Saved

by Hazel James

  “Some things. Tying my shoes was a pain in the ass. I had to—”

  “I didn’t know it was cripple night at Cattlemen’s.”

  My face and neck prickle with heated awareness. I don’t need to look at the table to my left to know the man is talking about me, his not-so-subtle barb piercing the easy atmosphere in the dining room. It’s not the first time this has happened since my accident, but it never gets any easier.

  “How about you put that thing away? Some of us are trying to eat,” his friend adds. The venom-laced words hit their mark again. My shoulders, my head, my heart—they all fall, until I’m staring at a ceramic plate of rice pilaf wishing I was anywhere else.

  “Can we go?” I whisper to Clay. When he doesn’t respond, I look up. The muscles in his jaw flex and strain as he works to control the fury in his eyes, and then, with a careful swallow and a deep breath, he replaces the fire with an icy calm and rises.

  “Good evening.” He grips the edge of their table, his voice low and steely. “You have exactly five seconds to apologize to my date, get up, and quietly walk out of here or you won’t be able to take a solid shit for a month, and when you finally do, you’ll see the tread from my boots stamped in every nugget that your sorry asses drop into the toilet.”

  The man on the right shifts in his seat. “We were just—”

  “Four.”

  The one on the left glances at me and back to Clay, whose expression has shifted from angry to lethal.

  “Three.” He forces the word through his teeth.

  “Two.” Finally realizing Clay is serious, the men scoot their chairs out, toss a halfhearted “sorry” over their shoulders, and speed-walk to the front door, their cowardly tails tucked between their legs.

  Who knew Dr. Jekyll would turn into Mr. Hyde on my behalf?

  That’s something Travis never would’ve done, because it’s bad PR for a radio deejay to get into a public brawl. Not that he could’ve handled a two-on-one fight in the first place.

  My heart maintains its runaway rhythm, thanks in part to Clay calling me his date, as he returns to his seat. “You didn’t have to do that, but thank you.”

  “They were not getting away with disrespecting you like that. I’m kind of sorry they left before I got to ‘one,’ though.” He hatches a mischievous smile and picks up his fork. “So finish telling me your story about tying your shoes?”

  “No way!” Rebecca’s mouth falls when I tell her about the near-fight at the restaurant.

  “Yup! And then Clay had the waitress put their food in to-go containers and gave them to some homeless people on the way home.”

  “He’s like a brawny Robin Hood.”

  “Aaand now I’m picturing him in tights,” I giggle, grabbing the remote so we can catch up on the last episode of Big Brother.

  When the screen comes on, she arches a brown in my direction. “Were you watching the Spanish channel?” I explain what happened before Clay arrived while I pull up the DVR menu. “Leilani, I hate to break it to you, but the national language of Belize is English.”

  “Oh God,” I cringe. “No wonder he smirked.”

  Starfish

  THAT PINK SHIRT. THE ONE I told her I liked.

  Did she wear it for me? Did she think about me when she got dressed? Christ, did she think about me before she got dressed? And what about not wearing her hat? Was that because I said I thought her hair looked good?

  These questions have hamster-wheeled inside my head all damn day—my early morning workout, back-to-back sessions in the gym, even during the worst game of pool I’ve ever played at the Angry Bison.

  I can’t believe Marshall won.

  Still, I wonder if—

  Mom clears her throat, reminding me that she’s waiting on my muscles. “I ran into Anna today at the grocery store. She asked about you.” I make a noncommittal grunt and twist the jar of peaches open with a satisfying pop, then pass it to her. “She read the article in the paper about your new location and said she was proud of you for following your dream.”

  “The one she hated in the first place?” The only thing Anna enjoyed in our six-month relationship was hanging on my arm at community events. She spent the rest of the time complaining about the hours I logged with my clients at the gym. Anna never understood the work I do, and shortly before Christmas when I told her I planned on opening Battles 2, she flat-out accused me of making my business a bigger priority than her.

