by 33 authors
Watching her sway and falter at climbing the steps up to her room, again in her torn and stained clothes from yesterday Bryce decided he was going to stay. Just for today, to make sure she was okay. He’d already told Lyndsay he’d head downtown tomorrow for the preliminary hearing.
He walked up and, making sure he wasn’t on her sore side, picked her up. She eeped and hung on. The birds added their racket to the mix.
“I’m staying for now.” He headed up, turning sideways to make it up the narrow steps. “At least until you’re settled and have something to eat.”
He set her down in her bathroom. The room was a cozy yellow. Nice and bright. “I’ll be out in the hall if you need help. Remember what the doctor said about keeping water away from your head wound.”
By the frown on her face he could tell she would be arguing if she could talk. He lightly brushed the curls off her forehead. “Let me do this, make it up to you okay?”
Shannon smiled wryly then leaned over and pressed her lips lightly to his cheek. “Thank you.”
Her words were clear despite her clenched teeth and Bryce headed to the hall feeling more optimistic than he had in a long time.
* * *
Shannon gingerly perched on a stool at her kitchen counter, drumming her fingers in an attempt to quell the desire to pace. She’d lost her cell so the only phone she had was corded and plugged in to the kitchen wall. When it rang, she didn’t want to have to hurry across the room, not that she could if she had wanted to. Between the two calls she was expecting—Bryce’s on the preliminary hearing and Amelia Becker’s on her mother, Mrs. Becker—she wasn’t about to wander away. It was already past noon, and they’d both said they’d call in the late morning. Of course her talking was still somewhat incoherent, but she could at least listen to what they had to say.
Half an hour later, she gave in and paced the length of the counter and back. Or attempted to pace. The hospital staff had been right when they’d told her she’d be in no shape to work, especially with the lifting and walking she did at the shelter. Thankfully, her boss had been able to get someone else in to help out for a couple of days. Right now, as she winced with every other step she took, she wondered if a couple of days were going to be enough.
She stared at the phone, willing it to ring. Wait. Why wasn’t she calling Bryce? She didn’t need to wait for him to call her. Determined, she picked up the phone. He answered on the third ring.
“Shannon! I’m so glad you called. All I had was your cell number. I—”
He was drowned out by the peal of her front doorbell.
“Hold on.” Shannon covered the mouthpiece and hoped he’d understood her mumbling. Her jaw was still very sore.
“Look,” he said before she could say anything. “I’ll just stop by later.”
And he hung up. Shannon stared at the handset for a moment before slamming it back on the receiver.
Do. Not. Take. Your. Anger. Out. On…. She’d run out of stuttering steps to chant her pep talk to.
“What?” The word was out of her mouth before the door had fully opened.
“Shannon!” Anya pushed through the door, her two girls and tween boy tumbling in behind her. “Why didn’t you call me? Dottie, go put the casserole in the kitchen. Harriet, dear, don’t shake the soda, just put it in the fridge. Marty, go help Shannon to a seat.”
Marty, who everyone but his mother called MJ, rolled his eyes and came to stand awkwardly by Shannon’s side, clearly uncomfortable with his duty.
Shannon waved him off.
“Then go help Bob take down the rest of the birds,” his mother instructed.
“Bob?” Oh dear, Anya had been trying to hook her up with her cousin, Bob, for years. Unfortunately, Bob hadn’t come out to his family yet, so she’d played along.
Anya, as was typical, didn’t answer her question and instead plowed on. “Why didn’t you call me? Why didn’t you answer my calls? It wasn’t until I called your work worried sick about you that I found out what happened. Well, I’m here now.” She uncovered the casserole and shooed her girls outside to help as well. “Guess the flocking backfired, huh? Getting beat up by a little old lady isn’t going to improve your chances with Bryce. You really ought to just call him.”
“Did. He hung up.” Shannon slowed down and pronounced each word. Then realized how what she said sounded. “He said—“
“Really, Shannon. You need to pick better guys. Bryce dumps you with no explanation after two months, and it turns out Bob is gay. Maybe it’s a ‘b’ thing, ya know? I think I’ll set you up with Harold, my lawn guy.” Anya set a plate of lasagna in front of Shannon, along with a napkin and fork.
