Rogue Beast (The Rourkes, Book 12)

by Kylie Gilmore

  Olivia runs over at her name, and her dad follows.

  Soon everyone’s settled in the living room, staring at the painting. Riley takes a seat on the sofa and sighs. “Jack, just tell them. It’s gone on long enough.”

  He rubs the back of his neck and glances over at her. “Ry, come on.”

  “What, Jack?” Mrs. Rourke asks with a smile. “Did you pay a lot for it? I’ll give it back to you if you’d like.”

  “He dug deep for that one,” Riley says.

  Jack shoots her a dark look.

  “Oh, Jack, I had no idea,” Mrs. Rourke says. “Gosh. Maybe we should sell it and then give the proceeds to your child’s education.”

  Jack closes his eyes. “It’s garbage, okay?” He opens his eyes, his expression pure misery. “I pulled it out of the garbage and gave it to Con as a birthday gift. Just a prank. He took it as truth and hung it on his wall.”

  “Bastard,” Con says with a note of amusement. “I had to stare at that hideous thing for years on the living room wall.”

  Jack laughs and stops abruptly at his mom’s glare. “So then Con left it with Garrett, who dumped it on you.”

  Mrs. Rourke speaks through her teeth. “I thought they just didn’t have an appreciation for art. Was it at least in the trash of an artist?”

  Jack lifts one shoulder. “I dunno. I found it on the street. I doubt it. Sorry. I’ll put it in the trash where it belongs.” He takes it off the wall and heads out the back door with it.

  Garrett leans over to me. “Jack is king of the pranksters. I don’t think I’ve ever heard him apologize for one.”

  “I knew it!” Mrs. Bianchi crows in the tense silence. “Didn’t I say it was garbage?”

  “No, you didn’t say garbage,” Mrs. Rourke huffs.

  Mrs. Bianchi gestures broadly. “I said it wasn’t worth much. Like a toddler spilled their juice on it and then peed.”

  “You did not say that,” Mrs. Rourke says hotly.

  “I know art, Tara,” Mrs. Bianchi says smugly. “Ya know, everyone thinks they have good taste, but only a select few actually do.”

  Mrs. Rourke lifts her chin. “I studied art history in college, you know.”

  Mrs. Bianchi waves that away. “I’m sure those old pieces are easy to value. Modern art takes a special eye.” She taps the side of her glasses.

  The two women bicker louder and louder about who knows more about art, and somehow veer off into who is the superior contributor to the church’s Thanksgiving dinner for the homeless.

  Jack returns just as their bickering hits a high note over the value of street art, which Mrs. Rourke says still qualifies as art, and Mrs. Bianchi says is a crime plain and simple. Boy, it didn’t take much to get these two going. I exchange a look with Garrett, who shrugs and then whispers in my ear, “There was a feud. I’ll explain later.”

  Jack rushes over to the women still standing near where the painting was on the wall, and holds up his palms. “Please tell me I didn’t restart the war over this painting.”

  “What war?” Mrs. Bianchi throws her hands up. “There never was a war. There was only some people, who were falsely accused, and some people, who did the accusing.”

  Mr. Rourke speaks up in a commanding voice. “Ladies, I don’t think we need to rehash old grievances.”

  Mrs. Bianchi gestures to Mrs. Rourke. “I gave her a serving spoon to make up for it.” She crosses her arms and nods once. “The moment I knew we’d be tied forever through our children, I did the honorable thing. I bought and wrapped the spoon she claimed I stole and mended that fence.” She shoots Mrs. Rourke a dark look. “It was met with less than stellar enthusiasm.” She pats her hair. “Enough said.”

  “You complimented the pattern!” Mrs. Rourke exclaims. “I know you know which spoon I’m talking about—”

  “Mom,” Jack says loudly.

  “What?”

  “It was me.”

  Her brows knit together. “What was you?”

  He sighs. “I stole the serving spoon.”

  Mrs. Rourke shakes her head. “Jack, that was so long ago you couldn’t have been more than—”

  “Five,” he says.

  Mrs. Bianchi smiles smugly. “I’m not surprised at all. I told you I wasn’t a thief.”

