18. Ford
FORD
It’s been a long week. Three more clients decided to pass instead of making a bet on a couple of NFL games, and one didn’t even bother responding to my text.
Not exactly what I’d call a promising end to my week.
The ones who did answer said it’s because of a lack of funds, but I know better.
Morgan’s working double-time, and it’s biting us in the ass.
I need to come up with something fast, or we’re fucked.
Okay, fucked is a bit of a stretch. My brothers and I aren’t stupid enough to have all our eggs in one basket.
Yes, we have other avenues for our investments, but when it comes to business, we have Mercer Consulting, Harden Nights, and underground bets.
And right now? It feels like each is being threatened in one way or another.
Scrubbing my hand over my face, I lift my hand and rap my knuckles against the front door.
I’ve only been to this apartment once. It was when Violet needed help moving in, though I didn’t meet June at the time.
Knowing who’s on the opposite side of the door is a special kind of torture.
Truth be told, the only thing that got me through this week was the promise of a night off.
And for some reason I don’t fully understand, it’s what every interaction with June feels like.
A night off. A moment of quiet. A solid distraction in the form of a curvy brunette with pale skin, rosy cheeks, and the aura of a Disney princess.
I bet she has a thing for animals. I bet they have a thing for her, too.
Animals have a way of sensing a person’s soul, and June’s is squeaky clean.
So much so, I almost feel bad for hanging around her and sullying it. Almost.
Oh, well.
I rock back on my heels and wait. I’m still not sure what convinced me to bet on June the other night.
Probably my ego. Besides, I’d planned to donate some cash, regardless.
Cobie would’ve killed me if I hadn’t. Over the last week, I’ve replayed the auction a hundred times, and only half were while jerking off.
There was just something about it. Seeing her on that stage.
The way her dress’s strap slid down her shoulder.
The way her arms were folded, and her eyes kept darting around the room before landing on Fireman Bryan, like he was her savior.
Then again, maybe he would’ve been if I hadn’t stuck my nose in shit.
I stare at the locked door in front of me and raise my hand a second time, preparing to knock again, when the familiar metallic scrape of a door unlocking greets me.
With a smirk, I say, “Hey, slow poke, what took—” My words die on my tongue as June crinkles a tissue in her hand as if it’s enough to camouflage the crumpled material.
Little does she know, the pink tinge tainting her button nose is a dead giveaway.
Is a certain someone feeling under the weather?
“Oh. Hi, Ford,” she mutters. “I must’ve lost track of time.”
Concern floods my insides as I take her in. Lost track of time? More like caught the plague. “You okay?” I ask.
“Uh.” She coughs into her hand. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m good. Give me five, and I’ll, uh—” Another fit of coughing cuts her off.
Yeah, we’re not going anywhere. Not with her looking like this. Red nose. Rosy cheeks. Sunken eyes.
“You look like shit.” Amusement coats my words, softening them.
“All right, killer. Come on.” Without waiting for an invitation, I move to step inside June’s apartment.
Her hand gripping the edge of the door falls to her side as if it weighs a hundred pounds, and she lets me in. “Let’s get you back in bed,” I order.
“I’m fine.”
“And I’m Einstein.” I press my hand to her back, urging her toward her bedroom.
Not bothering to put up a fight as she follows my lead, she mutters, “I mean, you kind of are.”
I smirk again in spite of myself. “Trying to butter me up so I let you off the hook and don’t make you reschedule?”
A quiet laugh vibrates against my palm. Or maybe it’s all the shit in her lungs causing the reverberation. I’m not sure.
Passing the kitchen, I stop, lift my nose, and look around the small apartment.
“What’s that smell?” I can’t decide if it smells good or burnt.
It could go either way. Searching for the culprit in the humble apartment, I find a large pot on the stove.
Next to it is a cutting board. The papery part of an onion, along with the stem of some kind of pepper, sits on top.
What the hell? “Were you…cooking?” I ask.
“Crap.” She stumbles toward the stove like a bull in a china shop and shuts off the heat before peeking beneath the lid when a plume of smoke burps into her face. “Well, that’s just perfect.” She sets the lid on the counter and drops her head forward in defeat.
