Come On (Coming Together Book 2)

by Poppy Dunne

  This is why I’ve spent the last five years pretending to be drunk constantly and screw everything in a size two. If they think I’m not a threat, they won’t notice when I blindside them. They won’t see me coming when—

  Ping. I have a text. Grabbing the phone, I read:

  Where r u? Gramps worse.

  Is this code or something? A secret password? Was I supposed to watch all of Mr. Robot to figure this out?

  The texter’s name is Becca. M’s code name? Man, how deep into the rabbit hole have I gone with this? Do I need a code name? Can it be Morpheus, or is that one already taken? And why does that name, Becca, sound familiar? Like—

  Oh, fuck.

  Tessa has a sister named Rebecca, but she always calls her Becca.

  Gramps is, obviously, her grandpa.

  Worse is probably exactly what it sounds like.

  I try opening the phone, but the passcode is clearly one I don’t know. I don’t know it because this isn’t my phone at all. It’s Tessa’s.

  Somewhere in the heart of Queens, my innocent assistant is getting all the intel on a major information drop, happening tonight.

  Hopefully there aren’t that many hospitals in Flushing.

  Three

  Tessa

  Taisa kept an arrow notched and her bowstring taut as she rounded a corner. Her back pressed to the wall, she blinked in the dim light of the dungeon. Straw littered the stone floor; she heard the drip of water somewhere nearby; the fetid stench of rot and hopelessness wafted around her. She screwed up her nose, and crept forward.

  Tired-eyed men watched her from within their cells. Someone coughed, but no one called for the guard. Perhaps they prayed she’d send an arrow singing through the narrow bars and into their hearts. Perhaps death was the only avenue of escape from King Amneor’s prison.

  Well. It was her duty as a bow-maiden to escape with one prisoner this evening, and she needed him very much alive. She halted outside a cell, her soft-soled boots a whisper on the ground. The man inside was humming to himself, a familiar tune. Taisa sighed and knelt.

  “Your Highness?” she whispered.

  “Taisa?” That voice, both gruff and teasing at the same time, was a balm to her soul. She all but laughed in relief; Prince Roran was all right. The cocky, handsome idiot. If he’d only kept his damned mouth shut, the king might not have sent him to this freezing underworld. But Roran had a habit of incensing all the wrong people at precisely the wrong time. It was his gift. And she, a sworn bow-maiden, had an eventful night of work ahead of her.

  “Your Highness, we need to leave at once.”

  “Taisa, are you a man now? That’s disappointing.”

  And that’s where I stop, my pen nearly punching a hole through my notebook as I jam on my mental brakes. In my earbuds, FKA twigs sings as the train I’m on rattles into the heart of Queens. I flip my notebook closed and slide it into my purse. I know that writers often take whatever little crumbs of inspiration they can get from their day and throw it back onto the page, but I don’t need to bring Rafe McCarthy fantasies into my, well, fantasy world. The empire of Sevonia and Taisa and Roran are my only escape from an increasingly tiring reality. I’m going to keep them apart if it kills me.

  Besides, Roran—handsome, brash, good with the ladies—has always been a little too much like Rafe for my comfort. No need to confuse the issue.

  I glance wistfully at my notebook. Whenever I get a chance, tonight or tomorrow, I’ll type up what I have. Secretly, I’d love to publish a book; hell, I’d love to write fantasy novels for a living. But writing’s not a secure career path at the best of times, and when you have debt and responsibilities…

  Well. Some dreams are better kept in notebooks or secret Word documents.

  I rub my eyes and blink back exhaustion, yawning as the train pulls to the platform. Only three or four stops to go before I catch a bus to the hospital. All told, the trip’s about an hour and a half. Thank God Rafe let me go early, or it’d be almost eight by the time I finally arrived. I bury my nose in my scarf, watching the people on the train around me. One’s a lady with three large grocery bags in the seat next to her, trying her best to stay awake. Two teenagers are swinging around a pole, bobbing their heads to music from a shared iPod.

  I know cars are an unnecessary expense in New York, but sometimes I wish I had one. The commute would be so much shorter. If my extra income wasn’t needed for Gramps right now, I could think about it.

