Kelly reached over and picked up a picture. “They were adorable, weren’t they?” This just sent Laney and me off again in another fit of giggles.
“They were…something,” Laney managed, swiping a finger under her eye.
“I just never would have guessed that Mark,” I extended my arms in the classic giant-fish-story pose, “was ever so scrawny. I mean, he could have given me a run for my money.” I laughed. Inwardly, though, I was “mwahaha”-ing as any good villain would do.
“Oh God, I know. He was most definitely a late bloomer. But such a sweet boy—still is.” She gazed at the photo with a mother’s love.
“We are definitely blowing some of these up—I’m thinking life-sized!” Laney proclaimed, sifting through them again.
I was still stuck on the “sweet boy” comment and the look in Kelly’s eyes. No! Mark wasn’t supposed to be sweet—he was supposed to be rude and unbearable so I could ignore my attraction to him. Shit.
Thankfully the waitress came to take our order so I could think about something else. Like what kind of dessert I was going to have after lunch.
Conversation flowed easily over lunch and although Kelly certainly wasn’t gregarious or particularly outgoing, she did contribute and seemed to feel more comfortable with us by the end of the meal. It was clear though, however much she tried to be engaged and put on a cheerful face, there was a cloak of sadness about her that made me understand Mark’s protectiveness when it came to his mother.
The fragility of a parent was an entirely foreign concept to me. I’d spent most of my own life as the fragile one with my elders consistently lending me their strength. What had life been like for a young Mark to assume this opposing role? It was obvious his mother’s disposition wasn’t merely a result of recent events but one honed over years of struggle.
This thought tempered my good mood, but I maintained my smile as we all parted ways in the parking lot and I headed back to work—all the way thinking about scrawny little Mark being sweet to his mom and then handsome grown-up Mark doing the same. Damn the man. He and his stupid eyelashes and not-so-off-putting muscles were getting under my skin—I could feel it!
I heard my phone signal a new text message on Friday morning as I sat at my desk trying to remember what my boss Jax had asked me to do on his way out the door. My hands had been busy so I hadn’t written it down, and I was having no luck recalling it. Oh well. I picked up my phone and saw a number I didn’t recognize along with a very strange message.
Unknown Number: I need your help!
I suddenly imagined myself in one of those movie scenarios where the kidnapping victim discovers a forgotten phone and dials a random number in the hopes that a good Samaritan on the other end of the line will save the day. I could totally do that!
Fiona: I’m here! What is ur name? Do u need me to call the police?
Unknown Number: Huh?
It was worse than I thought. This person had obviously been put in a confined space and was running out of air. What else could explain the confusion?!
Fiona: How much air do u have left? Do u know where u are? I need to give the police something to go on!
I just hoped I wasn’t too late. Guilt would never let me forget it if I let this poor person die!
Unknown Number: Are you high right now, Shortcake?
Shortcake?
Shortcake!
This was no desperate kidnapping victim. It was Mark Fucking Beckett.
Fiona: Mark?
Unknown Number: Who the hell did you think it was?
Fiona: How did u get my number?
I quickly put his name into my contacts so he couldn’t catch me unawares again.
Mark: It didn’t take Sherlock Holmes.
Gah!
Mark: What the hell was all that stuff about the police and air?
Never being one to actively pursue humiliation—it preferred to find me on its own—I decided to skip that topic.
Fiona: What do you want?
Mark: My mom is planning on going to the hospital tomorrow and we can’t talk her out of it.
Crap! This was about Kelly so I couldn’t be mean and tell him to suck it.
Fiona: When?
Mark: Morning sometime. She works in the afternoon.
Fiona: On it. Later.
Mark: Thanks, Shortcake. I owe you.
Fiona: Stop calling me that.
Mark: It’s an endearment.
Fiona: Endear this!
I followed that up with a lovely middle finger emoji. Thank you, Steve Jobs, for giving me the tools to adequately express my feelings.
