22. Pope
TWENTY-TWO
Pope
I lie awake, heart pounding behind my ribs, while Sloane sleeps against me. Her thigh drapes over mine, skin warm and soft. The faint salt-sweet scent of her hair teases my nose with every shallow breath I take.
I want to pull her closer. My body certainly agrees. I'm as hard as steel just having her next to me. But my chest feels like it's being crushed under concrete.
Today. Chris. The evaluation. Forty-two fucking nurses walking out.
My empire and my brother, both slipping through my fingers on the same day.
Sloane shifts in her sleep, her breast pressing against my arm. Her face is peaceful, untroubled by the storm brewing inside me. Just under seven hours from now, I'll be sitting across from the man who taught me exactly how worthless I was before I could tie my own shoes.
My throat tightens. I can't lie here any longer.
I slide carefully from beneath her leg, the cool air raising goosebumps across my bare skin. Her hand reaches out reflexively before settling back on the warm spot I've left behind.
The bathroom tile is cold under my feet. I twist the shower knob, not bothering with heat. The shock of cold water hits my shoulders like tiny needles, punishment for letting myself get distracted.
I stand there, letting the water beat down until my erection subsides and my skin prickles with cold. Until I can think clearly again.
When I step out, towel around my waist, I look forward to crawling back in bed with her.
"Fuck," I mutter, staring at the empty bed and rumpled sheets. She's gone back to her room, and I've missed my chance to feel her skin against mine, to explain why I'm wound so tight this morning.
I dress quickly in the room, with only ambient light from my closet and the open door to the bathroom. I put on my suit pants, a crisp white button-down, and my watch. I hang a tie from my neck and put my jacket on the suit stand.
Outside my door, I pause at Lennon's room, cracking it open just enough to see his small form curled under the rocket ship comforter, one arm thrown over his stuffed dinosaur.
A faint sound draws my attention down the hall. I follow it to Sloane's door, slightly ajar, with a thin line of light spilling onto the carpet.
My knuckles brush against the wood with the lightest touch, barely making a sound. Still, the door swings open wider, and she stands there, wrapped in a thin white robe, her hair dark and wet from a shower.
Something inside me unwinds at the sight of her. The tension that's been crushing me loosens its grip instantly.
"Hey," I whisper.
Without thinking, I reach for her, cupping the back of her neck and drawing her to me. Her lips meet mine, soft and yielding. The kiss is gentle, comforting, exactly what I need to give me the strength for today. This feels like coming home.
Sloane pulls back first, her eyes darting toward Lennon's room. "Be careful. Lennon could get up any minute," she says as she playfully presses on my chest.
"I know. I just..." I brush my thumb along her jawline. "I couldn't start my day without this."
She smiles, and even in the dim light, I can see the blush spreading across her freckled cheeks.
"Sorry if I woke you. Couldn't sleep, thought a cold shower might help."
A soft laugh escapes her. "I've never heard of a cold shower putting anyone to sleep."
We both chuckle quietly, standing close enough that I can feel the warmth radiating from her body. I want to pull her against me, forget about Jacksonville, forget about Chris, forget about everything except the way she looks at me.
"Are you okay?" Sloane's eyes search mine, seeing more than I want her to.
The truth bubbles up, about the custody battle, about Chris, about the hospital disaster waiting for me, but I swallow it back. She doesn't need this weight. Not when her job is to care for Lennon, not me.
"Yes." The lie tastes bitter, but is necessary. "I need to make a call before we leave. The driver will be here at 6:30 to pick up Lennon and me. You should go back to sleep for a little bit.”
Sloane nods, serious now. “I’m okay. I like getting up early. I’ll get him up and dressed. He'll be fed and ready to go."
I kiss her again, lingering a moment longer than I should, then turn away before I change my mind about leaving at all.
Downstairs in my office, I close the door and press my forehead against the cool wood. For just a minute, I allow myself to feel the weight of what's coming.
Then I straighten my tie, square my shoulders, and pick up the phone.
The call connects on the first ring. "Where are we?"
"Morning to you, too," Caleb says, the forced cheer faltering. "Rough night?"
