by Stacy Gail
No. “I’m fine.”
“Good, good.” He went to the machine beside her that kept beeping in a way that made her wish she could reach the thing and smash it against the wall. “Okay. How’s that breathing coming along?”
“Great.” She was alive, after all. That meant breathing was happening.
“Mm-hm. Wanna take a deep breath for me?”
Not really. “I just did. You missed it.”
“How ‘bout another one?”
“You have an accent—totally fabulous. Southern, right? Whereabouts?”
“Kentucky, and avoidance behavior won’t work with me, young miss. I’ve got four terrifyingly intelligent kids at home, half of whom are now into their teens, which makes them even more terrifying. You know what that means? It means I know all the tricks.”
Fuck. “Do you happen to know when I can leave? I’m feeling tons better.”
“I’m happy to hear that, doll, but here’s the thing. No one here’s gonna sign off on you waltzing out of here until you get more oxygen into your blood, you understand?” He fiddled around with something behind her. Metal clanked against metal before she heard a faint hiss, and then clear tubing draped over her shoulder. “Let’s put this on for a bit and see if we can’t boost those O2 levels before the doc gets here and decides he wants to keep you, all right?”
Sass caught at the mask before he could slide its elastic band over her head. “I’m not real excited about putting something near my mouth right now. It’s a bit sore.” Understatement of the year. Talking had become a real bitch, with pain in both the jaw joint as well as the impact site on the left side of her mouth, and the interior of her cheek and lip felt like hamburger.
A bit sore? Shit. She only wished it felt a bit sore.
Her nurse raised a brow. “It’s this or the nose plug, doll. And you’ve got some blood crusted around those nostrils.”
Now she remembered. She’d smacked her nose against a stair riser while tumbling. She was lucky it wasn’t broken.
No.
She was lucky she wasn’t dead.
“Because of that, I’m thinking the nose plug would hurt even more than the mask.”
She really should have stayed home.
Once the oxygen mask was in place, he came around to again check her saturation levels. “Now how about that deep breath, doll?”
There was no other choice. Sass went into her head, a place she escaped to when unpleasant crap couldn’t be avoided. It was a useful trick. She could blank out her surroundings, her emotions, her sense of self, and exist in a temporary limbo. She called it her Nowhere Place. She’d used her Nowhere Place more than a few times in her twenty-six years, especially during her sucktacular childhood. Blanking out was how she’d survived growing up in Chicago’s foster care system. Or, as she liked to think of it, Hell’s battlefield.
When a person was on a battlefield, foxholes and bunkers were needed to survive. But since there was no place to hide when being shuttled from home to home, to facilities that were jails for children—one memorable year she’d been in a battered women’s facility and locked in a solitary room “for her own safety”—her only option had been to go in her head and not come out until the war had eased. Her Nowhere Place wasn’t perfect, but it did the job.
One thing, though. The Nowhere Place was good, but it couldn’t shut out everything completely. At least, she’d long ago discovered, not when it came to pain.
“Okay, doll. That’ll do.” The nurse patted her shoulder with his gentle giant’s hand, and she came back to the world with a careful exhalation. “Not a peep out of you. You doing all right?”
Ow, ow, ow, ow, ow… “That was no big deal.”
“Blood pressure sky-rocketed and you broke out in a sweat, but you’re okay, huh?” Coming to stand at the foot of her propped-up bed, he took a pen out of his breast pocket with a flourish and grabbed up her clipboard. “In… considerable… pain. Refuses to… admit it. Beware of…chronic… avoidance… behavior. Patient seems to be… a professional… hard case. There we go.” Satisfied, he nodded at his notes, then smiled beatifically at her. “The docs around here like to know if they’ve got hypochondriacs on their hands, or drug seekers, or someone just looking for a little company. Then there are their least favorites—the hard cases.”
She wasn’t going to ask. She wasn’t going to ask… “Why least favorite?”
Damn it.
