Atticus stopped rifling through cans of soup. “Drugs?”
“Yes. Mostly pot from what I’ve heard, but my sources say he’s upped the ante and started dabbling with cocaine. Honestly, the patient in this file should have had a second opinion at the time of the accident.” A glass clinked on Julia’s side of the line. “Is she—this Alicia—is she on any medications?”
He frowned. He hadn’t found any when he’d packed her stuff yesterday, but he doubted the staff would leave a patient’s meds in the vicinity unless they needed them on hand. They’d have to be dished out by the facility’s dispenser. Alicia hadn’t requested any medications either—he’d press her on that. “Not that I’m aware of, she isn’t. A second opinion wasn’t an option back then—her childhood was abysmal, traumatic, and her—” Fuck, parents tasted bitter on his tongue. “Her guardians were several steps below adequate in parenting techniques.”
“I see. Your email said she has feeling in her lower extremities. Does she have any range of movement from the waist down?”
“No, not that I’ve noticed so far.”
“Hmmm. I think it would benefit all of us to meet. There are a lot of questions I need to ask, and I believe both you and the patient need answers to, if her current situation is anything to go by. I’ll have to do some tests, of course. Scans, x-rays, you get the idea.”
“Do you think there’s something you can do for her?”
Julia sighed, and it wasn’t a positive sound, in his opinion. She cleared her throat and spoke in what he assumed was her doctor voice, “Atticus, I can’t discuss the details of her condition with you, you know that.”
“As her guardian and primary caretaker, I do believe you can.”
“Well, that’s debatable. All right, all right!” she exclaimed. “Jesus, I can feel you growling at me. Doing that weird Dominant shit you’ve got mastered.” Muttering to herself, she exhaled through her nose sharply. “The initial scans in the email show damage to the girl’s spine, yes. But in my opinion, the report Fielding filed doesn’t match them. If the correct treatment had been given fourteen years ago, I don’t see why she shouldn’t have had a normal, active life.”
Atticus dropped his head forward to bang lightly on the cupboard door next to the one he’d opened. Grief and pain for Alicia knotted in his belly while fury threatened to burn his veins to ash. “And now? Is there any hope for her having a normal life now?”
“Let me examine her, do the tests, and I can tell you more. As I said, my schedule is hectic, but seeing as you’re a friend and Alicia has the misfortune of being one of Fielding’s fuck-ups, I can squeeze you in. Wednesday, maybe…no, that won’t work. Thursday’s out of the question…hmmm. Friday, two o’clock? Can you have her at the hospital then?”
“Yeah. Yeah, I’ll make that happen.” If he had to raze Phoenix to the ground to do so, he would have Alicia in Julia’s office. “I appreciate it, Julia. Alicia is a sweetheart, she’s just had a shit life. If I can do something to make it better for her, in any aspect, I will.”
“Friday at two, then. I’ve got to run, I have some luncheon to go to this afternoon which requires immaculate presentation—to be anything but pristine at those things is a crime against law and nature, apparently.” The disgust in her tone amused him—she was a woman’s woman who enjoyed the perks of make-up, dresses, and the devil’s heels, but she vehemently disliked social gatherings with an attendance of over ten people. “Oh, one more thing.”
“Sure.”
“I’m thinking our casual sessions at Avalon won’t be on the cards in the future. Don’t lie, Atticus,” she warned with a laugh. “Your voice changes when you talk about her. It softens. It’s okay, we both knew it was never going to be a long-term commitment for either of us. Two workaholics trying to have a relationship? Recipe for disaster.”
Standing straight again, he rolled his eyes. “It’s not that kind of relationship between Alicia and me, Jules. She needs help, I’m offering it. But yes, I’m afraid my downtime at Avalon is going to be limited for a while. I can find you someone else to play with there if you’re not sure about asking.”
“Thanks, but I’m good. Friday at two, Atticus. The dragon at the gate doesn’t look fondly upon tardiness.”
“See you then, Jules. Thanks.” Atticus ended the call and tossed his phone on the counter, trying to balance his emotions before they overwhelmed him.
