Forever With You (Silver State Series) (43 page)

I do know

Want to come over?  I don’t think I should be alone tonight.

There’s no sugarcoating it this evening, I see.  He must really be feeling shitty.  Sighing, I cast a longing glance at the photo of the two of us, now smeared with water.  Ralph has always battled alternating episodes of depression and mania, but that particular year he’d had more good days than bad.  I remember the day we went to the pumpkin patch as being particularly carefree.  It’s one of the few days from my childhood I can look back on with genuine fondness.

Give me 20

Spending the night coddling my father seems far from appealing, especially after the kind of day I’ve had, but it’s what I’ve always done.  His codependency might seem more troubling if I wasn’t so used to it.

I straighten and paperclip a stack of papers on my desk, then walk around my desk to shrug off my white coat and hang it on the hook behind the door.  Seeing I left my keys lying next to my computer monitor, I lean across the desk to reach for them – and feel yet another drop of water land on the back of my head.

“Goddammit,” I mutter under my breath as my hand goes to the wet spot in my hair.  I snatch my phone off its cradle and dial zero for directory assistance, then ask to be put through to the maintenance department.  The phone rings several times before the answering system clicks on.

“This is Kenna Aldridge in the pharmacy,” I snap, barely managing to keep a leash on the full magnitude of my frustration.  “I called five days ago to complain about a leak in my office, 103, and it still has not been fixed.  I
cannot
work like this.  Get somebody here to fix it.”  Thinking that may have sounded harsh, I add a perfunctory “please” before slamming the phone back down. 

My irritation is joined almost immediately by a sense of remorse as I walk out and lock my office door behind me.  Sometimes I really wish I had a better handle on the monster inside of me.  Unfortunately, my hectic day followed by news of Jeff and the text message from Ralph have weakened my defenses.  Much as I hate to admit the truth of it, lashing out like a raging bitch has always been my primary coping mechanism.

I take time to revel in the cool evening air on the short walk to my car.  The heat has been constant and unrelenting these past couple of weeks, since the official start of summer.  I can only imagine what grueling temperatures lie in store for us during the months ahead.

Ralph’s one bedroom bungalow is dark and quiet when I pull into the gravel drive twenty minutes later.  He’s curled in the middle of the living room floor, clutching at the roots of his hair.  He’s so still that, for a split second, my heart beats more swiftly with fear.  When he shifts, I remind myself to breathe.

“Come on, Pops,” I say quietly as I crouch beside him.  “Let’s get you to bed.”

Linus

“MORNING, SUNSHINE.”

I’m still grinding the sleep out of my eyes when Big Mike’s husky voice pulls me out of my stupor.  I pause in the doorway leading into his office.  The placard outside reads
MICHAEL DELCOLLIANO – MAINTENANCE SUPERVISOR
.  “Mornin’,” I reply.

“Miss out on your beauty sleep last night?  You look like you spent the night in prison with Bubba as your cellmate.”

I nod, smiling a little.  “Feel like it, too.”

“You busy right now?”

I shrug.  “I was just gonna grab my stuff and head up to 4 North.  I heard Barry say on the radio they got a plumbing situation.”

“He and Joey got it handled,” Big Mike replies, thumbing his nose.  He sifts through the mess of papers crowding his desk and locates a pink slip of paper with a phone message scrawled on it.  “Take a look at this instead, will ya?”

I grab the paper from him and take a cursory glance.  The purple ink and circle dots on the I’s are a familiar trademark of Shayna’s.  She’s the bubbly redhead who sits up front and checks messages, triaging phone calls as they come in.  The time of the message is jotted at the top, and beneath it a complaint of a ceiling leak in one of the basement offices.

“I’m on it,” I say, already turning to leave.  I breeze past the front desk on my way out the door.

“Linus,” says a voice behind me.  I look back to see Shayna leaning forward against her desk with her tits pushed together.  Turning around fully, I take a beat to indulge in a peek down the front of her tight pink shirt.  Her wicked grin tells me she’s delighted by my attention.  “You heading down to pharmacy?” she asks, tossing her hair over one shoulder.

“That’s the plan.”

“Good luck.  She sounded like a real bitch in the message.”

“Awesome,” I mutter.  I wheel around and use my fist to push open the front door.  I’m going on about three hours of sleep, and I have a feeling my patience is going to wear thin today. 

