Authors: Kathleen Lash
Whisper (8 page)
“Yeah. I just didn’t want to scare them, you know?” He remembered something else. She’d told Heather she’d been in a car accident rather than say she’d been jumped and beaten up. She knew
all
about protecting kids. He sighed. “You have a choice.
Give me a few more pain pills and I’ll shut my mouth and enjoy the buzz, or help me up so I can clear my head. It’d really piss me off, if every word I said to you today was an apology for something.”
“How bad do you hurt?”
“Not too bad right now. My brain feels thick, though.” He opened his eyes. She had a calm expression on her face.
“How’s your leg?”
“No worse than yesterday. Better than the day before.”
“I have breakfast ready when you are. I’d be happy to bring up a tray. The kids could come and see you here.”
He tried again and this time managed to sit up the whole way. “Not a great idea.” She stood and he threw back the covers. She helped him swing his leg over and onto the floor. “They’ll think I’m dying.” He froze, realizing he sat there in his underwear. If he’d been dreaming about Whisper 61
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and the night before, he’d be really embarrassed in ten seconds when he looked up to see her face.
Hell,
why wait!
Glancing up, she tilted her head off center and gave him a questioning look. No embarrassment or discomfort on her part, made chagrin and desire instantly wash over him.
“Shit!” he said, feeling a semi-hard problem grow into something more. A step back let him know she wasn’t uncomfortable around him half dressed, but an angry word definitely made her skittish. He slumped forward as he rubbed his eyes. “It’ll be a long day.”
“Why?”
“I’ll spend it apologizing. I know it.”
“Why?” Her voice became higher, more concerned.
He couldn’t spend all day wondering about it, and decided to ask. If he was wrong, he could start apologizing right then and there, for flashing his lumpy boxers. “Last night. You and I.” Her eyebrows arched, anticipating something more. She didn’t understand he wanted an answer.
Shit!
Uncomfortable himself, he blurted it out. “Did we—I think I remember— shit!”
Her arms crossed at her stomach and she took a step back.
“Damn it, did I kiss you!”
Her gaze dropped, she took another step back and nodded her head. “Yes, sir.” It
did
happen and he’d have to apologize anyway for the way he asked the question. If this was any indication of the day to come, he should stay in bed and take the pills. He held up his arms and opened his hands.
“Whisper,” he said in a rational tone. She hesitantly came forward to place her palms against his. “I couldn’t remember and didn’t know how to ask.”
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Whisper
“Oh.”
He rubbed the backs of her hands with his thumbs. She had some damned small hands. “The pills make me remember things like I was dreaming.
Half of what I think I remember never happened.
Last night—should’ve been a dream.” She tried pulling away. He hadn’t meant the statement to come out like what happened was a mistake! He tried to straighten it out. “I questioned what happened because I’ve never,” his voice trailed off.
He’d try once more before he’d swallow the pills and lay back down.
“Baby?” Her pale blue eyes with the ring of gray gazed at him. “Did you let me touch you?” She nodded.
Good, some progress.
“And kiss you?”
“Yes.”
“Did you,” he said before swallowing, and then swallowing again. It was hard to think about because he was hard, period. “Never mind. I know what happened. My imagination isn’t that good.”
“Did I do something wrong?”
He brought her close, wrapped his arms around her waist, and rested the side of his face against her stomach. Her muscles were taught but at least she didn’t try to get away.
“I thought I dreamt your hands and mouth on me because I’ve never felt anything so good. I’ve never come that hard or quick, and God, you didn’t back off—nothing’s been that extreme.” Her fingers in his hair allowed him to relax.
“You’re not angry with me?”
“No. And you won’t have to ask me that question again. I’ll try my damndest to think before I speak.”
“Don’t worry about it. I’ll just toughen up a little. You’ve had a bad time lately. You’re entitled to some anger.”