“Hmph.” Shannon didn’t have the energy to argue with the whirlwind that was her best friend. Later she’d explain that things with Bryce were looking up again.
“I think I’ll just leave these here.”
Shannon swiveled on her stool in time to see Bryce set down a bouquet of flowers on her entry table. In a white t-shirt and jeans, he must have changed before heading over.
Grinning, Shannon slid off the chair, landing poorly and yelping as pain stabbed her leg from hip to knee. Her balance lost, she pitched forward. Grabbing her seat only spun her around, so now her back was heading to the floor first.
Anya screeched and ran around the peninsula. Bryce got there first. Shannon found herself cushioned against his chest, his arms around her waist.
“Careful. You okay?”
Shannon nodded.
“Oh my God! Oh my God! What if you fell?” Anya was literally wringing her hands as she stood in front of them. “Thank you!”
Bryce set Shannon back on her feet. He started to loosen his hold. Shannon grabbed his arm with her hand. She pointed at Anya, no time or ability to be anything but abrupt. “Go.”
“Oh. Oh! You’re Bryce! Oh, okay, well, there’s lasagna on the counter and some soda in the fridge, although you may want to wait to open it. My youngest likes to shake the bottles. We’ll just finish cleaning up the birds and head on home, okay? Call me. No, text me. Clearly you aren’t going to talk anytime soon. Wait, you need a phone, don’t you? I’ve never seen you without one. I’ll pick one up for you.”
“I got her a pre-paid one until she can get to the store.” Bryce pulled one out of the back pocket of his jeans. “I think we’re set…”
“Anya. I’m Anya, Shannon’s best friend. I’ll just go.” She stood at the door, grinning. “Maybe the flocking did work after all!”
With that parting salvo, she ducked out. Shannon groaned.
“The flocking worked?”
Shannon held up one finger, telling him to wait and moved to the counter. The first step caused her to hiss in pain. Good thing it was just one step away.
“When was the last time you had a pain pill?” Bryce set the phone on the counter next to her plate and started rummaging around the cabinets, finally pulling a glass out of the one to the right of the sink.
Shannon pulled the journal she’d set down by her landline phone to her and leafed through it. When Bryce set down the glass along with the painkillers, she showed it to him. He glanced at his watch and back at the book.
“Six hours.”
Shannon flipped through to the next clear page. Didn’t want to be out of it when you called. Oh! Any word on Mrs. Becker?
She showed him the page then pulled it back.
Hold on. No more assuming we know what’s going on in a conversation the other is having with friends. Okay?
Bryce looked confused.
I won’t assume someone is a girlfriend because they hug you and say “we did it,” and you don’t assume my not talking is agreement with Anya’s plans to find me dates.
“Okay. Although I did figure that last out before you told me. Can I go back to your question about Mrs. Becker now?”
Shannon nodded and sat back on the counter stool to listen.
“Here, eat. You need food with those pills.” Bryce slid the
plate over. Shannon took a bite. Thankfully, it was soft and creamy and not difficult to chew. Bryce pulled out a plate and served himself a slice.
“There’s no one test to show conclusively what’s up with Mrs. Becker. Amelia said early indications are some kind of dementia. She’s in a care facility right now and hating it. Poor kid is torn as to whether to give in to her mother’s demands to move or keep her there if she can.”
Shannon set down her fork and picked up the pen again. Support group.
Bryce smiled at her. “Already on that. One of the counselors gave her literature on it, and I sat with her while she called. Her dad’s going too.”
Shannon nodded and grinned back, or half grinned, as one side of her face was too sore to move. A minute must have passed with them grinning like fools at each other before Shannon remembered she wanted to know about the case.
What happened at court?
“I thought it’d be interesting, but it’s all behind closed doors, or at least this was. Criminal and civil charges have been entered, that’s about all I know. Oh, and don’t think they’ll need your testimony. From what Lyndsay said, it’s going to be mostly a ‘their experts against our experts’ type thing.”
