Shut Up and Kiss Me (10 page)

The insurance woman left and the doctor walked in. “Sky? I thought that was you. You like hanging around here, or what?”

Sky introduced Shala to Dr. Henry Michaels. The doctor smiled at her. “I think Redfoot mentioned you.”

“He did?” Shala asked.

“Yeah.” Sky shot the doctor an odd look. “He got hit pretty hard on the head. Was talking a lot of nonsense.”

“Nonsense about me?” It seemed better to concentrate on this conversation than on her tragic history with hospitals.

“About everything.” Sky continued to stare at the doctor.

The doctor, still smiling, reached for her hand. “I just went to check on him. He’s sleeping, and his blood pressure is normal. I think he’s going to be fine. Should go home tomorrow.” The doctor gently removed the washcloth from Shala’s wound. “Ouch,” he said.

After cleaning the gash and making sure none of the ligaments were cut, he had the nurse bring in the needle and sutures. Amazingly, that’s when Shala realized she’d managed to get through being in a hospital without
falling apart. Of course, her final experience had been worsened by the news that Nana was dead. That hadn’t been a good night. Shala had been alone.

Unlike tonight, she realized. Her gaze went to Sky. Had his presence helped? He turned his head, his dark eyes meeting hers.

“I’m going to deaden it first,” the doctor announced. “It might hurt for a few minutes. You ready?”

Shala lay back on the bed, held out her hand, and closed her eyes. She felt the first stick of a needle, and pain shot up her arm. She tried not to flinch, then she felt a masculine palm slip into her other hand and squeeze. She almost pulled away, but Sky’s hand felt so warm, so comforting, that she decided that for just this little bit, she’d allow it. Just for this little bit.

Redfoot watched the white boy edge up to his hospital bed. He hit the button to raise his mattress and turned on the light. Redfoot had seen himself earlier when he’d taken a piss, so he knew how he looked. One eye was bloodred; both eyes had shiners.

The boy’s green eyes widened in surprise. “Wow, you must have taken quite a hit,” he said.

“Yeah, but I’m tough,” Redfoot replied. The white boy needed to know someone was watching out for Maria, someone who would whup his ass if he hurt that darkeyed little angel. Sky would do it and so would Jose if he asked either of them, but Redfoot planned to take care of it on his own.

“Maria is special,” he said.

The white boy smiled and a donned a goofy, lovesick expression. “I know that.”

“Too special for you.” Redfoot glared at him. “It’s best if you move on down the road, if you know what I mean. ‘Cause nothing is worse than pissing off an Indian daddy.”

Matt actually took a step back.
Good,
Redfoot thought. “That’s all I have to say.” He pressed the button to level out his mattress.

“But it’s not all
I
have to say, sir.” Matt moved to the bedside. “I care about your daughter. I’m glad we’re having this talk, because I’m thinking—”

“I don’t give a dog’s chapped ass what you’re thinking about. Maria is—”

“Maria is special. And I care about her,” Matt insisted.

Redfoot didn’t like it, but he respected the boy’s courage. Not that respect made him right for Maria. Jose was Maria’s soul mate.

“I’m not perfect,” Matt said. “But—”

“Maria deserves someone perfect. Not some guy who’d rather spend his time doing God only knows what in Dallas every few weekends! And from the guilt flashing in your eyes right now, I would say that God doesn’t want to know what you’ve been up to in Dallas!”

“Sir, it’s—”

Maria walked back through the door. Her gaze shot to Redfoot, then Matt, then back to Redfoot. “We can go,” she said.

Redfoot knew Maria didn’t like the fact that he’d had a talk with her young man, but Maria hadn’t liked it when he wouldn’t let her stay out past midnight at seventeen. She hadn’t liked it when he’d forbidden her to wear those itsy-bitsy bathing suits the guys always liked. Point was, sometimes fathers had to do things that didn’t make their daughters happy.

Jose pushed the air bag out of his face and sat there for a good five minutes assessing every twinge and pain he felt. He could taste blood, but he was pretty sure it was dripping into his mouth from where he’d hit his head.

Reaching up, relieved he could move without agony, he felt his scalp. From what he could feel, the cut was small, the goose egg not so much. But he hadn’t passed out. He didn’t feel dizzy. Probably no concussion. He moved all his limbs, and nothing felt broken.

“Damn lucky,” he muttered, realizing he’d ended up about twenty feet into the woods. He opened the car door. The entire car leaned to the left.

Still dazed, he half-rolled out of the vehicle and landed in a patch of thick vegetation. He pushed himself up, perched on his hands and knees, and stayed like that for a second, making sure his back and neck weren’t hurt. No serious pains shot through his body. Then he felt it: a stinging in his ankles. A burning sensation that crawled up his pant legs.

