Chapter 6
CHAPTER
SIX
Gretchen
I settle into a new routine of sorts. My body is still out of whack thanks to detoxing, so sometimes, I’m up half the night only to sleep most of the next day away. I have free rein of the clubhouse, with the exception of the room the men use to meet in and the occupied bedrooms, of course.
Walking into the kitchen, I see Constance and Maria bustling around fixing lunch. “Can I help?”
“We can always use an extra set of hands, especially since the ranch hands are working to move the livestock to the winter pasture. We’ve got about twenty extra mouths to feed,” Constance replies.
“Then point me where you want me and I’ll do what I can,” I state.
I’m still pretty weak and my clothes, which Doc sent Shelly for, hang on me, but for the first time since I was rescued, I feel almost like myself.
The craving is there in the back of my mind, scratching away at my skull, but I focus on the skills I learned long ago.
I know from past experience that keeping myself busy will push it away, at least for a little while.
Doc has me on a titrated dose of medicine which takes the worst of the monster down to a dull roar, thank goodness, but if I’m idle for too long, it comes roaring back with a vengeance.
I sit down at the table and Maria bustles over with a large pan full of potatoes and a wry grin on her face. “I suppose you can guess what we’re having with all of these,” she says as she sets it in front of me along with a potato peeler.
“Mashed potatoes?” I ask. “Or something else?”
“You were correct the first time, we’re going to be making several containers of shepherd’s pie, but it tastes better when the potatoes are from scratch,” she says. “I’ve got the first pot going already.”
“Then I better get started. What do you want me to do with the peels?” I inquire.
“Here, use this,” Constance replies, putting an empty bowl on the table. “We have a compost pile for the garden.”
“Ah, reduce, reuse, recycle,” I murmur as I pick up the first potato and start peeling.
“Whatever we’re able to, yes,” Maria says.
“Rio’s grandfather, Paps, built this place from the ground up and he took a lot of pride that we used whatever we had until it was completely used up.
Even when the ranch started turning a profit, the habits were there and as he used to tell us, ‘why fix what ain’t broken?
’,” she adds, giggling. “It hasn’t always been easy, but ranch work usually isn’t. ”
As I peel, the three of us continue chatting.
The conversation isn’t deep at all, but I find myself enjoying their company.
I’m a relatively social person, so those weeks of virtual isolation have been extremely difficult.
When the talk turns to crafts and hobbies, I shyly say, “I started making various treats a few years ago. You know, dipping fresh fruit, pretzel rods, Rice Krispie treats, that kind of thing in melted almond bark, then decorating them.”
“Do you have any pictures of what you’ve done?” Constance asks, glancing at Maria. “Because I just had an idea.”
I put the peeler down and pull my phone from my back pocket, smiling when I see that Doc has sent me a silly meme.
He spends long hours away from the clubhouse because he’s trying to run the clinic and help the other survivors who are staying at the cabins the Kings own.
But he always makes it back in time for my last meal of the day, then we spend time just talking.
Opening my phone to my treats folder, I pull up the pictures then hand my phone to Constance. The pleasure it gives me to hear the two women exclaiming over the different things I’ve made makes me feel good and pushes the monkey back a few steps.
“You said you had an idea, what was it?” I ask Constance as she hands me my phone.
“Oh! We sponsor a rodeo twice a year, and last year, Issy put in a bunch of buildings for different food vendors. I bet if we had one of the men convert one of those old-school pop-up campers, it could be used for you to sell the treats,” Constance replies.
“Then, you could take your show on the road, if you wanted to.”
“I hadn’t really thought of the future,” I admit. “I mean, I have my LPN, of course, but I need to check with Doc to see if what happened to me will impact it or not. If it does, I’ll have to find another job.”
“You could still do your recovery sessions,” another woman says as she walks into the kitchen. She looks at me and states, “I’m Beth Harris, from Hope House. Doc mentioned you might need someone to talk to.”
“Oh! You must be the therapist,” I reply, fighting the urge to duck my head as shame, once again, swamps me.
“Yes, but I see that you’re busy right now, so I won’t interrupt. I just wanted to swing by and introduce myself and offer my services,” she says.
“Does Doc have your number? I can call and make an appointment,” I tell her, courageously keeping my eyes locked onto hers.
“He does, and I’ll look forward to hearing from you soon,” she says. “Ladies, it was good to see y’all again. I’ll let you get back to it.”
