Ocean (Damage Control Book 5) (20 page)

I swallow, a knot forming in my throat. “That sucks.”

He shrugs. “My old man receives disability benefits. Got injured on the job when I was too young to remember. He used to be a cop. He claims he has bad headaches and can’t work. Instead, he gambles. Plays cards and gambles away the money every single month, leaving nothing for food or bills.”

The venomous glare he directs at my Tarot cards makes more sense this time, and the knot in my throat is growing, not letting me breathe.

“I raised Raine,” he says, matter-of-factly. “I stole, and begged, and did every little job I could find to get money on the table, and clothes on our backs. Mom never really noticed us. She gets into these long depressions…” His face twists, and he grips the edge of the counter so hard his knuckles turn white. “Fuck.”

“Oh God, I’m…” Kinda terrified of the sadness in his eyes. “I’m sorry.”

“No, it’s okay. It’s just that…” He kneads the edge of the counter, his mouth trembling a little before he clenches his jaw. “She’s sick. And I don’t know what the hell to do.”

It sounds bad, and he looks even worse, and I do the only thing I can do for him right now: I take two steps and wrap my arms around him, loosely, mindful of the bruises over his battered ribs.

His arms come up around me, his chin drops on top of my head, and he sucks in breath after ragged breath.

“What can I do?” I whisper. “How can I help?”

He says nothing, just holding on tight like a man sinking in mire, and I wonder how terrible things can be to shake him up so badly—and why I feel his pain cutting me as deep as if it were my own.

***

“I should head home,” he says. “Check on Jason. If he’s still there.”

I look up from pouring myself another cup of coffee.

He’s sitting at my kitchen table, cradling his mug in those big hands. One of his wrists is swollen.

He’s wearing Jesse’s clothes—jeans and a threadbare hoodie. I raided Amber’s closet, looking for something dry and clean for him to wear. The hoodie is a little tight over his chest and shoulders, and my gaze lingers where the green textile stretches over compact muscle.

“I’ll give you a ride.” I force myself to look up, at his face. He looks amused, a brow arched, one side of his mouth tipped up. “In my car,” I clarify.

“I can take a cab. You’ve done a hell of a lot for me already.”

“Don’t be silly.” I lift my mug and take a sip of coffee, burning my mouth. “Ow.”

He’s on his feet in a heartbeat, taking the mug away and running his thumb over my mouth. “Are you okay?”

I can’t reply. Not when he’s so close, the blue of his eyes dark and deep, his expression concerned, his big shoulders cutting off the light. Shutting away the world, leaving me alone with him.

Lifting my hands, I fist them in the soft fabric of the hoodie, forgetting why I’m here, forgetting all rational thought in favor of touching him, feeling him up. Having him close.

His thumb trails up my cheek, brushes over my eyelids. His lips part. He smells of coffee and my shampoo and a light, male musk that draws me like an invisible hook in my senses.

“Did you burn yourself?” he asks, his voice a soft, sexy rasp, and I’m burning from the inside out. I want him to kiss me. I want to feel his mouth on mine again.

“I’m okay.” Breathless. Always breathless when he’s near me.

He’s holding my face, his callused hand cupping my cheek, and he’s still frowning. “I don’t know why I can’t fucking let you go like other girls I’ve been with,” he whispers, and I blink at him, stupid with lust. “I really like you, Kay. You’re the sassiest, and funniest, and kindest chick I know. But you wouldn’t want to keep me around.”

“How do you know?” I blurt, because although that’s what I’ve been telling myself all along, I also thought it was my choice. He stated it like a fact. “What if I decide I do want to keep you around?”

He gives a sad little smile. “I’m too messed up. I’ve got too many problems to be real fun, despite what everyone thinks of me.”

“It can’t be that bad,” I breathe.

“I screwed up people’s lives. Hell, my own father threw me out of our trailer when I was seventeen, and my own brother doesn’t wanna see me ever again. If I tell you everything about me, what I’ve done, what do you—?” His voice cracks, and I tighten my fists in the hoodie he’s wearing, but he’s already stepping away, his hand dropping from my face. “Christ, what was I thinking?”

“That you’re not a bad person?”

“Kay, I got a kid killed. What do you have to say to that?”