  But hey. The money’s going someplace more important. A while later, I’m off the bus and finally outside the hospital. My breath clouds in the air as I rush inside, and clack down the fluorescent halls towards the elevators. At least my phone’s been mercifully silent on the way here—usually Becca texts me with random worries as soon as I’m on my way.

  And there she is, sitting in the waiting area on a green pleather couch, her leg jostling as she tries reading a magazine. I plop down next to her, and she starts. I guess she was really engrossed in—let me check—new seasonal palettes. I mean, hey. Who doesn’t need to care about those?

  “I thought you’d never get here.” She blows out her cheeks and wraps me in a bear hug. My older sister may be half a head shorter than I, and skinny as a rail, but she can still out-squeeze me. Must be a big sister thing.

  “I told you I’d be here early,” I gasp, glancing around the room. I frown. “Hey, where’s Gabe?”

  “Oh.” Becca releases me from her jaws-of-life embrace and stands, hands on hips as she turns in a circle. Finally, she whistles. “Gabriel! Hey! Where are you?”

  Boom. A little, cherubic face peers at us from over the arm of a chair. My three-year-old nephew giggles as he rolls onto the floor and darts for the hallway. Becca vaults herself over the furniture to get to him—there is nothing like a rambunctious toddler to keep up your cardio. She returns carrying Gabe under her arm, shaking her head as he squeals and kicks his legs.

  “Kids really need two parents,” is all she says as she sits down and passes my nephew. I bounce him on my knee, smooching the side of his head. I get a sticky taste of cherry candy as a reward. How do kids get jam and sugar on every available surface? It’s a talent. “That way, the parents can take turns losing track of him.”

  “I think you’re doing a great job,” I tell Becca, both because it’s true and because she needs to hear it. Her ex, Ramon, left five months after Gabe was born. We looked for him, but only half-heartedly. Things are a lot quieter without him around. Literally. He was an amateur saxophonist desperate to go pro. Less said about the hours of off-tune “Careless Whisper,” the better. “Have you seen Gramps yet? How is he?”

  She blinks at me, her round blue eyes widening further. “Do you not check your phone anymore? I texted!”

  “Sorry, I must have been out of reception.” My heart picks up a little. “How bad is it?”

  “Worse. So much worse.” She huffs, but I don’t panic yet. With Becca, “worse” is very relative. “He called me Tessa. Twice.”

  I have to stifle a laugh. “Becks, he’s got dementia. He called me by Mom’s name last time.” That one was kind of a gut punch, like it always is. I look just like our mom, and Becca favors our dad. She’s got the curly dark hair, the pale blue eyes, and the explosive personality, while I’ve got straight, blonde hair, brown eyes, and a penchant for eating chocolate when I get nervous. Not so great on a diet, but what can you do?

  I kind of don’t want to break the chocolate habit. That, a carton full of photo albums, and a string of pearls are all I’ve had of my mother since I was nine years old.

  “Let me go see him. Think we can get him moved back home soon?” I try not to let that question sound desperate. Gramps will stay here as long as he needs, but Medicare’s only going to cover so much. The sole way we can afford his cocktail of meds is by keeping him at home, out of assisted living, and without a nurse. I was staying with him until Ramon left Becca. She and Gabe moved in after that, and Gramps’s apartment only has
the two bedrooms. I left to give them space.

  Becca can only work sporadic hours between taking care of a kid and an old man. Like I said, every penny I make gets stretched. Thank God Rafe gave me a raise last year.

  Becca rubs her forehead; looks like she’s taking an Excedrin soon. “The doctor thinks he should be stable by tomorrow. We, well, I just need to watch him better.” She shrugs, but I can see how that bugs her. Gramps took a fall and got a nasty hematoma on the side of his head a few days ago. I’m sure the doctors have been condescending to Becca about being negligent, but she’s got a lot to deal with.

  Like a three-year-old who insists on taking his clothes off in public.

  Like he’s doing right now.

  “Gabe! No! Put your pants back on!” Becca runs after the kid, who’s squealing with glee as he waves his jeans over his head like a flag of war. I grab my darling nudist nephew, hand him back, and head over to the nurse to ask about seeing Gramps. Meanwhile, Gabe sings a Moana song while Becca tries reading him a story about Khloe Kardashian. We Snowes know how to have a good time.

