by Brynne Asher
When I finally end my unwanted assault of therapeutic knowledge, I find all three of them are standing on the other side of the bar staring at me. And I realize I’ve done it. I’ve totally screwed myself for the first time in months, giving hints as to who I am.
Damn, I’ve been so careful, too. If I’m honest with myself, I’m actually surprised I lasted this long. I’m not a good liar and never have been.
Addy is looking at me with wide eyes and a hint of a smile playing on her pretty face. Crew’s head is tipped, but his facial features have barely changed even if his eyes do appear curious.
But Grady?
No, Grady is about to come out of his skin. If I thought he was irritated before, it’s nothing compared to now.
“I mean…” I start to backtrack, spinning my wheels, trying to make my knowledge of the scalpula, humerus, and the glenoid cavity sound like I merely enjoy perusing WebMD for light reading. “It only makes sense, you know, that not moving it for so long would be bad, right? Like when you sit for too long and you’re stiff when you get up. You clearly take care of yourself—it’s plain to see simply by your pectorals, deltoids, and brachioradialis. You look like you lift and work out regularly.”
Addy grins and Crew’s dimple barely appears, but Grady’s frown softens a bit when I realize I’m going on about Grady’s body right in front of Grady. This would be bad anytime, but spewing about his beautifully-built body right in front of him is downright embarrassing.
“Not that I’m looking.” I try and make it better, even though I doubt anything could improve the situation at this point, besides me disappearing and reappearing in a foreign land, never to see him again. Because right now, this is bad, bad, bad, and since disappearing isn’t an earthly option, I need to make it better. “It’s just, how can I not look? Wait, I don’t mean look, I’m not looking. I mean it’s easy to see. Although, I guess seeing is the same as looking. Maybe notice is a better word. I’ve noticed you take care of yourself and it would be … well … sad for you not to be able to do that anymore, so I assumed some type of therapy might help you with that. But, really, never mind.” I take a big breath and decide to change the subject. I’m sure the smile I try for comes across painful, because it sure feels that way. “Would you like to hear the specials?”
Ignoring my little rant, Addy asserts, “You sound like you know what you’re talking about.”
It’s clear what she means, but I fake it all the same. “Yes, I memorize the specials every day.”
Crew is no-nonsense when he points out, “She means the medical stuff, Maya.”
Now I’m sure my face is pained as I shake my head and shrug. Every time I open my mouth it gets worse, so I bite my lip.
“Are you a doctor?” Addy asks.
“Oh, no, no-no. I’m not a doctor,” I say, happy for once, to tell the truth.
“A nurse?” Crew goes on.
I shake my head again, not liking their interrogation.
“You’re something. Come on, Maya. It’s apparent you know what you’re talking about. There’s no reason to be so tight-lipped, and I know you’ve never waited tables before you started working for me. What do you really do?” Addy pushes.
“You’re a physical therapist,” Crew states, as if he was at my graduation from PT school.
I open my mouth to refute him, but realize I’ve said too much—given away everything I meant to hold dear. As much as I didn’t want them to know anything about me, I do wonder if it’s better than admitting to being a creeper. Even if I have daydreamed of running my fingers over every honed muscle on his body as I reviewed my knowledge of the muscular system, I certainly don’t need to let them in on my fascination of everything Grady.
“Maybe?” I sort of answer.
“You are?” Addy’s shocked. “I thought you were an activities director.”
“Oh, I’m that, too,” I answer carefully. There’s no need for them to know I’m new to the senior citizen circuit. “I’m sort of waiting for the PT position to open up at the Ranch. I like it there and it’ll be full time.”
I try and ignore Crew, who seems to be assessing me in a way I don’t like. Grady opens his mouth to say something, but Addy interrupts him.
“This is perfect. You’re a physical therapist and Grady doesn’t want to go to the doctor.”
Grady looks straight at Addy. “No.”
“Yes,” Addy insists. “You heard what she said. You’re already behind and you don’t want to lose motion. If you refuse to go to the doctor, you can at least work with Maya.”
“I’m fine,” Grady asserts.
I can’t help but sarcastically raise my brows and roll my eyes, because I know for a fact he’ll be anything but fine if he continues to do nothing.
Grady goes on to growl, “Crew, do something.”
Crew looks to his friend and sighs. “If you want to work for me, you need to let her help you. Maya’s right. You can’t lose motion, and you know it.”
Wait, Grady works for Crew? In my attempt to distance myself, I’ve never asked what Crew does, let alone Grady.
Crew looks to Addy and asks her instead of me about my schedule. “When is Maya off?”
“Six o’clock, then we have to clean up. It’s getting busy, but she can leave right at closing and we can handle the prep for tomorrow. Will that work?” Addy asks him.
“Fine, I’ll go to the doctor,” Grady growls.
“Sorry, too late. Maya just confirmed what I’ve been trying to tell you for weeks. You still make that doctor appointment, but she’s coming tonight to sort you out,” Crew informs him before turning to me. “He’ll be at the house on my property. You can’t miss it, it’s the next drive over and the lane takes you straight to the front door. Grady’s my employee and I’m self-insured. Send me a bill for your hourly rate.”