“Pfft, you kidding? You hard cases are the worst. So much work has to go into you, because none of y’all ever give anything up voluntarily. Getting honest answers about how you’re feeling is like getting water from a rock. Hell, most of your kind’s already at death’s door by the time you realize you might need to get to a doctor in the first place. Why do you think we call y’all hard cases? It’s not because you’re a happy little stroll through the park.”
“And here I thought you’d appreciate someone who doesn’t complain.”
“I do appreciate that. I just don’t know why you think complaining and telling someone how you genuinely feel is the same thing. They’re not, you know.”
She ignored how the observation resonated inside until it hurt almost as much as the rest of her. “I’ll keep that in mind, thanks.”
“You’re very welcome.” He moved to the opening in the curtain. “You up for visitors?”
She didn’t move. “I told you, I fell.” Technically speaking, it was true. She’d fallen down a massive flight stairs because she’d been thrown by a fucking insane asshole, and gravity was a thing. “No cops.”
He turned and stared at her. She stared back until she thought a tumbleweed or maybe Clint Eastwood should roll by. She had to admit, the gentle giant was almost as good at resting bitch-face as she was. But he was a nurse. That meant deep down he was a softie. That gave her the advantage, so she sat back and waited for him to crack.
It took a full ten seconds—she counted—but in the end he rolled his eyes, probably looking very much like the teens he had at home. “Yeah, right. You fell. Well, don’t worry. We don’t have people arrested around here for being clumsy.”
“That’s nice of you.”
“What we usually do with people who have your brand of clumsy is just, you know, put toe tags on ‘em.”
“I’ll be sure to keep up my pedicure.” She knew he was trying to help, because he was clearly a card-carrying member of that rare breed—a nice guy. But she wasn’t some weak-willed, chronic victim who needed to be saved.
Not this time, anyway.
His brows quirked. “Tough as nails and then some, aren’t you? Have it your way. I’ll let your visitor know he’s got a hard case waiting for him.”
He? “Wait, who is it?”
“I think he said he was your brother. I guess you two look kind of alike, at least in coloring. Dark hair, dark eyes. But he’s a huge guy and you’re pocket-sized.”
Oh, no.
“He came in after we called the contact number you gave at the Admissions desk, just in case we needed someone to sign for you.”
No, no, NO.
She’d given the Admissions person her former foster parents’ number. The Panuzzis, Mama Coco and Papa Bolo, were amazing people, and she loved them with her whole heart. They were currently in California visiting their daughter Izzi, who’d just given birth to her fourth child, and the Panuzzis’ thirteenth grandchild. She hadn’t given the numbers of her best friends and former foster sisters, Scout Upton-Fournier and Tonya Jackson-Daresey, because Scout was in the south of France on her honeymoon, and Tonya’s family had been hit with the stomach flu from hell. Her other best friend, Francesca “Frankie” Panuzzi-Valente took her role of older sister to borderline-manic levels, with a tendency to gush or freak, depending on the situation. No way was she going to tell Frankie she’s landed her butt in an ER. She hadn’t wanted anyone bothered with this infuriating little hiccup, so she’d thought she’d been safe in giving a number belonging to a phone that no one would
be around to answer.
But apparently someone had.
Worse yet, she had a sinking feeling she knew who’d been there to pick up the phone.
“I don’t suppose he gave a name.”
Please don’t let it be him. Please don’t let it be him…
“Same name that went with the number—Panuzzi, right? Rudy, though he told me that you don’t call him that. You call him—”
“Rude.” She would have sighed in frustration if she could have expanded her rib cage that far. Just when she thought this night couldn’t get any worse, Fate had decided to serve up a huge plate of Rude.
Outstanding.
“He’s been waiting all this time to see you. But if you’re not up for it—”
“Don’t be silly.” The sooner she saw him, the sooner he’d go away. More than anything, she wanted him to go the hell away. “I can’t wait to see him.”