Chapter Eleven
Rules of the Playground
MARK
I had to laugh as I set my phone down on the desk. I loved torturing the little spitfire, and now that I didn’t have to worry about my mom tomorrow I was feeling much more relaxed.
“What are you laughing at?” asked Bailey as she walked into the office. “And get out of my chair.”
Bailey Murphy is Nate’s younger sister and the one I never had—or particularly wanted. Like Nate, she works for the family construction company and spends her days dealing mostly with interior design and space planning. The rest of her time is spent insulting Nate and me, as far as I can tell. Well, that and painting. Bailey is actually an artist at heart, but she feels an obligation to the family, and having a real job also keeps her from living in a cardboard box—or her parents’ basement. I’m unsure which she would consider to be worse.
“I was here first,” I said, pointing out the obvious.
“What are you, eight?” she responded and then reached toward my phone. I snatched it up before she could grab it.
Bailey stands only a few inches shorter than me and, thankfully, she isn’t into heels like somebody else I know so she never tops me. Lord knows she’d love it, though, so I make sure to never suggest she dress like an actual girl. Objectively, I suppose she’s attractive—long blond hair, bright blue eyes, decent rack—but it’s impossible to see her as anything other than just Bailey.
“You may as well just tell me. I’ll find out eventually anyway.”
She wasn’t above pick-pocketing or blackmail, so I gave in.
“I was just texting Fiona. I get an inordinate amount of pleasure from torturing her.”
“Aw, that’s so adorable. I can’t imagine why you’re single,” she deadpanned and then proceeded to try and pull me out of her chair. Silly woman.
I just ignored her as she strained herself for another minute.
“You’re not pretty enough to be this much of a bitch, Beckett.” She stopped pulling at me and flipped me off instead.
What was it with girls giving me the finger today?
“Oh, I’m sorry,” I feigned innocence and rose from the chair. “Did you want to sit here?”
“Asshole,” she said and flopped into the chair like the graceful angel she is.
“Who peed in your Cheerios this morning?” I asked her.
“Eww. And nobody peed in my…anything. Just yuck.” She gave me a disgusted look—one you might give to, well, somebody who peed in your cereal.
“Come on,” I coaxed. “Tell Uncle Mark all about it.” I took the seat opposite her and folded my arms on the desk.
Her disgusted look morphed into more of a disturbed frown.
“Are you always this creepy or am I just noticing it now?”
“Shut up and tell me what’s wrong.”
She waved her hand like she was swatting away an annoying bug. “It’s nothing—I’m just frustrated—I’ll get over it.”
“Frustrated about what? Work stuff or…personal stuff? I would say ‘guy stuff’ but with the way you dress I’m never sure which way you swing.” I gestured to her outfit of khaki pants and a company polo.
She gave me a huge fake smile. “I hope the steroids make them shrink up and a mouse eats them while you sleep.”
My hand immediately covered my zipper in an attempt to prote
ct my balls from her insults. “Hey—you know I don’t take that shit!”
“Whatever you say, Buffy. Anyway, it’s nothing you need to worry about—I’ll get over it and be fine by Monday.”
“Are you sure you don’t want to talk about it? I can try my best to be nice and listen. Scouts’ honor.” I gave her the salute, or possibly signaled a Vulcan code, I’m not really sure—I was never in the Scouts. But I genuinely cared about her and didn’t like to see her upset. If this was girl shit, though, I was going to regret it for sure.
“I’m positive. Now before we deal with the boring-ass bid paperwork, I want to hear about Fiona.” She waggled her eyebrows.
“So you don’t have to share but I do?”
“Yup.”
“Well, there’s nothing to say about Fiona anyway. She’s just helping me with the situation with my parents and giving me the added bonus of being easy to pick on. You know how much I love that.”
“I’m aware,” she responded, leaning forward in her seat and searching for some papers on her desk.
