Phoebe: Book One of Broken Girls Series

by J. A. Hornbuckle

  That got a reaction, although it wasn’t the one he was hoping for and the fact her words held a pissy edge was no bueno. Not good at all.

  “Don’t worry about it,” she replied firmly, her eyes glued to the large screen of her television. “I’ll be fine.”

  “It’s just that—”

  “I said I’ll be fine, Ryker!” Her eyes flashed and cheeks took on more color as she glanced towards him. Yeah, she’d gone from pissy to pissed off pretty fucking quick.

  He exhaled as quietly as he could even as his mind called bullshit. “Okay. Now. About those doctors that nurse suggested, are you gonna make an appointment with them?”

  She snorted and continued messing with the remote. “Not likely.”

  “But she said—”

  Finally, Phoebe twisted to look at him fully. “What she recommended is standard operating procedure for victims of violent crimes. I’ve done the same myself on a few occasions. But that doesn’t always mean the mental health community can help.” She turned back to the TV and made her selection of a cooking show. “Sometimes a person’s just gotta work through that shit all on their own.”

  Ryker began massaging her feet as he thought through her words as well as the emotion behind them. “Sounds like you’ve been down that road before.”

  Without looking at him, she nodded. “When I was first placed at Diana’s.”

  “Did it work?”

  “Nope.” And Ryker realized the one syllable answer was her way of announcing the subject was completely and totally cerrado. Closed.

  They sat in uneasy peace for a while as he continued rubbing her feet. Finally, when he figured it was safe enough to speak again, Ryker voiced the last question on his mind. “Who was the TOP for and why’d you file it?”

  Her answer, when it finally came heartbeats later, went straight to his heart so fast and so hard, he winced. “You’ve got your secrets and I’ve got mine. Whenever you’re ready to share ‘em, you let me know, all right?”

  Ryker decided it was time to just shut up. Hopefully the meds she’d taken would kick in soon and he’d get the Phoebe he knew and was learning to love back when they did.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  As I waited for the water in the shower to heat up, I leaned over the vanity and stared at my face with critical eyes. It had been a week since my attack and, though I’d promised myself I never had to talk about it again, the bruises on my face provided a daily reminder of what I’d experienced. And I’d watched as they’d gone from blue to a deep purple, fading to green and finally to a yellow so faint I was sure I could cover them with makeup.

  It wouldn’t do for me to show up my first day back looking as torn-up as I had the last time my co-workers saw me.

  Removing my robe and dropping it to the floor, I did a full arm circle to loosen the morning tightness I had in my right shoulder. I’d probably be in the sling and icing my it after my shift, but it, like my face and fingertips, were getting better every day. Which was, I knew, because I’d gotten help in those first few days. Vonnie stopped by in the mornings after Ryker left for work, armed with her version of breakfast (fast food or doughnuts) although she never stayed long. In the afternoons before he returned, it was usually Tonya with a dinner casserole or Maizie with ‘a little snack’ she swore she just had to get out of her place and into mine before she ‘ate the whole freaking thing’. Diana called a lot, as did Carmen, Beta and Coco, at least daily just to see how I was doing.

  But my most surprising visitor (who never missed a day) was Ryker’s mom, Maggie. Arriving promptly at 11.30, she always arrived armed with a sack of food whether it was of the fresh variety that she’d cook in my kitchen or in plastic containers, pre-prepared and smelling luscious. We’d share the lunch and by two in the afternoon, she’d be gone; leaving me showered, in clean clothes and with a spotless apartment.

  Although we’d gotten off to a rocky start the first day she’d shown up. Hearing the knock, I’d dragged myself out of the messy bed, shrugged on my robe and trudged to the door. In my mind, Vonnie had just gone two hours before and I wasn’t in the mood to see anyone. Plus, whoever it was hadn’t called first and I was very much against spontaneous visits, which everyone and their sister already knew.

  Then there was fact it was, like, Ryker’s mom!

  Who I had specifically told not to come and ‘help out’ to both her and her son! (well, not in those exact words, but I’d definitely murmured something about ‘I’d be fine’ when the offers were made).

