Wild Kisses (Wildwood)

by Skye Jordan

  “Absolutely.”

  “Unfortunately, we aren’t going to be able to send him home with any prescription pain medications. He’ll have to stick with Tylenol or Advil.”

  Avery winced. “I sat through those stitches. Isn’t his face going to hurt like hell when the numbing wears off?”

  The doctor’s sympathetic gaze slid toward George’s cheek, and she lifted her brows. “Probably, but, unfortunately, his history of addiction prohibits us from prescribing narcotics.”

  Avery chuckled. “Sorry. I just remember my dad, who taught me the meaning of falling-down drunk. He was always hurting himself and his doctors still gave him prescription meds.”

  “They’re definitely both addictions, but since Mr. Hutton’s addiction began with pain meds, he’s at an extremely high risk of abusing those again. Couple that with his dementia, and sending him home with pain meds that he could easily become addicted to, yet not remember how many he’d taken, could be deadly. I’ll send him home with some stronger doses of Tylenol and Advil. If he’s in considerable pain, try using the two together for a synergistic effect. I’ll make sure the nurse explains everything and . . .”

  Avery’s mind slipped out of the conversation, caught somewhere back around “since Mr. Hutton’s addiction began with pain meds.” She’d heard Trace had stayed with Pearl on and off over the years because of his mother’s cancer and his father’s trouble with the law. For some reason, she’d thought George had been using street drugs back when Trace had been younger. Or maybe she’d just assumed. But she certainly hadn’t known he had an addiction.

  “Ms. Hart?” the doctor said.

  “Hmm, what? Yes, sorry. Long morning.”

  “I was just saying that we’ll give him something to help him sleep, which should get him through the worst of the pain.”

  “Thank you so much.”

  The woman slipped through the curtains, and George stirred. “Pain,” he mumbled, as if repeating the doctor. His eyelids fluttered open, his blue eyes hazy. “Need something for pain.”

  “The doctor’s sending us home with—”

  “Not that shit,” he said, irritated. “Where’s Trace? Trace knows where to get the good stuff. We don’t need no doctor. Trace’ll just find Chip.”

  Chip.

  The name flooded ice through Avery’s veins. Chip was the straw that had broken her family apart. Her mother may have deserted them, her father may have been an alcoholic, but she and Delaney and Chloe and Phoebe had been together. They’d had one another to lean on. To depend on.

  Until Chip.

  Until Chip pushed Austin’s brother too hard in a bar fight. Until Austin’s brother’s death had been blamed on Delaney, even though she’d had no part in the event. Then Delaney, the one dependable constant in their lives, the family glue, had left town, and everything had started to unravel.

  But George’s reference to Chip didn’t make sense. He had to mean a different Chip.

  “George,” Avery said. “What do you mean, Trace will find Chip? Chip who?”

  “That boy your sister’s seeing.”

  Holy shit. He did mean the same Chip.

  “The one your daddy hates.” George sighed and closed his eyes. “He’s always got the best stuff, and Trace always knows where to find him. Don’t need no doctor. Just need Trace. It’s not like Trace to be late. You think I oughta call school?”

  Avery huffed a frustrated breath and rolled her eyes. Forget it. Chip and Trace’s drug use were in the past.

  Now, if only Avery’s problems could join them.

  Trace was guided back into the ER by a woman he’d dated when they were both about sixteen. She was still very pretty and now very married and very pregnant. And as he walked toward Room Six, where his father was waiting to be released, he realized just how much of his life he’d missed out on over the last decade.

  Approaching the door, he heard voices and paused, glancing through the partially open drape. His father lay on the gurney, eyes closed, but he was flailing against Avery as she tended to him.

  “George Hutton, stop it right now.” The words might have been stern, but her voice was soft, and she gently manipulated his hands out of her way to lay something ever so lightly over the cut on his cheek. “I know it’s cold, but it’s going to keep the swelling down.”

