Chapter 4
Chapter Four
MACK
N o more nannies. Nada. None. I’m fuckin’ done. The last one actually wanted to cut up my goddamn meat like I’m some two-year-old. Besides, I can do this on my own. I do not need a babysitter.
As if on cue, the front door opens and closes. Ma’s back.
I grip the washing basket with one hand and prop myself against the bench with my good hip, tossing dirty laundry out of the basket and into the machine with the other. The side of it digs into my bare chest, the base propped up precariously on my hip.
My left crutch slips outward, and I teeter on one foot as it, too, leaves my grasp. It clatters to the floor a meter from where I stand.
Fuck me.
Dropping the empty basket to the floor beside the traitorous crutch, I lean over and grab for the laundry detergent. The heavy box slips through my hand and crashes to the floor. White powder floods the small space, covering the wooden floor.
Sweet Jesus.
I brace against the counter and try to pick my way clear of the powder on the remaining crutch. On the second step, the crutch slips. I flail, arms flinging outward as I crash to the floor and onto my bad hip.
“Ah... Fuck you six ways to Sunday. Motherfucker!”
The pungent tang of detergent burns my nose, and the powder sticks to my now-clammy hands. It clings to my legs and covers my navy jogging shorts in its ghostly dust. Pretty sure the stuff will taint my skin for days. I may as well have rolled in the shit. I groan and close my eyes, hanging my head.
“You need a hand?” an unfamiliar soft voice fills the room.
Snapping my eyes open, I look up. A woman, young and looking as startled as I feel, stares down at me. She eyes the powder, the basket, and the crutches. It’s then I notice she is holding an armful of linen.
The new nanny.
I thought by ignoring that last text from Ma, it would mean she would drop the whole idea of the live-in babysitter. But since a stranger, albeit a beautiful one, is standing in the doorway to my laundry room, I’m guessing ignoring Ma did not, in fact, translate to the word no.
The woman’s pale blue eyes skate over my body, stalling momentarily on the braces on my leg and hip before snagging on my bare chest. Her hair is pulled up into a messy bun and her plump lips shine with some kind of gloss. Her sneakers look worn. Toned legs and lightly tanned skin consume me at eye-level. Tiny frayed denim shorts are topped with a pale blue checked button-down shirt. I clear my throat.
“I’m sorry, I was just wanting to put these?—”
“Did you find it, Grace?” Ma calls from the kitchen.
Great, just great.
Here we go again.
Grace glances behind her and hovers for a second. “Yep, all good.”
Her gaze meets mine and she offers a small smile, leaning in to pop the linen on the counter. But she doesn’t turn and leave. Instead, she drops to her knees and starts sweeping the powder away from where I sit with her hands.
“It’s fine, I’ll clean it up.” My words are harsh.
She stills for a heartbeat before sitting back on her heels. “Alright.”
“I take it you’re the new babysitter.”
It’s not a question. She simply nods and says, “Your mom said you needed some help around here. I needed a job. Guess it worked out.”
“No.” I lean forward and rise to my hands and knees. The stabbing pain in my hip turns to fire. “It didn’t. I’m not interested in having a carer. Didn’t work out the last three times, won’t this time, either.”
She pushes to her feet. I clamber through the acidic snow and haul myself up the doorjamb. She stares, folding her arms over her chest. Pushing up to my full height, I lean on the doorframe. I still tower over her by a head. She looks up. Her left eye and cheekbone have a purple-green bruise. Probably got into some catfight over something fuckin’ stupid. Most likely over a guy. Like I said, don’t need another carer. Let alone one who has drama following her around.
“You done staring?” Grace mutters.
“’Bout as done as you are here, I reckon.” I drag my gaze from hers. “Ma!”
Footsteps hurry down the corridor and Ma appears, a smile brightening her face. “I see you’ve met Grace. Show her to one of the spare rooms, will you, my boy.”
My face turns to stone, body ratcheting up the tension in every damn muscle. “She’s not stayin’. We are done with the carer, babysitter, hand-holding bullshit. I’m fine.”
Ma leans and glances to the floor behind me. “It looks anything but fine, Mackinlay. Now, show Grace where her room is, or I’ll have your father come over and do it.”
Jesus fuckin’ Christ.
“Whatever.”