  Mrs. Rourke tilts her head, still confused, as she stares at Jack. “So you’re saying when you were five years old, you stole my serving spoon from the potluck at the Bianchis’? That was a big spoon. How come I never saw you with it?”

  He scrubs a hand over his face. “I hid it in a box in the storage area of their basement. I thought it was funny watching everyone wonder where it was. How was I to know it would lead to decades of war between you two?”

  His wife, Riley, pipes up. “He was too chicken to speak up after all that time. Keep in mind he was thinking with an immature five-year-old brain.”

  Mrs. Rourke scowls. “And secretly howling with laughter for years. Oh, Jack.” She turns to Mrs. Bianchi. “I had no idea. I don’t even know what to say. All this time—”

  Mrs. Bianchi gives her shoulder a squeeze. “No need to say anything. We’re family now.” She holds out her hand, and Mrs. Rourke takes it. “Now let’s go get your serving spoon back.” She glances at Jack. “Come on, you dig it out, you trickster. And then you can clean out my whole storage area next weekend to make it up to me.”

  “Mine too,” Mrs. Rourke says.

  Jack’s shoulders slump, but then he brightens. “I can’t. I’ve got a baby on the way. Riley needs me.”

  Riley smiles widely. “We’ve got a few weeks, babe. I can spare you.”

  Jack jabs a finger at her before accepting his fate and following the two women out the front door.

  As soon as the door shuts behind them, Garrett quips, “Classic Jack,” and everyone laughs.

  A short while later, Mrs. Rourke returns, triumphantly holding the serving spoon in the air.

  “It’s a beautiful Gaelic pattern,” Mrs. Bianchi says.

  Mrs. Rourke washes it and puts it in the drawer, closing it with a sigh. She turns to us. “Time for big-sister cake!”

  18

  Garrett

  I’m spent, lying in Harper’s bed, trying to catch my breath. She threw herself at me as soon as we got back to her place, and now in the happy aftermath, I’m feeling pretty good about how things are going between us. She seemed to find my family amusing, which is better than thinking they’re nuts. Since she seemed comfortable, we stayed late, hanging with everyone. I think my family approves, which is important in a family like mine since we spend so much time together at work and just about any occasion.

  And Dylan took me aside to offer me a promotion to crew chief with a salary bump too. He said it was long overdue, and he’d been hoping to pull Jack to a project manager position and me up sooner, but they just couldn’t make the numbers work before. It means a lot to me. I should’ve spoken up about feeling passed over, but, once I had more experience, I kept telling myself it was because they needed someone like me they could count on in crew to do the job right. It seems my big brother was looking out for me like always. I accepted the position, of course. Acting is still a side gig. But if it comes down to accepting a major acting role or sticking by my family, it’ll be hard for me to choose. My loyalty to my family runs deep and, for once, I know they really need me.

  Harper stirs by my side. Sweet Harper. Maybe it’s a good time to tell her how much I care about her.

  I roll to my side and stroke her hair back from her face. “Harp, I just wanted to tell—”

  She jackknifes upright and slaps a hand over her mouth.

  “Harp?”

  She races to the bathroom, slamming the door behind her. The distinct sounds of retching follow. My own stomach churns in sympathy.

  I give her a few minutes before getting out of bed, pulling on my boxer briefs, and knocking on the door. “You okay?”

  “Fine,” she says. More retching.

  I
grimace. See? Fine is never fine.

  I hear the toilet flush and then water running. She opens the door, her skin chalk white, her eyes glassy. “I might have food poisoning. That manicotti.”

  “I had the manicotti too, and I feel fine.”

  She pats my arm and brushes by me. “Going to bed.”

  I follow her, going back to what I was about to say. “Tonight was special—”

  “Oh God.” She races by me on her way to the bathroom, slamming the door, locking it, and turning on the fan.

  This is concerning. What if she passes out in there? Would she even let me help her? The lock looks like one of those pinhole kind. I could open it with a piece of wire or a paperclip if I had to.

  “Call out if you need me,” I say through the door.

  “Please go away. In fact, go home. I don’t need any witnesses. It’s going to get ugly.”

