They're at the hospital asking for you,” Miller told him.

Dara
sat by Jamal's emergency room bed and held his IV-taped hand while he slept. He had a concussion, the doctor had said, and a stitched and bandaged cut on his temple that didn't look too bad, thank God.

His fingers moved, snapping her out of bleary exhaustion to full attention.

“Dara?” he asked faintly, lids fluttering open.

“Yeah?” She scooted to the edge of her chair.

“Why don't you look where the hell you're going next time?” he demanded, glaring.

Dara's jaw hit the floor. “It wasn't my fault that drunk idiot plowed into us!”

He grinned. “I'll need the name of your insurance agent.”

Laughing, she kissed the uninjured side of his face. “Not a chance. Your mom'll be here any second, by the way.”

“You okay?”

“I'm okay.”

“I just got one question for you.” Serious again, he fingered his bandage. “Tell the truth.”

“What is it?”

“Am I still pretty?”

When Jamal drifted back to sleep, Dara slipped out through the curtains and slumped on one of the uncomfortable chairs on the outskirts of the waiting area, wondering what she should do. She'd wait until Jamal's mother arrived, of course, but how would she get home? Her poor little SUV was totaled.

Mike could take you home
.

Dara ignored the stupid little voice and dug her phone out of her purse. Sure, she'd given his number to the police because he'd want to know about Jamal and would probably come to the hospital right away. But that had nothing to do with her. In fact, she planned to be long gone before he arrived.

You need Mike
.

Agitated, she found her phone and got up to pace.

No, she didn't need Mike, thanks.

True, she'd never been in a car accident before, and she'd never been as terrified as tonight, when she'd heard the thunderous crash, the scraping and grinding of metal against metal and Jamal's shout of pain. But everyone was fine, and that was what she needed to focus on.