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The Nurse's Not-So-Secret Scandal
Wendy S. Marcus
Between family nightmares and a series of lousy guys, nurse Roxie Morano’s life is a disaster zone.But enigmatic (and gorgeous!) new colleague Ryan �Fig’ Figelstein is ignoring her hazard warnings – instead, he’s signalling his attraction!Now Roxie’s bulletproof heart is at risk…but dare she dream Fig will stick around when he discovers all her secrets?
Praise for Wendy S. Marcus:
�Readers are bound to feel empathy
for both the hero and heroine. Each has a uniquely
disastrous past, and these complications help to
make the moment when Jared and Allison are able to
give their hearts to the other all the more touching.’
—RT Book Reviews on WHEN ONE NIGHT ISN’T ENOUGH, (4 stars)
Dear Reader
This is the third and final (at least for now) book in my Madrin Memorial Hospital series: Roxie’s story. If you’re unfamiliar with the first two books, please check out Book One, Allison’s story, WHEN ONE NIGHT ISN’T ENOUGH, and Book Two, Victoria’s story, ONCE A GOOD GIRL …
For me, a story builds from a few random ideas—usually jotted down on napkins, receipts, and/or scraps of paper that clutter my pocketbook and desk. After I come up with a few key scenes, and figure out the basics of what I want to happen in the beginning, middle and end, I start to flesh out my characters.
This is my favourite part of the writing process. Beyond their physical characteristics, I delve into their pasts. I create their personalities and mannerisms, their goals and motivations. And the more time I spend with them, the more real they become—to the point where they often take on a life of their own, sending my story in a direction different from the one I’d originally intended.
All three women in this series had difficult childhoods, and had to overcome many obstacles on their way to becoming strong, self-sufficient, professional young nurses. I’m happy to have helped each of them find their happily-ever-after.
As I put the final touches on Roxie’s story I realised how much I’m going to miss spending my days (and nights) with my friends at Madrin Memorial Hospital. I hope you’ve enjoyed reading Allison, Victoria and Roxie’s stories as much as I’ve enjoyed writing them.
I love to hear from readers. Please visit me at www.WendySMarcus.com
Wishing you all good things.
Wendy S. Marcus
The Nurse’s
Not-So-Secret
Scandal
Wendy S. Marcus
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
Dedication:
This book is dedicated to my dear neighbors,
Grisel DeLoe and D. David Dick, two of my biggest
supporters, and a heck of a lot of fun to celebrate with.
(Although after my 4 star RT Book Reviews celebration I had some trouble getting started the next day!) I love you both. And if you try to sell your house I may have to resort to vandalism. You have been warned!
With special thanks to:
Grisel and her sister, Ivette Vazquez,
who answered my last-minute cries for help
with some Spanish translations. Your e-mails made me
laugh out loud. Even at three in the morning.
You are one hysterical woman. Any mistakes are my own.
My editor, Flo Nicoll, who encourages me,
puts up with me and always pushes me to do my best.
I am so lucky to have you.
My wonderful friends, old and new, who have
purchased my books, written reviews, and/or attended
my book signings. You know who you are.
And to my husband and children for loving me,
cooking for me and making me laugh. (And for
not saying one negative word when I spent a weekend
in my pajamas and didn’t shower for almost
three whole days while under deadline to finish this book.)
CHAPTER ONE
“IT’S not Roxie,” 5E head nurse Victoria Forley insisted. The tiny brunette slammed the file in her hand onto her old metal desk. “She’s one of my best nurses, and a dear friend. I trust her implicitly. This is absolutely ridiculous.”
“Calm down, honey,” her fiancé, Dr. Kyle Karlinsky, said as he wrapped his large arm around her narrow shoulders. “We’ll figure it out.”
Ryan “Fig” Figelstein leaned against the door frame of Victoria’s fifth-floor office, watching the cozy scene. An observer. An outsider in his best friend’s new life.
Kyle shot over the look that more often than not got Fig into some kind of trouble and added, “And Fig will help us.”
“Ooohhh, no.” Fig held up both hands. “Come see where I work, you said, just for a few minutes.” Kyle knew how much Fig hated hospitals. The smells. The sounds. The isolation and deprivation. He staved off a shudder.
“You okay?” Kyle asked, studying him, able to read Fig better than anyone.
“Yeah.” Fig pushed off the door frame and took a step into the tiny office. “So what’s your idea?” he asked to get the focus off of him.
“You’re here another week, right?” Kyle asked.
“That’s the plan.”
“It’s perfect.” Kyle rubbed his hands together.