  Trace’s gut stung as if he’d swallowed a horde of bees, and he took a step back. He thought he’d prepared himself on the drive over, but now that she was within touching distance again, he realized he wasn’t ready to face her. He didn’t know what to say. “I’m sorry” wasn’t going to cut it, and he wouldn’t insult her by even trying to smooth over a rift like the one ripped open between them with words repeated so often they meant nothing.

  “There you go,” she crooned to his dad, one arm arched over his head to hold an ice pack on his cheek, while her free hand held his to keep it still. She sighed and laid her cheek on his forehead, but continued to murmur to him as if he were a child. “There you go. Relax. This will be numb in just a minute. Lucky you, you won’t even remember any of it.”

  That made Trace smile. But with the smile came a rush of unexpected emotions he’d been trying to keep in check—fear, loss, guilt, sadness. Before he knew how, his eyes burned with tears for the second time that day.

  He stepped away from the opening, pressed a hand to the wall, and squeezed the sting from his eyes. Then he took a deep breath, straightened, and stepped past the curtain.

  Avery had closed her eyes, and Trace was overwhelmed by the sight of her so lovingly caring for a man she barely knew, all because he was Trace’s father. He was trying to figure out how one person could have so much good in them when Avery’s lashes fluttered, and she opened her eyes to check the ice pack.

  And just as her gaze darted to him, he said, “Hey,” as softly as he could.

  But his father still heard Trace’s voice and opened his eyes. “Is that Trace? Is my boy here?”

  “I’m right here.” He stepped up to the other side of the gurney and put a hand on his father’s arm. “Hold still. Avery’s trying to help you.”

  His muddy-blue eyes rolled toward her. “Oh, Avery.” He sighed. “Such a sweet girl.”

  Then, with one hand on Trace’s arm and one hand curled into Avery’s, George drifted into sleep again.

  Avery sighed deeply, a sound of pure relief. Trace new exactly how she felt, because he felt it every time he handed over care of his father to his grandmother or Zane. But when she lifted her gaze to his, her blue eyes, always so open and light, were definitely different.

  “I guess they cleared everything up at the café?” she asked, quiet but cool and businesslike.

  Trace experienced yet another wave of profound relief and nodded.

  She did the same. “I’m glad.” She picked up some papers from the counter and set them on the blanket covering George’s legs. “He has the cut on his cheek that needed stitches. Otherwise he just has a few superficial cuts and bruises. Doctor says he’ll be sore for a while. These are his discharge papers. We were just waiting for someone to help us get him to my car. They should be here any minute.”

  “Avery—” God, he didn’t know what to say.

  “You’re going to need some time with him, I know. It’s fine. I’m going to postpone the café’s opening.”

  “No—”

  “It’s no big deal. I’ve been pushing for this opening too hard. It’s cost us all too much—”

  He reached across the gurney and curled his hand over hers. “Avery.”

  With her eyes downcast, she pulled in a shaky breath and shook her head but didn’t speak and didn’t pull her hand away. With her lips pressed tight, blinking quickly, Trace knew she was fighting tears, and the sight clawed at him.

  “I want to say something that will make today go away,” he said. “I know it was wrong to hire JT. I know I was wrong to let such a piece of shit near you. I know this has cost you rumors that could hurt your business
—”

  She jerked her hand away, and the look she leveled at him, so hurt, so angry, cut straight through his heart. “I don’t give a shit about JT. I don’t give a shit about rumors.”

  The nurse stepped in, took one look at them, and murmured, “Um . . . I’ll come back.” She exited, closing the drape quietly behind her.

  “The only thing I gave a shit about this morning was you,” she continued, her voice low and harsh. Tears slipped over her lashes, and she broke his gaze to push them away. “I don’t ask for much, Trace, but I deserve truth and respect.”

  He pushed a hand into his hair as his mind spiraled backward. When hadn’t he given her both?

  “I was going to sleep with you anyway,” she went on. “We’d already set up the ground rules, for God’s sake. But to change them only to turn around and yank the rug out from under my feet?”

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa.” He rounded the end of the gurney and gripped her waist, holding her tight even when she tried to twist away from him. “No. Tell me what the fuck you’re talking about.”

