No, that would be the furthest thing from the truth. I replayed our conversation, along with visuals, many times. Unlike the first time we met in my ER, he was wearing a shirt, but that didn’t keep me from remembering what he looked like without one.
And that kept me up past my bedtime.
So, this funk is all his fault, which makes my dislike for him increase. He’s messing up my sleep pattern, making me have inappropriate thoughts . . . and dreams. Yeah, he’s even muscled his way into those too. And now, he’s messing with one of my favorite days of the week. I volunteer at the women’s shelter in Maryville on Wednesdays and Fridays and it’s my happy place.
Some of my earliest memories are from the shelter. Most people’s memories start sometime around their third or fourth birthday. Some earlier. Some later. I’m later—way later. I was seven and I vividly remember Helen, the director, giving me a small, brown stuffed bear. She also took me to their clothes closet and let me pick out an outfit. I chose a rainbow shirt.
Everything before that day is void.
I don’t remember a birthday or Christmas. There’s not a special day that sticks out, but there’s no bad one, either. I’ve asked my mother for information, needing something to piece together the first seven years of my life, but she always shuts me down, telling me there’s nothing good about our lives before we went to live at the shelter. She’s glad I don’t remember, and that makes my need to know that much more intense.
When she gives me half-truths, it’s like she still sees me as a child—someone she can pacify with an altered version of reality. Now I’m not a child and I know her tells, but I no longer press her for information. After being denied for so many years, it seems like a waste of time. After college, I decided if I was ever going to know anything about my life before the age of seven, I would have to figure it out myself.
As I pull into the parking lot of Daisy’s Nut House to grab a cup of coffee on my way out of town, the familiar roar of motorcycle engines behind me makes me pause. For a split second, I think about getting back into my car and forgetting the coffee, but then I straighten my spine and sure up my resolve.
I’m not scared of them.
They have no power over me, except what little I give them to make them think they do.
This is a free country and I can go anywhere I want and do whatever I please.
I can stop helping them at any time.
Those are my half-truths about the Iron Wraiths.
They’re feared by many people in Green Valley and have a reputation of drugs, abuse, and debauchery. No upstanding citizen would seek them out intentionally. Except, I did.
My interaction with them is self-imposed.
I sought them out.
I did this.
I brought this on.
It’s something I’ve had to remind myself over the past couple of years.
When I turn around, ready to face them and whatever favor they might be coming for today, I sigh in relief. The group of bikes pulling into the parking lot aren’t the Wraiths. Their bikes are big and loud, but they’re not wearing the leather cuts that now haunt my dreams.
“Morning,” one of the men says as he swings his leg wide and dismounts his bike, holding it steady for the lady riding behind him to get off safely.
Nodding my head, I offer him a smile in return.
Yeah, so not the Iron Wraiths.
The entire group is made up of what looks to be middle-aged men and women, probably driving the scenic parkway on a leisurely bike ride. Like normal people.
My heart takes a few more seconds to catch up with reality before it finally settles back into my chest, resuming its normal, calm rhythm.
Quickly, I walk into Daisy’s Nut House and walk up to the counter to place my order.
“Morning. What can I get for you?” a younger kid asks, pulling a pencil and pad from the apron he’s wearing. I smile at his eagerness. We could use more work ethic like this; Daisy trains her employees right. I’ve seen her in here a time or two, but mostly she just sits in the back, overseeing the operation.
“A jelly-filled donut and coffee,” I reply, handing over exact change. I guess you could say I’m a creature of habit, but I can’t help that I know what I like. Actually, I have a box of the jelly-filled donuts at my house. Daisy’s donuts are available in the stores, but nothing beats a fresh one. Besides, I didn’t have time to make coffee, and I can’t eat a jelly donut without coffee.
“Have a nice day,” the kid says, handing me a sack and cup. He must be new because I haven’t seen him in here before. I feel like I know everyone. Or, at least everyone who works on Wednesdays. Before taking it, I slip a tip into his jar, replying with a, “you too”.
As I exit the diner, I keep my head down while walking to my car. It’s not that I’m not a people person, per se; I’m around people all day, every day. I love helping people. I love caring people back to health, but outside of pleasantries like what just took place—an exchange of money and goods or services—I’m not one for small talk. Of course, I have to converse with people at work, but I’m not the one seeking out gossip or sharing personal information.
I don’t have relationships with people, except my mother.
Maybe it’s her fault.
She’s a recluse.
I’m not.
I live in a small house in Green Valley, Tennessee, and work at the hospital in Maryville, about thirty minutes from here. Some may say my life is monotonous, but I take comfort in knowing what to expect from each day.
My job is spontaneous enough to keep me from getting bored, as is the women’s shelter. I find balance in the simple things, like going to the Piggly Wiggly on Tuesday evenings and volunteering my time at the women’s shelter every Wednesday and Friday. On Saturdays, I take the things my mother makes and sell them for her at the farmer's market. If for some reason I can’t make it—I occasionally pull doubles on Saturdays for the nurses who have a family—I drop the goods off to Gracie May Hill and she sells them for me. Well, for my mother, because like I said, she’s a recluse.
