by Linda Grimes
The worst part wasn’t even the colic. Honestly, I’d felt sorry for the poor kid. The floor-walking and bouncing and jiggling and lack of sleep hadn’t been that horrible, since I knew it was temporary. No, the worst part was that the cook had a spectacularly horrendous cold. And yet still insisted on preparing every single meal for me (she was careful not to breathe on the baby), even though I offered to give her the weekend off. With pay. You can’t buy (or buy off, apparently) dedication like that.
Which meant, at the moment, I was unsure whether I was coming down with a cold or if I was about to start crying. Again. The feelings are remarkably similar, as the past month had taught me well. But as long as I stayed too busy to think, I was okay. I could keep it under control.
The trouble always started in the brief moments between frenetic action and falling into an exhausted sleep. That was when the thoughts of Billy hit me like an anvil falling on Wile E. Coyote’s head.
He hadn’t tried to contact me since he’d left me at Nigel’s. I knew he was alive—as of a week ago, anyway—only because Mark had given updates to Auntie Mo, who’d passed them along to my mother, who then overnighted them to me inside insulated packages of frozen casseroles, because I’d absolutely forbidden her to deliver them in person. Thomas had picked the casseroles up from my doorstep while I was on the job.
When the doorbell rang, I ignored it. I was in no mood to see anyone, or, especially, to have anyone see me. Not before I’d regained enough strength to take a long, hot bath and soak the kinks out of my poor, abused muscles.
When I heard the front door open, I might have been nervous, except I knew it had to be a member of my family. The locks were too good for a stranger to get in without breaking through the door, and I was pretty sure doing that would have made more noise. I figured it was probably Thomas with a backlog of creative casseroles. Laura must have told him my job was done, the rat. You’d think a spook would be better at keeping secrets.
“Go away. I have a cold!” I hollered, deciding I liked the idea of that better than the alternative. When I didn’t hear the door open and close again right away, I added, “Leave, or I will breathe on you.”
“Promise?”
Billy.
I rolled over so fast I almost fell off the couch. I pushed up to a seated position, and held myself steady until the dizziness passed. When I could focus, Billy was still standing across the room, looking uncertain of his welcome.
“Do you still want me to leave?” he said.
I shook my head.
“Hi,” he said after what felt like forever, still not approaching me.
“Hi,” I said, and waited.
To break the suspense about who was going to move first, I snatched a few tissues from the box on the table beside me, turned my head away, and quickly swiped them across my eyes, covering the action by blowing my nose.
“When did you get back to the States?” I asked.
“About forty-five minutes ago.”
“Oh.” I waited some more. “So,” I said at last, “you look awful.” And he did. He was unshaven, sunburned, scratched up, and covered in small red welts. “Are those bee stings or do you have the measles?”
“Africanized honey bees.”
“Killer bees?”
“Yeah. They get testy if you wander too close to their hive. Territorial little buggers.”
I nodded. “Does it hurt?”
“At first. Not so much now.” His Adam’s apple bobbed up and down. “How’s your nose?”
“All better.” I blew it again. “Well, the break is healed. It’s just kind of runny because…” I shrugged.
“Your cold.”
I nodded, and nodded some more, until the nodding changed to shaking, and the tears were leaking from my eyes again.
He came to me then. Crawled under the ugly afghan with me and gathered me into his arms. I held on so tight I thought I must be cutting off his breath. He didn’t seem to miss it.
“I might not actually have a cold,” I said after a time.
He held my head to his chest. His heart was thrumming so fast I could hardly distinguish separate beats. “I just keep hurting you, don’t I?” he said hollowly.
I sat up, not letting go of him, and looked into his eyes. “Why did you come here?”
“Well, Mommo said I couldn’t come to Thanksgiving dinner without you…”
“That’s it? I’m your ticket to a turkey dinner?”
“That’s not the only reason. Mark told me to sack up and go see you. He said that judging by your workouts with Laura, and the job you took—colicky baby? You really did that?” I nodded. “He said it was obvious you’re a masochist, so maybe I was the right guy for you after all.”
I laughed. “Reminds me of a joke Dad told me. What did the masochist say when asked why he stayed with the sadist?”
“‘Beats me,’” Billy said. “That’s an oldie.” His eyes became less guarded, and I saw the shallow indentations of his dimples beginning beneath his scruff of a beard. But only briefly, as if he couldn’t—or was afraid to—muster his humor.
“Does this mean you’re back?” I said.
“If you’ll have me. Ciel, I—”
“Wait. I’m not finished yet.” I pushed myself away from him. Looked into his gorgeous blue eyes … and punched his face. Didn’t pull it either.
He grabbed his jaw. “What the fuck, cuz?”