Perfect would be them leaving the hospital. Now. Perfect would be an end to his mother’s constant telephone calls and ploys for his attention. Perfect would be some sense of normalcy in a life that was feeling increasingly out of his control.
“You hire on here. As the unit clerk.”
“Are you …?”
Before he could get out the word crazy Kyle added, “Just hear me out.” His voice took on that placating tone he used every time he set out to convince Fig to do something he didn’t want to do. Kyle removed his arm from Victoria and set his full attention on Fig. “You answer the phone, respond to the call bells, direct visitors.”
“It takes more than that…” Victoria started.
“And he watches Roxie and the narcotic cabinet,” Kyle added to silence her. “Each time she or someone else accesses it he’ll call you.”
“You’re brilliant,” Victoria said to Kyle with a big grin. Then she turned to Fig. “You have to take the job,” she pleaded. “Each day I have a different temp circulating through. I need a person I can trust to keep an eye on Roxie. Something’s going on. She’s been forgetful and distracted. She doesn’t have her normal spunk.”
Signs of drug abuse. Fig glanced at Kyle.
Victoria caught him. “She’s not on drugs. Please,” she said, looking up at Fig in that way women do when they have no intention of accepting no for an answer.
“I work with computers.” And he was damn good at it. In demand even. “I have a job.”
“But you can work anywhere,” Kyle pointed out, oh, so helpfully.
“I’m not a big fan of sick people,” he admitted. Some deep-seated fears were not easy to get past. “And I know nothing about being a unit clerk in a hospital.” Frankly, the thought of spending twelve captive hours in one left him cold and clammy.
“You’re not expected to have any physical contact with the patients. And I’ll train you myself,” Victoria said. “I’ll help out as much as I can and I’ll tell my nurses to pitch in, too. The narcotic cabinet is in a locked room right behind the desk where you’ll be sitting. All you need to do is report any suspicious behavior and I’ll check the Demerol count.”
“I’ve got an idea,” Fig said. “If you’re so certain Roxie had nothing to do with the missing drugs, why don’t you tell her what’s up and ask her if she knows anything?” Fig preferred the straightforward approach, hated when people danced around an issue.
“Normally I would, and as her friend I want to.” Victoria looked torn. “But my job requires I remain objective and investigate the matter fully. Which is what I’m trying to do. Please say you’ll help me.”
“We can spend more time together.” Kyle smiled. “And you’ll be earning nine dollars an hour to boot.”
Like Fig needed the money. “Seriously,” Kyle said. “This means a lot to Victoria so it means a lot to me. You’re here. You’re impartial. You have no vested interest in Roxie’s guilt or innocence.”
Now, that wasn’t entirely true. In the few hours he’d spent with her at last week’s Employee of the Month dinner to honor Kyle, Fig found Roxie to be a total hoot. He liked her. Really liked her. And would rather not participate in any activity that may turn out to be detrimental to her well-being. Not to mention after pulling a no-show for their date Friday night, Fig was not looking forward to Roxie setting eyes on his alive self. The woman had a sharp wit and, per her own admission, an even sharper temper.
But then Kyle added, “I trust you, my closest friend, to help prove Roxie’s innocence.”
And Fig was sunk. Over the past eight years—since rooming with Kyle at the physical rehab after his “accident”—Kyle had been like a brother, building Fig’s confidence and helping him through the most difficult time in his life. How could he say no to the man who’d improved his quality of life to the point it felt worth living?
“I know I’m going to regret this,” Fig conceded.
“So you’ll do it?” Victoria asked, cautiously optimistic.
“Yeah.”
“I’ll call Human Resources.” She picked up the phone. “You can start tomorrow.”
Terrific. For the next week Fig was stuck in the Podunk town of Madrin Falls in upstate New York—where he couldn’t even get a decent cup of coffee—filling in for the unit clerk on a busy medical-surgical floor at Madrin Memorial Hospital. What did he know about being a clerk? Nothing. But he’d seen enough of them in action to have a pretty good idea of what he’d need to do. And honestly, he was a college-educated professional. How hard could it be?
The next morning at the God-awful hour of way the hell too early, Fig set his two cups of cafeteria “coffee” on the table in the 5E nursing lounge and caught a glimpse of his reflection in the huge window. Obviously the hospital didn’t have many six-foot-four-inch unit clerks on staff, because the drab tan uniform jacket they expected him to wear fit like a bolero jacket with three-quarter sleeves.
He peeled it off and tossed it onto a chair. He jogged in place to work off some of his jitters. “You are not a patient,” he started his pep talk. “At the end of the day you get to go home.” He jumped three times and stretched out each shoulder. “You can do this.”
“Well, lookey here. All alone and talking to yourself. Psych ward’s on the fourth floor.”