  The nurse leads me down the hall into a shared hospital room. The walls are painted a baby blue that’s supposed to be calming, but feels colder than anything else. There’s the familiar hiss of the air mattresses, the beep of heart monitors. A silent TV overhead plays Wheel of Fortune. A blue curtain divides Gramps’s bed from another old man. The other guy is asleep, his mouth open, but Gramps is wide awake. He’s ninety years old and shriveled now, but I can remember him back in his silver fox days. I sit beside him, picking up a pink, plastic cup filled with juice.

  “Mmm. Hey, this looks good.” I offer him the cup, extending the straw. Gramps, who’s got a long face, long nose, and my own light brown eyes, screws up his mouth. He crosses his arms over his chest, sort of like a kid. Ah. I see what’s going on. It’s not anything dangerous, like Becca made me fear. He’s just being difficult.

  “No. I don’t want any more milk. I told you, Gracie!”

  Yep, Mom’s name. I sigh. “It’s Tessa, Gramps. And this isn’t milk, it’s juice.” I kiss his forehead, and he blinks. Then, thankfully, his mouth stretches into a grin.

  “Tessie! When’d you get here?” I love it when he becomes semi-lucid. I offer the straw again, and this time he takes a slurp. “Mmm. That’s good.”

  I sigh in relief. “Did you have a good day? Can you remember what the doctors told you?”

  He sucks some more juice, then smacks his lips. He focuses on the wall, as if concentrating on a hard math problem. Then, he grins widely. “Aw, who the hell cares?” He giggles impishly, and I laugh as well. I kiss the side of his head. He’s a little cold to the touch. It’ll be good to get him out of the hospital.

  “We’re thinking of putting some handrails up in your apartment, okay?” Technically we don’t need to get his permission for this, but I feel better keeping him in the loop as much as possible. “So you don’t fall and hit your head again. ‘Cause it’s a very handsome head.”

  “Mmm.” He squeezes my hand, his fingers still giving a good grip. “Whatever you say, Gracie.”

  I sigh and give him a hug. Right now, I just need to think about getting him out of here, into a cab, and back to his place. I don’t want to consider too far down the line, because that picture gets bleaker and bleaker. Dementia’s not a fun ride for anyone, and it’s hard to see someone like Gramps suffer. He was always the strong, tough, silent guy. Gramps raised Becca and me after Mom and Dad died. He wasn’t the cuddliest guy in the world—in fact, he’s a lot sweeter since his decline—but he made sure our teeth were brushed and we got to school on time, and he always remembered the little things, from surprises in our Christmas stockings to a few extra dollars socked away for a prom dress. Becca and I had to take care of most of the household stuff, though, which meant that I had to take care of it. Love my sister, but she’s not the domestic type.

  Still, it was a good way to grow up, as good as he could make it. The fact that we can’t afford to get him better treatment, or a place in a good home, kind of kills me.

  “Okay, why don’t you rest up? I’ll see if I can find the doctor.” I kiss his head one more time, and look at the door. Just then Gabriel zooms past, now completely naked except for his underwear. He’s got his arms flung over his head, giggling like mad.

  I sigh.

  “I’ll find the doctor after I deal with this.”

  An hour later, Becca’s got her arm around my neck, and I’m holding Gabriel’s pants in my hand. He’s tucked under Becca’s arm, squealing as he tries to get free.

  “Don’t leave. I’m so tired,” she moans.

  “I’ll be back tomorrow to help get him out,” I say, and kiss her cheek. “Why don’t you go bag yourself an attractive male nurse?”

  “There are so many of them,” she says breathlessly.

  “Text if you need anything.” I sidle away, rubbing my forehead. Becca will be here for a little while longer, then she’ll grab a cab. I gave her money for that treat, at least. It’ll be easier with Gabe. Right now, I want to take some Aleve and slide into bed with no dreams. I don’t need nightmares, or naked dreams about my boss, both of which I’ve been having far too frequently. While one is a lot more fun than the other, it does make walking in to work the next day super awkward.