“You keep acting like you were the one who personally beat me up. Well, I’m showing you I can fight back. Maybe you won’t be so worried about me then.” I scooted off the couch, slapped the other side of his face, and hopped backward.
“Ha-ha. Very funny. Now stop—”
I jabbed his chest. He stood. Tried to loom. He’s normally a good loomer. “I said stop it, cuz—”
“Why should I? If ‘you’ beat me up, I should get to beat you up, too. Fair is fair.” I stepped back and executed one of the maneuvers I’d just learned from Laura.
“Ouch!” he said, and rubbed his arm. I couldn’t kick nearly as high as she did, but his bicep was going to have a bruise. “That’s enough, Ciel. I get it.”
“Do you?” I punched his stomach. Not as hard as I could have, but he felt it.
He reached for me. I ducked under his arms and danced away from him. He followed, a determined look on his face, and maybe … yes, definitely a sparkle in his eyes. I rounded the sofa, taunting him with a two-handed come-and-get-me motion.
He lunged for me. Missed. I circled behind him and landed another kick, right on his butt. He whirled and reached for me again, but I was already gone.
“Laura’s lessons?” he asked, dimples no longer shy.
“Yup.” He came at me one more time. I let him get close enough to grab my shoulders, lifted my arms up between his, hooked my leg behind his knees, and brought him to the floor while breaking his hold on me. He landed with an oof.
“She’s a good teacher,” he wheezed out.
“That’s basically the move I used on Itchy in jail. Laura helped me refine it,” I said, standing over him. “So, now we’re even. You can stop feeling guilty about me. Deal?”
“Deal,” he said. “Help me up?”
I took his hand. He gave a quick yank and I was on top of him. He flipped me over and held my legs to the floor with one of his. My arms were pinned, too, but it didn’t matter. I wasn’t trying to get away.
He was smiling like the Billy I knew. Even with the scruff, scratches, and bee stings (and possibly the beginnings of a bruise on his jaw), he was utterly gorgeous.
“Think you’re pretty smart, don’t you?” he said.
I grinned, and shrugged as much as my pinned arms would allow. “Smarter than you. Of course, considering the level of intelligence you’ve displayed recently, that’s not saying mu—”
His mouth descended on mine. Several minutes later, when he finally lifted his head, I said, “Don’t ever make me beat you up again.”
“I don’t know
… if it ends up like this, it might be worth it. Go ahead, slug me.”
I rolled my eyes. “Hey, idiot…”
“Yeah?”
“Shut up and take me to bed.”
* * *
Thanksgiving was in full swing when Billy and I got to the Doyle homestead. It was their turn to host it this year, though I was sure Mom and Dad had been there since morning helping with the preparations. The smells emanating from the kitchen were enough to make my taste buds weep with anticipation. This was a meal the Doyle-Halligan clan had down to a science. It was always as close to perfection as food could get.
My parachute pin was securely attached to the high collar of my green silk sweater. Billy had wrapped me in his arms when he saw it, his embrace soundlessly reinforcing the apologies I’d told him I didn’t need to hear anymore. I was sure my new piece of jewelry would be gushed over by every female in the family before we made it to the appetizers.
We were greeted in the entry hall by my brothers, who took our coats jovially enough. I got a hug from each of them in turn.
“Where’s everyone else? Are Laura and Devon here?” I asked.
“In the family room. You can see them in a minute,” Thomas said. He took Billy’s hand to shake it, and pulled him into one of those manly one-armed hugs, clapping him on the back. “You okay?” he asked. “I hear it was a rough job.”
“I’m fine,” Billy said. “No sweat.”
“Good,” Thomas said, and punched his left jaw.
“Thomas!” I said, appalled.
“Sorry, bud. But I told you if you ever hurt my sister…”
James was next. Greeting, punch (the right jaw), apology. I shoved him aside and reached up to stroke Billy’s face. “Are you okay? James, I cannot believe you did that.”
Thank God Brian was nonviolent. He hugged Billy (both arms—he’s always been affectionate), pondered life for a moment, shrugged, and punched Billy’s nose. “Sorry, dude. You know how it is with sisters.”
I didn’t know how to respond. I stared at my youngest brother, absolutely boggled.
Billy didn’t seem all that surprised. “We good now, guys?” he asked, cupping his nose with both hands.
“Of course.”
“Yeah.”
“Sure.”
They were all smiling and laughing, as if slugging my boyfriend was the most fun they expected to have all day. And Billy was laughing and grinning along with them, the idiot.
“Excuse me!” I said. “Billy, is your nose okay? Let me check it.” I ran my fingers along it gingerly, wiggling it the tiniest bit at the tip.
“Not broken,” he said, without so much as a grimace. “Satisfied?”
“Huh. You’re lucky Brian hits like a toddler. Um, sorry, Bri,” I said when I saw the chagrined look on my brother’s face.