He recognized the voice instantly. Roxie Morano. He turned to face her, so as not to leave his back open to attack. Purely precautionary.
“Jeez, woman.” He held his arm up to shield his eyes. “You’re an assault to early-morning vision.” While she wore the lavender scrubs that identified her as 5E nursing staff, she’d chosen a long-sleeve white turtleneck covered in small multicolored stars to go underneath her top. About a dozen colorful cartoon character pins adorned her left breast pocket—which covered an appealing, rounded breast. Red rectangular-framed glasses hung from a purple chain around her neck that tangled with the lime-green cord from which her chunky yellow pen hung. A bright red scrub jacket with bold pink, yellow and blue hearts lay draped over her arm. Farther down she had on red clogs that clashed with a few inches of exposed orange, green and yellow striped socks. Up on her head her kinky cream soda curls were pulled back in a thick, bright orange hair band.
Beyond the distraction of color, Fig took a moment to absorb the beauty of her smooth, tan skin, her warm brown eyes—that looked heavy with exhaustion rather than light with laughter like they’d been on the night they’d met—and the lusciousness of her perfect-for-him body.
“If it isn’t Ryan—my friends call me Fig—Figelstein.” She walked toward him. “I thought the deal was if you survived the week we’d head out to dinner to celebrate, Ryan.”
Okay. He got the emphasis she placed on Ryan. Point received. He’d have to work to earn back her favor. An effort well worth the anticipated payoff. Her. Naked. In his bed. Which, based on the heated attraction zipping and zapping between them last week, was where they’d been headed. If only someone else had been available to baby-sit Victoria’s son after the dinner. If only he hadn’t missed their date.
“When you didn’t come,” she continued, “I said a prayer, just like I’d promised. I even contemplated attending church on Sunday, and what a ruckus that would have caused.” She stalked toward him. “And here you are.” She looked him up and down. “Fit as a fiddle.”
Her cell phone rang. She looked at the number, let out a frustrated breath and turned away. “What?” she snapped into the device. “I told you no. My answer won’t change.” She listened. “Fine. Do what you have to do.” She slipped the phone back into her breast pocket and turned to him. “So, Ryan. I can’t begin to imagine what’s transpired to make a self-proclaimed computer genius, such as yourself, stoop to the role of hospital clerical worker.”
“Anything to get close to you,” he said. “So I could apologize for missing our date. Please, we’re friends. Call me Fig.” Only his mother called him Ryan, because she flat out refused to call him anything else. Ryan represented his old self. The child homeschooled because of his medical conditions, brainwashed to fear the world around him, the tentative, lonely teenager who lacked confidence and had no real friends. Fig—the nickname chosen by Kyle—fit his new and improved self. A man of character who chose to embrace life rather than hide from it, to experience life rather than watch others have all the fun.
With raised eyebrows and a taunting head tilt Roxie asked, “You think we’re friends, Ryan? I beg to differ.” She walked past him to a row of lockers and set to working the combination dial of the one on the end.
Fig took a step back so he could see inside, but she blocked the contents with her body.
He hated the position Victoria had put him in. While he liked watching Roxie—her butt, for example, which filled out the back of her scrub pants in all of its pleasing roundness, with not one panty line—watching her for anything other than his own personal enjoyment felt sneaky and underhanded. Two things Fig was not.
“You see, Ryan, my friends don’t lie to me or leave me waiting without so much as a telephone call to say that something came up or they’d received a better offer.”
“I didn’t …” No way she’d understand what having a mother like his was like. He didn’t want to talk about that night, just wanted to put it behind him. “I’m sorry.”
“Yes, Ryan. You are. Because you missed out on a good time.”
No doubt he had. For sure he would have much rather been with her than where he’d wound up.
“Such a pity.” After pushing her huge purple purse and a lunch sack into her locker, she pulled out a hot-pink stethoscope, popped a piece of gum into her mouth and closed the door. The next thing he knew she had her chest pressed to his and was leaning in close to his ear to whisper, “I’d put on my crotchless panties and peekaboo bra especially for you.”
He pulled her bottom half close. Could not stop himself. “I sure wish I’d been there to see them.” And enjoy them. He drew in her sensual scent. God help him he wanted her. While Kyle liked his women small, Fig liked �em tall and thin. Just like Roxie. He went for full body contact—skin to skin from head to toe.
At first she stood rigid, looking away from him. He slid his hands up her sides, teased the outer curve of each breast. She reacted, an infinitesimal softening, a barely noticeable exhalation, both of which he may have missed if he wasn’t so attuned to her. “You want me,” he observed.
“To move your hands,” she replied.