“Um…” I mumble, wondering what just happened, because Grady doesn’t look like he wants my help.
“Perfect. It’s all set.” Addy smiles.
Grady shakes his head and turns to leave while protesting, “I’m not doing therapy and I’m going to town for lunch.”
I watch Grady as he stalks out of the tasting room, a sight just as good leaving as it was entering.
“He’s doing the therapy. Thanks, Maya,” Crew repeats before giving Addy a squeeze. “I’m hungry.”
“Me too.” Addy leans into him before grabbing his hand, pulling him toward the kitchen. When she looks to me, my heart drops when she grins broadly. “Stay right there, Maya. When I get back, I want to know everything about you.”
Oh, shit.
*****
Grady –
Somehow I knew she’d come. As much as I wanted her to ignore Crew and Addy, not to mention me, the past few days have shown me the woman is persistent. The last thing I want is attention or help.
It's one thing to watch her over the cameras, but ever since she was forced to wait on me and wouldn't stop talking, being around her is more than intriguing. Today was more incessant talking, and even though it pissed me off when Crew butted his way into things, she surprised me when she admitted to being a physical therapist along with a waitress.
I thought maybe she wouldn’t show. She certainly didn’t look like she wanted to, but as I watch her drive up Crew’s lane in her small nondescript economy car with Pennsylvania plates, she surprised me again. I didn’t plan on going back to Addy’s to get dinner. I had no desire to be bombarded about my shoulder. But here she is, it’s almost six-thirty, she didn’t waste any time.
Instead of getting up, I watch her on the cameras as she pulls to the front. I finally moved into Crew�
�s house a couple weeks ago, simply to get him off my ass about moving out of the barn. I know he’s not coming back. He’s in so deep with Addy, I’ve never seen anything like it. Then again, no one close to me has ever had a normal relationship, let alone an exceptional one—but for some reason I can tell Crew and Addy are different than anything I’ve witnessed before. Especially since the day her shit blew up at the vineyard. After everything Crew’s done for me, I was happy to repay the debt. Putting a hole in that traitor’s head was the least I could do.
Even though it’s dark, it’s easy to see her on the cameras as she gets out of her car, carrying a to-go sack from the tasting room along with a pile of papers. She’s changed from the dress and boots she was wearing earlier into her workout gear. I’ve tried not to let her evening runs keep my attention, but I can’t help that they do. She’s definitely a trained runner, she keeps at it for over an hour most days, and not at a slow jog, either. Being a runner, I know one when I see one, she can definitely keep up a good clip.
All of these things shouldn’t pique my interest, but they do. Watching Maya has been a much-needed distraction ever since Crew and I got back, and I’ve taken every opportunity to be distracted. I try not to think about how she’s become an obsession.
I not only see her on the cameras but hear her knock. I do what I planned on doing, and don’t answer. Instead, I stay put in my recliner watching her on the live feed.
Her long dark blond hair is pulled back and I’ve got a clear view of her. She’s got to be five-eight, maybe five-nine. Since she’s on the porch and the cameras are close, I see her light blue eyes before she looks down to check the time, probably wondering where I am. She shifts the things in her hands so she can knock again, before eventually peeking through the side window.
The woman is persistent, waiting longer than I expected. Finally, she sets the sack at the door and folds the stack of papers to slide them inside. I sigh, not knowing if I want to run to her or ignore her, when she gives up.
I switch cameras so I can make sure she leaves the property before I get up and open the front door. Grabbing the bag, I instantly recognize the smell. Going to the kitchen, I pull the papers out first. They’re detailed pictures of stretches and exercises focusing on the shoulder. It looks fucking miserable, so I toss them to the side and reach in the bag, not surprised to find a large bowl of Maggie’s potato soup. I know that smell, I’ve eaten it enough. Still, I stare at the bowl, feeling something foreign turn in my gut.
Tamping that back, I pull out the rest of the containers of food. Popping them open, all I do is shake my head at what I see. There’s a sandwich that I have no fucking idea what it is, but when I peel back the top layer of thick wheat bread, all I see are green, red, and purple. Thank fuck there’s some meat on the bottom, but I’ve never ordered anything that looks like this before. She also got me a side salad, and damn if there isn’t fruit, too.
The last box is a small one, the smallest container I’ve ever seen come from Maggie’s kitchen. In it is the puniest cream puff I’ve ever seen. One—singular. This wouldn’t be a dessert for anyone, especially me, who can down multiple for breakfast, lunch, and dinner.
If the vegetables didn’t do it, that one single cream puff pisses me off for some reason. It doesn’t matter that she thought to bring me a meal when no one’s gone out of their way to bring me food since I was little. Crew might’ve right after I fucked up and almost got us killed, but I was so deep in my head at the time, I barely remember. I’ve known Crew since the day we started our training together to become contract killers. We’ve had each other’s back for ten years now. For someone else to do something for me is foreign.
I toss the cream puff in my mouth, savoring it since it’s all I’ve got besides the packaged cookies and boxed cakes I bought when I went into town today. They’re shit compared to the desserts Maggie brings in. That one cream puff was barely enough to chew, swallow, or taste. I proceed to toss the salad and fruit in the trash along with everything of color on the sandwich.