Shannon blinked. She’d never expected she’d be a witness at all. Bryce finished his piece of lasagna. When had he eaten? Shannon looked down at the half eaten piece on her plate and shoved it away.
“Ready for your meds?”
Shannon just looked at Bryce. His deep brown hair brushed his collar, a bit long and shaggy to be corporate, but it suited his strong face. A bit of stubble showed on his jaw.
What’s going on here?
“I’m hoping I didn’t totally screw my chances with the woman I met two years ago.”
Chances?
“Chance to get to know you better. Hopefully a lot better, I’ll be honest. But we’ll take it at your pace.”
Okay. But, unless you’re saving dozens of women’s lives, if you pull the no calling thing again, you’re history.
“Only if, before you write me off as history, you try to call me.” He pulled the pre-paid cell phone over and clicked it on. “I’ve programmed my cell, my home, my work and my parents’ phone numbers in here. You have my home email, my work email, a link to my Facebook page and my Twitter handle.”
He’d pulled up his contact information and turned the phone to face her. All the numbers were in there. Along with his birthday. He was right; she had to be part of keeping in touch, too.
“Deal.” The word was almost clear.
He leaned over and kissed her unbruised cheek. “Thank goodness, I was worried I was taking too much for granted after yesterday. Now let’s get these meds in you and get you to bed. I suspect you’ve pushed it while waiting for the calls.”
She hit home on the phone and saw he’d taken a picture of the flock of flamingos on her yard and set it as the background. Turned out Anya was right, the flocking had worked to get Bryce’s attention. Next time though, she hoped she wouldn’t be put through the wringer. She mentally shook her head at the thought. There wasn’t going to be a next time because she wasn’t going to let it get to that point. There’d be no more need for flocking the yard. Except for his birthday, because in another eleven months if things went as they both hoped, the birds would be a good reminder of where they’d come from.
“You okay?” Bryce’s worry was understandable. She had been standing there, staring at the phone.
“Perfect.” For a miracle the word was clear. Shannon met his eyes and knew the happiness she saw there was reflected in her own.
“My thought exactly.”
~~~
After living in several cities east of the Mississippi, but never quite out of the snow belt, Ellie Heller has settled down in SW Ohio with her three kids, two dogs (one of whom thinks he's a cat) and one cat (who thinks he's a dog). Her current release is A Matter of Fate published by Crimson Romance. You can find her on the web at www.elliewrites2.com.
THE TOUCH
Amber Green
"Loyalty for the living, or piety for the dead," says gangster Juice Conlan. "When the egg hits the sidewalk, that's all you got to save you." Conlan's brutal moods have always ruled Monk's life. But when the egg hits the sidewalk, Monk has someone else to save.
~~~
I always worked for Juice Conlan. When I was an ugly little monkey of eight, I played stickball or pitched pennies in the street while he and the sluggers shared a private moment with someone inside. If a copper wandered by, I’d break a window and scram. When I did good, he gave me tips on sharping cards or picking pockets.
When I was thirteen, he handed me an oilcloth wallet of gleaming lock-picks. They felt right in my hands. Heavy, yet precise. The kind of tools that make things happen. I prodded the brass innards of the padlock one of his sluggers had cut off a gate somewhere, feeling my way through the cool, slick weights and levers inside of it, and whispered, “Open.”
Click-click! The loop sprang open, rattling on the tabletop.
I felt like a man.
“You got the touch, Monk.” Juice sounded impressed. “Don’t tell nobody, and don’t show it off. I’ll find the one perfect time and place to use that, and then we’ll be set for life.”
He got us both dead sloshed on bathtub gin that night, saying over and over that the secret of the big score is having the patience to wait for that one perfect time.
But he seemed to forget about the touch, and sent me to bookkeeping school. Then he gave me a real job, with a weekly pay envelope.