  She wouldn’t look at him. “I’m talking about you being ashamed of sleeping with me.” Her bluster faltered, and she was shaking. “Afraid I’d ruin your image?”

  He cupped her chin and lifted her eyes to his. “Baby, I would never be ashamed of sleeping with you.”

  She got that stubborn jut to her chin, and tears glazed her eyes. “Then why did you swear and cover your face when I said it earlier?” Her cheeks got red-hot, and her words started spilling out again. “I was trying to help. I wanted them to know—”

  Trace stopped her mouth with a kiss. She responded at first, then jerked her head back and pushed at his chest. “Forget it. That’s not going to work anymore.”

  So he kissed her again. Cupping her face he sipped at her lips, licked at her tears. Then he pulled back and pressed his fingers to her mouth so she couldn’t start talking again.

  “Avery, you’re the hometown sweetheart starting a new business with every last penny to your name, and you stood in the middle of a room full of the worst gossips on the planet and admitted you were sleeping with the ex-con playboy who is still struggling years later to scrape his life back together, and who was, at that moment, suspected of a new crime. That’s why I swore and covered my face. It wasn’t exactly a glowing testimonial to your better judgment.”

  “Well . . .” She was wearing the cutest little pout, half-belligerent, half-embarrassed. “Screw you,” she said with absolutely no heat, “and the horse you rode in on.”

  For an instant, all Trace’s pain and fear fell away, and he laughed, pulling her close. “You are so damn adorable.”

  Avery relaxed into him, wrapped her arms around his waist, and pressed her face against his chest. And she broke into a combination of tears and relieved laughter. “You scared the living shit out of me, Trace.”

  “Knock, knock.” The nurse peeked around the curtain. “Is it safe to come in now?” She glanced from Avery to Trace and smiled. “Aw, all made up. I knew a little time and talking would fix everything. Usually does.” She pushed the drape back and introduced the man at her side. “This is Tanner. He’s going to help you get your father to your car.”

  Avery followed Trace to his house, and together, with George’s arms around their shoulders, they walked him inside and put him to bed.

  She stood in the hallway, watching how great Trace was with his dad—positioning his pillow so it didn’t press on his cheek, covering him to make sure he was warm, waiting until he was sure George was asleep before he backed slowly from the room and closed the door with a featherlight touch.

  Her mind was spiraling so fast, thoughts clicking and forming before she could process them, that the words rolled out of her mouth before she’d thought them through. “You’d make a great dad.”

  He looked at her as if she’d invited him to the pumpkin patch or something equally as out of left field.

  “The way you are with him,” she clarified, pressing her hands behind her as she leaned against the wall. “I can tell you’d make a great dad.”

  An awkward sensation heated her face, and she decided space might be the best plan for them right now. “I need to get back to the café. My day has spiraled out of control.” She turned and started toward the kitchen. “I should go over his care and medications with you. He’s got antibiotics and pain meds.”

  “No.” The tight, obstinate tone drew Avery’s gaze. Trace was frowning at the plastic bag she’d brought in from the car. “He shouldn’t have been given pain meds.”

  “The nurse said they were just—”

  “Just nothing.” He shook the bag’s contents onto the kitchen table. Among the bandages were three pill bottles. He picked up one.

  “Those are antibiotics,” she said.

  “These,” he held up the other two bottles, “are the pain meds?”

  “Yes, but they’re not—”

  “They’re not staying in this house.” Without reading the labels, he turned the tops and lifted his hand over the sink.

  Avery stepped up and put a hand on his arm. Her mind spun with unfinished thoughts. The nurse’s words floated into her head. “Since Mr. Hutton’s addiction began with pain meds . . .” Immediately followed by George’s words, “He’s always got the best stuff, and Trace always knows where to find him.”

  A tingle started in the pit of her stomach and radiated through her belly. Her mind was split between two possibilities for his actions. Either Trace was also addicted to the meds and had to get the temptation out of reach or . . .

