Turning Point (The Kathleen Turner Series)

by Snow, Tiffany

  Kade. I wondered as I drove to my apartment if he was okay, or if whoever was after him had caught up to him. When I thought about it, which I tried not to do, it made me sick with worry. I hated not knowing where he was or what he was doing.

  I pulled into my parking lot, shut the car off, and grabbed my cell phone. I stared at Kade’s number for several long moments, trying to decide whether or not to call.

  He was a big boy, he could take care of himself. No doubt he would not appreciate my checking up on him like a nagging mother.

  Even with all these recriminations and warnings going through my mind, I saw my finger move to dial the number.

  I waited, barely breathing, as it rang—once, twice, three times—before voice mail picked up.

  “Leave a message.”

  “Kade… hey… it’s me… Kathleen.” My tongue stumbled over the words. I had no idea what I was going to say on this impulse call. “I just… just wanted to call. See how you were doing. If everything’s okay.” My voice faltered as I wondered if things might not be okay at all. “Um… anyway. I’ll… uh… talk to you later, I guess. Bye.”

  I ended the call, leaned forward, and knocked my forehead against the steering wheel. “Stupid, stupid, stupid,” I muttered to myself, wishing I’d just hung up when the voice mail had kicked in.

  My phone rang and I jumped. Had Kade called back?

  Looking at the screen, I saw that it was Blane, not Kade.

  “Hello?”

  “Kat, where are you?”

  “In my parking lot.”

  “Have you had dinner yet?”

  “No.”

  “Okay. I’ll pick something up and be by shortly.”

  “Sounds good. See you soon.”

  I could smell the smoke from the club on me, so I decided to shower and change before Blane got there. When he knocked on my door, bearing a large pizza box, my hair was wet and I had on my flannel pants and T-shirt.

  “Isn’t it a little early to be going to bed?” Blane asked, setting the pizza on my kitchen table before taking off his jacket and tie. “Though I guess you didn’t get much sleep last night.”

  I stiffened. Blane hadn’t brought Chance up again since we’d argued, and I didn’t want to reopen the discussion.

  “I could say the same for you,” I replied evenly, grabbing two plates and putting pizza slices on them. “Matt seems like a real charmer. What were you doing last night?”

  “He had a couple of hookers at his place. One of them realized who he was, what he’s on trial for. She panicked, and called the cops.”

  “Did he do anything to her?” I asked as Blane uncorked a bottle and poured two glasses of red wine.

  “He said he didn’t,” Blane answered noncommittally.

  As we sat down at the table, Blane’s presence made me acutely aware of how small my apartment was. He didn’t seem to fit, though he’d never said a word about where I lived. His house suited him. Grand and reeking of old money, he fit in there.

  “What did you do today?” he asked.

  I took a sip of wine before answering. Blane was something of a wine snob, which I could appreciate, and it was a good bottle. “Derrick asked me to look into this case he’s working on.”

  “The Webber case?”

  I nodded. “Turns out both she and Julie worked at the same strip club. Did you know that?”

  Blane stopped chewing for a moment, then took an abrupt drink of wine before answering. “Yes, I did. I’m looking into it.”

  I frowned. “Maybe you should tell Derrick you’re looking into it, since he didn’t seem to know.”

  Blane only nodded, so I continued.

  “Anyway, I went by there and got a job bartending. I figured that might get me more information about Julie and Amanda.”

  Blane choked on his wine.

  Alarmed, I watched as he recovered. “You okay?”

  “Are you out of your fucking mind?”

  His anger scared me and his words ticked me off. “Thanks a lot, Blane,” I replied coolly. “Way to show some confidence in me.”

  “You met Matt today,” he retorted. “You saw what he did to Julie. I’m doing everything in my power to protect you, and you waltz right in to the lion’s den and ask for a job. How did you think I was going to react?”

  I stiffened. “To protect me? From what? From Matt?”

  Blane didn’t answer.

  “Since when did I become a part of this? I can be careful. I know how to protect myself, and I know what to look for.”