“I’ll keep it in check. I refuse to spend the whole damn day apologizing.” He released her. “Think you 63
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can find my jeans from yesterday?” She walked to the chair, picked up a pair of jeans and shook them open. “We brought in your duffle bag. I did the laundry and found a few pair of jeans that didn’t look new, even had some holes. I hope they weren’t favorites. I cut them to fit your cast so you’d have some changes of clothes. If I screwed up, I’ll replace them.” The words tumbled so softly and fast he had a hard time following with some of her enunciations.
Once his brain caught up with her, he laughed.
“That’s perfect. Thank you. Throw them here and I’ll get dressed.” She walked over, crouched down and began pushing denim up his legs. “You don’t have to.” “You can do it yourself tomorrow.” She acted like it was no big deal helping him dress. She’d done the same the night before undressing him. It took some getting used to.
Someone lending a hand. He couldn’t decide if he liked it or not. The waist of the jeans sat at his thighs. Whisper brought him a tee-shirt.
“Hang on,” she said before peering at his back.
“Looks good. I’ll change the dressing later.”
“You don’t have to.” He pulled the shirt over his head.
“I don’t? Good, then Billy can do it.” He laughed knowing little Billy would probably puke.
She brought the crutches over and held them for him. “Have you done this before?”
“Yes, sir.”
The
sir
slipped out once before and he wondered why it embarrassed her. It complimented the sexy drawl. “You a nurse?”
“No.” She stood close. “Up you go.” He rose, allowing the crutches and right leg to bear his weight. She pulled his pants into place, positioning them on his hips. “Shirt tucked or un-64
Whisper
tucked?”
“You start tucking, and we’ll be here a while.” He kissed the top of her head and she looked up.
She smiled and pulled the waist of the jeans together and clearly understood what he’d been talking about when she tried zipping him. Balanced on one leg, he handed the crutches back, zipped and buttoned the jeans before she pushed him onto the bed. She grabbed socks off the nightstand and knelt.
She pushed them into place, the left just over his toes. “You cut your hair.” He ran his fingers through the silken strands. He liked long hair on a woman.
Hers was still long, coming down past her shoulders and cut into layers. A cat they’d adopted years before felt that soft. He couldn’t keep his hands off the cat either, enjoying its squirming and purring. When stroked the right way, Whisper purred too.
“You didn’t cut yours.” She had an uncanny way of avoiding conversations.
“I rubber band it to keep it out of my way with a hard hat. Does the length bother you?” He only ever cut it once a year or so, and even then, he kept it ponytail length. If she liked shorter hair, he’d actually consider getting it cut.
“I like it.”
“Why’d you cut your hair?” When he asked, she stilled. He decided it wasn’t important.
She stood. “Ready?”
She tugged on his arm as he pulled himself up with the aid of crutches. Thumping across the carpet, he made it to the bathroom. “Go down. I’ll get there.”
“Ten minutes?”
“For what?”
“I’m sending Mark and Nomad after you. You’re not coming down those stairs by yourself.” He stopped mid hobble and glared. “You are one 65
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pushy little—”
“View the world from my vantage point for a moment, Keith. Your little brothers are all downstairs, waiting to see you. And then they will, rolling and crashing down twelve narrow and steep, uncarpeted stairs to land with a broken neck in a heap at the bottom with blood drooling from the corner of your mouth, neck all mangled sideways…”
“For the love of God!” he said, before laughing hard. She stood there smiling. “Send them up in five minutes. I can’t imagine how they’ll help, but hey, maybe the three of us can crash land together.” The smile disappeared. “How about a pain pill?
You look pale.”
“Excuse me?”
She repeated it and he loved her enunciation of the word
pale.
It came out more like
pay-yell.
“Sure, after breakfast. Don’t want to miss the food or feel like I dreamed it. I kept waking up thinking all the smells were a hallucination.”
“Five minutes.” She turned and left him standing in the bathroom doorway.
His palm rose to wipe perspiration from his forehead. The least little effort made him sweat. It probably stemmed from the damn fifty-pound cast they wrapped him in. He’d feel better once he washed up, shaved, and brushed his teeth and hair.
****
A few more days in the hospital might’ve been a sound idea. Maybe if he’d handled the crutches with 66
Whisper
more finesse, they wouldn’t all be silently staring at him. He made it to the dining room table, and sat.
