Chapter Thirteen
Six missed calls from my mother.
Six.
Six calls when she knew I’d be at work, therefore she wouldn’t call to shoot the shit and ask about my day, but she would call if there was an emergency.
And six calls screamed Emergency!
I’ll never forget the way my mom breathed my name when she picked up my call.
The pain that drenched every word when she told me I needed to get to the nursing home and she’d explain when I got there but she couldn’t talk because she was waiting for my dad’s doctor.
I hadn’t pressed her more. This wasn’t all about me and my worry about how quickly my father’s health was deteriorating.
It had more to do with my mom and the state she was in—not only how she sounded on the phone but overall.
For months she’d been putting on a brave face.
She wore it like a coat of armor, thinking I wouldn’t notice the depth of her pain.
And that pain was so deep, so devastating, there was no missing it.
There was no armor strong enough to guard against the piercing blows as the days wore on.
I desperately wanted this to end for her.
On that disgusting, heart-wrenching, horrible thought that infiltrated my brain like a punch to the head, I swallowed down my self-hatred for even thinking something so hideous. The end of my mother watching my father waste away would mean the end of his life.
Who thought like that?
What kind of daughter thought like that?
It was official—I’d reached the end of my rope, and I was holding on by my fingertips.
“Where are we going?” Ryan asked, pulling me from my depressing thoughts.
“Carmel Valley,” I gritted out. “Near The Grand.”
The Grand was a golf club. I doubted Ryan played golf, but still, everyone knew where The Grand was. Obviously, Ryan was part of the everyone because he pulled out of his driveway without further questions.
“Phone, baby, and cancel the car.”
I clenched my teeth as I did what I was told and pulled my phone out of my purse.
Instead of being grateful I didn’t have to wait the fifteen minutes for the Uber to get to his house, which would delay me getting to my mom, I was annoyed.
It was ungracious and slightly bitchy, but, really, I didn’t need Ryan in my personal business.
My father’s health wasn’t a secret. Poppy knew, some of the other servers at work knew, but—and this was a huge but—I didn’t want Ryan horning in.
I never wanted him to look at me like Poppy sometimes did when she knew I was struggling.
It wasn’t pity, per se. It was more concern, but there was definitely sympathy threaded through her worry.
My tummy twisted at the thought of being on the receiving end of Ryan’s pity.
I canceled the car. Then, since I already had my phone engaged, I belatedly read Poppy’s texts.
Fallon hadn’t exaggerated, or Jack hadn’t when he conveyed Poppy’s panic.
The first three messages were telling me about Cynthia being “MIA” (her abbreviation, not mine).
She went on to tell me her feelings on this, which were “scared out of my brain” (again, her exact words), then more of being scared and really hoping this was a misunderstanding and Cynthia was just down with the flu, though she knew that was “grasping at straws” (another direct quote).
After that the messages shifted to me. In her panic about Cynthia, she hadn’t realized I wasn’t at work, and she knew I was on shift.
Something she would know because we were close and always shared our schedules.
That devolved from there to demanding I check in.
Her final texts changed again, telling me that Catarina had told her I was in an accident and now she was (and I quote) “out of my mind” with worry and I needed to call her immediately.
Right after the “immediately” there were five exclamation points.
I should’ve called her, but with Ryan next to me, he’d be able to hear the conversation—not only my side but Poppy’s.
She was in a snit, which meant she’d be yelling, and I couldn’t lower the volume of my phone enough so that Ryan wouldn’t be able to hear her too.
I loved and adored Poppy, but she had no filter.
Once she found out I was with Ryan, she’d without a doubt bring up my crush, which she not only had known about from the start but had actively participated in.
Not the sexy-fun-time fantasies—we were besties, but, still, that’d be kind of ick.
Her participation was in the sense she thought I was crazy for not going for it.
There was a time, right before my dad’s diagnosis, when I’d almost done just that.
But then life took a turn, and responsibility took precedence over my sex drive.
Bottom line was, Ryan was my boss, and I needed my job, so if shit went south, I couldn’t afford—literally could not afford—to lose it.
Yet, you still screwed him, a chastising voice echoed in my mind.
No. He screwed me, I silently responded.
And you want him to screw you again, the voice came back.
I mentally shook away my internal musings and refocused on my phone.
So a call was out, but I texted her to assure her I was fine.
Sorry! I didn’t have my phone on me. I’m fine. My baby’s busted up but I’m good.
Three dots immediately started bouncing. A second later her response came through.
Jack told me Ryan picked you up. How’d that go?
Of course she’d zero in on that factoid and include three hot-face emojis with their tongues stuck out like they were panting, with beads of sweat.
It was fine. I’m sorry to hear about your friend.
I included sad-face and hug emojis.
“You gonna tell me where we’re going?” Ryan asked.
Nope.
Telling him he was taking me to my father’s nursing home would lead to questions I didn’t want to answer. I’d give him directions, and by the time he saw where we were, I’d thank him for the ride, jump out of his truck, and hightail my ass inside before he could question why we were there.
That was my plan, and I was sticking to it.
So instead of answering him, I told him, “Fallon wasn’t wrong. Poppy was freaking out.”
“We’re going to Poppy’s?” he gritted out.
I looked up from my phone. I had Ryan in profile.
Still I could see the angry set of his jaw and the lines etched at the corner of his eye.
Damn, he was gorgeous, even with a scowl.
There was something inherently sexy about a man with a strong jaw, big hands, and well-defined forearms. Ryan had all three, making him a triple threat to my lady bits.
A hazard I’d been able to stave off for a long time.
But now, since I’d given into that hazard, I was thinking he wasn’t a triple threat.