  “Trace, that’s a waste. Those would have been good to have around. With you fallin’ off roofs, you could probably use them now and then.”

  “I don’t make a habit of falling off roofs.” He pulled from her grasp and poured the pills down the drain. “Besides, they make me sick. I’d rather be in pain than puking. And if he gets his hands on this . . .” He turned on the water and flipped on the garbage disposal. Then turned everything off with a satisfied, “That shit’s dust.”

  Avery’s mouth still hung open with unfinished words.

  And she knew.

  Knew without any doubt.

  He’d just explained everything with perfect clarity.

  Avery started laughing. It wasn’t funny. But, oh, it was. Because she understood. She understood so perfectly it brought tears to her eyes. She put a hand over her mouth, trying to control the spill of emotion.

  Trace turned to her with surprise and alarm. “Avery? What . . . ? Ah, shit. What the hell did I do now?” He came to her, slid his arms around her, and frowned. “Are you laughing or crying?”

  “Both.” She shook her head and pointed to the sink. “I just saw myself at twelve pouring my dad’s whiskey and vodka and brandy down the drain. Oh my God, I got such a beating for that. Left a scar on my shoulder.”

  Trace’s expression went slack. He eased her back to arm’s length as Avery kept talking.

  “And I remember answering the door and only being able to crack it because my dad was passed-out drunk behind the door, but I’d tell whoever it was my daddy was out, because it was true—he was passed out. I used to lie for him, hide shit for him, steal for him. I was conditioned to do anything for him. And I would have, right up until I ran away with David.”

  She framed Trace’s face, and as she stroked her hands down his jaw, the sadness seeped in. “But you didn’t get that get-out-of-jail-free card, did you?”

  His gaze lowered, and his hands dropped away. He tried to turn.

  “You can’t hide anymore, Trace.” She pulled him back and tilted her head to look into his eyes, but he kept them averted. “Not from me. I may not know exactly how you got caught with the drugs, whether you were buying them for your dad or the cops came and you took them off your dad before he got caught with them. Or maybe he did get caught and the words, ‘They’re mine’ just sprouted wings and flew from your mouth. But the drugs weren’t for you, and you weren’t the one
who deserved to be in prison. Were you?”

  He turned away and braced his hands on the counter but said nothing.

  Avery followed, slid her arms around his waist, and pressed her body against his. “Baby, you just threw over-the-counter Tylenol and Advil down the drain like it was arsenic without bothering to look at the labels.”

  He cut a look at her over his shoulder.

  She lifted her brows. “The nurse wanted George to have enough to get through the night in case you didn’t have any at home.”

  His eyes slid closed, and he hung his head.

  Avery let him be for a minute, resting her cheek against his back, stroking her hands across his abdomen. “I know why you did what you did then, but why don’t you tell people how it happened now? Why hold on to the ex-con stigma?”

  “You make it sound like something I want.” His voice carried more disgust than anger. “All you ever hear from cons—in or out of prison—is ‘I’m innocent.’ ‘I didn’t do it.’ No one believes them.”

  “I’ll believe you,” she said softly. “Tell me what happened.”

  He turned, gripped her waist, and pulled her between his legs. After a heavy sigh, he said, “My dad hurt his back while he was taking care of my mom during her treatment. That’s when he first got the pain meds. It was also when the first hints of his dementia showed up. Between his depression over my mom and forgetting whether or not he’d taken his own meds, he got hooked.”

  Avery closed her eyes, so easily envisioning the sad situation. “Oh, Trace . . .”

  “I didn’t know how to take care of my mom or my brother, and I was convinced my dad would get killed in prison. When I was twenty-two, those fears were very real, and I didn’t see any help on the horizon. When I was twenty-two, I didn’t know what prison was like or how much it would change me. When I was twenty-two, I didn’t know how being an ex-con would label me for the rest of my life.”

  He released her waist and slid both hands down her arms. “Which brings me to the topic of us.”

  Avery was already shaking her head. She curled her hands into his shirt. “Don’t even.”