“Why do I get the feeling you’re one of those weirdly wired people who says the exact opposite of what they mean?” Without waiting for an answer, he left her to gather her strength and courage to face what was now inevitable.
To say that she didn’t get along with Rude was putting it mildly. Rudolfo Panuzzi, the youngest son of her former foster parents, had earned his nickname the first day she and Scout had been brought into the Panuzzi household. The hell of it was, Sass had never wanted to go into another private foster home again; she’d even been assured that after a nearly deadly stay in a private foster home, she’d be in government-run group homes from that point on.
Then she’d been told the Panuzzis had specifically asked for a child with her kind of background, and she’d been carted off yet again, with no control over where she went and no hope that things would ever get better.
When she’d met the Panuzzis’ biological child, Rudolfo, it was clear she’d been right not to get her hopes up.
Rude was the youngest of five children. Just when he’d gotten his parents all to himself, he’d been hit with an influx of foster siblings. The peaceful dream of only-child living went up in a puff of smoke, and he hadn’t been shy about letting everyone know how displeased he was with the situation. The moment she’d landed her fourteen-year-old self on the second floor, following Mama Coco’s instructions to go upstairs and put her small suitcase in what would be the room she’d share with Scout, she’d been greeted by Rude.
Arms crossed, feet planted wide, he stood in front of a door decorated with a skull-and-crossbones pirate flag, and a warning sign to Keep Out. His stance was unmistakable—this was his territory, and she’d be a fool to go anywhere near it.
She’d had no desire to go near it, or him. Ever.
Rude had curled his lip in a disdainful snarl. “I heard my mom and dad say welcome home, but let’s get something straight. You’re not welcome, and this isn’t your home, so don’t even think about getting comfortable. In a week you’ll be wishing you’d never come here.”
On that estimation, he’d been way off. It hadn’t taken a week. As he’d bristled with hostility, she’d been wishing it right then.
On the other hand, there was one thing to be admired about Rude—even back then he’d had the manly balls to say out loud what all the other biological children of foster parents merely thought, so in a weird way she’d admired his honesty. That, and his physical appearance. Even at that time in her life, so entrenched in her Nowhere Place she’d thought she’d never want to come out again, she’d noticed that Rude Panuzzi wasn’t hard to look at.
Like all the Panuzzi children, Rude had those killer Italian-lover looks—curling black hair he kept military-style short, with a widow’s peak that would undoubtedly be as defined fifty years from now as his father’s was. Long black lashes as lush as any woman’s, framing deep-set eyes the color of cognac. He’d been named after the legendary movie star and heartthrob, Rudolfo “Rudolph” Valentino, and Rude could have been considered a heartthrob in his own right. With high cheekbones, straight nose and lover’s mouth with a lower lip full enough to give it a perpetual pout, he certainly looked like the complete package.
His angular jaw was something that fit his Marine Corps background as well, but it was the one thing she’d had trouble with when it came to his looks. Even at sixteen, Rude had been a bundle of aggressive masculinity. His over-the-top maleness had only intensified as maturity carved away the lingering baby fat to reveal the chiseled man underneath.
She didn’t like chiseled, and she wasn’t a fan of aggressive masculinity. Her tastes veered toward the hyper-groomed metrosexual, the kind who’d go shopping with her, and maybe even shared her love of all things purple. That kind of man was easily forgotten when she was ready to move on, and less likely to put her in the hospital when that time came.
Or so she’d thought.
She couldn’t understand why Rude was there now. They didn’t know each other in any real way. As soon as he was able, he’d joined the Marines to finally find the fight he’d always been looking for. From that point, he’d all but disappeared off her personal radar. Every now and then she’d hear that he was in one hellhole or another—Baghdad, Fallujah, Kabul, Helmand Province—along with the speculation of when he might be home next. Then came the worrying over his latest deployment and why no one had heard from him for months at a time. The cycle usually ended with comforting hugs and the reminder that no news was good news.