He did. To her upper back where he proceeded to hug her close. Her cell phone rang.
Dag-nab-it. He released her.
She took a step back—still not looking at him—set her stethoscope on the table and pulled out her phone to check the screen.
Fig forced himself to stop thinking about how good she’d felt pressed against him, how much he wanted to see her beautifully formed body in nothing but some sexy, barely there undergarments, and resumed focus on his mission—to determine if Roxie was the one responsible for 5E’s missing Demerol. While his brain made a smooth transition, his body was not so easily redirected.
Roxie returned the phone to her pocket without answering it, and, with a deep breath, she turned and headed for the door like she’d forgotten all about him. “Hey,” he called after her, holding up her stethoscope.
Seeing it, she snapped two fingers. “Right. I’ll be needing that.”
When she grabbed it he held on and waited for her to look him in the eye, making note that hers were bloodshot—damn. “I’m sorry you had to sit home on a Friday night because of me.”
She laughed. “Don’t kid yourself, Ryan. There are plenty of men who enjoy my company.” She stared him down. “Really enjoy it. And just because you weren’t up for a good time doesn’t mean I didn’t have one.” She yanked the stethoscope from his hand. Over her shoulder she said, “For the record, I never sit home on Friday or Saturday nights. Ever.”
Her phone buzzed.
She retrieved it and looked at the screen. “I hate men.” She glared at him. “I’m done with the lot of you. Every single one. So tell your kind to stay the hell away from me if they value their man-parts.” Then she slammed out the door.
Fig waited, wanting a little distance between Roxie and his man-parts. At least for now. He smiled, taking her words as more of a challenge than a warning.
Roxie burst out of the lounge, her heart pounding, rage coursing through her system. She looked at the text message, again: “It’s done.” “¡Coño!” And the colossal jerk had sent her the link. She eyed the darkened hallway of even-numbered rooms, wondering if she had the strength to hurl the phone hard enough to break through the reinforced glass window at the far end. The way she felt? Probably. But what would that solve?
The video was out there for anyone with a computer to see. Her friends. Her coworkers. Her family. Of course Roxie would shrug it off, make like she didn’t care. But she did. What went on in private between two consenting adults was supposed to be just that. Private. The thought of people watching, knowing, sat like a pregnant hippo on her chest.
Deep breath in. Deep breath out.
“The Lord doesn’t give us more than we can handle.” Roxie whispered her mantra of the past ten years and leaned her back against the wall, wishing He didn’t have so much confidence in her.
Each time she thought things couldn’t get worse something inevitably happened to prove her wrong. She slipped her hand into the pocket of her scrub coat and wrapped her fingers around the three cartridges of injectable Demerol. At least that she could fix before anyone found out.
Or so she’d thought until she reached the nurses’ station at the center of the H-shaped unit and froze. What was Victoria doing at work so early? And why was she verifying the narcotic count with the night shift? The hippo gave birth to twins that landed heavily on her gut and set off a tumultuous, acidic churn. There’d be no hiding her stupidity now. Victoria was going to be livid.
“You okay?” Fig stopped beside her, standing way too close. She took the opportunity to draw on his calm and confidence to rejuvenate her dwindling supply.
“Just fine.” Always fine. Fine. Fine. Fine. Roxie hoped if she said it enough it would turn out to be true.
“You’re looking pale.”
“We Latinos don’t pale,” she snapped. Not like him. Did the man ever get out in the sun? She looked up at the strong features of his handsome face and the rounded smoothness of his enticingly bald head. Actually had to look up. How often did that happen? At just under six feet, Roxie was usually the tallest person in the room. Aside from the fact she’d had a terrible day with her mom and had been really looking forward to their night out, his height played a small part in why she’d been so angry about being stood up. In search of the perfect shoes to wear on their date, actual heels, Roxie had torn through dozens of stores, had spent hours looking. Did he have any idea how difficult it’d been to find a pair of hot-pink glossy patent-leather peep-toe platform pumps? In a size thirteen? When would she ever have another opportunity to wear them?
“Hey, Rox,” one of the night nurses called out from room 504. “Would you help me out? I need to get home on time today.”
“Sure thing.” Roxie glanced at the schedule board across from the nurses’ station to confirm her assignment. District one. As usual. Even-numbered rooms 502–508. Eight beds. Two empty, awaiting new admission post-ops. One pre-op due in the operating room at 7:30 a.m. She glanced at the clock, 6:45, then turned to Fig. “When Victoria’s done would you tell her I need to speak with her? It’s important.”
“My first official unit-clerk task.” He lifted his pad and pen and wrote something down. “I’m on it.”
