Chapter 5
Chapter Five
Joey
There isn’t enough arnica or Epson salt to make my body ache less. My entire right arm is a massive bruise I slathered arnica on this morning. I soaked in a tub of Epson salt for nearly two hours last night. I kept letting out cold water and refilling the tub with warm water and more salts.
I don’t regret my Good Samaritan intentions, but I wish Cormac O’Rourke weren’t a giant. He tried his best not to crush me and to cushion my fall, but the man is one massive muscle with some bones poking out here and there. It was like slamming into a brick wall over and over. An exceedingly masculine brick wall who smelled divine.
I’m short. Like really short at five-foot-two on my best day. He’s easily six-four. I’m pretty proportionate for my height, so I tip the scale at one-twenty. He has to be double that. My guess is two-forty. So yeah, it hurt having him land on me. Being tucked against him didn’t help much either, since he’s the real man of steel. Forget Superman. It wouldn’t surprise me if under that custom-tailored suit, Cormac O’Rourke’s body is a work of art.
In any other situation, I would appreciate it and even wish I’d been pressed against him longer. I appreciated he did his best to shelter me, and despite why we were clinging to each other, I liked the way he felt. Because I could tell he was doing his best to shield me, I felt safe.
I’m not scared of the neighborhoods I go to, but I’d be a fool not to be vigilant. I’m wary of strangers, and I always park under streetlights in case I’m leaving home visits after dark. I’ve faced irate parents and guardians who’ve done their best to intimidate me. I’ve had children melt down in front of me, throwing, kicking, biting, and hitting out of fear, frustration, anger, and desperation. I do my best not to let my fear show, but there are times when I’m reminded I chose a dangerous career because of the homes I enter. I get a lot of the cases other social workers can’t face. That gets heavy. Like really, really fucking heavy.
Cormac made me feel protected and safe for those excruciatingly long and disorienting seconds. He made me feel the same way times ten over when I hid behind him. I wound up using him as a human shield and endangering him, but he hesitated no more than I did. I can’t explain what compelled me to put myself in the line of fire, but I get the distinct impression Cormac will protect those who can’t protect themselves. That feels entirely contradictory to the notion that he’s a mobster. But—I don’t know—I just got honorable vibes from him.
“Jocelyn?”
“Hi, Estella. ? Como estás ?” How’re you?
“I’m all right. How about you? I heard you were near a shooting.”
We continue our conversation in Spanish, lapsing into it as often as we speak in English. Almost all of us are like that in this office since most of the people who work here—social workers and support staff—are bilingual.
“A couple of guys fired some shots, but they didn’t hit anyone.”
“Something about the Cartel and some kids you know.”
“They aren’t kids anymore. Ronaldo and Jesus think they’re men and wanted to prove it. Instead, they came close to dying. They’re lucky they didn’t hit a bystander because neither of them can aim for a damn.”
“Who were they shooting at?”
I hesitate. It feels wrong to say Cormac’s name. It’s not a secret since there aren’t too many redheaded men with freckles in that neighborhood, and certainly not ones encountering Cartel members.
“ Un catire. ”
Estella’s brow furrows. Her Puerto Rican Spanish and my Mexican Spanish don’t always match. It doesn’t help when I toss in Colombian words or phrases I learn from my clients like that one.
“It means a fair-skinned or fair-haired man. He wasn’t from the neighborhood. I intervened and de-escalated things. I reminded them Enrique will put up with fist fights but nothing that endangers unaffiliated people.” I grin. “And I might have threatened to speak to Ronaldo’s grandmother.”
Estella pretends to shiver. “ Se?ora Castillo’s been scaring kids into behaving on that block for the past forty years. If Humberto Diaz hadn’t sucked her son into the Cartel, he would have been a model citizen. Back then, Humberto was the only person scarier than se?ora Castillo.”
Enrique Diaz’s uncle. He was back in Colombia long before I knew what I wanted to be when I grew up. There are plenty of rumors about the man, and best I can tell, every one of them is more truth than lie.
