Sustained
Page 26
And the idea of breaking his jaw seems even more attractive than it did a few weeks ago.
Chelsea closes the door behind us and we walk toward my car, Brent skipping as best he can. It’s fucking annoying.
“Well . . . ,” he breathes slowly, suggestion strong in his tone, “Chelsea seems nice.”
I say nothing.
“And that ass,” he goes on admiringly, “mmm, mmm, good—I could bounce quarters off that tight—”
My hand lashes out, twisting the front of his shirt, dragging him forward till we’re nose to nose. “Shut up.”
He searches my eyes, his smile slow and knowing. “You like her.”
I drop him like a Hot Pocket straight out of the microwave and brush past him to my car. “Of course I like her. She’s a nice girl.”
Brent sticks close to my side, wagging his finger. “Nooo, you like her—not just in the sense that you want her riding reverse cowgirl on your dick. You like her, like her.”
“What, are you twelve?”
“Age is just a number. Or at least that’s what my uncle said when he married lucky, nineteen-year-old wife number three.” He nudges my shoulder. “But seriously, you’ve got this whole knight-in-shining-armor vibe going on.”
I shake my head. “My armor was tarnished a long time ago, Brent.”
“A knight in tarnished armor is still a knight.”
When I don’t respond, he pushes—because he actually believes I won’t punch his pretty face. “Then let me know when you’re done. I’d like to see if I can hit that.”
I step toward him. “She’s off-fucking-limits to you. Now, during, and after. Don’t even think about it.”
And the son of a bitch looks pleased with himself. He smiles wider. “Yeah—you definitely like her.”
• • •
On Tuesday night I’m working late at the office, finishing up a motion for Senator Holten’s domestic abuse trial. I loosen my tie, rub my eyes, and crack my neck. Just as I’m about to dive back in, my cell phone rings.
And Chelsea’s name lights up the screen.
I smile just seeing her name. It’s fucking weird and completely unlike me. I barely smiled when I graduated law school.
I wipe it off my face as soon as I realize I’m doing it. I tap the accept button and bring the phone to my ear. I start to ask the age-old question What are you wearing? But I don’t—thank Christ—because a high-pitched voice pipes up from the speaker.
Rosaleen’s voice.
“Hi, Jake!”
I lean back in my chair. “Hi, Rosaleen.”
“Whatcha doin’?”
“Working. What are you doing?”
“I’m making chicken soup.” There’s pride in her voice.
“That’s nice. Is your aunt around?” I ask, because I have a sneaking suspicion Chelsea doesn’t have a clue about what her niece is up to.
“She’s in the bathroom. She’s sick.”
I frown. “What do you mean, she’s sick?”
“She’s throwing up everywhere. They all are, except me. And Ronan—but he spits up all the time anyway, so he doesn’t count.”
Faintly, the sound of Ronan’s wailing comes through in the background.
I sit up and press the phone harder against my ear. “Is that your brother crying?”
“Yeah. He’s hungry. I’m going to heat up his bottle as soon as I’m done with the soup.”
I’m about to ask her if she’s using the stove or the microwave for the soup . . . but the loud, piercing shriek of the fire alarm, which wipes out any other sound from her end, pretty much answers that question before it’s asked.
“Whoops!” Rosaleen shouts into the phone. “Gotta go. Bye!”
“Rosaleen, wait—”
But she’s already hung up.
Shit.
I call back. It rings and rings, then goes to voice mail.
“Fuck!”
10
It’s not my problem. It’s none of my business. I have my own shit to worry about.
That’s what I tell myself as I put my phone aside, push my chair forward, and refocus on the document in front of me. On the hours of work I still have to finish tonight.
Be smart. Prioritize.
They’re fine. People get sick all the time . . .
And then they die.
Fire alarms go off every day . . .
As houses burn to the ground.
“Goddamn it!”
I pick up my phone and dial again. Still nothing.
I shake my head and put my fingers on the keyboard . . . but the only thing I can picture is Chelsea passed out on the bathroom floor.
“Son of a bitch!”
I throw in the towel and pack my briefcase with my laptop and files. I make it to my car in record time and wonder if calling 911 would be an overreaction. It’s touch-and-go for a while, but I hold back—I’ll be there in ten minutes.
Seven minutes later, I tear up the driveway, throw my car in park, and stomp to the front door. My mouth is dry and my palms are wet with concern. I bang on the door, but the only answer is Cousin It’s yap from the other side. I cup my hands and peer through the window, but I don’t see anyone.
“Chelsea! Rosaleen!” I try knocking again. “It’s Jake.”
When there’s no response, I contemplate busting the door down. But then I remember to check under the mat—and lo and behold, there’s a shiny silver key. And I’m in.