Then Roxie got to work, assisted her colleague, took a quick report and sent her pre-op patient off to the O.R. On her morning round each of her patients had a problem. Pain. High blood pressure. Low blood pressure. Hypoglycemia. Constipation. Fever. An infiltrated IV. And two saturated dressings.
Finally, by 11:00 a.m. she had everyone settled and could take a quick break for some much-needed sustenance. Only, on her way to the nurses’ lounge she met up with a recovery room nurse pushing a sleeping patient in her direction. “You’re supposed to call first,” Roxie said.
“I did,” the plump nurse at the head of the stretcher said. “The guy who answered said to come on up.”
Roxie glared at Fig. “The floor nurse gives approval to accept patients from the recovery room. Not you,” she told him.
“Oops. Duly noted,” Fig answered, making a note on his stupid pad. “It won’t happen again.”
She eyed the girth of her new patient and looked back over to Fig. “Make yourself useful. Come help us transfer this patient to her bed.” May as well see if those muscles worked as good as they looked.
Fig stood, something strangely uncertain in his expression.
“No,” Victoria said from behind him. “He’s here as a unit clerk. The only contact he’s to have with patients is from behind this desk.”
What the …?
Roxie’s stomach growled. She didn’t have time for this nonsense. “All available hands to 502A,” she called out. “Chop-chop, ladies. My blood sugar is starting to drop.” That was sure to get their attention. No one wanted a cranky Roxie around.
With the recovery room nurse’s help Roxie lined the stretcher up next to the bed and locked the wheels on both. “Welcome to 5E, Mrs. Flynn,” she said to her new patient. “My name is Roxie Morano and I’ll be your nurse until seven o’clock this evening.” She raised the bed so it was the same height as the stretcher, transferred the bag of IV fluid to the bed pole and placed the catheter drainage bag by the patient’s feet so it didn’t pull during transfer. As the recovery room nurse gave report, Roxie checked the patient’s right-sided chest dressing, which was covered by a surgical bra, and inspected the drains and tubing.
“Fifty-nine-year-old, morbidly obese female. Status post right-sided modified radical mastectomy.”
Roxie noted the drainage in each of the two bulbs, labeled R1 and R2, to establish a baseline and pulled her report sheet—which contained pertinent information on each of her patients—from her pocket. She unfolded the paper and set it on the over-the-bed table. In the blank box reserved for room 502A she wrote in the patient’s name and diagnosis, last set of vitals and time of last dose of pain medication. Then she jotted down her observations. Patient arousable to verbal stimuli. Catheter draining clear yellow urine. Dressing clean, dry and intact. Drains to self-suction with scant red drainage in each. IV infusing to left forearm.
When Victoria and Ali—her other best friend and the nurse working in the district next to hers—arrived to help, Roxie directed, “One on the stretcher side, one over here by me.” She stood on the side of the bed, at the patient’s upper body, so she’d be responsible for pulling the heaviest part of her. As her colleagues got into position Roxie spoke to her patient. “We’re going to slide you onto the bed, Mrs. Flynn.”
The groggy woman nodded in understanding.
“Keep your hands at your sides and let us do all the work,” Roxie instructed.
Each staff member grabbed a hunk of the bottom sheet.
“Everyone ready?” Roxie locked eyes with each woman. Just last week a patient on 4B fell between the stretcher and the bed during a transfer, suffering a severe hip fracture as a result. Not on Roxie’s watch. “On my count of three. One. Two. Three.”
Using every bit of strength she possessed, Roxie pulled. If the grunts around her meant anything, her coworkers were giving it all they had, too. Yet the patient barely budged.
Fig entered the room.
Victoria told him to leave.
“What kind of man would I be if I let four lovely ladies struggle when I could help?”
“Are you sure?” Victoria asked, handing him a pair of latex gloves from the box on the wall.
“Scoot over.” He squeezed between Roxie and Ali, bumping Roxie’s hip with his as he did. “Now tell me what to do,” he said as he put on the gloves.
“Ball the sheet like this.” Roxie showed him her hands. “Tight.”
He took the sheet in his large hands. She remembered how they’d felt on her body, holding her just a few hours earlier, and realized how much she’d like to feel them again—and in more places. She shook her head to clear her thoughts.
“And on the count of three,” she continued, “we pull and they—” she motioned to the women on the other side of the stretcher with her chin “—push.”
“Got it,” Fig said, testing his grip on the sheet, looking so cute in his concentration.
“Everyone ready?” Roxie asked again and waited for each woman and Fig to respond in the affirmative. “On my count of three. One. Two. Three.”
Again Roxie pulled as hard as she could, and this time the patient slid toward her like she was on plastic liner slick with baby oil.