I sound like a petulant child. Not feeling much more than one, either. I hate it. I hate this whole situation. But when Ma’s steely gaze doesn’t break from mine, I relent. Nudging one of the crutches with my foot, I try to slide it toward me. It flings further away. “Dammit.”
Neither of the women move to help me. Ma folds her arms now, imitating Grace’s stance.
“You want me to get that?” Grace asks, raising an eyebrow.
“Nope. I’m fine.”
I try again. Bending at the hip, I grip the doorframe with one hand and swipe at the crutch with the other. My fingers curl around the side of it. I yank it toward me and use it to drag the second crutch to where I stand. With both crutches in action, I thunder down the hall, not waiting for them to catch up.
The bedroom at the back of the house faces the east. Its huge bay windows give it a ton of natural light. I stop and move to turn back, finding myself in Grace’s space. Her scent, vanilla and peaches, crashes into me. I falter back a step as she peers into the room.
I take another step back away from the doorway and gesture for her to enter. “Have at it.”
She wanders into the room, eyes taking in the queen-size bed. The attached en suite. The oak dresser and the window and seat by it. She spins back and opens her mouth, but she must have thought better of it, as she closes it and walks from the room and back to the kitchen. I push out the back screen door and wander into the backyard.
With difficulty, I lower myself onto one of the outdoor chairs by the firepit. The heat of the day is already rolling in, and I focus on the light breeze and the inhale and exhale from my lungs. Maybe it won’t be so bad if she stays. She’s much prettier than the last three nurses. And a lot younger. She must be around twenty-five or something. Knowing Ma, she never bothered to ask.
After twenty minutes of back-and-forth in my mind about the latest recruit to join team “fuck over Mackinlay’s wishes,” I push from the chair, stiff and sore, and head back inside. The washing machine is whirring away by the sounds coming down the hallway. I pass the laundry room. The powder is cleaned up, and is that coffee?
The distinct aroma of coffee percolating wafts toward me. I reach the kitchen, and Ma is nowhere to be found. Outside, her truck is gone.
“Coffee?” Grace asks from the kitchen.
“Fine.” I slump into a chair at the kitchen table. A steaming mug appears in front of me. She comes to sit on the other side of the table with her own mug wrapped in fine, elegant hands. I narrow my gaze and take a sip. The black gold is delicious.
“I get it, you don’t want me here. And I?—”
I hold up a hand. “Let’s set a few things straight before you dive into telling me your entire life story. You can stay for the short term. The second I am capable of doing my own laundry, you’re done. There will be no drama here. Whatever happened to your face,” I say, waving a hand at her, “none of that follows you home. I mean, here. It doesn’t step foot onto this ranch. Got it?”
Her face is a mixture of shock and pure hurt. She swallows and rests the mug on the table, and I fold my arms over my chest. I’ve already been fucked over. I’m not buying into her shit as well. I open my mouth to explain as much, but she says, “Fine. I’ll stay out of your way.”
She rises and pads to the kitchen and pours her almost full cup of coffee down the drain. Moving toward the front door, she plucks up a small overnight bag and a phone, its screen so smashed, I can see it from here. With quickened strides, she disappears through the hallway, heading for her room, I assume. The door closes with a soft click.
I down the rest of the coffee and head out to the front porch, collecting my phone on the way. Two messages from Ma.
Please treat Grace with the respect you were raised with, Mackinlay.
I know you’re hurting my boy, but I have a feeling about this time around. Be nice.
Jesus, Ma. Always with the cryptic bullshit.
She’s right, though. I’ve been in a mood since the day that rooftop collapsed. I mean, who could blame me? The chopper crashed, the old building crumbled and took me down with it. In more ways than one. I was by no means a career soldier, that was never the plan. But I was good at my job, dammit. Leavin’ the military was supposed to be my choice. The when and how. Not this.
I leave Ma’s messages on read and toss the phone onto the seat. I close my eyes and lay my head back on the side of the house behind me. The second I do, it’s too quiet. My brain too unoccupied. And the shouting starts. The radio on my shoulder squawks. The swoosh of rotors sinks overhead. Rounds fire off below me?—
“Steak okay for supper? I just want to start organizing,” a small voice interrupts the chaos.