“Shit!” He recognized that pain. Leaping up, he kicked off his shoes and started slapping at his legs. Luck would have it that after a damn car accident he’d find himself belly-up in a freaking fire-ant bed.

He took off running, stopping every few steps to slap at his calves, hoping to stop the ants from moving upward—ants that were at this moment sending shots of painful poison into his skin. The stinging made its way up his thighs. Sneaky bastards traveled at amazing speeds in tight places. Not wanting to suffer the bites to his crotch, he started shucking his pants. Unfortunately, his foot got caught in the leg of his jeans. He fell. Hard. Landed facedown in a briar bush. Luckily, the thorns missed his eyes, but his nose wasn’t so lucky. And that’s when he heard it: a slight rustle in the bushes right in front of him.

He pushed up on his elbows and came nose to nose with a pair of beady eyes. The animal did a half circle in a flicker of a second. Jose recognized the black-and-white markings. He screamed and rolled over three times, landing on his back, but it was too damn late. The skunk spray got him and got him good. He closed his eyes to fight the nausea. When he opened them, he saw the town’s water tower lighting up the sky like a beacon. He read the words painted upon it in huge purple letters:

Jose dropped his head back in the dirt. Lying there with thorns sticking out of his nose, his head bleeding from what could have been a fatal crash, his pants around his knees while fire ants munched on his balls, he tried to not puke from the smell of the skunk. His gaze shifted back to the water tower. “Good to be home,” he seethed.

Sky studied Shala in the passenger seat, her head leaning back against the headrest, her eyes closed. He couldn’t tell if she was sleeping, but he didn’t doubt it. She’d had a hell of a day. They’d given her a pain pill to help her sleep.

Remembering her earlier remark about being hungry, he’d dropped about ten bucks in the vending machine and gotten chips, cheese and crackers, a candy bar, and a pack of cookies before they left the hospital. Shala had devoured the cheese and crackers before they even got to his truck. He remembered the dog snagging her lunch at the park, and he wondered if she’d eaten anything all day. She hadn’t eaten the omelet he made her. Too bad the closest all-night restaurant was an hour’s drive away.

Feeling the hole in his stomach, he opened the Snickers bar, ate, watched Shala, and drove. Admittedly, he did more watching her than anything else, which caused him
to almost run one of the two stoplights they had in town. But damn, she looked sweet sitting there. He fought the urge to reach over and pass the back of his hand over her cheek, fought the idea of driving her back to his place and insisting she stay with him. He’d sleep on the sofa, if she wanted. Not that the other option wouldn’t be a lot more fun.

He’d bet she wouldn’t be in the mood, though. Women weren’t like men, who’d never let something as small as twenty-six stitches get in the way of sex. Especially first-time sex. A man could lose a foot and still be up for some first-time action. And if it was good, he’d be up for more.

Realizing his thoughts were affecting him more than he wished, he adjusted the crotch of his jeans and attempted to push back his inappropriate lust. But his gaze caught on Shala again, asleep, warm, soft, and so damn touchable, and he decided that maybe he should cut himself a little slack. It was—he glanced at the radio’s clock—two
A.M.,
and beside him slept a woman who was hotter than Helios. Considering he hadn’t had sex in months, he deserved some slack. And she found him equally attractive. Wasn’t that a good thing? But again came that voice from earlier, the one that said he was playing with fire. And his concern didn’t all stem from Redfoot’s soul-mate nonsense, but also from how easily and powerfully she’d gotten under his skin.

His phone rang. Shala’s eyes shot open and she sat up, looking disoriented. He touched her shoulder and then grabbed his cell. “Just my phone.”

He glanced at the clock again. Who would be calling at this time? He’d checked in with the nurse before he’d left, so he doubted the call involved Redfoot.

“Damn.” The caller ID said it was Martha on the 911 number.

Jose, wearing one shoe, with a cloud of stench following him, his lower extremities on fire from ant bites, and his forehead bleeding, made his way the mile and a half to Redfoot’s home. There, he rang the doorbell and prayed.

No one answered. Thank God and hallelujah. As he’d hoped, Maria had stayed at the hospital. Walking off the porch, looking for the fake rock in the flower bed, he removed the spare key from its hidden compartment. It had lain in the same rock for sixteen years. His mother’s idea.

God, he still missed his mother. She’d been the one sane thing in the otherwise-crazy life here.

Letting himself in, he headed right for the kitchen and prayed his dad’s liquor cabinet was stocked. He pushed the Jack Daniel’s, the tequila, and the expensive bottle of scotch to the back and thanked the heavens when he spotted the V8. But there were only two bottles, not nearly enough to kill the skunk stench.

Damn. He started to close the door when, on second thought, he grabbed the whiskey, unscrewed the top, tossed it across the room, and took a big gulp. It didn’t burn near as bad as his balls.