Alicia’s parents had conspired with her surgeon to keep her in a wheelchair for the rest of her life. He might not have proof, but he’d stake his goddamn business on that being the truth. Maybe Abraham had paid the guy off, maybe they’d traded drugs or tips on the track—hell, Abraham could have been one of the sharks Fielding owed money to for gambling debts. But however it happened, Alicia had paid the price.
Why? Well, that was easy enough—money. Disability payments. A lifelong cash cow.
How? That was something Atticus wanted to figure out. Perhaps they’d drugged her for long enough, Alicia’s body simply gave up the use of her legs. Mental conditioning, brainwashing, combined with narcotics might have that effect—Connie would know more.
Waiting until Friday to find out whether what had been done to Alicia could be undone, even partially, would strain his patience. He wanted answers, he wanted goddamn results, and he wanted them today.
He slammed the cupboard door shut, then rummaged in the catch-all drawer next to the sink for his spare charger. Plugging in his dying phone, he called Anarchy and put her on speakerphone while he tackled the refrigerator contents.
“Day off, boss,” Archie sang as soon as she picked up the call. “No working for you.”
“I wish. How’s your search going on Joseph Fielding, Archie?”
She made a sound of disgust. “That waste of oxygen? Looking at his credentials, I’m not sure how he even qualified to be a doctor, never mind a surgeon. Lives alone but has a stream of women parading through his house every night—which, by the way, is worth like six million, three hundred and forty-three thousand dollars. Ridiculous for a single man to have a house that size just to play hide the salami.” Archie hissed out a breath. “Yeah, I know, that’s off-topic. For a guy who’s up to his neck in gambling debts with several nasty sharks, he sure knows how to spend money.”
“Any links to drugs—partaking in, dealing, or smuggling?”
“There’s money coming from somewhere. His outgoings surpass his hospital salary, so I’m thinking he could be doing private cases on his own time. Drugs are an option—no one would look twice at a doctor, would they? Let me take a look at the transactions I flagged on his bank records.” She hummed under her breath. “Cash withdrawals, no pattern I can see, but substantial amounts. Five grand here…seven there. Gradually increasing…” she muttered to herself, nonsensical utterings. “In the past year, his cash withdrawals have risen from five thousand to twenty thousand.”
“Just the past year?” Damn, that could null and void Atticus’s current theory. “Go back, Archie. Fourteen, fifteen years if you can. Note anything that resembles a pattern or that you can use to gather data.” He rubbed his forehead thoughtfully. “I want you to be thorough with this. Burrow under the layers of bullshit he spreads, and root out all his secrets. Use one of the boys to help you if necessary.”
“You’ll know every dirty detail about him,” she promised.
“Thanks.” Atticus didn’t mention his suspicions—he wanted to see whether she dug up a confirmation by herself. With that sharp brain working, it shouldn’t take her long to see the correlations he did—if they were truly there.
“Atticus?”
“Hmm?” he answered absently, part of his brain wandering toward grilled cheese sandwiches for lunch. He had bread, he had cheese…
“Why did they shave her head?”
“I don’t know, Archie. I honestly don’t. Whatever the reason, the assholes hurt her beyond measure.”
“You know, if it helps, I could cut mine off. Show of solid
arity between us girls—I bet Connie would do it as well.” Anarchy was living up to her name, as usual. Her enthusiasm made him cringe as well as grin; she had problems of her own, but would gladly set them aside to offer support to someone else in need.
Selecting the cheese, he slammed the refrigerator door closed and laughed. “Little bit, Jasper would tan your hide so thoroughly, that pretty ass of yours would glow like the sun for a week. You and Connie will have matching donut cushions so you can at least sit down.”
“Of course he would. My Ma—Jasper loves my hair. What else could he use to hold the anal hook in position?” The slight edge of tetchiness stained her voice. “I mean, that would just be a travesty, wouldn’t it? And Thane’s like the ultimate chill guy. I bet he’d be okay with Connie shaving herself bald for a cause.”