Chelsea closes the door behind us and we walk toward my car, Brent skipping as best he can. It’s fucking annoying.
“Well . . . ,” he breathes slowly, suggestion strong in his tone, “Chelsea seems nice.”
I say nothing.
“And that ass,” he goes on admiringly, “mmm, mmm, good—I could bounce quarters off that tight—”
My hand lashes out, twisting the front of his shirt, dragging him forward till we’re nose to nose. “Shut up.”
He searches my eyes, his smile slow and knowing. “You like her.”
I drop him like a Hot Pocket straight out of the microwave and brush past him to my car. “Of course I like her. She’s a nice girl.”
Brent sticks close to my side, wagging his finger. “Nooo, you like her—not just in the sense that you want her riding reverse cowgirl on your dick. You like her, like her.”
“What, are you twelve?”
“Age is just a number. Or at least that’s what my uncle said when he married lucky, nineteen-year-old wife number three.” He nudges my shoulder. “But seriously, you’ve got this whole knight-in-shining-armor vibe going on.”
I shake my head. “My armor was tarnished a long time ago, Brent.”
“A knight in tarnished armor is still a knight.”
When I don’t respond, he pushes—because he actually believes I won’t punch his pretty face. “Then let me know when you’re done. I’d like to see if I can hit that.”
I step toward him. “She’s off-fucking-limits to you. Now, during, and after. Don’t even think about it.”
And the son of a bitch looks pleased with himself. He smiles wider. “Yeah—you definitely like her.”
• • •
On Tuesday night I’m working late at the office, finishing up a motion for Senator Holten’s domestic abuse trial. I loosen my tie, rub my eyes, and crack my neck. Just as I’m about to dive back in, my cell phone rings.
And Chelsea’s name lights up the screen.
I smile just seeing her name. It’s fucking weird and completely unlike me. I barely smiled when I graduated law school.
I wipe it off my face as soon as I realize I’m doing it. I tap the accept button and bring the phone to my ear. I start to ask the age-old question What are you wearing? But I don’t—thank Christ—because a high-pitched voice pipes up from the speaker.
Rosaleen’s voice.
“Hi, Jake!”
I lean back in my chair. “Hi, Rosaleen.”
“Whatcha doin’?”
“Working. What are you doing?”
“I’m making chicken soup.” There’s pride in her voice.
“That’s nice. Is your aunt around?” I ask, because I have a sneaking suspicion Chelsea doesn’t have a clue about what her niece is up to.
“She’s in the bathroom. She’s sick.”
I frown. “What do you mean, she’s sick?”
“She’s throwing up everywhere. They all are, except me. And Ronan—but he spits up all the time anyway, so he doesn’t count.”
Faintly, the sound of Ronan’s wailing comes through in the background.
I sit up and press the phone harder against my ear. “Is that your brother crying?”
“Yeah. He’s hungry. I’m going to heat up his bottle as soon as I’m done with the soup.”
I’m about to ask her if she’s using the stove or the microwave for the soup . . . but the loud, piercing shriek of the fire alarm, which wipes out any other sound from her end, pretty much answers that question before it’s asked.
“Whoops!” Rosaleen shouts into the phone. “Gotta go. Bye!”
“Rosaleen, wait—”
But she’s already hung up.
Shit.
I call back. It rings and rings, then goes to voice mail.
“Fuck!”
10
It’s not my problem. It’s none of my business. I have my own shit to worry about.
That’s what I tell myself as I put my phone aside, push my chair forward, and refocus on the document in front of me. On the hours of work I still have to finish tonight.
Be smart. Prioritize.
They’re fine. People get sick all the time . . .
And then they die.
Fire alarms go off every day . . .
As houses burn to the ground.
“Goddamn it!”
I pick up my phone and dial again. Still nothing.
I shake my head and put my fingers on the keyboard . . . but the only thing I can picture is Chelsea passed out on the bathroom floor.
“Son of a bitch!”
I throw in the towel and pack my briefcase with my laptop and files. I make it to my car in record time and wonder if calling 911 would be an overreaction. It’s touch-and-go for a while, but I hold back—I’ll be there in ten minutes.
Seven minutes later, I tear up the driveway, throw my car in park, and stomp to the front door. My mouth is dry and my palms are wet with concern. I bang on the door, but the only answer is Cousin It’s yap from the other side. I cup my hands and peer through the window, but I don’t see anyone.
“Chelsea! Rosaleen!” I try knocking again. “It’s Jake.”
When there’s no response, I contemplate busting the door down. But then I remember to check under the mat—and lo and behold, there’s a shiny silver key. And I’m in.