She lives on a small piece of property at the end of a dirt road not far from Bandit Lake. It’s a cabin her parents left her when they died—a place she frequented as a child. Up until I started college, she was a functioning member of society. We jumped around from rundown shack to trailer house, occasionally snagging an apartment for cheap, but always on the move.
Until the day I enrolled in college in Knoxville.
Believe me, I’d rather live there, or Maryville to be closer to the hospital, but I chose Green Valley to be closer to her. If I didn’t go out there once a week, she would never see another human being. And that’s not healthy. The nurse in me won’t allow it.
Taking the donut out of the bag, I wrap a napkin around it and back out of the parking lot, headed for Maryville. I savor the donut, only eating a bite every few miles, washing it down with hot coffee and letting it settle my soul as I enjoy the scenery.
It is a beautiful drive, and one I never tire of.
Half an hour later, I’m pulling up to what looks like a church but is now the Women’s Shelter of Maryville. It used to be a church, but has since been repurposed. I say they’re doing God’s work, so in theory, it kind of still is. I know it was a sanctuary for my mother and me all those years ago, as it’s been for many since.
Walking up to the side door, I drop my trash in the bin next to the sidewalk.
Once inside, I place my bag in my small office and make my way out to the main hall.
Helen is standing with her clipboard, all business-as-usual.
“Good morning,” I greet, looking past her to the people waiting. “How many do we have this morning?”
“You’re early,” she replies, looking at me with her own version of a smile. Helen and I are so much alike, it’s scary. If you didn’t know better, you might think she’s my mother. But unlike my mother, who still looks so young and has beautiful blonde, naturally w
avy hair, Helen’s is darker, kind of like mine, with hints of grey. She wears hers in a tight bun at the nape of her neck. Like I said, she’s all business.
She runs a tight ship around here. Everyone knows a well-run ship requires a stern captain to keep everyone in line, and that she does.
“Aren’t I always?” I muse, not fazed by her briskness.
Once we get started checking in the newcomers, Helen and I work like the well-oiled machine we are. She gets all the pertinent information and I start interviewing, checking them over briefly and basically putting them into categories: battered, not well, well. Those who come to us with visible injuries get first priority with me. I look them over and tend to what I can. If they need further attention, we set that up with the hospital, which I am the liaison for. Most are just a little bruised. Some need a bandage. Occasionally, I stitch a busted brow or cut.
Today, I end up with a mother and her daughter sitting in front of me. They’re no different than many other people I’ve checked out—and over—during my years of volunteering. Then again, they are, because they’re the exact age of me and my mother when we came here.
And something about them is giving me major flashbacks, but I try to clear my head.
“Hello,” I say, turning my attention to the little girl, giving her what I hope is a warm, comforting smile. Her dark hair is a bit matted, but even under the grime and grit that covers her ivory skin, she’s adorable. She’s clinging to a tattered teddy bear.
She tilts her chin up, enough to make eye contact but doesn’t hold it and looks back down at her stuffed friend, picking at its matted fur. “Hi.” Her response is meek and timid.
“She’s shy.”
Shifting my focus to the mother, I give her an understanding smile. “That’s okay. Aren’t we all from time to time?” I ask, looking back at the little girl and wishing I could give her a hug, which is alarming. I never feel like giving anyone a hug, especially people I just met and in a setting like this.
My policy is I never get attached.
Attachment leads to feelings and feelings lead to heartbreak.
I don’t know where that stems from, but it’s an understanding buried so deep inside me I can’t seem to shake it. But there’s something about this little girl that draws me to her.
After I get the little girl, Allie, settled with another volunteer who’s showing a few new kids the playground out back, I turn my attention back to her mother. Her obvious worry makes my heart ache. Again, that takes me back, and I let out a deep exhale, willing myself to do what I do best—compartmentalize.
“Can I take a look at that cut?” I ask, pointing to the broken skin above her left eyebrow. It doesn’t look fresh, and is probably too late for stitches, but it definitely needs to be cleaned and bandaged. When she still doesn’t look at me, I add, “She’s going to be fine.”
And I don’t just mean right now.
I want to tell her that I was her little girl once and I might not be the most open, loving person, but I’m not a horrible person either. I’m smart, capable, educated. I help people and contribute to society. There are things about me I wish I could change, but until I know all of the facts about myself, I’m not sure if that will ever happen. It’s hard to know how to fix something if you don’t know what’s broken, which is why, even after all these years, I still push to know the truth.
As ugly as it may be.
There’s an inscription on the side of the building we’re standing in, and it reads: the truth shall set you free. Sometimes, I’m not sure what I believe, but that simple quote has driven me for the last eighteen years.
Eventually, the mother, Lisa, follows me to the room we’ve designated for examinations. Fortunately today, she’s my only patient.
“Have a seat,” I tell her, trying to use my most soothing voice, knowing she’s probably scared and lost. “Do you have any other injuries I need to know about?”