  We sat in silence, regarding one another. Blane leaned back in his chair, studying me. I waited uneasily, wondering what he was going to say, how he’d react. Between our argument last night and the one we were currently embroiled in, now more than ever I was expecting that proverbial shoe to drop. Surely at any moment Blane would tell me it wasn’t going to work, that it was over.

  Instead, he shocked me.

  “Why don’t you come live with me?”

  I stared at him, speechless. When I finally found my voice, I could only say, “What?”

  “Come live with me,” he repeated.

  My mind was trying to process this. What did it mean? Other than the short time I’d spent recuperating at Blane’s, I had never lived with a man before, had never been asked. I wasn’t sure what to do or say.

  On one hand, the fact that he wanted to make our relationship more permanent made me ecstatic. But on the other hand, I’d never had childhood dreams of a man saying, “I love you madly. Come live with me.” The dreams had usually involved a white dress and reciprocal “I do’s.”

  That helped focus my thoughts.

  “Blane… that’s really great, really sweet of you.”

  His eyes narrowed. “But?”

  “But that’s just not for me.” Reaching across the table, I took his hand in both of mine. The calluses on his palm were rough beneath the pads of my fingers. “Please understand. I really appreciate the offer, though.”

  “Why is living with me not for you?” he asked.

  My face heated with embarrassment. My opinions were probably not the norm, but I wasn’t going to lie. “I just don’t think it’s a good idea,” I said. “If we were married, that’s one thing, but we’re not.”

  “That can be arranged.”

  I stared at him. Had he just said what I thought he’d said?

  “What did you say?”

  “I said, ‘That can be arranged,’” he repeated calmly, taking another swallow of wine. “If being married is what you require to come live with me, that can be rectified with a trip downtown and calling in a few favors.”

  I could barely breathe. Blane was suggesting we get married as though he were discussing what movie we should go see. It was an awful parody of what I wanted, and I didn’t know if I could remain as detached from the situation as Blane appeared to be. His body seemed relaxed as he sat in his chair, one ankle resting on his knee, while his fingers toyed with the stem of his wineglass.

  I didn’t know what to say. Was he serious that we should get married? Was that what I wanted? Should I care about the completely lackadaisical way in which he’d asked or just go with it? Thoughts of being with Blane—having his face be the first I saw in the morning and the last I saw at night—tempted me. Wispy visions of children and laughter ran through my mind. My dream was within reach. I just had to say the word.

  Then another thought occurred to me, one that made the blood drain from my face. My eyes lifted to Blane’s, who was watching me carefully.

  “Are you saying all this because you’re trying to protect me?”

  I could tell immediately that I’d hit the nail on the head. Blane’s face was a blank slate, and he took too long to speak.

  “Kat, that’s not—”

  “Oh my God,” I breathed. “You’d actually marry me out of a sense of duty to protect me?” The thought was as demoralizing as it was mortifying.

  “I love you—” he began.
>
  “But that’s not what this is about,” I interrupted. “You’re not asking me to marry you because you love me and want to spend the rest of your life with me. You didn’t even ask, now that I think about it. You just suggested. God, Blane, I don’t know what’s more humiliating. Your obvious belief that I can do nothing for myself, or a pity marriage proposal.”

  Anger was coming in waves now, temporarily burning away the hurt. I leapt to my feet, needing to put some space between us.

  “You’re taking this all wrong, Kat.” Blane jumped up and came after me. His hand landed on my arm. I jerked out of his grasp, rounding on him.

  “I’m taking this wrong? I am?” My voice was laced with incredulity. He’d just made a mockery of not only me, but of all my hopes and dreams that revolved around him, and I was the one taking it wrong?

  Blane pushed his hand through his hair in frustration. “I didn’t mean that. Damn it, I’m not doing this right.”

  “You’ve got that right. Get out.” I was surprised at how cold I sounded.

  Blane looked at me, his expression pained.

  “I mean it. Leave.” I crossed my arms over my chest, trying to hold myself together. I felt like I was breaking apart from the inside out.

