“Wait, I’m not done,” he said, pausing in his pursuit of the ball. “There’s one more thing. She’d have to have AB negative blood.” He swooped in, grabbed the ball and spun around for a perfect three point shot.
“AB negative? No one has AB negative blood.” Maggie caught the rebound and tucked the ball under her arm.
“I do.” Booker took a swipe at the ball, she stepped back and he missed.
“That’s because you’re weird.” She bounced the ball and shot a perfect three pointer. “That’s an impossible list.”
“Exactly.” Booker tucked in and grabbed the rebound. “Play matchmaker with Doc. I’m not interested.”
“Did you start without me?” Seth asked, coming out on the porch. “Come on, Cole, a little two-on-two.”
“No thanks, I’ll referee,” I volunteered as Maggie stole the ball back from Booker. “Besides, I’m a lover, not a fighter,” I proclaimed.
“A lover who never dates?” teased Seth.
“Come on, Cole,” Maggie took a shot, hitting the rim, ricocheting high in the air and coming back down—right into the basket. Seth cheered.
“You’re going to have to practice more, Cole. Maggie’s pretty good now. We’ve been practicing every evening after dinner,” Seth explained.
“Of course they have. What else do these two have to do on these long, hot summer nights?” Booker teased.
Maggie aimed the basketball directly at Booker’s head, nailing him with it before he could catch it.
“Good speed, Maggie. You have been working,” I complimented her.
“Thank you, Cole.” She beamed. Seth snagged her back into his arms proudly.
“If you two start making out again . . .” Booker threatened.
“Hey, did Maggie tell you we’re having salsa music at the reception, just for you and Cole? Of course, that means you’ll have to ask a female companion to the wedding, unless you two plan on dancing together,” Seth said.
Great, who was I going to ask? Certainly not Lilah, I’d never live it down. I could ask a nurse from the ER, but they’d expect a second date, and there wasn’t a single one I cared to date a first time, let alone a second.
I leaned back against the swing and watched the three play donkey, or was it horse? I never could remember the name of that stupid game. Soon I lost track of who was winning. My thoughts lost in Lilah . . . again.
Chapter 7
Lilah
“Who the heck is calling me at one a.m.?” The alarm clock tumbled to the floor as I grabbed my cell phone, answering without looking at the display. It had to be Daddy. No one else would be so rude.
“Any luck? Did you get the information?” Daddy fired his questions before I had the phone to my ear.
“Hello, Daddy. Yes, I’m fine, and how are you feeling?” I asked, my voice dripping with acidity. I sat up, noting that the A/C wasn’t working again.
“Don’t get snippy with me, young lady,” he demanded.
“It’s been a week and a half. You have to be fair,” I treaded carefully. “I’m gaining the girl’s trust. I’m going to cut and style her hair—”
“You’re playing dress up with the girl who murdered your brother? Are you out of your mind?” His rage was cut short by a coughing fit.
“Daddy, settle down. Please, give me a little time,” I pleaded.
“You have ‘til the end of summer,” he insisted. “I want this revenge to happen, Lilah. I’m doing this for you, princess. I’m dying. I don’t want to leave you destitute. This is more for you than me now that I’m dying.”
“I don’t want their money—”
“You listen to me. I’m your father. I provided you with a good life. Did you not have all the finest things money could buy growing up? I took you on elaborate vacations, purchased expensive jewelry for you whenever you asked. Family first, Delilah. Always. And it’s about time you stepped up and pulled your weight.” He trailed off, murmuring about how Birdie had made me soft.
I dried my sweaty brow with the hem of my shirt.
“I know, Daddy, and maybe you’re right about Birdie, but I don’t want their money—”
He cut me off again. “You’ll do as you’re told if you expect me to stand by our agreement. Do you understand?”
“Okay. I won’t let you down,” I said, seeing no point in arguing. As I suspected, the revenge was for Daddy. Everything was for Daddy. It always was. The phone call ended without a good bye.
