Chapter Eighteen WES
Chapter Eighteen
W ES
It’s after eleven when we finally get the kitchen cleaned up, and even though I’m exhausted, I’m also rejuvenated in a way I wasn’t expecting. In every instance of opening a restaurant in the past, I crawled home afterward and curled into the fetal position on my couch completely depleted.
Tonight, there’s a sense of being tired, absolutely. But I also feel like I could work another opening night straight through if I needed to.
Not only was the response from customers better than I could have imagined, everyone was on point. Kellan and Mark were focused; there were no major mistakes; the front of house didn’t send anything crazy our way that might have bumped us off our game. Memphis kept popping in to let me know about the compliments he was receiving from guests, too.
Then there was Murphy.
I don’t think I’ve ever been so determined to poke my head out of the kitchen as I was tonight, and I had to remind myself a few times that my priority was cooking. Not watching Murphy like a lovesick puppy.
She was incredible, though. Tonight only further highlighted to me how talented she is. Which makes me think she would be a fool not to at least meet with those people from her friend’s new label.
But she has to decide that for herself.
I pick up my phone where it’s been sitting in the little office off the kitchen and prepare to send Murphy a text to let her know I’m wrapping things up.
My heart shoots into my throat when I see the twelve missed calls from Ash.
Clicking on his name, I bring the phone to my ear, waiting with bated breath as it rings. And rings. And ...
“Mom’s in the hospital.”
He says it the second he answers the phone, and my throat tightens.
“Mira and I went to fucking Vegas, and I can’t get a flight home until tomorrow morning. Can you go?”
I sigh. Part of me wants to say no, as horrible as it sounds. When you have an addict as a parent, you can only repeat the same actions over and over again so many times before it feels useless.
But I won’t say no. Not just because I love my mother and want to make sure she’s okay and not alone. Because I love my brother. He’s a lot more emotionally connected to her than I am, and if this is something I can do to help ease his stress and worry, I’ll do it.
“Text me the details. I need to go change, but I’ll get on the road in the next half hour, okay?”
I hear Ash exhale on the other end of the line, and I know I’ve alleviated at least a little bit of the stress.
“Thank you, Wes.”
“Don’t worry about it. Just text me, okay?”
We get off the phone, and I drop into the desk chair, giving myself a moment before I soldier on.
My mother has been in the hospital, on average, every few years for as long as I can remember. The first time, I was seven and Ash was two, and she got in a car accident because she was drinking and driving. We were at home for four days without any adults when she finally came home.
The most recent time was because she was drunk and passed out at a bus stop, and a Good Samaritan called an ambulance for her. I was in Chicago for that one, but I remember the way Ash sounded when he called me. She was supposed to be in rehab, and he’d been so hopeful for something good to come from it.
Everything about my mother is a mess, and I’ve tried to be there for her as often as I can. But it’s hard sometimes to go see her when it’s like that.
When she’s lying in a hospital bed with a broken wrist because she fell off a slide at a playground in the middle of the night. Or picking her up from jail because she was taken in for a drunk and disorderly.
My brother continues to believe she can change, but I gave up on that possibility years ago.
Eventually I push myself out of the chair and through the kitchen, flipping off the lights as I go. When I emerge into the dining room, my gaze strays to the patio, where the fairy lights are still illuminated.
That’s when I see Murphy sitting on the short stone wall that divides the sitting area from a large grassy knoll, her guitar propped on her knee, her fingers plucking at the strings.
She smiles when I step outside, her frame rocking slowly from side to side as she strums an unfamiliar melody. But the smile dips when she sees me, and her hands stop moving.
“Everything okay?”
I shake my head. “My mom’s in the hospital,” I tell her, crossing the patio and dropping down on the wall next to her. “I need to head into San Francisco.”
There’s a pause, and then her hand rests on my knee.
“Do you want some company?”
My immediate reaction is to tell her no. The last thing I want is for her to have to deal with the bullshit I’ve been handling since I was a kid. Nothing prepares you for seeing someone in the hospital, and I don’t even know the reality of what I’ll be walking into because Ash didn’t give any details.
But when I turn to look at her, to tell her I appreciate it, but no thanks, something inside me says I should take this gesture.
I’ve thought several times to myself that some of what connects Murphy and me is our mirrored history of facing really difficult things. We’ve both been through a lot, and each of us have had to handle those things alone.
Maybe this time, it’s okay to lean on someone, just a little bit.
So instead of turning her down, I rest my hand on top of hers and give it a squeeze, thankful for her willingness to be there with me.
“That would actually be amazing.”