She was never a part of that cycle, of course. Nor were any of the strays who went through the Panuzzi foster home. Rude was loved by his biological family, naturally. But his foster family… not so much.
It had been a relief when Rude had left her foster parents’ house. As one of the younger fosters the Panuzzis had taken in, Sass had stayed under their roof the longest—which meant she’d endured Rude the longest. But by eighteen she had been ready to be out. The State had given her a few items from when she’d been abandoned in a lawyer’s office as a newborn, mementos no one but Scout knew of and were so eye roll-worthy Sass had stuffed them in a manila envelope and passed them from her mind as she readied herself for adult life.
Once she’d moved out of the Panuzzis, her life had hit a long-belated lucky streak. She’d won a fabulous orphaned-child grant to go to college to become a dietician. While in her junior year, she had written a paper on gluten that sparked the interest of a local paper. That interest had turned into a weekly column on diet and good health advice that had grown in popularity over the years, and was now syndicated in a dozen newspapers across the country.
She’d also started a food blog her first year in college, called Pinch Of Sass. The blog grew over time to become a natural expansion of her career, complete with recipes and step-by-step photos and videos—one of the first blogs to ever do that. To her surprise, her blog was now more popular than anything she had going with the newspapers. With Pinch Of Sass getting around a million hits annually, she made enough money in ad space to pay a monthly mortgage. Then, two years ago, a well-known publishing company had emailed her, expressing interest in putting together a cookbook.
When her cookbook, A Pinch Of Sass, released last Christmas, it had hit the best sellers list in nonfiction, and stayed there for over forty weeks.
She’d made her own way in the world, something that wouldn’t have been possible if the Panuzzis hadn’t taken her in. For that, she would be forever grateful. That was why she was still so heavily involved in her foster family’s lives. She owed them as much as she loved them, and it was a joy to keep those ties solid.
Then Rude had returned.
She closed her eyes, wishing to be anywhere but there. She’d crossed paths with him only a handful of times since his return, barely speaking more than a dozen words to him, including her shocked, “You’re kidding,” when he’d asked her to dance at Scout’s wedding last week. She hadn’t meant to be obnoxious; she hadn’t been able to help it. From the moment he’d laid eyes on her, Rude had targeted her as a thing to be hated. So dancing with him? No freaking way.
The question was, what the hell was he doing there now?
Maybe he wanted another crack at dancing with her.
Not.
“Sass.”
Her eyes sprang open, and locked onto those familiar cognac eyes.
For more of Sass and Rude story,
pick up HOUSE OF PAYNE: RUDE today!
Note from Stacy Gail
Hey there!
At last, we have the conclusion to Polo’s and Dash’s story—yay! My apologies for getting this out a couple weeks’ later than the original release date, but this book went way longer than the anticipated 75,000 words. This last half wound up weighing in at 108,000 words, which is almost as big as Part One.
Do you see why I had to break this book up into two parts? As much as I hate cliffhangers, this story was just too huge to fit into a single book!
Now that YEAR OF THE SCORPIO is officially a done deal, it’s time once again to turn my attention to the House of Payne series. I can’t wait to dive into Max’s story, and I’ve already begun the basic outline for it. As I’ve worked on that, two new characters belonging to that world have begun to bother me as well, so you can expect at least three installments for that particular series. And who knows? The way my brain works, there might be more somewhere down the road.
After I finish HOUSE OF PAYNE: MAX, I’m very eager to turn my attention back to Honey Pot, Montana and the Kingfisher family. This series is much lighter than my other works, so it’s always fun to return to what I consider my own personal “happy place.” Look for CRASH, Brody Kingfisher’s story, at the end of the year.
I LOVE hearing from readers, just as much as I love interacting with them. Please feel free to drop me a line at [email protected], or follow me on Twitter or Facebook. If you mention that you’ve read YEAR OF THE SCORPIO: PART TWO, I promise to follow back and say hi! :)