  So I might’ve been the least littlest bit ungracious when I answered the door with a, “What are you doing here and what do you want?”

  But my attitude didn’t deter Mrs. Santiago-Adam in the least. She stared at me, her beautiful, dark eyes going up and down my bedraggled form as a torrent of Spanish passed her lips. Then patting my good shoulder, she ducked underneath the arm I used to hold onto the doorframe and swept inside, looking around my place.

  “This is pretty,” she murmured, stopping in the walkway behind my couch and the little corner I used as a dining room as I relocked the door and manned the new security system Ryker’d had installed when I was in the hospital. “Muy bonita.”

  Her eyes went to all the overhead lights and then touched on all the fully blazing nightlights within her field of view and I caught sight of her frown in profile. But I wasn’t going to explain or even apologize because if she didn’t like the way I lived…then, tough!

  “Thanks,” I managed to mutter as I teetered toward the couch. The truth of it was, my head and arm were both starting to scream about my upright movements yet I still had another half-hour before I could take the next dose of muscle relaxers and pain pills.

  Helping herself, Maggie shuffled into my kitchen and I heard her emptying the carrier bag she’d been carrying, chatting in her weird mixture of English and Spanish which I gave half a mind to as I stretched out on my couch.

  That was until I caught a few words I didn’t like.

  “…not that I don’t like the gringas I’ve met. It’s just that most of them are slovenly and, how you say, scatter-brained. But not mi hijo’s chica. No, no. She is clean and keeps things put away.”

  What the hell? Did the woman just insult my race while giving me a compliment?

  “Mrs. Santiago-Adams,” I called, intending on setting a few things straight between us in the few seconds she hadn’t spoken.

  Popping her head around the doorway, she smiled my way. “Call me, Maggie.”

  “Uhm, okay,” I chuffed, rearranging the most hideous of bathrobes in the history of man (why the hell hadn’t I chosen the beautiful blue satin one?). “Maggie, then. We should probably—”.

  “When is your next medicines?” She asked, shaking the pill bottles she held, ones I’d lined up next to the kitchen sink, as she adroitly and effectively cut into my jagged train of thoughts.

  Not soon enough, my mind yelled even as my mouth answered, “In about a half-hour.”

  “Bueno, then we have time for lunch before you take thems.” Her short heels clicked as she swiftly moved around my kitchen. “I just will heat up the albondigas and tortillas. We will eat la comida and then you will take the medicines el doctore gave, si?”

  I didn’t remember her English being so broken before when I’d been at her house. But maybe she felt as uncomfortable as I did. I mean, at least then we’d had the barrier of her son and my boyfriend between us, but with him at work and her in my home when I knew I wasn’t at my best, it was awkward and had all sorts of shades of a disaster written all over it, as if there was an explosion waiting to happen.

  She brought out two plates, both holding bowls and tortillas folded into triangles tucked to the side, and set them on my coffee table. Scurrying back to the kitchen, she came back with spoons and two of my tall glasses filled with a white, thick drink. “I made soup since I once heard Americanos believe in the healing power of it. But what is it without bread or tortillas, huh? And everyone l
oves horchata.”

  “You didn’t need to cook for me, Mrs. Santiago-Adams,” I muttered, even while lifting the plate to balance it on my lap. Using my spoon, I stirred it, my nose catching on the savory goodness of the meat and vegetables.

  “And I told you to call me, Maggie,” Ryker’s matriarch shot back, grabbing her own plate and spoon, but not looking my way even once. “So. We can both be stubborn in not doing what the other one wants, or we can find our way for my Ryker as well as what he holds in his corazón for you.” She inhaled deeply as her hands gripped the plate. “I’ll leave it to you to decide since most of your generation needs choices so they can make up their minds.”

  Maggie placed her dish back onto the coffee table and made as if to stand all bristly with righteous outrage. But I wasn’t my normal self, not with the pain I was in, nor with the drugs that still messed with my head.

  So I snorted at the look of quiet outrage the woman’s face carried. Something I regretted the moment my ears heard it come out of my mouth.