Stumbling to the master bathroom, he stood staring at the shower. He needed a tub. He needed to soak in what juice he had to get the smell off. Thus, he turned around and headed to the bathroom with the tub: Maria’s.

One step into her room, his gaze shot to the bed where they’d made love numerous times. It had been good, too. A smile threatened to wipe the scowl off his face when he spotted the romance novels on her nightstand. She’d never change.

He moved into the bathroom and stripped off his clothes, stuffed them into the plastic bag that lined the garbage can, and tied it in a knot. He hoped like hell he could find some of his old clothes, or he’d be making
the hike back to his car wearing the pink nubby housecoat that hung on the door.

Two measly bottles of juice he had to bathe in. He needed more. At last he remembered hearing another remedy for removing skunk smell: women’s douche. Something about the vinegar and odor eliminator. Desperate, he looked toward the cabinets. Maria had regularly used one after having sex. What was the chance she’d have some now? Was she having sex? Even though he could really use the stuff to remove the stench, he hoped like hell her cabinet was douche-free.

He opened the first cabinet and smiled when all he saw were tampons and her makeup case. He moved to the second. His smile took a hike, and he took a swig of whiskey. There, lined up like soldiers waiting for action, were six Summer’s Eve bottles, in the Sweet Romance fragrance. The real kicker, however, was tucked in the back: a thirty-six pack of extra-large strawberry-scented French-tickler rubbers.

Extra large? Who
was
the bastard? Jose considered all the men living in town that he thought were available. Couldn’t be more than six possibilities. Then the craziest thought shot through his head. Sky? No, Sky wouldn’t do that. Sky was her foster brother. “Just like you are, idiot!”

He took a two-shot swig of whiskey, then another when he saw his reflection in the mirror. What a fucking reflection. Leaning against the counter, he touched the blood-streaked goose egg on his head. Ouch! Both his eyes had half-moon bruises, and he counted at least a half dozen thorns sticking out of his face. He tried to pull one out, but that seemed to only push it deeper. He needed tweezers.

He’d just started to search the bathroom when he remembered he really needed to get the skunk off him. Grabbing all six douches, he tossed them beside the tub and placed the whiskey down, too. He set the stopper in the tub and climbed his bare ass inside.

Opening the V8, he poured one bottle of juice and then the other over his head, then scrubbed it into his scalp. He didn’t know if it was cutting the smell or not, but he wished he had a shot of vodka, celery stick, and a lime. He reached for a bottle of douche, found the whiskey instead. Good enough.

After two more good long swigs, he leaned back in the tub and started thinking about Maria again. Was her relationship serious? Shit! He hadn’t decided that trying to patch things up was right, but he’d sure as hell wanted the option. Realizing how egotistical that sounded, he downed another long drink. The buzz of the whiskey through his veins made the fire-ant bites on his legs and balls hurt less, so he downed a few more swigs.

Remembering what he was supposed to be doing, he grabbed the first bottle of douche and squeezed the fresh-scented liquid over his chest. It actually smelled pretty good, so he went for the second. That’s when the bathroom door swung open, and Maria and some white boy with sandy-colored hair—obviously the extra-large-tickler-condom wearer—stood gaping at his naked ass soaking in a half-inch tub of V8 juice, holding a bottle a Jack in one hand while squirting himself with Sweet Romance–scented douche with the other. Oh, and don’t forget the thorns in his nose or the black eyes.

From the cleaning materials the pair held over their heads, he figured they expected to find a rabid skunk and not a naked man. Maria dropped the mop, but white boy held tight to his broom. Jose drew the whiskey back to his lips.

Welcome to fucking Precious,
he thought.

Sky stood two feet away from Shala, who stood in the hotel parking lot staring at the smashed windows of her Honda. He expected her to start crying at any minute. Not that he considered her weak or an easy crier, but she’d
come close several times, and this just might be what tossed her over the edge.

Sal’s wife Jessie had called 911 when she saw what was going down in the parking lot. Martha had called Sky. Sal was now standing a car length away, as if scared Shala would turn on him for having allowed this to happen at his hotel. Who’d known his friend was a wuss?

“You okay?” Sky asked Shala.

She continued to stare, her arms folded tight across her chest. She slowly met his eyes. “Whoever named this town Precious needs to friggin’ be castrated.”

Maybe it was the blue fire in her eyes, maybe it was the emotion she put in the word
friggin
’, but odds were, it was probably the word
castrated.
Sky instantly decided Sal was simply being cautious.

Shala took a step toward Sky, and it took courage not to retreat. If looks could kill, he wasn’t sure anyone would find enough body parts to identify him.

“I want whoever did this to pay!” she said. “I want him caught. I want him arrested. I want him castrated right along with the person who named this town!”

Yup, it was definitely the word
castrated.

As she spun and shot off toward the hotel, it might not have been smart, but he caught up with her. “Shala, we need—”