“Do you think it’s a good idea?” I ask Doc as we settle against his headboard for our evening chat.
We have a bucket of popcorn between us, and he has a movie set to play, but I want to know his opinion about starting a mobile treat shop. I could go to the local farmer’s market on Saturdays, set up at the rodeos, and maybe even create a website for local orders.
“I believe that if it’s something you enjoy that much, you should go for it,” he replies.
“I’ll check about your license, but we didn’t get the police involved, so there were no reports made to the state.
So, it’s likely still active and you’re welcome to come back to the clinic whenever you’re ready. ”
He’s being beyond gracious with me. Despite me being out of pocket those weeks while I was held in captivity, and now being on leave while I establish a solid recovery since my detox is nearly done, I’m still being paid. When I asked him about it, he told me that it wasn’t up for discussion.
“So, while I finish getting clean, I can make treats and feel like I’m contributing something,” I murmur.
He pulls me closer so I’m leaning against him and says, “I’ll willingly taste test them if you want. You just get a list of what you’re going to need, and I’ll have one of the prospects go and get it.”
That’s the only thing about all of this that sucks; because they still haven’t found the assholes who took me, I’m confined to the clubhouse, unless he’s able to be with me. Because he’s working so much, that doesn’t happen all that often.
“I have my molds and stuff at my house, as well as a lot of supplies already,” I reply. “Maybe this weekend, we could go to my place and get all of it, then I can see what I need to get?”
“That sounds like a plan. You probably need to talk to your landlord about breaking your lease as well.”
“What? Why?” I ask, not understanding why I need to do that.
“Because while the threat is still going on, you’re staying here. No sense in paying for a place you’re not going back to. Remember, you’re mine, sweetheart.”
I shake my head then say, “Fine, fine. But right now, we’re in molasses territory.”
“What the hell does that mean?” he asks.
“Well, you’ve made no secret that you want a relationship, but you haven’t really done anything beyond insist I sleep in the same bed so you can ‘keep an eye on me’, kiss my forehead, and boss me around,” I sass.
I mean, it’s not like I had a revolving door in my bedroom, but I’m not a virgin or a shrinking violet, so his hesitancy to do anything more physical is driving me crazy!
“Because you’re dealing with the effects of withdrawal. Besides, you know it’s recommended not to get involved with someone during the first year,” he teases.
“Yeah, I know,” I retort, rolling my eyes at him. “Except some scrub-wearing biker in a cut steamrolled past all of that.”
“We’ll get there, baby, I promise,” he whispers, kissing my temple. “Now, let’s watch a movie before we have to get some shuteye.”
“Mongrel, we’re going to need to clean out the room next to the kitchen so she can set all this shit up,” Doc says as he looks around at all my stuff. “At least she’s got shelves already.”
“Got it, Doc. We can bring over a couple of the bigger trailers so we don’t have to break the shelves down, which would help,” Mongrel replies.
I don’t know him all that well; he’s a prospect, but one thing I have noticed in my time around the clubhouse is he’s always hustling and taking care of things before one of the guys orders it.
I don’t think it has as much to do with trying to get into the club, either. I think that’s his personality.
I have three KitchenAid mixers, multiple molds for cake pops and cakesicles, bags to wrap them in along with a seal press and label maker, plus all the almond bark, flavors, boxes of cake mix, plastic forks, parchment paper, and boxes that I package the completed items in before I sell them.
One whole room of my apartment was devoted to this endeavor, and I see when it dawns on Doc that this wasn’t just a little hobby for me.
Giggling, I put my hand on his arm. “If you’ll get me some boxes, I’ll pack all of this up so I know what’s what, and we can figure out where it should go when we get back to the clubhouse.
I mean, I don't wanna upset the ladies since they’re the reason I’m slowly putting weight back on, after all. ”
He shakes his head as he leans in and brushes his lips over mine. “That sounds like a sensible plan to me. Let me get Monkey and Mutt to pick up some storage boxes. You may as well start packing your shit so we can get your apartment emptied.”
Doc is one of the most frustrating, aggravating, upsetting men I’ve ever met! He steamrolled over my protests and in less than a day, my place was packed up with the majority of it being put into one of the barns they use for storage, while the rest is now in Doc’s room.
Right now, chaos makes me crazy. I find myself wanting to dig at my skin, so instead, I rub lotion on my arms to ease the itch. At least they’re nice and soft but still, he’s practically a Neanderthal!
Educated, good-looking, hot as hell, but still… a Neanderthal.