Corey took the armpit mashers and placed them in the corner. He’d come down for breakfast, not a funeral. The mourner’s filed silently in and took places around the table to either stare or look down.
He wondered what would happen if he had a beer with breakfast.
Having enough, he rolled his eyes and asked,
“Who died?”
“Apparently you almost did.” It surprised him Corey piped up.
“Not even close,” he said.
“How bad is it? Your leg?”
“It’s broken.”
“You missed a call a week and a half ago. Billy mentioned strange people in the background when you called after that. How long were you in the hospital?”
He would’ve chewed a hunk of the kid’s ass, but didn’t because of the look on his face. They were scared. All of them. He wouldn’t lie. “I got out yesterday and headed home.”
“You were in the hospital the whole time?” It was Mark’s turn to sound irritated and scared.
He wondered then what he’d expected. It sure as hell wasn’t what came from the kids. “Look, if there was a
real
problem, I would’ve said so.”
“You don’t stay in the hospital that long for a broken leg.”
Whisper walked from the kitchen to bring him a cup of coffee. “Cream? Sugar?”
“Both. Thank you,” he replied.
As she brought the items over, she casually said,
“Maybe if you start from the beginning and explain, they wouldn’t be working so hard to fill in the rest with imagination.” As she headed toward the kitchen, she said, “Breakfast in five minutes. Anyone 67
Kathleen Lash
else still hungry?”
No one said a word and she left. They sat and stared and he didn’t like it. He glanced at Billy who sat the furthest away, at the opposite end of the table. His wide blue eyes held tears. Billy kept swallowing like the tears were leaking down the back of his throat. Maybe he’d been wrong. Maybe they should’ve known.
He concentrated on the coffee and stirred in cream and sugar. He took a sip, placed the mug down and leaned against the chair. Immediately adjusting his posture, he took the pressure off his back. Hunched over the table with his forearms resting against it, he began slowly turning the coffee cup. He mulled over what they needed to know.
“How bad is your leg?” Corey asked, except quieter this time. When did the kid stop hating him?
Glancing around, nothing had changed. He started talking to end the silence. He couldn’t stand it. “One of the machines hit unstable earth. It all caved in. I was up front, under a piece of jammed up equipment when the ceiling came down. It opened a pocket of gas in the process, something they didn’t expect to hit for fifty feet. Some of us got chewed up.” He tasted the coffee. The tears started rolling down Billy’s face and he wouldn’t look in that direction again. He figured it was best the kid hear it now, rather than bits and pieces later. He’d get it out and deal with the loose ends head on.
“So they dug me out.”
“Were you conscious?” Mark asked.
“Yeah.”
Somewhat.
“Scared?” Nomad asked. That surprised him.
The homeless, black haired, blue-eyed,
chick magnet,
didn’t get wrapped up in other people’s bullshit. At least that was Nomad’s self-proclaimed motto.
“Not really. I heard them working to get me out right after it happened.” Or at least right after he 68
Whisper
came to. He could leave out a detail or two.
“So they got you right out?” Mark asked.
“Sure, but they had to move the equipment that landed on top. It shifted and caught my leg.”
“How bad?”
“A week and a half in the hospital—bad. Some plates, rods and screws. They set up doctors and rehab for me here. You’re stuck with me, children.”
“How long?” Mark’s color didn’t look right. He looked sick.
“You okay?” Keith asked.
Mark nodded. “How long?”
“A while. No one knows. It depends on how things heal.”
Corey cleared his throat. “Will you be able to walk?”
“I can walk now. The leg’s still attached and I got a look at it before they slapped the cast on. I won’t look good in shorts, but who the hell wears shorts? Lighten up, guys.”
“What about the gas? You said something about gas?” Mark asked.
“Yeah.” He better explain now so they might understand some stuff down the road. “I got a face full. The blood tests look pretty good, but I have a side effect. My head sometimes feels like a hatchet is buried in there. I get kind of goofy.”