  I agreed. Aside from several tear-filled voicemails and an awkward visit to my office right after New Year’s, I haven’t heard from her since we broke up.

  Marshall thought I was an idiot for giving up a prime piece of ass—his words, not mine. When I called him a dick for making a comment like that, he laughed and said that’s how he knew I made the right decision; if I actually loved her, I’d have kicked his ass instead.

  “She also gave me her phone number in case you don’t have it anymore and said she’d love to catch up with you.” Mom lifts an eyebrow as she preheats the oven.

  I ignore her comment and tip my head toward the new cookbook on the counter. “Another one?” She always loved cooking and baking, but she’s taken it up a few notches now that Dad is on the road for a week every month. Retirement from the military didn’t sit well with him, and having him underfoot all the time didn’t sit well with her. A part-time trucking job was the perfect solution for them both.

  “I won it at bingo last week. It has more than a thousand five-star reviews online.”

  My eyes scan over the cover. Pearl’s Heavenly Desserts—Saving lives, one sweet tooth at a time. “Huh. Did you see this?” I point to the text on the bottom, where it says all profits benefit Thrive + Blossom, an organization for domestic violence survivors.

  “I thought you’d like that part.” She gives me a warm smile as she opens the book to a cobbler recipe. “You ready for your trip?”

  Grateful she’s dropped the conversation about Anna, I lean my hip against the counter. “Yup. Just have to pack a few more things tomorrow morning. And thanks for the last-minute embroidering.”

  When I showed her the stuff Leilani and I bought last night, she came up with the idea of adding “Face Your Battles” to the wristbands. The motto for my gym has multiple meanings—not running away from your problems, not backing down from challenges, and, in the case of the kids I’ll be working with next week, understanding that we can’t always choose our battles. Sometimes life chooses them for us. All we can do is turn and face them head-on.

  I’m glad they’ll have a tangible reminder after I leave. With what I already know about their conditions, they’re going to need it.

  “Are we ignoring the elephant in the room?” Mom asks, mixing the fruit with a blend of sugar and spices.

  I glance around the kitchen. “Huh?”

  “Leilani?”

  “What about her?”

  She pours the peach mixture into a baking dish and pops it in the oven. “You’ve had this Hawaii trip fine-tuned for months. Any particular reason you added a wild card less than a week before you leave?”

  Christ. It’s like she went from Rachael Ray to Dr. Phil. I move to a barstool on the other side of the countertop to get some space from her questions. “She’s not a wild card. I just figured with everything she’s overcome, she’d be a great addition. I texted the rest of the team to explain my idea and they agreed.” And thank God for that, seeing as I didn’t ask for their input until after I invited Leilani.

  Mom levels a scoop of flour and drops it into the mixing bowl. “So, this has nothing to do with your feelings for her?”

  “My what?” My pitch increases an octave on the last word. “Mom, no. She’s my employee.” My very hot, very intelligent, very single employee, not that I’ve shared those thoughts with anyone. Not even my two closest friends. DH is out because he’s her landlord, and I’d rather not discuss it with Marshall. Knowing him, he’d make some idiot remark that would piss me off, and I don’t condo
ne violence in the workplace.

  “You go ahead and keep telling yourself that.” Mom smiles as she combines the remaining ingredients for the cobbler.

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” I cross my arms for good measure.

  “Mm hmm. Just like no one knew what I was talking about when I said Heather was taking a job in New York City or Danielle was going to marry Shawn.”

  I think back to Mom’s predictions about my sisters several years ago. Still, I refuse to admit Mom’s right about this.

  She retrieves the baking dish from the oven and carefully spreads dollops of batter over the peaches. “Has she mentioned what her plans are after she’s done with Operation: OklaHOMEa?”

  “Not particularly.” I haven’t discussed it with her. Haven’t really wanted to discuss it with her.

  “Just be careful, son. I’d hate to see you get even more attached to someone who has no roots here.” With that, Mom places the dessert back in the oven and sets the timer.