I gather a stack of papers on my desk and put them in my bag as I speak. “Hopefully, she deals with Ronaldo, and he keeps Jesus in check. Ignacio needs to rein them in, too. Their mothers give in to them too easily. No matter how much trouble they get in, they can do no wrong according to those two women. They cater to their sons’ whims.”
“Are you headed back over there today?”
“Maybe. It depends on whether I get everything done over in Manor Heights. I have sessions at the elementary school until noon, then I have two at the middle school. Then there are some home health follow-ups.”
Not only do I provide clinic hours at the schools, I also check on kids who are out of school for health reasons. They have teachers who work with them throughout the week, but I make sure everything is all right with their home life and that they’re getting the medical treatment they need to recover.
“Be careful.”
“ Gracias. Hasta luego .” Thank you. Until later.
I gather my purse, work bag, and coat before I head back to my car. Even in broad daylight, I carry my keys in my hand. I’m ready to bolt for my vehicle when an enormous shadow shifts and a man steps in front of me.
“Cormac.” I put my hand on my chest. “You scared the bejesus out of me. What are you doing here?”
He glances around, far less imposing than yesterday. He’s not any smaller than he was when we met, but the air of controlled anger is gone. He appears reluctant to speak now that he’s in front of me.
“I was worried about—about what happened yesterday.”
Was he going to say he was worried about me? Is he blushing? Oh my God. I think he is.
“How’d you find me?” It’s not an accusation so much as shock.
“I figured you’d be at the Port Richmond CPS office or here. I thought you might not be rushing to head back into the area where we met, so I tried here first. If I was wrong, I would have gone there next.”
Bashful. Like one of the Seven Dwarfs. That’s how I’d describe the Cormac in front of me right now. That makes my lips want to twitch. That might be stretching it a bit far. He doesn’t come across as anything but a ruggedly handsome man. Except I think he’s shy now that we’re not in a situation he feels he must control.
Control.
That’s what radiated from him yesterday. He might have been the target, but even with me butting in, he came across as very much in control. It certainly appeared that way when Pablo showed up. But now that his life isn’t in danger, his presence isn’t as—as—it doesn’t—I don’t know how to articulate it. It’s everything he was yesterday, just less, I suppose. Like a tamer version. Like the difference between a lion in the wild and one at a safari park. Don’t underestimate him in either place, but at least now he’s approachable.
“Do you need something?”
He’s just staring at me, as though the ball’s in my court, but he came to me.
“I wanted to make sure you’re okay. I know how sore I am. It must be ten times worse for you. And I want to say thank you. I don’t believe I did yesterday, and I should have.”
I can’t remember if he did. Maybe. I really don’t know since a lot happened, and I vacillated between trying not to wince in pain and trying not to drool.
“It’s all right.”
“All the same, thank you for pushing me out of the way and for calming those boys down.”
Now my lips twitch, and I don’t hide it.
“I heard calling them boys set everything in motion. You hurt their pride.”
“Pride goeth before a fall.”
I’m pretty sure that’s scripture, and that’s the last thing I expected a mobster to quote.
“True.”
I wait for him to say something—anything—else, but he remains quiet. The silence draws out and threatens to get awkward. Um…
“You said you were sore today. Did you get hurt?”
“Just my ribs.”
My fingertips itch to feather them over his abs and pecs, which are hidden by his button down and his suit coat. But I felt them yesterday when they pressed against my tits and belly.
Washboard.
Eight pack.
I bet he has that sexy as all get out V over his hip bones, and I bet his chiseled ass has those grooves on his hips meant for someone to slip their hands over and hold on. I bet he has those dimples at the base of his spine. I’ve practically stripped him buck naked in my mind, ready to fuck him right here, right now in the parking lot outside my office.
“I think that was probably my elbow that did that as much as the steps. Sorry about that.”
“I can hardly complain, considering you saved my life and got hurt in the process. How is your elbow?”
Does he genuinely want to know? Or is he fishing for whether I called Meredith?
“Just like I told you, it needs ice and rest.”
“That’s good. I’m glad it’s nothing too serious.”