“I’m wondering,” I mused, “why is it that you and Fiona both have blond hair but she’s the only one who’s blond?”
Bailey eyed me, started to speak, thought better of it, and then finally said, “You know how I said you were acting like you’re eight? I’m thinking that’s the same thing you’re doing with her.”
“Huh?”
“You know, pulling her pigtails on the playground, calling her ugly, spitting in her applesauce at lunch…”
“Spitting in her…what the hell kind of school did you go to?!”
She waved me off again. “Andy Pulaski, first grade—the kid was in love with me but didn’t know how to show it.”
“Are you sure he didn’t actually despise you? It sounds like he hated your guts.”
“Eh, I guess we’ll never know for sure. The point is, you teasing Fiona is so transparent—you should just ask her out and be done with it.”
“I don’t want to go out with her!” I insisted. “And besides, I tease you all the time and that doesn’t mean I want to bone you.”
“Yeah, but I’m the exception to the rule. We’ve known each other too long. And besides, I find you about as desirable as William Shatner’s left nut.”
“Ouch.”
“The truth hurts, Beckett. Just ask her out. What’s the worst that could happen?”
Obviously, she didn’t know Fiona very well or she’d never ask that question. I’m relatively certain Shortcake could singlehandedly bring on the zombie apocalypse and then just shrug her shoulders and suggest a trip to the mall.
“She’s going where?” I asked Jake.
I was driving home from work that evening when Jake called to tell me that Mom had changed her plans for tomorrow morning. Thank God.
“I told you—some spa or something.”
I had heard him the first time but I just hadn’t believed it. Our mother had never been to a spa in her entire life. She isn’t a spa kind of person.
But I knew a diminutive mastermind who most definitely was.
“Fiona,” I said.
“Fiona,” Jake echoed. “I don’t know how the hell she did it, but that woman is a genius.”
Maybe not the word I would choose, but I was grateful nonetheless.
“Anyway,” Jake went on, “I called the hospital today and they’re planning on transferring the old man to a county rehab facility tomorrow.”
“Does Mom know?”
“I don’t think so. She hasn’t been there since we warned her off on Sunday, but I can’t be sure she hasn’t been calling on his status. Anyway, I think this might be a good opportunity for us to stake out the place and see if we can spot anybody while he’s being transferred—you know, see if anyone is paying close attention or even tailing him.”
“I can’t believe I’m saying this, but you have a good point. That would be a great time for someone to try to approach him—when he’s sort of out in the open with no security to worry about.”
“That’s what I was thinking too.”
“Okay, any idea what time they’re transferring him?”
“Sometime in the morning, but they weren’t more specific than that,” he told me.
“Okay, I’ll bring the coffee and doughnuts and pick you up at 7:30.”
“Sounds like a plan, little brother.”
I couldn’t believe we were staking out a hospital for bad guys. My life had suddenly turned into an eighties buddy flick.
I hit the gym earlier than usual the next morning, determined to get in a workout before potentially sitting on my ass all day. Contrary to some people’s experience, a workout actually energizes me so I knew I’d be all set for the day. After showering and dressing in old jeans and a long-sleeved thermal, I headed over to my mom’s, stopping for refreshments on the way.
“Rise and shine, people!” I shouted as I unlocked my mom’s front door and let myself in.
“Hey, sweetie,” came her voice from the kitchen. I followed it and found her in an old pink robe at the table with a cup of coffee and a pile of mail. “What are you doing here so early on a Saturday?”
“Jake and I are running some errands,” I semi-lied to her as I handed over a fresh latte from the drink tray I was carrying.
“Wow—thanks!” she said, not needing to check what kind of drink I’d gotten her. I knew her vices.
Just then Jake sauntered into the kitchen dressed very similarly to me, only the color of our shirts differentiating us. He went directly for the drink tray and lifted the lid on the only untouched coffee there—we both took our coffee black. After taking a long sip, he finally spoke. “Ready?” he asked me.