I’m kind of speechless, actually. My heart is booming. No. It can’t be true. I stare at his handsome face and try to reconcile the words with what I know about him. It doesn’t compute.

The silence stretches.

“That’s what I thought,” he whispers eventually, turning away. “Goodbye, Kay.”

Ocean

Jason isn’t at my apartment when I return. He’s left me a message on a piece of paper on the sofa.

It says, “Thank you for taking care of me. I’m much better now. If there’s anything I can do for you, let me know. Jason.”

The apartment is cold and too empty. Nothing I can do about the last part, but I crank up the heater.

Then I think I shouldn’t, because I should save money to pay for Mom’s medical bills.

I sink on the sofa, my mind spinning. Christ, the last thing I want right now is to be alone. My thoughts trip over one another, chasing around in circles.

It was kinda nice having Jason around. I never fully realized before—never let myself realize just how lonely I’ve been. Guys aren’t like chicks, hanging together all the time, painting each other’s nails or whatever it is they do. We meet for drinks sometimes, watch a game on TV, and that’s it.

Sure, we help each other if one of us is in trouble. But it’s not the same. I never thought I deserved anything more before. Anything better.

But she makes me feel like I do.

And that’s idiotic, because I don’t, and she’s not mine.

Mine.
What a joke. Christ, she freaked out when I finally told her why Raine hates me. Why
I
hate me. Of course she did. That’s what any sane person would have done in her place.

I force myself to get busy and not think about how her face had paled and her silence. How that twisted me up inside. How it felt as if my veins filled up with ice, and I couldn’t say anything else, couldn’t deal.

Fuck.

Ignoring the pain in my ribs as much as I can, I root around in the kitchen for something edible. After munching on some stale bread and cheese, making a note to go shopping—but not spend, dammit—I take a shower, and by then my ribs are agony.

I pop in a couple painkillers and stretch out on my bed, the doctor’s business card in my hand and my cell phone in the other.

It’s Sunday, but they’re probably open. Whether the doctor is in is another matter, but I call anyway. I’m uncomfortable and tense. Might as well do something useful.

Turning the business card over and over in my hand, I wait until the call goes through, and ask the lady who answers for the doctor who saw my mom. A certain Dr. Robert Yates, General Pathologist and specialist in autoimmune diseases, followed by several lines of certifications.

I put the card down, prepared to wait, but I’m patched through within seconds. Efficient, this center.

“Dr. Yates speaking.” The voice is deep and resonant, the tone arrogant and impatient. Typical doctor attitude, I guess. “Who’s this?”

“Ocean Storm. My mom is your patient. Sylvia Storm. You were visiting her last week, at the park trailer outside—”

“I remember the case. So you’re the son? Let me see…” I can hear some clicking. He’s probably checking files on his computer. “The probable lupus case.”

“Probable?” I jump on that. “Could it be something else?”

“Lupus is a great imitator of other diseases. We need to run several tests to make sure it’s not something else. There are signs of internal inflammation, which is why I am considering lupus as the most probable cause.”

My heart sinks. “I see.”

“Are you aware that your mother currently doesn’t have insurance?”

“She was getting it paid via Badgercare, but her enrollment elapsed.”

“Well, these tests cost, and this is just the beginning. As soon as we know for sure what the issue is, we will need to start the treatment.”

I rub a hand over my eyes. “The tests are expensive, huh?”

“Yes, Mr. Storm. But they are crucial if we want to determine—”

“You run those tests. If my mom tells you she doesn’t have money to pay for them, ignore her. I’ll find the money.”

“I see.” A pause. “Will you be there one of these days, Mr. Storm? We could talk.”

“No, I…” Fuck, my truck is gone. The insurance people are still trying to decide if it’s a total loss and whether I’ll get any money back. “I don’t know yet.”

“When you do, call the center, and we can arrange a meeting.”

I hang up and resist the urge to throw the cell phone across the room. Can’t afford more expenses, like a new phone, just to vent my frustration at everything. Mom’s sickness, the costs I’m about to take on and the fact I miss Kayla.

I miss her, goddammit. So fucking bad. I wrap an arm around my ribcage and curse. How fucked up is it that it’s the latter that’s been driving me up the wall, more than all the other serious problems I’m about to face?