“It’s really not a big deal,” Murphy tells me as we trudge down the hallway. “I’ve been in a hospital before. I knew about visiting hours, and I didn’t think about it, either.”
I know she’s right, but that doesn’t change the fact I feel like an idiot for driving ninety minutes only to arrive at the hospital and find out I have to wait until eight in the morning to see my mother.
“The good news is that, whatever it is, it’s not critical, right? It’s better that they won’t let you see her. It means she’s stable.”
I come to a stop next to where Murphy stands in front of room 304, setting the key card against the door handle. It beeps, a little light turns green, and then we’re pushing into the tiny room at the chain hotel across the street from the hospital.
The thing I’m the most irritated about is that I didn’t even need to come. Maybe that makes me selfish. Maybe that makes me a shitty son. But the truth is that if I’d thought about the visiting hours, I would have let Ash come in the morning once he got back from Vegas.
Instead, I’ve had to text my boss in the middle of the night to let him know I’ll be late to my second fucking service at my brand-new job that I’ve been preparing for months for. I’ve needed to call my line cooks and make sure they know they’re on their own for the very first lunch service of the restaurant’s existence.
I’m not an angry person, but there is nothing that lights me on fire and makes me want to chuck things across the room like the ways in which my mother’s addiction fucks with my life.
“Why don’t you take a shower,” Murphy suggests.
I sigh and drop my jacket on the edge of the bed, then kick off my shoes before pushing into the bathroom. Once I’ve closed the door, I brace my hands on the counter and look at myself for a long moment in the mirror.
As frustrated as I am about tonight’s events, I’m actually pleased with what I see in the mirror. When I left Chicago, I was a little gaunt looking, and my normally muscular frame was on the leaner side. In the two months I’ve lived in Rosewood, I’ve put on a few pounds of toned muscle, and I’m looking a lot like my normal self.
Rolling my eyes at my own vanity, I turn and swat at the shower handle, turning the water on and then beginning to strip.
Nothing sounds better than scrubbing off the grit and grime from my first full service. It’s like a reward for all the hard work I put in, and that first blast of the hot water against my tired muscles feels incredible.
I grab the little bottle of body wash and give myself a rubdown, then tackle my hair and face, before just standing under the hot water and enjoying the heat.
A noise behind me draws my attention, and when I turn my head, I see Murphy pulling the shower curtain to the side. My eyes travel down her naked frame with admiration.
“I thought I might be able to help with a little stress relief,” she says, a playful smile on her lips.
I give her a mischievous grin, and she steps into the tub behind me.
Her arms wrap around my middle, and I sigh at the feeling of her body pressing up against mine from behind. Murphy’s lips touch gently against the center of my back, leaving a trail of kisses. But it’s hard to focus on that when her hands are lightly tracing along my pelvic muscles.
My cock throbs between my legs, growing harder as she continues teasing me. I let my head fall back slightly, my eyes closed, just mentally focusing on her.
Nothing feels as incredible as having Murphy’s hands on my body. Her hands, her mouth, her gorgeous tits pressed against me ... I’ll take any part of Murphy snuggled up against any part of me whenever I can.
I hiss in pleasure when her hands grip my length and begin to stroke, and with her petite frame pressed against me from behind, my movements are restricted, leaving me with no choice but to just stand there even though I feel desperate to thrust into her hand.
But eventually, it becomes too much, and I spin around and yank her in for a kiss. Our mouths open instantly, this kiss so much more erotic than any that has come before it.
I crowd her against the shower wall, then lick into her mouth with desperation, my tongue tangling with hers as my hands grip at her bare flesh. First her hips, then her ass, and I groan as my dick presses against her warm body.
“I want you inside me,” she whispers, her hands gripping my back and her hips undulating against me.
I drop a hand and touch between her legs, groaning when I feel the slickness between her lower lips that is definitely not from the shower.
“I’m clean,” I tell her as I tug her leg to the side so she can set her foot on the edge of the tub. “Haven’t been with anyone in over a year.”
She nods, then reaches between us and grabs me, lining me up so the head of my dick is pressed against her tight opening.
“How do you want it?” I ask her, then begin to suck on her neck as my hips pulse lightly, teasing us both.
Murphy moans, her hips shifting, her fingernails beginning to press into my back.
“Fuck me, Wes.”
I smile against her wet skin, then raise my head so I can look into her eyes.
“Good answer,” I tell her, and then I watch as I slide into her pussy in one long, slow movement.
The tight, wet heat of her is almost too much. I grit my teeth at how good it feels.
“Oh my god,” she whispers, and then I feel her inner walls squeeze me.
“Yes,” I tell her, drawing back before thrusting in again, this time with more force. “Do that again.”