He was a quintuple threat when you added in his mouth and his very large penis.
Maybe even a sextuple if I included what he could do with those big hands of his.
“Chloe.” Ryan snapping out my name yanked me back to the present.
“Yeah?” I croaked.
“Has anyone ever told you you’re a noisy thinker?” he asked.
I rolled my eyes and returned them to the phone, which was a much safer place to look.
“Has anyone ever told you you’re insufferable?”
There was humor in his tone when he answered, which made me doubly happy I’d looked away.
Ryan was hot all the time, even scowling and annoyed with me.
Him smiling was a shock to the system that never failed to steal my breath.
I needed more oxygen, not less of it, if I was going to keep my head about me and, honestly, my legs closed.
“I’ve been called a lot of things, but insufferable has not been one of them.”
“Annoying? Bossy? Irritating? Privacy invader?” I supplied more adjectives for him to choose from.
His burst of laughter caught me off guard. I hated how much I liked the sound. I hated more that my life was in the toilet and there was literally nothing to smile about, yet I felt the corner of my mouth fighting to do just that. Thankfully, I won the battle and quelled the impulse.
“Privacy invader?” he said through his waning laughter.
“You indeed invaded my privacy, Ryan.”
“You could argue me folding your panties this morning was an invasion of your privacy. Though I’d argue it, considering right now I have a pair of them in my pocket. But me driving—”
“Gah!”
Yes, I actually gahed out loud.
I didn’t want to think about him folding my panties, something I’d forgotten he’d done.
It was easier to stay the course and be irritated at him for horning in and demanding to drive me across town when I’d neglected to remember he’d done something nice for me.
It was something small and silly, but with everything going on, it felt huge.
As far as him having a pair in his pocket, I wasn’t thinking about that at all because that would mean I’d need to think about how and why they were in his pocket, including how quickly I’d torn them off at his command and the fact I was going commando to my father’s nursing home to speak to my mother.
Commando in a skirt.
Yeah, I wasn’t thinking about that.
“We’re not talking about that,” I told him. “Ever.”
“Which part, the folding or—”
“Neither. Both. Actually, we’re blocking out the entirety of the day.”
“Sorry, Chloe, but there’s no way in hell I’m blocking out fucking you against the wall. Not after months of wanting to do just that.”
“Please,” I groaned and covered my face with my hands.
He gave it a beat before he conceded, “Okay, we can stop talking about that, and you can tell me where we’re going.”
Outplayed.
“Or we can stop talking altogether.” I suggested my preference, dropping my hands because it really was childish covering my face like a two-year-old.
“Christ,” he muttered under his breath, along with a “stubborn.”
He wasn’t wrong. I was as stubborn as the day was long.
Though I liked to think of it more as being determined.
But I had to admit, I was being more stubborn than usual.
I blamed it on the orgasms. Now, I know what you’re thinking—an orgasm is supposed to be relaxing and in no way make a person stubborn.
Under normal circumstances this would be true.
But my current situation wasn’t normal—it was confusing and scary.
Not only because Ryan was my boss, my father was declining, my mother had finally let the veil of grief be known, and my second job that I seriously needed was in jeopardy—but because really I needed money badly.
But I also wasn’t dumb enough to put myself in danger, which meant I had to listen to what Ryan and the guys had to say about the Vault. But also Poppy worked there, and there was no way in hell I’d leave my BFF there alone if she refused to quit.
The scariest part about all of this was I had actual feelings for Ryan.
Deep feelings that I’d been able to bury.
Now I wasn’t so sure I could do that anymore, and that was manifesting itself into me being a stubborn beeotch.
I didn’t want to lose him. I know that sounds counterproductive; if I wanted to keep him in my life, I should have behaved the opposite of how I was behaving.
But fear makes you do crazy shit.
And as Poppy would say, I was scared out of my brain.
Thankfully we were getting close to the exit. I used that as an excuse to deflect. “You need to get off on Carmel Valley Road.”
He switched lanes. I didn’t fill the silence, and neither did he.
I would’ve been appreciative, except the silence served as a reminder how unappreciative I’d been.
Without question, Ryan had jumped into action.
He’d heard my desperation, probably seen my panic—there was no way I’d hidden it—and just done what he felt he had to do to help me.
If I wasn’t hiding all of that, it would’ve been sweet.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered. “It was nice of you to drop everything and drive me. I’m being uncool, and I know it. And I don’t think I thanked you for helping me with my car. That was uncool too.”
“You’re having a shitty day, baby.”
Letting me off the hook and making excuses for me made me feel worse.
“You don’t know the half of it,” I mumbled. “You’re gonna make the next left.”
He again switched lanes.
“I’d like to know,” he softly told me.
In a perfect world—read: ten months ago—if he’d spoken to me in that gentle voice, my heart would’ve swooned, like seriously pitter-pattered, and I would’ve spilled my guts. Not that I had anything to spill about ten months ago, but still I would’ve told him anything he’d wanted to know.
Now . . .
Now it felt like my life wasn’t my own. Everything was dark and messy and full of emotional turmoil. No one wanted to be saddled with that.
So instead of telling him, I decided to stick to the plan—minus being a snappy bitch, because really he didn’t deserve it and it was exhausting trying to stay pissed at a man who’d folded my laundry.
“Make a right. Leisure Village will be at the end of the road.”
Mutely, Ryan made the turn and drove us to my hell on earth.
Purgatory might’ve been a better description. Either that or hell sold rooms for seven grand a month and was clean and inviting.
But still, screw this place that kept my father safe and comfortable. He was nothing more than a hostage to a disease. And my mother and I were nothing more than slaves to the grief of watching him slowly fade away.