She shakes her head, her eyes filling with unshed tears. But I can see the hard set of her jaw, and I believe her. There’s resolve there and a strength I’m not even sure she realizes she has, but it’s there, struggling to the surface. If I had to guess, it’s what got her and her little girl to this safe haven.
“You’re safe now,” I tell her. “Helen has top-notch security, cameras at every entrance, both inside and out. The staff’s top priority is keeping everyone safe.” Sometimes, all a newcomer needs are those bits of reassurance. No one is getting in here without going through Helen first, and she’s a force to be reckoned with.
As I go to clean the wound above her eye, she doesn’t flinch or wince and I wonder what other unseen scars lie beneath. Does she have one like mine?
After I’m finished, I lead her down the hall to the closet where we keep clothes and other personal items. It’s basically a place for the women to shop. Helen doesn’t like to assume what people will want; she gives them a choice. And sometimes, the women who come through here would never ask for anything, but when it feels more like a choice, they’ll take it.
Lisa picks out a clean shirt for herself and a pair of underwear. Then she takes some pants and shirt for Allie, along with a clean set of socks, underwear, and pajamas. It’s then I know I really like this woman. You can tell a lot about people by watching them. She could’ve chosen anything in this closet for herself, but she stuck to bare necessities. However, when it came to her daughter, there was no hesitation and she was thoughtful in every article she chose, obviously picking things she knew would bring a smile to Allie’s face.
A good mother always puts her child’s needs above her own.
“Let me show you to your room,” I tell her after she gathers soap and shampoo and toothbrushes. “There are clean sheets and a set of towels. While you’re here, it’s your job to keep everything inside these four walls clean. There’s a community laundry on the other side of the main hall. Meals are served at seven, noon, and six sharp. If you miss one for some reason, Helen has provisions in the pantry. You’ll have to see her to get them, but don’t hesitate.”
I pause and see her standing in the doorway, staring at the stark walls.
“I know it’s not much—” I start, but she cuts me off.
“It’s more than enough,” she says, her eyes finally meeting mine and a tear slipping down her cheek. “Thank you.”
When her arms wrap around my shoulders, I stiffen at first, surprised by the gesture. She obviously needs this, so even though it’s out of my comfort zone, I hug her back.
And maybe I get a little something in return.
Chapter 5
Gunnar
I’ve been counting down the days until I can see Frankie again and it really pisses me off that tonight’s sparring session ran long and I lost track of time. Even though I’ve tried to convince myself this is crazy and if we’re meant to see each other again, it’ll happen.
But then again, I’m just a guy going to the grocery store.
At nine o’clock on a Tuesday night.
And this is Green Valley. Like the overly talkative Katie the Cashier pointed out, if you don’t want to go to a bar or out to eat by yourself, there really isn’t anything else to do. At least not that I’ve found, yet, anyway.
I tried to make it by the farmer's market on Saturday, but Cage had me practically strapped to the mats the entire day. I swear, some days I feel like he’s trying to kill me.
Last week, at this time, Frankie and I were going toe-to-toe in the middle of aisle six, and dammit if I wasn’t hoping for a repeat.
I just need to see that spark in her eyes.
Gunning the engine, I fly down the quiet streets and hope all the on-duty police officers are preoccupied or sleeping on the job. If I do get pulled over, let’s hope its Tempest’s cousin, Cole. He’s a cool dude. I met him for the first time last week. Cage has opened the studio up two nights a week to anyone in the police department to come and spar. It’s a great workout, and a good way to promote self-defense while a
lso keeping their skills on par.
In a town like this, where hand-to-hand combat isn’t needed very often, it’s easy to get complacent and rusty. So far, it’s been a great success. Cage has even managed to get Sheriff James to stop by for a couple of workouts.
Slowing as I approach the grocery store, I’m hopeful when I see headlights. The closer I get, the more things come into focus—and I no longer like what I see.
Frankie’s car is still out front, but it’s surrounded by a few motorcycles. Speeding up once more, I whip the truck into the spot beside Frankie and just as I’m climbing out, the bikes take off.
“Who were those guys?” I demand. I’m trying to reign in my concern and it’s not working.
“Nobody,” Frankie says, crossing her arms. There’s always a protective air around her, like she’s guarding herself against the world. “What are you doing here?”
“They look dangerous,” I comment, ignoring her question because I want to know what she would be doing in a dark parking lot with them. Frankie doesn’t seem like the kind of person who would keep company with bikers. She told me herself she doesn’t like violence, and everything about those guys screamed violence.
Big bikes.
Leather vests.
Menacing.
I know, I’m one to talk. But there’s a difference between those guys and their kind of menacing and mine. A huge difference.
And hey, at least I’m clean-cut and shaven. Well, I don’t know about the clean-cut part. My mom would disagree. Out of all my brothers, I wear my hair the longest, but keep it pulled back in a low ponytail most of the time. And since arriving in Green Valley, I have let my facial hair grow a little. But my pretty face, as my brothers call it, keeps me from looking too scary. Cage on the other hand, not so much.
“You didn’t answer my question,” she says with a huff, turning to open her car door and making me scramble for an explanation so she won’t leave.
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