I clamber down the steps of the squat brick building housing the maintenance and engineering department and cut across the parking lot toward the main entrance of the hospital.  Coming within a few feet of my ’99 Geo Metro triggers yet another memory of last night’s clusterfuck family gathering.  I’d gone over to my parents’ house for dinner at the insistence of my mother and found a brand new BMW M6 Gran Coupe parked in the driveway.  It was sleek, silver, and had tinted windows and a moon roof.  The decal on the back bumper bore my dad’s name: Cooper Redgrave BMW.

I’d barely made it in the front door before he was thrusting a scotch in my hand and extolling the car’s many virtues.  It didn’t take long for me to figure out he intended for me to drive it home.  He was even kind enough to volunteer to have my Metro hauled to the scrap yard for me.  What a charmer.

Needless to say, the rest of the night hadn’t gone well.  I appreciate the gesture, I really do.  I’m sure there are plenty of people who would consider me a moron and a shithead for failing to accept such a generous gift in favor of continuing to drive my fifteen year old beater.  Those people don’t know my father.  Unfortunately for our tenuous relationship, there’s no such thing as a “no strings” offering from Cooper Redgrave.  I’ve fought long and hard to secure and maintain my independence, financially and otherwise.  The last thing I want is to feel beholden to him for a $50,000 car.

Naturally, the dinner conversation had devolved from talk of my preference for more economical vehicles to my chosen line of work.  We’d hit all the buzz words:  Ambition.  Goals.  Motivation.  Maximizing my potential.  When I finally stumbled in my own front door hours later, I’d had to subject myself to a marathon music session to sufficiently unwind – hence the three hours of sleep.

Remembering Shayna’s warning about the snake pit I’m likely walking into, I pause before reaching the revolving glass door into the hospital.  I tap a cigarette out of the flattened pack I carry in my back pocket and flick the wheel on my Zippo to light it.  Two or three puffs, and I’m already feeling better.  The nicotine courses through me, awakening some senses while putting others to rest.  Eager to get this over with, I put the barely smoked cigarette out on a nearby concrete birdbath and tuck it behind my ear for later.

Central pharmacy is located in the back corner of the hospital’s dank, fluorescent-lit basement.  It’s a shithole down here for sure.  I’d probably need therapy if I had to spend every day stashed away in a dark, moldy corner.  Reaching into my pocket, I pull out the crumpled up phone message. 
Kenna Aldridge, 103.
 I envision her as a pale, fang-toothed shrew, starved for sunlight and affection.  The image causes me to chuckle a little to myself as I ring the bell and flash my badge.  The administrative assistant pushes a button to buzz me through the heavy locked door.

Office number 103 is the first one on the right.  The overhead light is off, but the room is lit by the dim glow of a desk lamp.  Poster-sized black and white prints of Ansel Adam landscapes
festoon the drab white walls.  A spider plant wilts on the corner of the desk, seriously in need of some TLC.  I glance up and instantly spot the damp stain in the foam tiles of the drop ceiling.  An orange cup on the desk is overflowing with water as it drips from above.

Pushing up the cuffs of my long sleeved undershirt, I get to work slinging papers out of the way.  I’m standing in the center of the desk with the ceiling tile shoved aside, examining the pipes above, when someone clears their throat below.

I duck down to find the office’s occupant standing just inside the door.  I’ve seen her before.  It’s not easy to forget a body like that, especially when it’s encased in a sleeveless, formfitting dress and cherry red high heels.  Her pale blue eyes and light blond hair are also pretty memorable.  A fang-toothed shrew she most certainly is not.

…At least not on the surface.  The way she’s leaning into one hip with her arms crossed beneath her chest, giving me a look like I just pissed on her rug, leads me to believe her
personality
may be less than charming.  I wipe my hands on my jeans and my forehead on my shirtsleeve.  “Kenna?” I ask.

“That would be me.”

“You have a leak,” I say.

She cocks an eyebrow at me.  “You think?”  She skirts around me to sit behind her desk and shoots a disdainful look at my work boots planted on the scuffed surface.  When she starts tapping on the keyboard at my feet, I notice her fingernails are stubby like she chews on them.  Their plainness seems incongruous with the rest of her polished appearance.  “What was it that tipped you off?” she asks coolly without looking up.  “Was it my first phone call, or the second?  Or was it the bucket of water on my desk?”