“Ready,” I replied. “See you later, Mom,” I said.
“Not sure when I’ll be back but you’ll probably be at work so I’ll see you tonight, okay?” Jake addressed our mother.
“Sure,” she said, distracted by a letter in her stack of mail. “I’ll see you later.”
We drove toward the hospital mostly in silence as we sipped our coffees and Jake devoured two of the doughnuts from the bag between our seats. I turned up the radio to give us something to distract ourselves, although it didn’t do much except eliminate the need for conversation.
When we finally pulled up to the hospital, I parked in the visitor lot and switched off the ignition. “Well, I guess this is it. I feel like we should have brought something with us—like some brass knuckles or a pocket knife. I feel unprepared.”
“The goal is not to get arrested, dumbass. We’re just waiting and watching—no big deal. Let’s go,” he said, opening the passenger door and stepping out.
We ventured in the main doors of the hospital and up to the floor where our old man’s room was. The nurses’ station was bustling and there was a constant stream of people up and down the hallway. How in the hell were we going to spot these guys, assuming they would even show up?
As if sensing my irritation, Jake whispered, “Calm the fuck down. Just pull out your phone and act like a normal person, dickhead.”
We leaned against the wall several doors down from the asshole’s room for the next hour or so, taking turns strolling around the floor in a (hopefully) casual manner. The only pleasant distraction was a surgically enhanced red-haired nurse who did her own “casual” strolls by our spot in the hall. Her eyes raked over us each time she passed and we returned the favor, but after the first time I just wasn’t feeling it. Jake, on the other hand, most definitely was.
“What’s your name, darlin’?” he asked on her third lap.
“Lexie,” she answered and tilted her head to the side. “What’s yours?”
“I’m Jake. This is Mark. Think you can help me out with something, Lexie?”
“Sure.” She smiled up at him.
“That patient in room 320 who you guys are moving today—has anybody been around asking questions about him?”
She suddenly looked unsure. “Oh, I can’t give out a
ny patient information. Sorry.” She attempted another smile, seemingly disappointed she couldn’t give him what he wanted.
“No, I don’t need any patient info—just wondering if any visitors have been hanging around or asking about him.”
She was ready to retreat so I took over. “Listen, Lexie, that guy in there is our dad and we’re worried some people who aren’t so friendly are looking for him. We’re just trying to protect him.”
“Oh.” She seemed to consider that. “Um, now that you mention it, I did notice a couple guys hanging around yesterday who seemed a bit out of place. They kept walking by the room and then the nurses’ station and were clearly eavesdropping. We ended up calling security but they split before security got here. I didn’t think much of it until now. We get odd people around pretty often—usually bored from waiting around.”
Mark and I exchanged a glance. Shit. “Do you remember what they looked like?” Jake asked her.
She bit her bottom lip in concentration. “They were kind of unremarkable, you know, just everyday guys. They both had on baseball caps—I think one of them had a red logo. The other guy had a leather jacket and they were both in jeans. That’s about all I can remember, sorry. Do you need me to call security?”
“No, that’s okay,” I said. “Do you happen to remember if either of them had facial hair or a noticeable tattoo or something?” Yeah, I’ve watched some TV. I know some things.
“Oh, yeah, the one guy had a goatee—I do remember that. No tattoos I can remember but they were both wearing long sleeves so ...” she trailed off.
“Thanks, Lexie,” Jake said and then winked at her. “Just one more thing—do you think you can find out what time our dad is being transferred without making a big deal out of it—we kind of don’t want him to know we’re here.”
She gave us a curious look and put her hands to her hips. “Show me your ID and I’ll see what I can do.” Smart girl.
Jake smiled at her and pulled out his wallet, extracting his driver’s license and handing it over. Lexie took it to the nurses’ station and started typing into the computer. Seemingly satisfied with what she’d found, she returned a few minutes later with the license in her outstretched hand.
The Spark (Carolina Connections Book 2) Page 9