I open my eyes and dart a glance to the door where she stands. Her eyes are rimmed red, her arms wrapped around her like that will protect her from whatever she fears.
I grunt in response and shift my focus to the pasture behind the barn.
“Hope you like salad,” she utters, walking back inside.
After hours of watching Grace putter around, tidying up and prepping supper, I make a start on my exercises and physio treatments on the living room floor. Every movement the medical staff set out for me hurts. I am gaining strength, but too slowly. My body is shaking and covered in sweat, so I head for the shower to clean up before supper.
“Your meal will be ready in twenty,” Grace throws over her shoulder.
Not bothering to reply, I wander to the shower. The plastic seat that accommodates my banged-up body stares at me with its mocking shape. Hole in the seat for water flow. Like my ass is suspended over a goddamn sieve. I strip down, not caring enough to close the door, and turn on the water. As steam curls around the white chair, I go about removing the braces. One at a time.
Each brace comes away easy enough, but without them, each movement is too sloppy, too painful. Like my body is made from rubber, and I have almost no control over it. I grit my teeth as the hip brace hits the floor and I clamber onto the plastic seat. The sound of Grace moving about the house has me wishing I’d shut the door now. I’m in the master bedroom en suite, but still. I should close the door. Noted.
Making quick work of my hygiene routine, habit from years in the military, I towel off. I rise to towel my back half, and the plastic chair slips. My unstable musculature jerks to brace from slipping onto the tiled floor, sending agonizing pain through my hip, lower back, and leg.
“Fuck!”
I groan through the pain as heat rushes my body, my hands scrambling for a hold. My fingers snap around the chrome handle Huddo installed. I groan through the fire lancing every single inch of my body.
“Mackinlay? Are you okay?”
Shit.
Should have closed the fuckin’ door.
“Fine!” I snap out.
Her footsteps fade and I steady my breathing. Hurrying to reapply the braces, I dress and towel off my hair. Mostly healed shrapnel wounds dot my skin on my chest and shoulders. My short dark hair is getting longer by the week, and even I can see the lackluster in my dark blue eyes that used to carry joy and a zest for life. For my life.
Now, dull blue orbs stare back over a drawn face. All I feel is anger, regret—but most of all, guilt. Pushing Butters’s face from my mind, I hobble to the kitchen on one crutch. My armpits ache from being propped up on crutches all day, and just one is a relief.
The table in the kitchen is set for supper.
One place setting, not two.
The second Grace realizes I’m here, she brings over the plate of food. Steak, as she planned earlier. Salad and potatoes. A glass of juice sits on the table already. I sit, wary of her attention following me. She sets the plate down, followed by my evening painkillers, and takes a step back. “Anything else you need?”
“Nope.”
“Okay, well, I’m going to call it a day. Try not to choke on your steak.”
I look up into those light blue eyes. Sadness is the only thing that I find there.
Grunting out an acknowledgment, I pick up the knife and fork and cut the steak. At least she left me to my own supper and didn’t mutilate my meat in the name of “proper home care”.
Grace – 1
The last three nannies – 0
With a full belly, I settle onto the sofa and flick on the TV to avoid the quiet. Lulling me into its soft haven, I doze off as the night wears on. A noise startles me awake, and I glance at the clock in the kitchen. Almost midnight.
I turn off the TV and push down the hallway on one crutch. Grace’s door is closed. Her light is out. The floor creaks under my feet. I turn into my room.
A sniffle splits the air.
I wander to my bed and rest the crutch against the bedside table. Tugging my shirt over my head, I sit on the bed. Swallowing painkillers with a mouthful of water, I start the agonizing process of lying with a bed stick, poking up on my side of the bed. No handles dangling from the ceiling here. With my body on the bed and my legs straight and as comfortable as I can make them, I reach for my phone and AirPods.
A sob echoes through the quiet house.
Then another.
With a sigh, I shove the AirPods into my ears and scroll through my playlists. The last thing I need is to be surrounded by silence. I select a playlist, determined not to let the nightmares scream throughout the night.
More sobs, and I slam my eyes shut. Maybe I shouldn’t be such an ass. Maybe she should harden up. Life sucks. The sooner she realizes that at her young age, the better off she’ll be.
The sobs continue and I crank up the volume on the Nickelback playlist Reed sent me.
Suck it up, buttercup.