  “I can take care of you.”

  “I can take care of myself.”

  “I’m staying.”

  Silence.

  I head back to bed. But I don’t sleep. I listen for her collapse or her calling out to me. Maybe she’ll just stumble out and come back to bed.

  Finally, after a quick doze, I wake at three a.m. and knock on the bathroom door. No response.

  I search for something to jimmy the lock open. I find a paperclip on a script sitting on top of her dresser. That’ll do. I straighten it, pop the lock, and slowly open the door.

  She’s asleep on the floor in front of the toilet on a large bath towel. Poor thing.

  I scoop her up, and she moans in her sleep. I settle her back in bed. Her skin is clammy. I cover her with the blanket and pull a small trash can to her side of the bed in case she needs it.

  She’s up again at six, retching into the trash can. She collapses onto the mattress afterward. I get up and take the trash can to empty it in the toilet.

  “What are you still doing here?” she croaks when I get back. “If it’s not food poisoning, you’re going to get whatever this is. Some kind of stomach virus.”

  “I’m sure if it’s a virus, you already gave it to me.” I set the trash can back in place with a new liner I found under the bathroom sink. It smells like lemon.

  She waves me away weakly. “I don’t want you to see me like this.”

  “You’re just sick. Same old Harp.”

  “Saint Garrett,” she mumbles before falling asleep.

  I pull my phone out and Google what to do for a stomach virus and food poisoning too, just to be safe. Normally I’d get in touch with my mom, but it’s too early to call. Knowing my mom, she’d want to come over and take care of Harper herself. She’s very hands on and doesn’t flinch at the tough stuff. She’s gone through plenty of illnesses, broken bones, and bloody wounds with me and my brothers. Sometimes I think she would’ve made a good emergency room doctor. Nothing fazes her.

  The alarm on Harper’s nightstand goes off an hour later, and she jerks awake, sitting up and then moaning. “The room’s spinning.”

  I help her lie down again. “You got up too fast.”

  She moans. “Turn it off.”

  I reach over her and turn off the alarm.

  “I have to go to work,” she says.

  “You’re sick.”

  “No, I’m feeling better.” But she doesn’t move.

  “You’re still weak. You were up all night puking up your guts.”

  “Not just that. I think I lost ten pounds last night. I need to brush my teeth at least.”

  “I’ll help you to the bathroom. Take it nice and slow.”

  I walk around to help her slowly move to a sitting position. “Let me know when you’re good. I don’t want you to pass out.”

  A few moments later, she says, “I’m good.” I help her stand and walk her to the bathroom. She gets her toothbrush and toothpaste out of the medicine cabinet, but before it even gets to her mouth, she’s retching in the sink.

  I hold her hair back and put a hand on her forehead so she doesn’t crash into the faucet.

  She finishes and rinses the sink. Then she rinses her mouth.

  “You’re not going to work,” I say. “Call in sick.”

  “I can’t take a sick day. People depend on me. The cast, the crew, the writers. It’s the read-through.”

  I guide her back to bed. “What happens at the read-through?”

  “Everyone gathers to read through the script. The crew takes notes on the tech side; the writers take notes on what worked and didn’t. They revise the script right after. They need me.” She collapses into bed.

  “I’ll call Josie and she’ll explain.”

  “Just give me half an hour,” she says weakly. “I’m tough. I’ll power through.”

  “Has anyone ever told you to stop acting tough?”

  “No. I’m so tired.” She rolls to her side.

  “Do you want to give the entire cast, crew, and writers this virus you’ve got?”

  She sighs. “No.”

  “I’m calling you in sick. It’s probably a twenty-four-hour thing. Most stomach viruses are, according to the internet.”

  “’K.”

  I leave her to rest in bed, adjusting the bedroom curtains to keep out the light. Then I go to the living room to call Josie and explain.

  “Oh no, that’s terrible,” she says. “Should I send chicken soup?”

  “I’ll get some for her. I’m sure she’ll be okay by tomorrow.”

  “Okay, keep me posted. And if you get sick, let me know. I’ll get your mom over there.”

  I smile. Notice how she didn’t volunteer. “Thanks.”