  As I watch the numbers drop, I think about how many months Leilani has left and whether I can convince her to stay after December 1st. Then I wonder if I should be freaked out at how easily that thought slipped in.

  Leilani’s phone dings three times in the short elevator ride to our floor. “I told you Kiki would freak!” Her latest message, a series of heart-eyed emojis, follows a jaw-drop gif and the words SO GORGEOUS.

  “All that over a picture of our pilot?” I ask, shaking my head as I maneuver the luggage cart down the hall.

  Leilani flashes a grin. “He looked exactly like Nick Bateman.”

  “Who’s that?”

  “Model. Actor. Martial arts extraordinaire.” Leaning toward me, she whisper-shouts, “You should see what he can do with a bo staff.”

  A model twirling a stick? That’s what impresses her? Hmph. I bet he can’t bench three hundred pounds or do the Murph Challenge in twenty-six minutes.

  Bo staff, my ass.

  Leilani slides the key card into the lock and holds the door of our suite open. John and Kristin, the doctors from Barton Memorial, are married, so they’ll be in their own room. It made more sense for the rest of the team to split a suite. I’m sharing a room with Brandon, the art teacher, and Leilani will bunk with Quinn, the chef.

  The only problem is they won’t get here until tomorrow evening, which means for one torturous night, it’ll just be me, Leilani, and a thirty-foot no trespassing zone in the living room. Yeah, I knew the circumstances before we left home, but damn, this is like being on a diet and having a sleepover at a bakery. My only hope now is an afternoon of physical exertion that will guarantee I fall asleep quickly tonight.

  “Feel like sightseeing?” I ask, making a quick detour to drop her luggage in the room on the left.

  She tips her head and wrinkles her nose. “Hmm, you’re sort of old. Do you think you can keep up with me?”

  Oh hell no. “Old?” I close the space between us, my mischievous smile matching hers. “I think you vastly underestimate my physical abilities.”

  “Is that so?”

  I nod, never breaking eye contact.

  “Maybe you should bring your medical info, just in case.” She brushes past me, throwing a smirk over her shoulder, and disappears behind her door.

  I allow myself a few moments to think about the curve of her lips, then grab my bags and shuffle to my room to change. Except the second my cargo shorts hit the floor, Leilani belts out what can only be described as a war cry. Instinct has me racing toward her, but the fabric around my ankles has other ideas. My left hip and elbow engage in an intimate relationship with the carpet before I’m on my feet again, rocketing across the living room.

  “Leilani?” I holler, pounding on her door.

  “I’m fine! Everything’s okay. I’m just going to kill—” She swings the door open, her jaw falling slack as she gets an eyeful of my boxer briefs. Thank God I didn’t go commando today.

  “What are you killing?” I step around her to sweep the room for critters or nefarious stowaways. Instead, I see the contents of her suitcase scattered over the bed along with the outline of a small rectangular box. “Is that…” I lift a shirt, confirming my guess. “You brought Fruity Pebbles to Hawaii?”

  “You said to bring the essentials.”

  A low chuckle rumbles through my chest. Thus far, she’s managed to keep her gaze above my neck, but the noise makes her eyes hopscotch from my torso to the wall beside me.

  “Can you put on some clothes?” she asks the standard-issue hotel painting.

  My laughter increases. “I was working on that before you went all Braveheart.” Ever the problem solver, I snag a towel from the bathroom and wrap it around my waist. “There. Is that better?” She rocks back on her heels and mutters something that sounds like sweet Jesus, which makes me feel damn good given our earlier conversation about Rick Bateman.

  Take that, ninja pilot.

  “So, what are you killing?” I continue.

  “Rebecca. She played personal shopper without consulting me.”

  “And that means?”

  Leilani sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose. “She took the bathing suit I ordered and replaced it with a different one.”

  Despite my underwear situation, I slip into counselor mode with ease. The outcome could mean the difference between sightseeing together or watching her brood all afternoon.

  Ain’t nobody got time for hedgehogs in paradise.