“Wow. You are a strong one,” Roxie said to Fig.
He smiled, a genuinely pleased smile, and winked. “Remember that.” He moved closer on his way to discard his gloves in the trash can and whispered, “Dream about it.”
“As if any part of you registers with my subconscious.” Especially not his head—in the dream where she was a cat sleeping curled around it. Or his fair skin—in the dream where they’d lounged by a pool and she’d rubbed him with suntan lotion—repeatedly—to protect him from the harsh rays of the sun. Or his laugh, or the teasing twinkle in his green eyes, or the contagious smile that brightened his handsome face.
Something about him had made her feel safe, like she could let her guard down. Thank goodness she hadn’t. He also made her want…things she didn’t usually crave without a couple of beers on board. Was it his slow, laid-back demeanor and quiet confidence? His quick, dry sense of humor? His build—a perfect complement to her large frame? His distinctive look or his air of reserved power?
Whatever it was, it gave her an unsettling schoolgirl crush sort of feeling. And Roxie didn’t like it. In her experience men were unreliable, opportunistic and good for one thing only—sex. Add in emotion and the fun factor took a nosedive.
“Thank you, everyone,” she said.
Fig didn’t move.
“Back to work, you,” she said, using her hands to shoo him along. “I hear a phone ringing.”
He turned his back to the patient and leaned toward her. “Your mom called,” he said quietly. “She sounded upset.”
Last night had been particularly difficult. Roxie hated to leave for work this morning but what else could she do? They both depended on her income.
“She said she couldn’t find the knobs for the stove,” he added.
Duh. Because last week she hadn’t turned off a burner, which caused the macaroni and cheese she’d made to burn and spew the smoke that prompted their obnoxious, constantly complaining neighbor to call the fire department. Which was the reason every damn thing in her not-so-terrific life had gone from “barely tolerable but afloat” to “she’s taking on water!” fast approaching “she’s going down. Abandon ship.”
“There’s a perfectly logical explanation for that,” Roxie said. “Which is none of your business. Next time tell her to call my cell.” She turned to her patient.
Fig reached for her arm to stop her. “She told me she’d tried but you didn’t answer,” he whispered.
What? Roxie always answered Mami’s calls. She patted her breast pocket. Empty. Jammed her hands into both scrub coat pockets, rummaged through their contents. Bandage scissors. Alcohol prep pads. Tape. Three injectable Demerol cartridges. Damn it, she needed to get in to talk to Victoria. Two paperclips. Three pens. A box of thermometer probes. A roll of candies. And a breakfast bar she hadn’t had time to eat.
No phone.
She yanked her hands out so fast something went flying. A pen? It rolled under the bedside stand. She’d get it later. “Shoot. Where the heck did I leave my phone?” Mami panicked if she couldn’t reach her. How long had it been since she’d called?
Roxie bent to look under the bed.
“Hot-pink with crystals, right?” Fig asked.
“Yeah.”
“I’ll keep an eye out for it.”
“Thanks.”
“And you got these.” He handed her some slips of pink paper from his pocket.
She looked at the male names on each of six message slips. So they’d seen the video. Perverts. She ripped the papers in half and tossed them in the trash. “Anything else?” she asked, losing patience, wanting to get finished admitting her patient so she could call home then find her phone. Which contained that link she should have deleted upon receipt.
“You okay?”
“I’m fine.” Always fine. Fine. Fine. Fine.
After getting her new patient settled Roxie took a minute to use a phone at the nurses’ station. “Hola, Mami.”
She started to cry.
“No. Please don’t cry. You don’t need the stove. I left you a sandwich in the refrigerator.”
“I want to make hard-boiled eggs,” her mother said.
“It’s egg salad. Your favorite.”
“Que buena hija. You’re a good daughter.”
“Gracias. Look, I have to get back to work. I misplaced my phone. If you need me call the floor and Fig will get me.”
Nothing.
“Okay, Mami?”
“Okay,” she said, her mouth full. “It’s good. I was hungry.”
Roxie smiled. “Be careful getting back to bed. I’ll come straight home after work.” She hung up the phone, dropped her head and let out a sigh of relief.
When she looked up her eyes met Fig’s. “If my mom calls back …”
“I’ll come find you,” he finished.
“Thanks.” Her stomach growled.
“Go eat. If any of your patients buzz I’ll have Ali or Victoria check on them.”
“I think I will.” She stood. Swayed. Grabbed on to the counter to steady herself at the same time Fig reached for her. “Wow. Looks like the tank is empty. Time to refuel.”
“Is that all it is?” Fig asked, looking concerned. And … suspect?