Her pussy clamps down on me again, and I groan, wanting to both stay right where I am and continue to move at the same time.
“It’s so good.” I draw back out and spear forward again. “So fucking good.”
Murphy’s fingernails dig in deeper, then scratch down my back with enough force that I don’t doubt she’s leaving marks.
I grip beneath her knee, lifting her leg off the edge of the tub and raising it higher, opening her wider so I can fuck into her harder.
“Fuck, Wes. Fuck,” she moans, moving to place her hands on my shoulders.
And then I begin thrusting at a steady pace, the slap of our bodies colliding echoing around us in the tiny space.
I drop my face to her neck and suck at her damp skin, losing myself in the sensation of being inside her.
“I’m gonna come,” she tells me, and the knowledge that I’ve gotten her near the peak so quickly has my own orgasm stirring, the pleasure coiling inside me tighter and tighter.
I feel her clamp down on me a moment later, a cry falling from her lips.
And I’m tumbling behind her, lost in a sea of bliss.
“I didn’t mean to seduce you into shower sex,” she tells me later as we’re lying in bed together, my fingers twirling in her damp hair. “My plan was just a shower BJ.”
“Well, I’ll definitely take one of those next time.”
She tucks her body into mine and kisses my chest, and I wrap my arms around her. It isn’t long before I hear her breathing begin to slow, soft snores coming from her that make me smile.
God, I don’t know what I was expecting with Murphy Hawthorne, but it sure as hell wasn’t this. And the deeper we fall, the more pressure I feel to tell her about what happened in Chicago.
I don’t want to.
Fuck, I really don’t want to.
But I feel like I need to.
And if I’m honest, she deserves the truth. Not only about what happened, but about who I am and what I’ve done.
I lie in bed for a long while, thinking about everything, and when I open my eyes in the morning, I know I probably only got a few hours of sleep, if that.
I gently wake Murphy, and she gives me a groggy smile. I drop a kiss to her forehead, wishing that after our first time together, we had the ability to laze around in bed and enjoy each other some more.
Instead, we both tug on our clothes, check out of the hotel, and walk across the street to the hospital.
Last night, the woman at the desk provided me with a room number but said I’d need to come back in the morning. So when we walk through the front doors, Murphy and I are able to just head straight to the elevators and up to the seventh floor.
“How can I help you?” a nurse asks as we exit, a flat expression on her face.
“My mom is in 705. Sonia Hart.”
“Bed 705 is empty.”
I blink a few times, then change my question, figuring I must have just been given wrong information.
“Can you let me know where I can find her then?”
The nurse sighs and rolls her chair to a computer. “What was the name again?”
“Sonia Hart.”
She clicks around for a minute or two. “She was discharged this morning at 6:00 a.m.”
My entire body bristles in frustration. “What? Why? When I came last night they said I could see her if I came back during visiting hours. They didn’t say anything about her leaving before then.”
“You family?” She eyes me with a level of passivity that has me gritting my teeth.
“Yes, I’m her son,” I tell her again.
“All I can tell you is that she was unconscious when she arrived yesterday, and this morning she left against medical advice. We did a blood panel overnight and it came back with a BAC of 0.31.”
I feel a hand on my back and I startle, having forgotten for a moment that Murphy is here, but almost immediately, something inside me settles just a little bit at her touch.
“Did she say anything? About where she was going, or ...?”
“I’m not her babysitter,” she says. “Sorry.”
Sighing, I turn away from the nurse, frustrated at not only her lack of compassion, but at the situation in general.
How can they just let her leave? Clearly something was bad enough that she was brought unconscious to the hospital.
Murphy slips her hand in mine and gives it a gentle squeeze as we wait for the elevator.
I hate that she’s here, seeing this. That she has any idea about this part of my life.
And at the same time, I’ve never felt so thankful to have someone at my side.
No, not just someone.
Her.
I wrap my arm around Murphy’s shoulders once we’re in the elevator, and slowly we descend to the parking garage.
Pressing my nose into her hair, I breathe in deeply, the now-familiar scent of her weaving its way around the tightness in my chest and settling there like a balm over a sore wound.
If there was any doubt how I felt about Murphy Hawthorne left inside my mind, it is most assuredly gone, replaced with overwhelming feelings of love and gratitude.
“I’m here if you want to talk,” she tells me as we buckle our seat belts.
I rest my hand on her knee as I pull out of the parking spot. “I know you are.”
She lifts my hand to her mouth and kisses my knuckles before returning it to her knee, the gesture soft and sweet and exactly what I need.
Then we pull out into traffic and begin the drive back to the vineyard, her hand on mine the entire way.