I flopped facedown onto my pillow. All the old feelings of helplessness came roaring back into my head, squeezing my heart. I knew what was coming, what always came whenever I felt like I was being forced into something.
I fought sleep for as long as I could by walking around my tiny apartment and drinking a couple cans of Diet Pepsi, which only made me pee three times.
The memories began. Memories of blood-curdling screams pouring out of my brothers as they received beatings after disobeying Daddy’s orders. The screams. The gut-wrenching screams. I wrapped my arms around me as I tried to force the memories back.
Only once had Daddy beaten me like that. When my mother came home and found out, they had the biggest fight I’d ever witnessed. Daddy never hit her, but I was sure he would. My mother stood her ground, never flinching, never backing down. He never hit me again after that.
Oh, Mami, why am I not more like you?”
By four a.m., exhaustion won and I surrendered to the nightmare.
“Shut up, now!” Alan’s breath reeked of rotten eggs as it splashed across my face. It always smelled of rotten eggs.
“You’re hurting me.” I tried in vain to rip my arm from his grip, but to no avail. How could a skinny, little eight-year-old outman a stocky 16-year-old? It was hopeless.
Alan twisted his hand around my hair and dragged me into his room. I clawed and tore at him, desperate to break free.
“Mamá!” I screamed out in fear.
Alan laughed. “Forget it, princess. Your stupid mother’s not here. Neither is Dad or Bill. It’s just you and me.” A wicked grin snaked across his face as he reached for my new sundress. It was orange with little lady bugs dancing in circles on it. Birdie had made it for my birthday only a week ago. Alan wrapped his dirty, stubby fingers around the strap. A sick feeling rose in my belly. I didn’t know about the bad things that happened to little girls and boys by creepy people, but I was about to find out. Alan jerked at the strap and it broke free from the dress.
Beep. Beep. Beep. My alarm. I sat up, my brow damp from perspiration. Reaching over to my nightstand, I turned it off and climbed out of bed, grateful I didn’t have to relive the memory completely.
I showered and pulled on a pair of denim shorts and a red tank top. I’d be painting today and didn’t want to ruin any good clothes.
My apartment was small, but functional. It had one bedroom, a living-dining area, and a postage-stamp size kitchen. The apartment came with one month of free internet service, along with free phone services for a year. I didn’t need it because I used my cell phone, but the seedy little landlord insisted I take it. “Free. You can’t pass up free,” he barked. I later learned from my neighbor that he got some sort of commission for every two people he signed up.
The apartment was unlike any home I’d grown up in. We had two homes in Arizona, one in the Caribbean, and a villa in Italy. This entire apartment could fit in the walk-in closet of my Italy bedroom. When my brother Bill was killed, we lost everything after the cops raided our business. Daddy and I went on the run to New Mexico. A short time later, too overwhelmed with everything that had happened not only to my family, but to me, I left him. I stayed hidden from him and his tyrannical rule for almost three years. Not once during that time did I have the nightmare. I rubbed my empty gut at the painful memories.
I checked the A/C unit. Frosted over, just as I suspected. I wrote a quick note to the building supervisor and stuck it to his door on my way out.
The air, already warm and sticky, wrappe
d around me like a wet blanket as I stepped outside. Why people actually chose to live in thick damp air instead of the dry climate the desert offered remained a mystery to me.
The library was on my way to the hospital and I stopped to see if they had any office décor magazines I could show to Cole. He was nervous about the furniture I hoped to use so I thought a few pictures might settle him down a bit.
I entered the brick building with its turn of the century architecture, the musty smell of books greeting me like an old friend. I loved to read. When I was looking for work, I had very little time to escape into a great novel. I went straight to the help desk and waited for the girl sitting behind the counter to finish her phone call. Bambi was her name, if I believed the tag on her black fishnet vest. She also had a cute black and red plaid mini skirt, and a pair of ripped up black tights, along with untied black army boots. Sort of a Goth-meets-punk look. I loved it.
“I need a magazine that contains current style office furniture. I’m redecorating an office,” I explained after she blew kisses into the phone at some guy named Alex before hanging up. “I’d like something simple, not super fancy.”