  “As if you didn’t get your way at my age.” Was that me who was speaking to Ryker’s mom in such a disrespectful, teasing manner? “I bet you were a ball-buster when you were in your twenties.”

  Twisting to look at me in my corner of the sofa, Maggie narrowed her eyes in a glare so sharp, I found myself cringing. “In my twenties I was a widow with three sons,” she announced loudly and firmly, with a chin lifted haughtily. And taking in a deep, deep inhale, she finished. “So you better believe I was, as you say, a ‘ball-buster’, Senorita Phoebe.”

  I blinked hard and deep, then I felt my face crumble before I dissolved into tears, causing Maggie to immediately come and kneel by my side. I reached out my good hand seeking hers, and didn’t have to wait but a moment before it was clutched and held tightly. “I’m so sorry, Maggie. Sorry that you lost your man and had to raise your boys by yourself. But you did so good, so damn good. Because from what I’ve seen, all of them are freaking awesome.”

  “Shh,” she murmured, pressing her cheek to my un-bruised one. “Shh, mi bonita.”

  Taking the plate from my lap, Maggie returned it to the table before capturing me in a hug that was not too tight nor too loose, but just right, enough to let me take in the comfort her heart was sending my way. “Verdad? Mi Max, he swears too much and works too hard. Mi Cruz, Madre de Dios, the boca on that hombre. And don’t get me started on mi Ryker!”

  “Ryker esta perfecto,” I tried using my little-acorn of Spanish-speak in order to turn off the waterworks my eyes seemed to have sprouted.

  “Tu muy loco en la cabeza*,” Maggie replied and I could hear the smile in her voice even though I couldn’t see her, held tightly as I was in her arms. “Aun así, el niño pequeño. To es bueno y todo irá bien. Ahora. Comer su sopa.”**

  “I don’t know what that means,” I muttered on a teary hitch.

  Using her thumbs, she wiped the tears from my cheeks, taking special care of my bruised side. “It means, mi bella Phoebe, eat your soup.”

  And as she handed me my plate with a dazzling smile, I knew she’d said more, much more but was unwilling to tell me what else she’d spoken.

  From the light in her eyes, and the tenderness of her face, it must’ve been good though.

  Just as it was between us from that day forward. To the point, I began to look forward to a knock on my door every day at 11.30. Not just for the wonderful food Ryker’s mom brought.

  But just so I could spend time with my new friend, Maggie.

  (Translation: *‘You are very crazy in the head. **’Even so, small child. Everything is good and everything will be fine. Now. Eat your soup.’)

  *.*.*.*.*

  “No, hijo,” his madre yelled into the phone, interrupting his morning and the work he’d lined up, wanted to get through before he could call it a day. “Today of all days, you need to be there, to see our Phoebe off as she returns to her work.”

  “She said she could do this, Ma,” he chuffed, his head sharply bent as he propped the phone between his ear and shoulder. “Said she didn’t want or need me hovering.”

  Whatever the fuck that meant.

  “No me importa!” his mother ground out through their connection. “Usted ve a ella inmediatamente! Pronto!”

  Ryker dropped the file folders he’d been shuffling as his mother disconnected without a good-bye, signaling he was in serious trouble this time. Especially when she’d told him that nothing was more important and he needed to see to Phoebe immediately, on the double.

  Stacking the files into a tidy pile, he went to Max. “I’ve gotta take off for a while.”

  “How long is a while, bro’?”

  Ryker’s eyes went unfocused as they turned toward the towering bank of windows and the view they offered. “An hour and a half, maybe two.”

  Max raised his eyes from the keyboard and stared, not saying anything for a long beat. “Lemme guess. Your girl and our ma, right?”

  Fuck.

  One and done.

  “Something like that.”

  “No worries.” Max’s gaze went back to the monitor. “Just be back before noon.”

  As Ryker drove northward towards Phoebe’s place, he reviewed the progress she’d made. True, she was moving much better and the horrible bruising was going away, but damn, the nights.

  The nights were a motherfucking hell for the both of them.

  Finding him startled awake two, sometimes three times with her screams. And then the torrent of tears afterwards? The trembling, shaking woman he held as he tried to soothe her back to sleep, that sometimes took hours to achieve?