Atticus tsked softly. “Sweet, naïve sub. With hair like Connie’s, do you not think Thane has uses of his own for it? Hair is one of our toys, little bit—we don’t like having our toys taken away without permission.”
“Spoken like a Dom,” she muttered. “All right, no head shaving. Should we look for a wig? Something tasteful and pretty.”
He thought of the soft stubble beneath his palm, the almost primal urge he felt to protect the fragile dome of Alicia’s skull. While he loved playing with a sub’s hair—washing it, brushing it, plaiting it into a tail—he couldn’t deny her current state triggered a weird response in him. He hated that it had been done to her, that someone had dared take her hair, but he would tend to it until it grew again. “Thanks, Archie, I’ll give that some thought and talk it over with Lisha when she’s ready. It’s still raw for her to talk about, and until she does, it’s going to fester.”
When she fell quiet, the hairs on the back of his neck stood up. He didn’t hesitate, growling into the phone in his best dominant tone, “Anarchy. What aren’t you telling me? Are you struggling?”
She cleared her throat, obviously buying time for herself to decide whether lying to him would work. Her defeated sigh told him she’d worked out that, no, lying to him would never succeed. “It’s just been hard, you know? What happened with Connie, and then she and Thane packing up for like a month and heading into the forest. She deserved the reprieve, and I know it’s so fucking selfish to think only of myself, but I missed her.”
“You lost your sounding board for a month, Anarchy. Killing someone takes a toll, and Connie’s been your outlet since the night it happened. The weight gathers and holds you down until you can’t breathe—I know the feeling, you’re not alone.” His hands moved quickly as he picked up a knife and started slicing cheese for the sandwiches. “When’s your next appointment?”
“We start again on Monday.”
“Good. In the meantime, you have my number if you feel like you can’t express yourself to Jasper. Yes, I know,” he said drily before she could retort. “You don’t want to burden him with all your emotions and the crazy shit in your head, but that’s what he signed on for, little bit. You’re engaged, you’re in a solid dynamic, so give him a chance to be involved in that part of your life. He already knows it’s there.”
“I’ve been having nightmares again.” The confession was shameful. “I’ve caught him a few times sitting beside me in bed, looking guilty because I’ve woken up with screams burning my throat and sweat dripping off me. Why would I put him through more?”
Subs, he thought, had such good intentions. Even when they completely missed the goddamn mark. “Finish up what you’re doing, Anarchy, then get Jasper and go home. Sit down with him this afternoon and explain what is going on in your head, because trust me, whatever he’s imagining is far worse than the truth. His job is to protect you against everything he possibly can, and you’re denying him that by trying to spare his feelings. Nothing hurts more than not being able to give your sub what she needs.”
“But Alicia…Fielding…I—”
“It’ll wait until after the weekend. Unless there’s an emergency, I don’t want to catch you logged into the computer systems or to see your face until Monday morning. Same goes for Jasper. Go home and sort this out before it makes both of you miserable.”
He imagined her mouth working silently, trying to come up with a suitable response, but there was no argument she could make. He knew it, she knew it, and that’s why there was no snappy retort. “Thanks, Atticus. If there’s anything you need me to do—”
“Just that, little bit. Now hang up the phone before I text your Master and tell him to welt your ass for procrastination.” He grinned when she squeaked.
He was laughing when she breathed a hasty goodbye, and the phone went dead. The word welt in conjunction with Jasper was always a spur in a hesitant filly’s side.
Chapter Five
As they approached the end of her first week under Atticus’ roof, Alicia compared it to dancing through a minefield with a blindfold on. They were both adjusting to the pitfalls that came with living with someone new, and she was struggling with the rules Atticus had set in place—for her benefit, or so he told her damn near daily.
The rules weren’t particularly strict or invasive. They didn’t suffocate her with severity, but the truth was, she just wasn’t used to having a support system at her back.
Eating three times a day? Eating healthy food that tasted good and wasn’t just dehydrated crap with some water sloshed over it? Being able to have chocolate and snacks, even a soda when she wanted one?
It was blowing her mind.