“I think I know exactly what you need. Follow me.” She led me over to a column of magazines situated against the back wall. “This is sort of, like, a Decorating for Dummies type magazine. It’s pretty good. What kind of, like, office, are you going to be decorating?”
“A doctor’s office at Port Fare General Hospital.” I took the red and gold magazine from her and fanned through the pages. Perfect.
“I have a friend who, like, volunteered at PFG for a while. Part of a class she was taking at the college.” I nodded out of politeness as I studied the layouts. A brown leather couch with dark mustard pillows. That’d be perfect for Cole’s office.
“Maggie Brown’s her name.”
My head popped up, eyes wide. Seriously? “She’s a friend of mine also.” This town was way too small.
“She’s great. I met her, like, three years ago, right before she had a run-in with some, like, really nasty drug dealers. They almost killed her.” She shook her head in disgust.
A wave of nausea hit me squarely, and I about dropped my magazine.
“Real creepers, those two. One was into cutting up young girls. I think he killed like four, maybe five. He almost got Maggie. . . Hey, like, are you alright?” Bambi grabbed a chair from a nearby table and guided me into it.
It had to be Alan and his knife. His pearl handled knife. I shuddered at my memory.
“Let me get you some water. You don’t look so good,” said little Miss Goth-punker.
“I’m fine, really. I don’t do the whole blood and guts stories, you know what I mean?”
She nodded. “Yes, and those killings were gruesome.” Bambi wrapped her arms around herself protectively.
I needed to leave. “Thanks, Bambi. I’d better get going.” I went to the check out, but then remembered I didn’t have a library card and turned back to her.
“I don’t have a card.”
“You have to have a utility bill or rental agreement from the county to get a card,” Goth-Bambi informed me.
“Can I bring in my lease tomorrow?”
“I’m not supposed to, but since you’re a friend of Maggie’s and all, like, I could call her. If she’ll vouch for you, we can bend the rules, but you have to promise to bring in a copy of your bill next time you come in.” I thanked her repeatedly as she called Maggie.
She and Maggie talked for several minutes about Alex, Bambi’s motorcycle riding boyfriend, before she hung up. After a few strokes on her computer, a hard plastic sheet with my name printed on it came shooting out of a small metal machine next to the computer. “This is for your wallet,” she explained, breaking off a credit card size card from the sheet. “And this little card, like, goes on your key chain. The magazine is due in a week.” She handed me a small card with a hole in the top, then added, “Maggie sure thinks highly of you.”
I took the card, thanking her again for the help. Me, the magazine, and my guilt trip left.
Chapter 8
“Sorry I’m late, Cole. I was talking to my dad on the phone and lost track of time.” Okay, more like carefully arguing with him as I drove to the hospital after leaving the library. He insisted that Bambi’s story was propaganda fed to the press to make the cops look good. When I reminded him of what Alan did to me, his ballistic screams unnerved me to my core.
“You’ve always seen the worst in Alan. You were eight, Lilah, and he was a stupid teenager. It’s time to let the past go. I can’t believe you’d trust what a stranger said over me.”
I couldn’t believe he’d defend Alan’s actions, yet he did.
He’d also lied to me most of my life. Believing a stranger over Daddy didn’t seem much of a stretch to me.
“What do you think?” Cole asked, bringing me back to the present. Only then did I notice that all the furniture had been scooted to the center and covered with a cream painter’s tarp.
“Sorry, what did you say?” I took a deep cleansing breath and let the argument go. It’s not like I could do anything about Daddy anyway.
“I said why don’t I tape off along the ceiling and you tape the molding along the floor,” he repeated, adding, “Are you okay?”
I took the blue tape he’d been holding out to me for who knows how long and knelt down. “Yes. My dad’s pretty sick. Emphysema. He claims stress brought it on and not the three packs of cigarettes a day he smokes.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. Is he getting any kind of treatment?” Cole asked, climbing on a foot stool.