“A boyo don’t need that much bacon,” Ma said, holding out her hand for it. “Whilst I got yer little brothers to feed, I surely do. And schoolbooks don’t buy themselves. What would you do with it, Mook, dress fancier than your friends? Do ye have so many you can afford to show them up?”
She was right. Guys my age were head and shoulders taller, too big to even notice me, and kids my size were...kids. I had nobody except Power Brennan, who was too pretty to run with the boys, and maybe Pink Gomez, who was another runt and a spick to boot. Nobody in Pink’s neighborhood cared who he played with because his father was Red Gomez, a Communist who traveled the country to spread trouble. Once Pink found a job at a factory where, luckily, nobody knew whose son he was, I saw him only when I boarded the six-thirty bus to work, which was the bus he rode home.
But I had the locks to spend time with. I practiced with them in secret, in Juice’s warehouse or in the bicycle locker downstairs in our apartment building, or on chests I picked up at pawnshops, while I waited for Juice to announce he’d found the one perfect time and place.
The time never came. Or if it did, Juice missed his chance.
Juice got to missing a lot of chances, as the gin soaked through more of his time. He was invited to one of Frankie Yale’s parties, with the Italians over in Brooklyn, but he slept through it. When he realized what he’d missed, he swung his heavy head back and forth, looking for someone to blame.
I saw what was coming, so I backed into the shadows of the hallway.
As I held my breath, praying for a miracle, the door slapped open, smacking the wall in the way he hated and raining chips of paint from the ceiling. The old-country, saint-blessing harp who cleaned for him walked in with her carpet-beater over one shoulder and her bucket of rags hanging from it like a hobo’s bindle. I waved cautiously to warn her off, but she didn’t see me. If I spoke up, he’d hear me. So I hunched my shoulders and stared at the paint chips she’d knocked loose, and wished I was somewhere else. Out to sea, maybe, or standing on a rooftop somewhere, feeling the warm summer wind on my face and watching Red Gomez’s new dawn come true in the world.
When Juice finished beating on that poor old woman, I sent her home by taxi. I used the phone in the bank downstairs to call a doctor to go see her, too. I promised double payment to get him there—Juice would never miss the jack.
The next morning, her sons tackled me at the bus stop, dragged me into an alley
, and returned the beating with interest.
Juice caught the joke I missed. He laughed and laughed. I stood in front of him, tasting blood, with my face and belly hurting like nothing I’d ever known and with my wool cap shaking in my hands, and he laughed at me.
Prohibition ended, and all but two of Juice’s speakeasies shut down. But we still had the games, the girls, the protection, a small percentage of dock, and Juice’s odd knack for putting together information that led to nice blackmail payoffs. The big sluggers brought Juice his money and information while I listened. I kept track of names and territories, inflow and outflow, rates and balances. I got better and better at making things disappear in the numbers, and learned to fade before Juice hit the wrong mood.
Here and there I had to watch Juice and the sluggers break in bims before sending them out to work the sidewalk. Most were girls, though enough molly boys showed up that I shouldn’t have been so surprised to hear Power Brennan’s voice.
I looked up from my corner of Juice’s back office to see Power step through the door, his face white but his head high. He gave me one hag-ridden look, as if pleading, but he was pleading with the wrong boyo.
His breaking was a terrible thing, worse than any beating I ever took. And I couldn’t stop watching.
When Juice stood up, panting and grinning and shaking drops of sweat out of his hair, he asked me had I learned anything. I looked down at my columns of numbers and was glad to be just Monk, his hairy and ugly and useful Monk.
Power didn’t speak to me for more than a year after that. Not much of anybody did. As more people had come to know me as the Monk at Juice Conlan’s elbow, fewer remembered me as Mook from the neighborhood. But I had my lockpicks, and Juice had a warehouse full of shipping crates, many of them with locks to practice on. Locks and me, we liked each other. Didn’t matter how frozen or rusted or jammed the lock was; when I said open, they opened.
Right before midnight on July the fourth, in the alley behind MacKenna’s Pub, Juice caught me with my hand wrapped around Power Brennan’s dick.