I glance at the papers Maya left for me, thinking maybe I’ll look them over tomorrow. I take the remaining food to sit in front of the TV and flip on a game. I need to get back to my weights, running, and I really need to get back on the fucking mat where I can kick someone’s ass. Maybe that’ll help me sleep through the night. Because right now, I’ve never been more fucking miserable.
The days are long enough, but nights … I fucking hate the nights. When I finally do fall asleep, I’m restless at best. My fucking dreams keep creeping into my head. They’re different since I was captured, just as bad as before, but sometimes worse because they take me back further, to when he was alive.
Those are the fucking worst.
Chapter 4 – We Found Her
Weston MacLachlan –
Upstate New York
“Yeah?” I answer a call as I pull onto my parents’ property. I just wrapped my meeting with our main supplier’s contact and need to fill in my dad and his lieutenants on my idea. It’s fucking brilliant if I say so myself. It’ll give us the ability to triple our shipments, maybe quadruple them, if we’re lucky.
“You about here? Your dad wants to sit down, has something he needs to talk about,” the recruit, Trevor, says.
“I’m pulling in now—I’ve got a meeting with him and Byron. I just got done with our contacts from the south.”
“Byron’s not here, but Jeff is. They’re anxious to see you and said to be fast.”
I don’t get a chance to answer, Trevor disconnects before I can ask what in the hell’s going on. Then again, he wouldn’t know. I was right where he was two years ago. Even though I’m my father’s son, he only cut me a few breaks. I had to earn my position the way everyone else has.
I have no idea why they’re in a rush to talk, they knew I was on my way. Even though it’s my dad and it shouldn’t make me anxious, I wonder what the fucking hurry is.
I pull up the circle drive and park at the front door. Letting myself into my childhood home, I’m greeted by Jean, who’s worked for my parents since before I was born.
“Mr. Weston, it’s good to see you. Shall I tell your mother you’re here? She’s in the kitchen.” Jean smiles as I lean in to kiss her cheek.
“I’ll find her before I leave. I need to speak with my dad first.”
“I’ll let her know.” She takes my jacket and heads for the closet as I go to my father’s office near the front of the house.
He’s sitting behind his desk and one of his lieutenants, Jeff, is standing beside him.
I give my father a curious look because I don’t report to Jeff, and the air is tense. “Thought I had a meeting with you and Byron.”
“Byron’s on a job for me.” My father looks up at Jeff and I swear there’s a silent communication there I don’t like. When he looks back to me, he continues carefully. “Tell us about your meeting first.”
I try to relax and not worry about the unknown elephant in the room, but it’s not easy. “I pitched my idea and they like it. John Deer tractors—antique ones. I’ve researched it, they’re not too hard to find and we don’t need them working. We look like we’re refurbishing them, but gut them instead—the entire thing—leaving only a shell. Some are huge and when completely emptied, will leave massive amounts of real estate for storage.”
My father tips his head, rubbing his jaw with his thumb. His brows draw together when he asks, “Transport?”
“We get a flatbed trailer with a cab, not old but not new, just nondescript. All with legit Midwest plates, no one’ll be the wiser. We’ll look like a farmer, a collector, a hobbyist, someone wanting to refurbish them. It’s time to pull out of Miami. With the threat of terrorism, the shipping industry is tight. We need t
o utilize the border. Easier payoffs, more traffic on a daily basis, and with the tractors, we have a way to cross in plain sight. Importing bananas might’ve worked for the last decade, but our people were picked off twice in the past five months. Our luck’s gonna run out soon, Dad. Someone’s gonna give us up. We need a new way.”
My father’s jaw tenses. He’s never liked change. “The bananas are legitimate income—we need that to funnel the rest of the money through. We can’t give that up.”
“I didn’t say give it up,” I answer. “I’m saying stop moving the heroin through the bananas for now. Find a different way to transport. If the border gets tight, we can move back, that system is set up and ready. We should at least try—mix it up. It’s time to diversify the transportation. With the tractors coming across on trailer, we can deliver to different spots along the way. Who knows, maybe we can diversify later.”
My father looks up at Jeff, who gives him a tip of his head. Even though I don’t report to him, I know Jeff is progressive and open to change. Although it doesn’t take much to be progressive in comparison to Ronald MacLachlan.
My dad nods slowly and finally concedes. “We’ll start small and give it a try. You’ve got the go ahead for three tractors. Get them to the warehouse and make sure they’re prepped and sealed so the dogs don’t tip us off. I fucking hate drug dogs.”
Breathing a sigh of relief, I nod, but don’t get the chance to enjoy it for long when my dad keeps talking. He leans forward and Jeff turns to walk around the desk, coming close. Confused and not liking him standing over me, I rise defensively, looking back across the desk to my dad. “What the fuck?”
“Relax. We need to talk to you, but you need to keep your shit together.” My dad lowers his voice in the way that commands attention. I’ve heard it my entire life, but it’s different now that I’ve been brought into the fold.