“Hey, I can hit him harder if you want. I was going easy on him because he came back to you.”
“No, that’s okay,” I said quickly. “I think he’s suffered enough.”
Billy nodded. “I couldn’t agree more. So, guys, is that it? Anyone waiting to dismember me along with the turkey?”
“I can take a shot at it, if you like,” Mark said from across the hall, where he was leaning one shoulder against the wall. There was a genuine smile on his face, and yeah, I did start to melt. Apparently being happy again had relaxed all my emotions.
“I think this last assignment already kicked my butt enough,” Billy said wryly.
I looked at Billy’s battered face and stuffed my residual feelings for Mark back where they belonged—buried deep. I suspected I’d have to deal with them one day, but today was not that day.
Mom and Auntie Mo couldn’t hold themselves back any longer, and wedged their way into the hall. Mo engulfed me first, while Mom wrapped her arms around Billy. Then they traded places, and pulled us into the crowd waiting in the den.
Once the general hubbub died down a little, I let loose a piercing whistle (I learned that from Auntie Mo—she seemed impressed) and said, “Everyone, before we eat, I have an important announcement to make.”
Billy’s eyes got big, but the smile on his face never wavered. Mom and Auntie Mo clutched their chests, expectation lighting their faces. Dad and Uncle Liam cocked their heads and waited.
“I call dibs on a drumstick!” I said, and ran to the dining room, grinning evilly.
Acknowledgments
So, here I am at the end of another book, once more contemplating all the people who have helped me on this crazy journey. Hmm. There’s a reason, I believe, writers tend to call this space the “acks.” As in “Ack! Who am I forgetting?”
So many people went into the polishing of this book. My critique partners, beta readers, and general support group, for instance, without whom I would never attempt such an enormous undertaking. Elise Skidmore, Tiffany Schmidt, Tawna Fenske, Julie Kentner, Kris Reekie, Emily Hainsworth, Susan Adrian, and—new to the gang with this book—Sarah Meral, you guys are the best! You have my heartfelt thanks, and if you’re ever in close enough proximity to me, I will toss in the libation of your choice.
I would like to thank my copy editor, Eva Talmadge, for fixing all those bugs that were obviously added to my manuscript by gremlins during the electronic transmission of it from my computer to Tor’s.
Michelle Wolfson, Super Agent, has my eternal gratitude for her continuing belief in Ciel and the gang. And, you know, for handling all the contract stuff that makes my eyes glaze over.
A huge thank-you to Melissa Frain—aka “Melificent”—for her part in whipping my books into shape for the reading public. She does a magnificent job, hence my nickname for her. (However, if there is anything you don’t like about this book, let’s just blame her, shall we? I mean, that’s what editors are for, right?) Also, my deep appreciation goes to editorial assistant Amy Stapp for all the things she does, not the least of which is being easily amused by writers who like to think of themselves as funny.
Many thanks to my daughter, Annalisa, and son-in-law, Mike, for the airplane and car info. Any meanderings from fact are strictly due to artistic license on my part, and no fault of theirs. (“Artistic license” means never having to admit you’re wrong.)
Special thanks to my son, Sean, for listening to me jabber on about my characters as if they’re real people, and for not looking at me like I’m crazy while I do it. (Much.)
And, as always, my everlasting love and gratitude to my husband, Bob. A writer couldn’t ask for a more supportive spouse. Thanks for everything, sweet cheeks. Especially for all those reminders that “it’s five o’clock somewhere.”
About the Author
LINDA GRIMES grew up in Texas, where she rode horses, embarrassed herself onstage a lot, and taught teenagers they’d have to learn the rules of English before they could get away with breaking them for creativity’s sake. She currently resides in Virginia with her theater-god husband, whom she snagged after he saw her in a musical number at the now-defunct Melodrama Theater in San Antonio. There’s nothing like a rousing chorus of “If You Wanna Catch a Fish You Gotta Wiggle Your Bait” to hook a man for a lifetime. Grimes is the author of In a Fix, Quick Fix, and The Big Fix. You can sign up for email updates here.
Tor Books by Linda Grimes
In a Fix
Quick Fix
The Big Fix
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Contents
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
<
br /> Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Tor Books by Linda Grimes
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
THE BIG FIX
Copyright © 2015 by Linda Grimes
All rights reserved.
Cover photograph by Gene Mollica
A Tor Book
Published by Tom Doherty Associates, LLC
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Tor® is a registered trademark of Tom Doherty Associates, LLC.
eBooks may be purchased for business or promotional use. For information on bulk purchases, please contact Macmillan Corporate and Premium Sales Department by writing to [email protected].
The Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available upon request.
ISBN 978-0-7653-7638-1 (hardcover)
ISBN 978-1-4668-5126-9 (e-book)
e-ISBN 9781466851269
First Edition: May 2015