“Do you have any idea how many calories it takes to run this body?” she asked. “I skipped breakfast this morning. And, thanks to you, worked through my break.” She lifted a shaky hand to flatten her hair. “I’m fine.” Always fine. Fine. Fine. Fine.
“I’ll walk you to the lounge,” Fig offered.
She pulled her elbow out of his loose hold. “Don’t be ridiculous.” She exited the nurses’ station, her head feeling disconcertingly foggy. Maintaining focus on the lounge door, she took deep breaths, concentrated on each step and willed her body to continue moving forward. Passing out at work would not be a good thing.
Two bottles of chocolate milk and two bologna-and-cheese sandwiches on rye later, Roxie felt back to her usual self. And ready to tackle Victoria before returning to her patients.
Just outside the open door to Victoria’s office, Roxie heard Fig talking. “You have your proof right there,” he said. “You asked me to watch her and I did. She showed up to work with bloodshot eyes, forgot her stethoscope in the nurses’ lounge and misplaced her phone—which the pharmacy tech found in the med cart.”
A flush of anger heated Roxie’s skin. Fig was reporting her activities to Victoria, who had asked him to watch her? Why?
“And she almost passed out at the nurses’ station not fifteen minutes ago,” he went on. “I think it’s time to switch your focus from trying to find Roxie innocent to figuring out a way to help her out of this mess.”
Find Roxie innocent of what? Help her out of what mess? Exactly how much did they know about what was going on in her life? She walked into the office and with narrowed eyes looked from Victoria—sitting behind her desk, prim and professional—to Fig, looking all relaxed in the one chair across from Victoria. “What mess might that be?” she asked Fig. “And you hired him to watch me?” she asked Victoria. “Why?”
Victoria looked down at her desk at a lone cartridge of injectable Demerol.
Roxie slid her hand into her pocket and found only two of the three that had been there earlier.
Not good.
CHAPTER TWO
ROXIE withdrew her hand from her pocket and held out what Fig assumed were the other two missing doses of Demerol in her palm. He admired her calm.
“I was planning to tell you today. I asked Fig to relay the message I needed to talk to you.” She looked over at him.
He nodded.
Apparently Victoria didn’t care. She looked up at Roxie. “You altered the narcotic count,” she accused.
“Yes.” Roxie hung her head. “But I can explain.”
“You altered the narcotic count,” Victoria said again. A bit louder this time. “There is no explanation to justify what you did. This is grounds for termination, you know. And there’s not a thing I can do to help you. This will follow you around, Roxie. You could lose your nursing license. What were you thinking?”
“Whoa.” Panic flashed in Roxie’s eyes. “Can’t we keep this between us?”
“No, we can’t keep this between us,” Victoria snapped. “Because someone or a group of someones have been tampering with the narcotic-distribution system in the hospital. A pharmacist identified the inaccurate count as part of a hospital-wide investigation.”
That was a pretty important chunk of information she’d neglected to share.
Roxie looked ready to collapse.
Fig stood. “Here.” He motioned to his chair. “Sit.”
“Why, thank you,” she said sarcastically, looking ready to show her appreciation by slamming him into the wall and jamming her knee into his groin. “If you’d have come to me,” she hissed under her breath as she moved past him, “instead of tattling to the boss I could have fixed this.”
“No, you couldn’t have,” Victoria said. “And don’t be mad at Fig. He only did what I asked him to do.”
“A rare thing, a man who does what you ask him to,” Roxie said to Victoria. “Lucky me you found one.”
Fig felt like the low-life informant who’d deceived a friend. Because, in essence, he had.
“Tell me what happened,” Victoria said.
“Does he need to be here?” Roxie asked.
No he didn’t. Fig stepped toward the door, welcoming the chance to escape.
“Yes,” Victoria said. He stopped. “As an impartial witness to our conversation.”
Great. There was that word impartial again. The more he heard it, the more he realized he wasn’t impartial at all. He wanted to help Roxie, wanted to erase the anger, frustration and sadness he’d noticed in her expression since early that morning, and bring back the fun-loving woman with the beautiful smile and infectious laugh from the night they’d first met.
“Fine,” Roxie said, not looking at him. “The attending suspects my patient in 508B is a malingerer probably addicted to his pain meds. He reports intractable back pain yet all his diagnostic testing since admission has been negative or within normal limits. Every time the doctor tries to change over from IM Demerol to oral pain meds, the patient balks and is on the call bell every five minutes. Mention detox and he turns irate and verbally abusive.”
“I’m aware of the situation,” Victoria said.