  Okay. Time for a bus and train home, then a hot shower, then a few precious minutes of Kushiel’s Dart. We’re getting to some of the steamier sections now, and while that may not work terribly well with my “don’t feed the Rafe sex dreams to my subconscious” plan, I need it.

  Crap, except my phone buzzes. Hopefully it’s not Becca already at DEFCON five. I frown when I don’t recognize the number. The text reads:

  66-25 103rd Street 11375

  8pm

  What the hell? Is this a test or something? I try opening the phone to respond, but my passcode is rejected and—

  Oh fuck. I have Rafe’s phone. He’s probably got mine, and has probably been inundated with Becca’s frantic questions. I squeeze my eyes shut. For all I know, this is the infamous M sending the location of her apartment for an evening rendezvous. Ugh, I don’t want to think about that.

  Wait a minute. I look at the area code again. That’s not a posh Manhattan zip code; hell, I think it’s here in Flushing. Who the hell does Rafe know that lives all the way out here? A debutante who’s slumming it? Some Russian mobster’s wife he has to bang on the sly? That would be way too much like a crime drama. A sexy crime drama, full of Beluga caviar and lust.

  Back to reality, Tessa. Here we go.

  Well, no big deal. I’ll shoot him an email when I get home, come into the office tomorrow, and exchange. No harm done. Besides, he probably doesn’t care. Rich playboys are forever losing their toys and then just buying new ones. I’ll bet anything he doesn’t even know it’s missing.

  That’s just what I’m thinking as the elevator dings to the ground floor. The lobby is sparsely decorated for the holidays, with anemic-looking garlands of silver tinsel hanging limply on the walls and a fast deflating inflatable Santa waving by the sliding doors. I head for the exit, glance briefly to my right, and come to a grinding halt. Because…no. It can’t be.

  A tall, dark-haired man in a finely tailored suit and a Burberry overcoat is arguing with a lady at the front desk. She’s got a phone clamped against her shoulder and does not seem at all interested to be having this conversation.

  “I just need some information on a patient’s family. I’m not some maniac, for God’s sake,” the man says, in what is unmistakably Rafe’s voice. “Of course, that’s the type of thing a maniac would say, but…I’m sabotaging my own case here. I sense that.” My mouth hanging open, I walk over to him.

  “Sir, I told you once, so I’mma tell you again. We do not give out that kind of information on—Tessa, girl, thank God.” The receptionist, Shavonne, rolls her eyes and points at my boss. “This man’s hell-bent on seeing you. Looks like a sexy tax collector to me. If
you need security, just blink.”

  “It’s okay, Shavonne. He’s my boss,” I mumble, grabbing Rafe by the elbow and ushering him away from the desk. I do notice Shavonne’s eyebrow arch as we walk away, her eyes trailing Rafe’s…well, everything. She, like a lot of other people in this waiting room, is enjoying the view. I think one woman’s even taking pictures on her phone.

  Rafe shakes himself out of my grip, and I flush. What the hell was I doing manhandling my boss? But then again, what the hell is he doing here in the first place?

  “Mr. McCarthy? Uh, are you missing your phone?” I take it out.

  “You’ve got it?” He sounds entirely too interested, considering how painfully casual he’s trying to look. “Oh, there it is. You’re the best, Tessa. Your phone-holding skills alone are worth whatever I pay you.” He reaches to take it.

  Instinctively, I step back, clutching the phone to my chest. What in the hell am I doing? Rafe blinks, probably wondering the same thing. But something about this—no, everything about this—is weird.

  “You left your phone and came to Flushing to get it?” I narrow my eyes incredulously. “At peak traffic?”

  “I’ve always had an adventurous streak. One time I even rode the bus, it was wild.” The smile on his (gorgeous) mouth falters. “Tessa, give me that.”

  “Why are you so eager?” So eager, he came all the way to a hospital to badger reception and try to find me? “You just got a text.” I say that to test him…and it works. He looks like a volt of boutique, rich person electricity just shot through him.

  “Great. Okay.” He’s trying so hard not to look excited. “So why don’t I relieve you of all my, ah, torrid sexual entanglements, and I’ll hand over your phone so you can play Candy Crush.”