  There’d been many a night he’d considered going back to his mom’s place just so both he and his girl could find their goddamn rest.

  He’d learned to sleep away from her, on the farthest edge of the mattress with only their ankles intertwined; never, but never tucking his nose into her hair, since that action was sure to set her off. But he couldn’t help it, since it had become a natural move to Ryker. He loved the smell of her hair, loved propping his chin on the back of her neck and curling himself around her.

  Until her night-terrors reminded him why he needed to stick to his edge of the bed.

  Still, though.

  He couldn’t leave, couldn’t just walk away, clinging to the hope that at some point she’d pop back into being the wonderful person he’d first met, had wooed and shared many wonderful, naked hours with in the same bed which now he warily considered their ‘mattress of caution’, never knowing what the night would bring.

  He knocked as he always did, but she didn’t answer. So he opened the front door with the key Phoebe had finally given him, punching in the code to reset the alarm system once inside before he went in search of her. The kitchen was empty but as he walked down the short hall to the bedroom, he heard the sounds of the shower.

  And the sound of her crying again.

  Fuck!

  Standing outside the door, Ryker closed his eyes and fisted his hands, chin in the air asking for divine strength to deal with whatever was on the other side. He’d do anything, fucking any-damn-thing to get her back to the good they’d had before that motherfucker ruined it all.

  But he didn’t know how; didn’t know the first step to take in order to help his wonderful, beautiful girl heal.

  All he knew to do was to try.

  Opening the door as quietly as possible, Ryker saw a huddled ball of pinkness at the end of the bathtub through the frosted enclosure, the farthest point away from the showerhead. And his heart clench at the heartbreaking resonation of her sobs within the tiled confines. Without thinking, he removed his work clothes, carefully folding and stacking them on the back of the toilet even as his eyes remained trained on her tiny figure behind the wavy glass.

  Once naked, he crouched down at the end of the tub and gradually slid the panel back. And he slowly got an eyeful of what he was sure was the Phoebe she kept carefully tucked inside, hidden away. One who was so agonizingly
beautiful even in the depths of her pain and sorrow, it took his breath away.

  Easily avoiding her feet, tucked so tight into her ass, Ryker stepped inside and, without touching her, closed the shower door again before going back into a crouch, most of his back taking the sprinkles of water from her anemic showerhead. Sinking to his knees, Ryker touched the back of her shoulders, guiding her until she stretched out her legs and brought her face to his chest.

  “Rah-Ryker,” she bleated on a renewed, harsh sob.

  “I’m here, cariña,” he murmured against her hair. “Right here, baby.”

  Dios, but she felt good in his arms. Slippery and hot as her curves pressed against him. His cock told him it had been a long time, too long since they’d been together.

  Her arms came around his shoulders and he eased himself down, cradling himself between her fulsome, naked thighs, balancing himself on the toes he had pressed on the wall of the drain for balance.

  That he was achingly hard and erect was not of his own doing, but because he was holding her nude in the shower. He tried to send his mind another direction as his hard-on bobbed towards her slit.

  Think comfort and caring, not sex, his brained yelled. But his body was starved for the feel of her and wouldn’t be denied.

  She raised her knees and feet to the sides, slinking further down in the tub, with his form following.

  Okay.

  So.

  Ryker tried to recap and reorganize his thoughts as her calves wove around his thighs. But it was…difficult. Almost as tricky as when she gripped him with her heels, her body demanding he sink inside.

  Her lips met his neck as she moved one hand from his hair and shoulders to underneath his arm, snaking around his back. “Take me, honey. I need you so badly.”

  Uh.

  What?

  “It’s been so long,” she breathed, her soft mouth leaving delicate little kisses on the skin of his upper chest. “Don’t you want me?”

  Jesús Cristo, he so fucking did!

  Glancing down from his position of hands gripping the sides of the tub to where they were joined, Ryker’s cock pulsed as he swallowed. She was sliding her now red, sodden, swollen leaves over him, her body stuttering every time his cock brushed over her unhooded clit.