  “Do you think she was trying to sabotage you?”

  She pulls in a deep breath and lets it out slowly. “No.”

  “Neither do I. Now, let’s look at your options. You can wear the one she bought,” I hold up a finger, “buy something else,” I add another finger, “or not go swimming while we’re here.” I raise one more and wiggle all three.

  “Clay, this is Hawaii. I’m not staying out of the water.”

  “Excellent.” I lower that finger.

  She sits on the bed, careful to avoid her cereal. “And I can’t just buy any bathing suit, so it doesn’t make sense to go shopping.”

  “Good point. Can you wear the one Rebecca packed?”

  “Mm hmm.”

  I drop my middle finger. “Well, there you have it.”

  “It’s not that simple.” She falls back, her arms spread across her clothes. The image reminds me of the story about the boy who rescued stranded starfish at the beach. Although he couldn’t save them all, he made a difference for each one he threw back into the water.

  That’s always been my approach to counseling—to save the ones I can. But for some reason, I want to make a difference for this starfish and keep her, too.

  “Can I give you some advice?” Leilani lifts her head toward me. “Don’t overthink it. I’m going to finish getting dressed. I’ll be in the living room when you’re ready.”

  This time, I manage to put my clothes on without harming myself and check my email while I wait.

  Clay,

  You still good with letting people shower here? I have a few more that could use one.

  Marshall

  Huh. I expected his idea of helping the homeless to fade. Community service has never been his thing, and I honestly thought he was just trying to score bonus points with Rebecca. He’s mentioned a few times that he wants to take her out but hasn’t asked her yet, possibly because I told him if he screwed up and she quit, he’d have hell to pay.

  No prob. Thanks for handling things while I’m gone.

  –C

  Leilani cracks her door as I empty my junk folder. “Clay?” She hesitates and my heart plummets. “Can you come here?” I rise and cross the room, bracing myself for the news that she’s staying at the hotel. Instead, my eyes and mouth mimic the door as she toes it open.

  Wide.

  Wider.

  Holy fuck.

  Whoever said it wasn’t polite to stare has never seen Leilani Moretti in a red bikini.

  A. Red. Fucking. Bikini.

>   All thoughts of sightseeing on the North Shore have just detoured to the bed three feet behind her. My hands and lips beg to forge trails down her neck and over her shoulders. To explore the soft skin on her stomach and traverse the gentle curves of her hips. To get lost inside her with no hope of ever being found.

  In one instant, she’s become my favorite destination.

  “Um, will you tie me?” The soft question anchors me in her room again, and I realize she’s holding her triangle-shaped top in place with her hand. Now her war cry makes sense. Not only did Rebecca choose a two-piece for Leilani, she got one that forced her to ask for help.

  A slow smile spreads across my face.

  Rebecca is so getting a raise.

  What Goes Up

  HAVING CANCER IS AN INVITATION to be touched. Doctors. Nurses. Sympathetic friends. An overbearing mother. For months, I dreaded having someone else’s hands on my body.

  But now? Now I crave it. Especially with Clay staring at me like I’m the only one who can quench his thirst. I’d gladly be his water. The glass. Hell, I’d even be the ice cubes if he’d give me a few hours and a freezer.

  “Um, will you tie me?” I give myself ten bonus points—five for speaking coherently and five for omitting the word “up” at the end.

  He steps behind me, and my skin prickles in anticipation. Even my goose bumps want to be as close to him as possible. But none of that compares to the second his fingers brush the skin on my shoulders. I officially take back every curse word I aimed at Rebecca when I opened my suitcase.

  I’m baking her a cake as soon as I get home.

  “Is that too tight?” Clay’s voice is deeper, huskier, and damn if that’s not the sexiest thing I’ve heard in… ever. I want to say yes, so he’ll have to start over, but a girl only has so much self-control. He’d probably say something like “how do you want it?” and then I’d turn around and hump his leg because I’m all about hands-on demonstrations.

  “It’s perfect.”