  His jaw set in bands of steel, Blane finally grabbed his coat and let himself out. When the door closed behind him, my knees gave way and I slid down the wall to the kitchen floor, too stunned at what had just happened to cry.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  I couldn’t sleep once Blane left, and I laid on my couch, staring mindlessly at the television. An old rerun of Seinfeld was on, though the humor was lost on me as I replayed the scene with Blane in my head.

  I didn’t regret throwing him out. My humiliation and anger still burned inside me. There was a limit to how much Blane could control and protect me, and hearing him using my own dreams of marriage and family against me had been the last straw.

  I’d tried talking to him, tried understanding who he was. Yet it seemed he was determined to keep me in a glass box. I didn’t want that, couldn’t live like that.

  I drifted off to sleep, not wanting to go to my bed, where Blane had lain with me just this morning. Despair loomed underneath my anger, and the smell of him on my sheets would undo me.

  A pounding at my door startled me awake. Rubbing my eyes, I glanced at the clock and groaned. It was barely after three. These nocturnal visits were killing me.

  Hoping it was Chance, I opened the door, only to be surprised once again.

  “You called, princess?”

  My jaw was agape, staring at Kade, and it took a moment for me to regain my bearings.

  “Um, yeah, I did.”

  “You going to let me in—?”

  His voice faltered, a grimace crossing his face. I noticed that his left hand was under his jacket, holding his side.

  “Kade? Are you all right?” I asked anxiously, grasping his arm.

  To my horror, his knees began to buckle. I grabbed him around the waist, struggling to keep us upright.

  “Kade! What’s wrong?”

  He didn’t answer, but he wasn’t unconscious. Yet. I hobbled inside, Kade half-walking, half-leaning against me. He was heavy and I thought I was going to topple over any moment, but somehow I managed to get him to the couch and sat him down.

  Breathing hard from exertion and panic, I hurried to turn on the lamp. When I got a good look at Kade, I was struck by the paleness of his skin. Beads of sweat stood out on his forehead even though it was cold outside. Falling to my knees, I pushed back his jacket, sucking in a breath when I saw blood on his hand and a dark stain on his shirt.

  “Oh my God. What happened? Why are you bleeding?”

  He let me pull his hand away from his shirt. I pushed it up to reveal a raw wound, oozing blood.

  “Kade”—my voice was shaking—“have you been shot?”

  “Bingo, princess,” he breathed. His eyes slid shut.

  Reaching behind me, I grabbed my cell phone, but found my wrist in a viselike grip.

  “No police,” Kade said, his eyes open again and clear.

  “I need to call 911,” I argued. “You need to go to a hospital.”

  “Can’t,” he rasped. “No hospital. They’ll kill me.”

  Oh God. They were still after him, whoever “they” were.

  “Who did this to you, Kade?”

  He didn’t answer.

  I was starting to panic. If he wouldn’t let me call an ambulance, I didn’t know what to do, how to help him.

  Kade seemed to be losing consciousness now, his grip slackening on my wrist. Jumping to my feet, I hurried into the kitchen, rummaging through my junk drawer until I found what I needed. The blood on my hands smeared the pristine white of the business card, but I dialed the number, holding my breath and praying.

  When I heard the voice on the other end of the line, my knees nearly buckled in relief.

  “Dr. Sanchez?” I asked. “It’s Kathleen Turner. Blane’s… employee. Do you remember me?” Dr. Sanchez had been the doctor Blane had called to my apartment in the middle of the night when I’d been ill. He’d left his card on the table. I hoped he’d be as nice tonight as he’d been then. “I have a friend who’s been shot and can’t go to the hospital. Will you help me?”

  Although he sounded surprised to hear from me, Dr. Sanchez readily agreed to come and assured me he’d be there soon.

  I went back to Kade and dialed Blane’s number. It didn’t matter that we’d had a fight, Kade was his brother.

  Blane picked up on the first ring. “Kirk.”

  “Blane, it’s me. Kade just showed up at my door. He’s been shot. He won’t go to the hospital, so I called Dr. Sanchez.”

  There was a moment of silence before “I’m on my way.”

  The minutes dragged by. Finally, there was a loud knock on the door.