  Once Harper’s awake, I’ll change the sheets and clean up the bathroom for her. In the meantime, I help myself to coffee and a piece of toast. Then I remember her guard. I’ll stop by his apartment in a bit and let him know what’s up.

  She might not want me to take care of her, but I’m not leaving until she’s better.

  Harper

  I’m sitting at the breakfast bar in my kitchen with Garrett, slurping down chicken soup. I feel like I got run over by a truck, but at least the virus seems to be done with me. About twenty hours of wretchedness. It’s late Monday night now, and I’m hoping, after a good night’s sleep, I’ll be able to go to work tomorrow.

  “I can’t believe you stuck around,” I say. “And you cleaned. That’s saint territory. Really, you didn’t have to do all that.”

  “I take care of those I love.”

  My head whips toward his, my heart pounding.

  He smiles. “Why do you look so surprised?”

  “We haven’t been dating that long.”

  “Little over a month, but I feel like we’ve really gotten to know each other.”

  I stare at the counter, checking in with my gut. No warning flags go up. I do love him. My throat clogs with emotion, and I can’t seem to get the words out.

  “You don’t have to say anything back,” he says.

  I lift my head and clear my throat. “I do feel something for you. It’s just hard for me.”

  “Sure, I understand. Just baggage. Your exes. Men, in general.”

  “I’ll get there. Don’t you have any baggage?”

  “Not really. Things have always been clear to me. It’s either working or it’s not. This right here feels like it’s working. More than that, it’s special. You think I clean just anyone’s bathroom?”

  “No.” My voice comes out small.

  “It wasn’t pretty.”

  “I know. God, I’m so sorry. You didn’t have to do that.”

  “You think you’ll make it to work tomorrow?”

  “I have to. Besides, I’m better.”

  “You’ve barely eaten your soup. You look like a strong breeze would knock you over.”

  “I’ll power through.” I kiss him. “Thank you for everything.”

  He smiles, his eyes warm on mine. “You’re welcome.”

  After our meal, which was just soup and crackers
for me (he had grilled chicken and vegetables), we settle on the sofa to watch a movie. I let him pick, and I’m surprised he puts on a Star Trek movie.

  “You’re a Trekkie?” I ask.

  “I like space movies, all kinds. It’s like the last place you see a renegade hero. Everywhere else is just same old.”

  “Sort of like westerns used to be with the rugged cowboy living life on his own terms.”

  “Exactly.”

  I snuggle up against his side, feeling more content than I can remember. “I think I love you too,” I whisper.

  He kisses my hair. “I know it.”

  I’m too tired to worry about what this all means for our future, so I let myself lean on him and soak in the moment.

  I’m getting ready for bed later that night when Garrett rushes into the bathroom. “Out!” he barks, rushing to the toilet.

  I don’t make it all the way out the door before he pukes up his dinner. Oh God. I rush back to the sink and throw up mine. The sound of his retching triggered my gag reflex. I quickly rinse and rush out of the room, shutting the door behind me.

  I can still hear him in there, and nausea rises in my throat. I escape to the living room. I’m not sick. It’s empathy vomit. This is bad. Now if I try to take care of him the way he took care of me, I’ll just make it worse.

  I wait until I hear him stumbling into the bedroom. I hope he doesn’t collapse. There’s no way I can lift him.

  He climbs into bed. “Definitely a virus. Otherwise, mine wouldn’t have been so delayed. Put the trash can by my side.”

  I quickly do as he says. “I’m sorry, but I can’t hear you get sick because it triggers me to get sick. I’ll sleep in the living room, but call out if you need me. I’ll try to help.”

  He grunts.

  It’s a long night. I can hear him stumbling to the bathroom and staying there for a long time. I listen for a crash. If he goes down, it’s going to be loud. But he doesn’t. He just lumbers back and forth all night. Hopefully, he’ll be better by tomorrow, and I’ll order him chicken soup just like he did for me. I’ve never had to take care of someone before. My grandmother never got sick when I was a kid. At least not that I ever knew about. Maybe she hid it well. And I’ve never lived with someone who was sick before either.