Oh, and the sleeping situation? Alicia had fallen in love with that goddamn bed. Every morning, waking was like surfacing from the bottom of a silky lake of dreams. She never wanted to leave the thing, but when Atticus woke her promptly at seven a.m. for breakfast, she reluctantly dragged her useless body from the soft clutches of the duvet into her chair, and made the bed with care before heading to the bathroom.
From Monday onwards, they’d developed a routine. Get up, make the bed, go to the bathroom. Use the toilet, brush her teeth, then shower using the chair—under the big man’s supervision, of course. He didn’t interfere unless she asked for help washing her back, but he was on hand in case she slipped and fell while transferring from one chair to another.
After that, Alicia got dried and dressed, and had whatever Atticus cooked up for breakfast. Oatmeal remained her hated food, and they’d had more than one heated disagreement over its continued involvement in her morning meal.
Once her stomach was comfortably full—that man knew how to dish out portions that filled her just right—it was time to go to work. Well, it was for Atticus, anyway. By eight a.m. he was settled at his home desk, the lights on his office phone lit up like fairy lights, and his cell phone chiming. He worked like some kind of manic magician, answering calls even as his fingers attacked the keyboard, and his organization skills were impressive.
As for her…well, apparently, someone had divulged one of her biggest shames.
By Friday morning, a whole week after her rescue, Alicia finally felt herself snap. Her wheelchair was pulled up to the second, smaller desk he’d placed to form an L with his own. The homework she was meant to be doing while he worked was spread over the shiny wooden top, next to her juice.
The pencil in her hand bounced off his shoulder. When he turned his shaggy head to give her a baleful stare, she pinged the eraser off his forehead. She supposed it was fortunate he wasn’t on an important call, because the look on his face threatened payback. Her chin lifted in defiance even as her insides wilted and died.
“I’m not a kid.”
“No, you are not.” Atticus bent and retrieved her weapons, setting them back on her desk. “Are you acting like one to prove you’re not?”
“This is insulting.” Pouting, she set her fingertips on the sheets of paper and pushed them angrily toward him. “I won’t do it.”
Atticus lifted his eyebrow at her, then tapped a squiggly line of words on one of the sheets. “This is the basics, princess. For some reason, you’ve b
een neglected in certain areas, so we’re starting with this. What does this say right here?”
Her arms crossed tightly over her chest. “Daddy is a meanie.”
“Not winning any prizes for your sunny disposition this morning, Alicia.” His phone rang, but he ignored it. Again, that blunt-tipped finger tapped the paper. “Read it, please.”
Dread curling in her belly, Alicia stared at the jumble of words printed in black ink against the white paper. She lifted her hand to her mouth and began to chew nervously on the pad of her thumb. “T-The…c-cat…made fr-fr-fr…” Tears sprang into her eyes. She fucking hated this. Why did she have to be so stupid? “Fre…”
Patiently, Atticus spun around in his chair and moved the paper so they could both see it. Taking the pencil, he underscored the first letter. “Spell it out, princess. It’s not as hard as it looks, I promise.”
Self-loathing filled her. “F. R. I. E. N. D. S.”
“Friends,” he said slowly, coaching her as he spoke and pointed at the letters at the same time. “The cat made friends,” he prompted gently.
“With the m-moose.”
“Not quite, Lisha. Spell it out again.” His phone bleated again; he hit a button without looking at the thing and silenced it. “They did you a huge disservice, princess, by not teaching you to read and write as a child. Did Bodie learn?”
Alicia nodded, puzzling out the word in her head. “Bodie went to school. That’s how she met Liam. My mother liked to use me as a punching bag a lot, so I didn’t get the same opportunities to learn. They couldn’t pass me off as a clumsy child—the bruising was too bad—so they kept me at home. I was the one they could throw away because no one knew I was there.”
He grunted. “And after the accident?”
“Nothing changed. I think someone came to see why I’d never been enrolled in school, but my parents said I was slow. That my brain hadn’t been right before the accident, and it wasn’t any better after.” Concentrating, she formed the letter m with her lips, then sounded it out, followed by o, u, s, and e. “M-ou-se.”
Walk For Me: Club Avalon Book 4 Page 11