"I am about to walk out the door. I don't have time for pleasantries. Just tell me where things are." I pace the length of my office, tension vibrating through every muscle.
"It's gotten worse. The story's trending regionally on Twitter. #NursesOverProfits is the hashtag. CNN Health has inquired for a statement, and two local stations have vans parked across from the main entrance."
My jaw tightens. "Numbers?"
"Eighty-four nurses now. They've set up a rotation schedule so the picket line stays full twenty-four-seven. Some brought families. There are fucking children with signs, Pope."
The pressure builds behind my eyes. I press my fingertips against my temple. "Patient calls?"
"Twenty-seven cancellations from people who'd placed deposits on the premier tier. Fourteen more threatening to pull out unless we 'resolve the ethical concerns.'" Caleb’s voice takes on a mocking tone at the end.
"Shit. I don't have the bandwidth for this."
"They're acting like we're shutting down the ER, not creating a better service model."
"Have PR release the follow-up statement we drafted. Not the soft one. I want the one that emphasizes our commitment to quality care and reminds everyone that the nurses rejected our severance package."
I stop at the window, staring out at nothing. "And get legal to file those injunctions. They can protest, but not block entrances or harass patients."
"Already on it. Security's setting up checkpoints at all hospital access points."
"Good. I want hourly updates by email. Send me any notable press coverage, patient complaints, everything. And make sure the board knows I’ll be unreachable pretty much all day, but I'll answer emails when I can. You hold the line until I check in. I don’t care if the building catches fire. Figure it out."
"Pope, we need?—"
"Don't tell me what we need. Do it."
I end the call before he can respond, dropping the phone onto my desk. The silence of the office presses in around me, almost as suffocating as the chaos waiting at the hospital.
My neck aches from tension. I massage it roughly, trying to loosen the knot of stress that's formed there overnight.
Deep breath in. Out.
I straighten my tie, adjust my cuffs, and pull on my suit jacket. The familiar routine of dressing for battle steadies me.
I grab my phone and briefcase, squaring my shoulders as I head for the kitchen. I inhale a big breath, steeling myself for this. Just me and Lennon. I've got this.
The fluorescent lights hum overhead in the Jacksonville courthouse conference room.
It looks like a bad eighties renovation, complete with cheesy oak trim and black and gray indoor/outdoor carpet. A generic framed landscape print hangs on the wall like an afterthought, as if someone realized at the last minute that concrete-colored walls might seem unwelcoming.
Lennon's small hand squeezes mine as we sit at the polished table. His fingers are clammy. Mine probably are too.
Ms. Black strides in, her auburn-streaked hair perfectly styled, wire-rim glasses balanced on her nose. She carries that structured leather tote like it's government-issued armor.
Chris follows behind her, and I sit up straighter, showing him he won't reduce me like he’s always tried to do.
"Good morning, gentlemen." Her voice is measured, clinical. She places her things on the table and guides Chris to a chair across from Lennon and me.
"Hey, there, Lennon. I think you've gotten taller since I saw you last," Ms. Black says to Lennon.
Lennon presses against my side, not answering. I give his hand a gentle squeeze.
"Hi there, buddy." The voice from across the table makes my spine stiffen.
Chris Carrigan leans back in his chair, his baby face creased into what most would call a charming smile. I see the calculation behind it.
He's dressed better than I've ever seen him, donning a pressed shirt, no visible tattoos. He’s playing the part. He can do that better than anyone I’ve ever met.
"I'm Dana Black, appointed by the court to evaluate this situation." Ms. Black sets a folder on the table. "Today is about observing interactions, not making final decisions. I'll be taking notes. Please act naturally."
Chris smirks. "Naturally? Come on, Dana. Can I call you Dana? This whole setup is anything but natural." He gestures toward me. "My son is being kept from me by my own flesh and blood."
My jaw tightens. I force myself to breathe.
Ms. Black's expression doesn't change. "Mr. Carrigan, I'll ask that you address me as Ms. Black."
I want to laugh out loud that he got smacked down by a petite government worker, but I remember what Warren said about being civil, so keep it in.
“Now, I'd like to observe Pope and Lennon first. Perhaps you could show me that drawing you mentioned in the car, Lennon?"