“Honestly, I’ve no idea why he’s still alive. The doctor diagnosed him just over three years ago and told him then he had about six weeks to live, and he’s still here.” I looked up at Cole as he leaned a little too far to the right on a step ladder, wobbling a bit before regaining his balance. “It’s a miracle he’s still around. And he still smokes. Not three packs a day mind you, but he still smokes.”
“Sounds like he has great determination. You must be like him. I see you as a person who. . . ”
“I’m nothing like him.” I jumped to my feet. My hands, now fists, shook at my side.
“I didn’t mean to offend you.” Cole’s gaze zeroed in on my hands. I relaxed my grip.
“Sorry. Over-reaction.” I smiled weakly. “My father and I don’t see eye-to-eye on most things. Sometimes I wonder if we’re even related.”
Neither of us spoke for several minutes as we continued to prep the wall. Cole cut through the icy silence first. “I’m glad you talked me into the green. I think it’s going to look good in here.”
“It’ll be great, especially with the furniture I have in mind. I picked up a magazine with the perfect couch for it in here.” I finished my part and stood to check out Cole’s tape job.
“I’ve been meaning to ask you about that,” he said, climbing down the stool's three steps as I opened a can of paint. “Why do I need a couch?”
“For sleeping on, mostly. Booker said you spend a lot of nights sleeping in the residence quarters. If we can find you a nice couch, at least you’ll have some privacy.” I picked up the magazine and showed him the furniture I picked out. “Besides sleeping, they’re pretty comfortable for kissing on also.” I winked. His ears glowed red within a nanosecond.
“Lilah,” Cole protested with a frown. He took the magazine and studied the photo. “I like that. Do you think it will fit?”
“Yes. I’ll measure the space to be safe.” I handed him a brush. “Are you sure you still want to help? I can do this myself. Painting is pretty easy.”
“Yes. I love painting. With six brothers, my parents painted our house fairly often. I enjoyed helping them.” Cole poured some paint into a plastic bowl.
“You have six brothers?” I know my mouth hung open, but seriously, six brothers?
“Yup. I’m the seventh son of a seventh son, of a seventh son. All my brothers have boys, too. The
re hasn’t been a girl born into the Colter line in three generations.” He walked over and began cutting in around the door.
“Not one girl?” I slipped behind the covered filing cabinet and started cutting in on the corner.
“Nope. My mom thought about adopting a little girl, she wanted one so badly, but it never happened. She hoped my brothers would have a girl, but none have so far. How many kids in your family?”
That was a loaded question. How should I answer that without explaining that I had three brothers at one point and now they were all dead thanks to his friends. No, that wouldn’t be good. Instead, I opted for the easy answer. “I’m an only child.”
“Did you like that? Wasn’t it lonely?”
“Some days. But my mom and I were tight until she died when I was ten. After that, my nanny, Birdie, raised me. My dad was always gone.” A good thing. A real good thing.
“Sorry to hear about your mom. Was it sudden?” Cole stepped over next to me as he asked.
“Yes. She had diabetes. One afternoon her blood glucose went crazy. They don’t know why. She slipped into a coma and died the next day. It was the worst day of my life. I had no idea how I was going to go on without her.” I shut my eyes to the pain that still hadn’t dimmed. “Thankfully, Birdie, stood by me. She saved me.” I rubbed my arms against the chill that crept into my bones.
“That must have been horrible. Was your father able to help you?” Cole asked, kindness filling his big blue eyes as he came toward me.
“My dad was a wreck. He refused to speak about her. No one was allowed to bring up her name ever again in his presence. Like I said, thankfully I had Birdie. She was my rock.” I dipped my brush in the paint.
“Maggie lost her mom a few years back. I know she still struggles with it.” He shook his head and went back over to the door frame. “I wish I knew how to help her.”
“Nothing helps, really. Time. It takes lots of time.” I still had days that were a struggle to get through. “How did her mom die?”
“Maggie’s kind of a private person. It’d probably be best if she told you. I shouldn’t have mentioned it in the first place,” he said with regret.
Unbelievable: The Port Fare Series Book Two Page 6