“What’s perfect?” Following June into the kitchen, I glance into the pot and grimace. Ground meat. Beef, I think? It’s a little hard to tell, since the substance is blacker than my heart. Yeah, that shit is burnt.
“It’s for tomorrow," June explains. She wipes her nose with the corner of an already-used tissue. “Bryan invited me to his work’s chili cook-off, and I knew I wouldn’t have time to…” Her eyelids flutter closed. “To…”
“To cook?” I finish for her.
“It’s better if the chili sits and…”—she rests her hip against the edge of the counter—“and the flavors get to know each other.”
“Not an insta-love kind of dish, huh?”
Her mouth lifts, though her eyes stay closed. “Not really, but…it’ll have to do.”
“So the burning is an added flavor element?” I joke. I can’t help myself. She definitely burned the shit out of whatever was in that pot.
She shakes her head. “Not funny, Ford.”
“Kind of funny,” I muse.
She swats at my chest with the force of a housefly.
“After starting the meat, I sat on the couch and must’ve fallen asleep because the next thing I knew, you were knocking on my door.
” Her rattly sigh makes my lungs hurt. “Oh, well. I’ll just…
I’ll have to tell Bryan I failed, and it’s not happening.
” She swallows, then winces. “Let me, uh, let me grab my coat, and we can head out.”
She’s joking, right?
June starts to move away, but I grab her wrist and gently coax her back toward me. “Not going to happen.”
If she’s surprised by my touch, she doesn’t show it. “But—”
“Pretty sure we’ll get kicked out of any restaurant for contaminating the premises,” I explain before letting her go. To be fair, I’m only half-kidding. The girl is sick as hell.
“No, I’ll be fine,” she starts. “I’ll just—”
“It’s all good, June Bug.” With a quick twist, I turn off the stove and press my hand to her back like before.
I’m not sure why. I’m kind of a germaphobe.
Maybe it’s because I’m the baby brother and the spoiled little shit my siblings have deemed me to be for years.
Not that I’d ever admit it to them. But the idea of being around sick people is about as appealing as having a random doctor cup my balls and tell me to turn my head and cough. Yeah, not so great.
But with June, it isn’t so bad. Maybe it’s the runny nose or bloodshot eyes.
Maybe it’s the little sniffles and tired shuffle of feet against the linoleum floor.
Maybe it’s my intrinsic need to fix something when everything feels like it’s falling apart in my life right now.
Whatever it is, I can’t find it in me to stay back.
To keep my distance. To give her a quick peace sign before getting the hell out of Dodge in hopes of not catching whatever is clearly knocking her on her plump little ass.
The question is…why?
Maybe this morning’s sparring session with my brothers doled out one too many hits to the head. Makes sense.
Urging June out of the kitchen, I add, “I’ll let this still count as a date, all right? No need to reschedule if that’s what you’re worried about.”
An adorable little wrinkle forms between her brows. “That’s not it.”
“You sure about that?”
“I feel bad.”
My feet stall at the edge of the kitchen. Feel bad? Like, literally? Because she’s sick? Or because she doesn’t want to bail on our night? It’s not like she can control it. Why on earth would she feel bad?
“Why?” I ask.
“Because you paid for a date, and…”
I guide her to the couch, and she collapses onto it without protest. “And you got sick?” I finish for her.
“Mm-hmm,” she hums, though it comes out as a groan more than anything else.
Scattered along the coffee table is a mountain of wadded-up tissues. Yeah. The girl’s even sicker than I first assumed. It’s almost a shame the whole apartment didn’t catch flames when June attempted to cook earlier. Pretty sure it would be the only feasible option that could take out this virus.
“Should’ve brought a hazmat suit,” I joke.
A mumbled, “I’m sorry,” escapes her as she lies back on the arm of the couch.
“Nah, it’s all good.” I scan her up and down, unsure what to do or how to make her feel better.
I hate this feeling. Helplessness. It drags me right back to my childhood.
When I wasn’t big enough to defend myself against my father.
When I was too little to tag along with Hawke and Jagger on their bikes.
When I had to listen to my parents arguing, or my dad’s screaming through the walls, or his racist remarks about Roman, and I couldn’t do anything about it. Not one single thing.