Lennon nods, sliding a folded paper from his pocket. As he unfolds it, I see a crayon drawing of what must be Seabreeze. The picture is of blue waves, a yellow sun, and stick figures on sand.
"This is the tide pool," he says softly. "Where we found the horseshoe crab."
"You like horseshoe crabs?" I ask, genuinely curious.
"They're living fossils." His eyes light up just a fraction. "They've been the same for like, four hundred million years."
Ms. Black watches us, her pen moving steadily.
"Time to switch," she announces after fifteen minutes. "Lennon, would you like to talk to your father now?"
Lennon freezes. His eyes dart to mine, panicked.
"It's okay," I whisper, though my stomach churns. "I'll be right here."
He slides off his chair and moves to the one beside Chris, who immediately drapes an arm around him.
"There's my boy!" Chris booms, too loud. "Man, you got big since I saw you last."
Yeah, I imagine a lot of growth happens between the ages of two and seven.
Lennon's shoulders hunch. He stares at the table.
"So, sport, I'm so sorry about your mom. You remember all the adventures we had?"
No response.
"Lennon," Chris's voice hardens slightly, "answer your father."
My fists clench under the table. Every cell in my body screams to intervene, but Ms. Black's pen never stops moving. Her eyes miss nothing.
The next twenty minutes are torture. Chris alternates between forced cheerfulness and thinly veiled frustration at Lennon's silence. Each time he glances at Ms. Black, his expression shifts to practiced concern.
"I just want what's best for my son," he tells her, squeezing Lennon's shoulder. "A boy needs his father, not some temporary guardian who's too busy with his fancy business to be around."
Metallic burns my throat from biting the inside of my cheek.
Finally, Ms. Black closes her notebook. "Thank you all. I believe I have what I need for this initial evaluation."
Chairs scrape. Papers shuffle. Lennon darts back to my side the moment he's dismissed and buries his face in my side.
As we prepare to leave, the air crackles with unspoken threats. Chris watches us, his eyes hard despite his smile.
Outside the conference room, I wrap my arm around Lennon's shoulders, guiding him toward the exit. Ms. Black trails behind us, her notebook still clutched in her hand.
Chris catches up, his loafers squeaking against the linoleum floor of the courthouse foyer.
"Let me walk you out," he says, voice dripping with false sincerity.
My shoulders stiffen, and I stop, not wanting to walk anywhere with this man. Lennon presses closer to my side, his small body tensing.
Chris faces me, leaning in slightly until his shoulder brushes mine. The smell of his cologne brings back memories I've spent decades trying to forget.
"You won't win," he whispers, venom in his voice meant only for me. "I'm his father, and that's all the judge will care about. You're an arrogant fool just like always, thinking you could swoop in like some white knight."
My jaw clenches so hard my teeth might crack. The fury floods my system. It's a live wire inside me, sparking against every organ, threatening to short-circuit my control.
I don't answer and offer a shitass grin instead. I won't say what I want to say to him with Lennon right here. Not with Ms. Black watching our every move from across the hallway, her expression flat and her pen still poised in her hand.
Chris's smile widens at my silence, taking it as victory. He thinks I'm the same scared kid he used to terrorize. The same boy who froze when confronted.
Lennon slips his small hand into mine, his fingers clammy and fragile. The simple gesture screams louder than any words could. He's choosing me, instinctively seeking safety where he feels it exists.
Chris notices. His eyes narrow, darting to our joined hands.
"I'll see you real soon, sport," he says to Lennon as he kneels, his voice suddenly sticky with forced affection. "Your dad's gonna make sure we spend lots of time together."
Lennon's grip tightens around my fingers.
"Mr. Carrigan." Ms. Black's voice cuts through the tension. "A moment, please."
We both turn our heads, and she clarifies. "Mr. Christopher Carrigan."
Chris turns to me and winks before turning toward her. "Duty calls."
As he walks away, the pressure in my head threatens to explode. I want to grab him by his collar, slam him against the wall, and make him understand what will happen if he ever comes near Lennon again.
Instead, I squeeze Lennon's hand gently and continue walking toward the exit.
"Let's go home," I whisper to Lennon, feeling the full weight of that word for the first time.