I take a deep breath, wishing it wasn’t against the rules to light up inside the hospital.  I could really use another shot of nicotine to get me through this conversation. 

I chuckle a little to help me loosen up, and she looks at me, her eyes flashing with anger.  “Look, princess, it’s not like we’ve been sitting around avoiding your calls.  In case you haven’t noticed, we work in a cesspit.”  I jump down off the desk and squat to pluck a pipe wrench from the array of tools I brought with me.  “There was a
fire
in the cafeteria yesterday, did you know that?” I ask casually, jostling her chair as I mount the desk again.  “This whole building is coming apart.”

“I can’t imagine why that would be,” she mumbles sarcastically, “when we have highly motivated individuals such as yourself working here.”  My shoulders tense.  There’s that word again –
motivated.

“Are you insulting my work ethic, sweetheart?” I ask, rising up until my head is above the ceiling tiles.  She doesn’t respond, and I don’t press.  If I want to get into a pissing match with a condescending elitist, I’ll just go to my parents’ house.

Once I’ve finished patching the leak and replaced the tile, I crouch back down to find an empty office.  I leap down to the thinly carpeted floor and stoop to gather my tools, thinking it might be best if I cut out before she returns.  As soon as I’ve drawn myself back up to standing, however, she breezes back into the room. 
No such luck
.

Kenna twitches her lips to the side as she gazes upward.  She looks conflicted.

“In a little bit I’ll bring you a new ceiling tile,” I say, shifting the weight of my toolbox from one hand to the other.

She trains those light denim eyes on me and bobs her head in an understated nod.  “Thanks for fixing it.”  For a moment I wonder whether she’s going to apologize for acting like a crazed bitch.  When she doesn’t, I pry my eyes away from her to glance at the dehydrated spider plant on her desk.  I pick up the orange cup brimming with water and dump it over the brown, drooping leaves.  Then I walk out the door.

Chapter 2

Kenna

I RECOGNIZED THE maintenance guy.  I’ve passed him several times in the hallway.  It’s hard not to pay attention to someone that tall.  At five-ten, I’m not exactly stunted in the height department myself, but I’d guess he still has a half foot on me.  Toss in his broad shoulders, trim waist, tightly curled, reddish blond hair, warm hazel eyes and light dusting of beard, and you have a specimen that’s pretty difficult to look away from.

My first view upon walking into my office this morning was a slice of his tanned stomach.  He was up on a stepladder with his arms stretched above his head, and his shirt had drifted up, baring the hard lacing of muscles on his abdomen.  Then he’d ruined it by climbing down and making some inane comment about my ceiling having a leak.  Predictably, my mouth had a mind of its own.

To be clear, I’m not normally this tightly wound.  I slept on the couch at Ralph’s place last night, which always results in a fair amount of tossing and turning.  Then I’d had to wake up an hour earlier than usual so I could go home and shower and change before coming to work this morning.  It may sound like I’m making excuses, but I can promise they’re legit. 

Not that any of that justifies my attitude toward someone who was just trying to help.

Now it’s just shy of two o’clock, and I’m dipping French fries in ranch dressing (a horrible weakness of mine) while putting the finishing touches on a drug utilization review.  A knock sounds at my door and Maintenance Guy walks in carrying a pristine foam ceiling panel.  I’d completely forgotten his promise to bring me a new one.

“Do you mind?” he asks, holding the tile aloft.  I push back from my desk to accommodate him, determined to act more civil this time around.  The coarse material of his jeans brushes against my thigh as he scrambles up onto the desk.  I watch as he lifts out the water stained tile and replaces it with the new one.  Now the other tiles look old and yellowed in comparison.

He jumps down and dusts his hands on a towel tucked in his back pocket.  My eyes move to the tattoos peeking out from beneath his sleeves, which are shoved halfway up his thick, veiny forearms.  Both wrists are encircled with an intricate pattern of shapes and lines that continue upward and disappear inside his shirt.  Next I take in at the short-sleeved blue work shirt he wears snapped up over his waffle weave undershirt.  The name stitched over the left breast pocket says LINUS.