  Kade’s eyes flew open and he grabbed my arm as I stood.

  “It’s okay,” I assured him. “It’s a doctor. A friend of mine. He’ll help you.”

  I opened the door to the familiar figure of Dr. Eric Sanchez. He was taller than me, but not by much; his dark hair blended into the shadows of the night.

  “Please come in,” I said, stepping back to allow him inside. “Thank you for coming.”

  The dark eyes behind the wire frames of his glasses gazed shrewdly at me. “I got here as fast as I could,” he said.

  He moved quickly to the couch, assessing Kade’s injury. “Help me get him to the bed,” he ordered.

  Kade was only semiconscious at this point, but the two of us managed to move him. Dr. Sanchez swiftly and efficiently cut through Kade’s shirt.

  “We need clean towels,” the doctor barked. “Lots of them.”

  I scurried to do his bidding, returning with a tall stack. In my absence, he had jerked all the sheets and blankets off the bed, save for the bottom sheet. He’d also removed an array of tools and needles from his bag, all encased in sterile plastic wrapping. When he pulled out a needle to inject something into Kade’s gaping wound, I had to turn away, bile rising in the back of my throat.

  Standing uncertainly nearby, I fidgeted, not knowing what to do. Dr. Sanchez didn’t speak while he worked, and the few times I glanced over, I had to quickly look away. The gloves he wore on his hands were now red and I could hear the ripping of plastic as he opened more instruments. Kade, thankfully, seemed to have lost consciousness.

  I heard a knock on my door and rushed to answer, knowing it had to be Blane. Sure enough, he was waiting impatiently outside.

  “He’s in the bedroom,” I said by way of greeting.

  Blane gave a curt nod before hurrying past me.

  When I returned to the bedroom, Blane was standing next to Kade, opposite the doctor. A combination of anguish, pain, and guilt was written on his face.

  “There,” the doctor finally said. He discarded a small brass-colored object covered in blood.

  He carefully stitched together the wo
und, then called me over. “I need to show you how to dress this, because it’ll need cleaning and redressing three times a day for the next couple of days,” he said, removing his bloody gloves.

  “I can take him to my house,” Blane interjected, his voice rough.

  Dr. Sanchez shook his head. “I’d rather he not be moved for now. For a bullet wound, he’s lucky, but he needs to rest and mend. It’s best if he stays here, Blane, at least for tonight.”

  Blane looked at me. “Is that okay with you?”

  I nodded, then watched as the doctor showed me how to clean and bandage the wound. After that, he handed me two pill bottles.

  “This one is for infection,” he said. “He’s not allergic to penicillin, is he?”

  “No,” Blane said. “He’s not.”

  “Good. This is for pain. Both twice a day, with food.”

  “Got it.”

  Gathering his things, he asked for a trash bag and discarded the bloody gloves and towels, now stained beyond recovery. “I’ll take this with me,” he said, “to dispose of properly.”

  Blane stepped forward to shake his hand. “Thanks, Eric,” he said. “I owe you one.”

  “That’s actually two that you owe me,” Eric replied with a good-natured grin. “But who’s keeping track?”

  Blane smiled tightly. I showed Dr. Sanchez out, giving him my own words of thanks for coming so quickly. When I returned, Blane still stood next to Kade’s unconscious form.

  “Did he say anything when he showed up?” Blane asked, his eyes on Kade.

  “No, nothing,” I replied.

  “But he came to you,” Blane said flatly.

  I flushed but didn’t know what to say, so I remained silent.

  “When I find out who did this to him,” Blane quietly gritted out, his fists clenching, “I swear to God I’m going to kill them.”

  Grabbing a tissue from a nearby box, Blane picked up the bullet Dr. Sanchez had left. He wrapped it and pushed it into his pants pocket. With one last look at Kade, he turned and left the room.

  I followed him, closing my bedroom door quietly behind me. Blane stood in my living room, arms crossed over his chest as he stared out the window. I stopped a few feet away, unsure what to say, if anything. After a moment, Blane seemed to pull himself together and turned to face me.