I stare at him, but he says nothing more. I tilt my head and cock an eyebrow. This expression usually gets kids to confess everything—even if they know they didn’t do anything wrong. They’ll admit to something just in case they should apologize. It shouldn’t surprise me he’s impervious, but I’d hoped he’d admit he probably called Meredith to see if I gave in.
“I took you up on your offer and called your doctor. She made a house call.”
“I’m glad you did. She can be a bit unsympathetic, but she’s gentle, and she knows what she’s doing.”
“She was super sympathetic.” I grin, which turns into a laugh when he playfully scowls.
“She usually tells my brother, cousins, and me we got what we deserved. She’s been doing it since we were kids and played sports like we were on our way to the pros. We were all in, and we all got injured at one point or another. She set bones and stitched up cuts, so they barely hurt. But she’d tell us we should have paid more attention or moved faster, then she wouldn’t be making those house calls.”
I wonder if all their injuries were sports related. I doubt they were. I’m certain some of Meredith’s patching up came from war wounds that go along with being a mobster.
“I could see that. I didn’t expect her to be British.”
“Yeah. She grew up in Wales, served as a navy surgeon, then came to America after she retired.”
“Wow. That’s a major move to make on her own.”
He hesitates for a heartbeat before he responds. “Her husband is Welsh too and a retired British Royal Marine. Their daughter just married my cousin a month ago.”
“Wow. Were they childhood sweethearts or something?”
This hesitation is a moment longer. He’s weighing what he should say. Is he nervous I’ll repeat what he tells me?
“No. They didn’t know the connection when they first met a few months ago.”
“A few months? Was it a whirlwind romance?” I’m honestly curious. It’s equal parts romantic and nosey.
“Pretty much.”
I wait for more, but it’s not forthcoming. I look around as more people pull into the parking lot. We’re off to the side, so we’re not that noticeable. But people have seen us. I’m on the clock. I’m not supposed to be shooting the shit.
“Do your colleagues know what happened?” He blurts the question just as I’m about to excuse myself.
“A colleague heard about the incident, but she didn’t have specifics.”
“Do you think other people will know what happened? Will they question you about getting involved in syndicate business?”
“Maybe. As long as Martha, my boss, knows at least part of the truth, then I won’t worry about everyone else.”
“It’ll take your elbow a while to heal. You should take it easy, so you don’t make it worse. But people might notice.”
“They probably will. I’ll just tell them I tripped. Everyone knows I’m accident prone.”
His brow furrows in the most unusual way. It’s like he’s concentrating, so his brow creases. But his eyebrows go up in question.
“You don’t strike me as clumsy.”
“I’m not. I’m accident prone. Usually, it’s from trying to do too much all at once.”
“Do you trip often?”
Is there an edge to his tone? Or am I imagining it?
“No. I bump into stuff, though.”
He steps closer until I have to look up to keep seeing his face. He towers over me, and anyone else his size would likely intimidate me. I want to climb him like I’m a fucking koala and hold on.
“Joey, that’s what women, in particular, say when they’re covering up the real reason they get injured.”
I have nothing to say. I just look at him and blink. Words escape me until they come rushing back.
“Did Meredith suggest that? Are you here because you’re curious? Or are you trying to catch me in a lie? I’m certain you discussed me with Meredith.”
“She let me know you agreed to see her and that I didn’t need to push you about going to the ER or Urgent Care.”
“Then you discussed things that should have remained private between her and me. So much for HIPPA.”
“I don’t know the entirety of what you told her, but it was enough to worry her. Enough to make her ask me to check on you. Meredith doesn’t catastrophize. She doesn’t exaggerate either. If she’s concerned enough to say something, then the situation warrants it. I trust her.”
I know those three words are among the highest praise he probably gives based on his expression. We’re holding a pretty steady conversation, but I wouldn’t call him chatty. A man of few words would best describe him right now.
Now that I think about it, he didn’t even say that much to me yesterday. At least, not besides commanding me to hide and to go to the emergency room. I definitely feel like it’s still waters run deep. He may not be the most talkative man, but he’s clearly very observant, and I feel like he’s extremely astute. He reads people better than we want to be read.