Why couldn’t I have kept my mouth shut and stayed with her, in her warm bed, in her warm body? She didn’t need to know about my past. We were only having fun, screwing around, getting off. Having a good time.

But I couldn’t lie to her. Couldn’t keep the truth from her.

And now here I am, needing her, and it’s all my own fault.

***

On Monday, Zane corners me at work to ask about the accident. I tell him, nothing to hide there. Explain what the insurance told me, that the car that reamed me from behind a couple of weeks ago managed to fuck up the transmission, and then the gear locked as I was racing down a wet highway. I swerved at high speed and lost control.

That’s the least of my worries right now, and Zane doesn’t need to know anything more. He’s got enough on his head with running the shop and organizing the convention. Afterward perhaps… Afterward I could tell him, ask for his advice.

I need to plan ahead, find the money to pay the medical expenses. But how do I get a huge loan with zero interest to pay?

Hey, Z-man, do you happen to know a miracle worker? Or can you pretty fucking please pay me my salary for the next couple of years in advance?

Hell.
Right.

The days roll on. Time drags. Work drags. My ribs hurt. I can’t sleep at night.

Can’t stop thinking about her.

She hasn’t called or texted me since she drove me home on Sunday morning. It’s been four days now since I told her I caused someone to die. She said nothing then, and nothing ever since. Which is what I expected.

Then why am I gripping my phone so hard the damn casing’s creaking? Isn’t this what I wanted? For her to finally realize what sort of person I am and keep her distance?

No reason for this strange pain in my chest whenever I think about her. But I can’t help it. Whenever I lie on my bed, sit in my kitchen, take a shower, I think of her. Even walking to work, tattooing someone’s back or making coffee reminds me of her.

Everything
reminds me of her.

I can’t ignore this anymore. Can’t ignore the fact I’ve crossed from having fun into something more serious, with no gray area in between. I feel things for her I can’t shove back into the box, no matter how hard I try. Being with her feels so good. Even when we’re not naked together, even when we’re talking, or holding on to each other feels right.

Even when talking on the phone. Just the sound of her voice smooths the jagged edges inside my mind.

But she won’t call. And I’m fucking torn, trying to decide what to do. I mean, what the hell can I do, after dropping that bomb on her? I want to punch a hole through the wall until this pressure in my chest lets up. Until the need to run out and find her goes away.

I need to kiss her and hold her and fuck her and kiss her again. Lock myself up with her, with her hot body and her smile and her gentle concern, and forget about everything else.

Meanwhile, we’re preparing for this convention Zane and Rafe set up for this weekend. Talk about fucked-up timing. If I had my truck, I’d go visit Mom on Thursday night, be back by Friday morning, but now I’ll need to rent a car to do that.

Will the cash I’ve saved cover the test costs? What about the treatment? What the fuck do I do if I have to pay everything?

First off, I can’t afford a car anymore. Can’t afford to buy another.

My Chevy, gone. She failed me.

Or I failed her.

A car racer, failing his own car. A brother failing his younger sibling. A friend failing his friend. A son failing his mother.

I sink into the only kitchen chair I own, throw the cell phone on the table and bury my fingers in my hair.

At least I can’t fail Kayla. Not when I’m not with her.

I wish it was enough.

Dragging the cell phone back toward me, I think about calling my mom, but instead I find myself clicking on the ‘new message’ icon and opening Kayla’s text messages from last week.

‘Please call me. Why did you say ur leaving? Where ru going?’

‘Talk to me. I’ll listen.’

‘Ocean, call me. Please. Come home.’

‘Don’t leave. Tell me what’s wrong.’

I swallow hard, closing my eyes.
Shit.
I already told her what’s wrong.

It’s me.

***

Wednesday. Five days since I last saw her, and touched her, and talked to her.

Not that I’m counting. But it’s been a damn sucky day. I found out that the insurance will pay me just enough to buy myself a bottle of Jack and get wasted. Not that I expected the minimum insurance policy I’ve been paying for to buy me a new car or anything, but it’s still a heavy blow.

Plus, I’m worried about Mom. Worried because the doctor texted me the cost of the tests, and it’s as bad as I thought.