As he watches me, it’s as though he can see into me, and I feel far too exposed by that. He’s gotten a little too close to the truth a few times already, but I don’t want to end the conversation either, which makes no sense since we have little to talk about. I wait to see if he will take the lead again, but he remains quiet until I look toward my car.
I think he realizes we’re running out of time to chat since the parking lot just keeps filling up more, and people are noticing us talking together.
“You said you called the police on Pablo all those years ago, but his brother took care of it. Why are you still concerned about Pablo seeing you around?”
My gaze locks with his as my mind scrambles for an explanation, but it’s not one I wish to give. It’s one I doubt Cormac would appreciate.
“Joey, I won’t get angry because of what you say. You can tell me. I just don’t get why you’d still be on his radar.”
I don’t know how to navigate this conversation. Most people don’t know how steadfastly I avoid being around Pablo. I make excuses if I know he’s coming or if he’s already somewhere. I don’t want to explain there’s more to it than accidentally calling the police.
“Joey, the longer you remain quiet, the longer you have to devise some story to try to appease me. But all it does is make me trust you less, which is the last thing I want. So, either tell me the truth, or tell me it’s none of my business, but I don’t want to hear excuses or lies.”
He is painfully blunt as he speaks. He’s not unkind. There’s no harshness to his tone, but he certainly isn’t interested in giving an inch because he fears I’ll take a mile.
“It’s just a feeling I get. Why do you call me Joey?”
“It just seems to fit.”
He watches me while I wait for him to say more. When I remain quiet, he shrugs. If I was being tightlipped, then he’s being taciturn.
“I know you have appointments to get to, so I don’t want to keep you. I wanted to check on you and make sure you don’t need anything else.”
“You wanted to know if I would admit I asked Meredith for help.”
He shrugs again. “If I didn’t think she could, I wouldn’t have given you her name. I’m glad she checked you out.”
We seem to spend most of this conversation staring at each other. I adjust my bag on my good shoulder and shift my gaze toward my car.
“It was nice meeting you, Jocelyn.”
Wait. Did he think I didn’t like the nickname?
“It’s Joey, and it was nice meeting you too—Cor.”
Estar hasta las narices. Up to the nostrils loses something in translation, but this is fucking overwhelming.
He’s the most alluring man I’ve ever seen, and when he grins. Fuck. I’m tempted to look at the ground to see if my panties are at my ankles. I’m definitely wet. I guess he liked me using a nickname for him.
I don’t want to leave, but I need to escape since I feel my cheeks burning. I head to my car, but I look back as I open the door. He’s not there anymore. I sweep my gaze over the parking lot. He couldn’t just vanish. I glimpse red hair before it disappears into what I think is a sedan. I plug my phone in and set my GPS to avoid roadwork. I wind up pulling out of the parking lot behind him. I don’t know tons about cars, but I’m certain the Audi Cormac drives costs about as much as I earn in two years.
He’s on my mind the entire way to the middle school. I struggle to focus on my counseling sessions throughout the day. The man’s an utter distraction, but my mind snaps to attention as I get out of my car in the neighborhood I was in yesterday. The hair goes up on the back of my neck. I aim for subtle as I look around. Someone’s watching me, but I can’t figure out who or where. It’s unnerving.
My ego wants to think it’s Cormac. That maybe he’s still worrying about me and wants to keep checking on me. That maybe he thinks I need protecting—or at least, will indulge me since I still fear Pablo being around. But I never see a hint of him. I know it’s an overactive imagination, since I can’t find anyone staring at me, but I can’t stop wondering if Pablo saw me with Cormac yesterday. Maybe he’s forgotten about me and didn’t even recognize me. Or maybe seeing me with Cormac reminded him of the trouble I caused and made him suspicious since I was with a rival.
So many maybes.
But it’s easier to imagine a danger I know than a danger I don’t. If it’s someone other than Pablo, and it’s not Cormac guarding me, then who the fuck is giving me the heebie-jeebies?