“Late Friday night the doctor ordered the patient’s doses of IM Demerol to be alternated with a placebo of IM sterile normal saline. The next morning—when I came on duty—it didn’t take the patient long to figure it out and demand to see the syringe before I injected him. So I kept a Demerol cartridge in my pocket to show him. Then, each time he was scheduled to receive the placebo, I switched it out at the last second. It was not easy to do, I tell you.”
“And you forgot to put the Demerol back,” Victoria said.
Roxie nodded. “Luckily—” she looked between him and Victoria with sad eyes “—or unluckily, as it turns out, I was assigned to narcotic count Saturday night.”
“But incoming shift is supposed to count and outgoing shift records.”
“I can be very persuasive when I want to be.” Her lips twitched into a tiny hint of a smile. “Anyway, I knew the Demerol was in my scrub jacket, which was out at the desk at the time. I increased the number in the box of Demerol by one, planning to return it before I left. Then my mother called.” Roxie let out a breath. “And I had to rush home. Sunday morning I was running late, and I bolted out of the house, leaving it safely tucked away in my dresser.”
“So you altered the count again.”
“What else could I do?”
“How about talk to me?” Victoria asked, her anger evident. “Warn me the count was off so I wasn’t completely blindsided.”
“I’m sorry. I screwed up.”
“How did you wind up with the other two?” Victoria asked without acknowledging Roxie’s apology.
“More of the same. I was rushing. Then they got misplaced.”
“You misplaced three doses of Demerol?”
“No.” Roxie shook her head. “Only two.” Like that made it okay. “The third,” she went on, “was my mistake. I’d thought it was a normal saline in my pocket, but it turned out to be a Demerol.”
“What is going on with you?” Victoria yelled.
Roxie shrugged and looked down at her lap.
Both women sat in silence until Roxie asked, “What happens now? Should I finish my shift or clean out my locker and head home?”
“Let me talk to the director and explain what happened. You returned the missing meds. Maybe …”
Fig interrupted. “Just to play devil’s advocate for a second.” He moved out of Roxie’s reach, which was no small feat in the tiny office. “How do we know there’s actual Demerol in those things and she didn’t refill them with water?”
Rage flared in Roxie’s eyes. She jumped up from her chair, whipped a plastic contraption from her pocket and grabbed the fluid-filled cartridges from Victoria’s desk. “How about I inject all three of them into your lily-white gluteus maximus and you can vouch for their potency right before you lapse into a coma?” She inserted one of the cylinders into the injection device and took a step toward him.
“Stop it, Roxie.” Tiny Victoria launched herself between them. “This isn’t helping.”
“But maybe it will make me feel better,” she said. Then she looked at Fig. Challenging him. “You want to know for sure what’s in this syringe?” She held it up, speaking slow and calm. “Drop your pants.”
“The hospital is investigating medication tampering.” Fig held Roxie’s arms to keep her away from him. “Those cartridges left the hospital. I’m just posing the potential for substitution that any good investigator would acknowledge,” he defended his question.
“He’s right,” Victoria agreed.
Roxie backed down and surprised him by starting to laugh. Not a happy laugh. Rather the kind of laugh that happens when things are so bad if you don’t laugh you’ll cry. He knew it well.
Roxie collapsed into the chair, tears streaming down her cheeks. “The irony is too much.” She could barely get the words out. “I tell that idiot no.” She took a deep breath, blotted her eyes with a tissue Victoria handed her and started to laugh some more. “I get blackmailed. I still say no, so he posts the video on some porn site.” She laughed even harder. “And I’m accused of tampering with narcotics, and I’m getting fired, anyway.” The laughing was so loud people up and down the hallway outside had to be wondering what was going on.
“Wait a minute,” Fig said, remembering Roxie’s phone conversation from earlier that morning. I told you no. My answer won’t change. Fine. Do what you have to do. “Someone’s blackmailing you?”
“Not anymore.” The thought seemed to sober her. She inhaled deeply then exhaled as if trying to blow out any lingering giggles. “And it’s all your fault.” She gave him the stink eye.
What? “My fault?”
“If you’d have taken me out on Friday night like you were supposed to, I wouldn’t have gone home with Johnny-the-jerk, who, come to find out, had his bedroom outfitted with cameras so he could videotape our little interlude.”
“Who is Johnny-the-jerk?” Victoria asked.
“I’m guessing he’s somehow involved with the hospital’s drug tampering problem because after the deed was done—” she looked at Fig and emphasized “—twice, he used his tape to try to coerce me into substituting his bootlegged pills for real narcotics. He said the packaging was almost identical and no one would know. I told him I would know and I wouldn’t do it.”
“You mean you can identify him?” Victoria asked.
“I’m guessing you can, too, if you check out our video.”
Victoria recoiled.
At least Fig could help with that. Computers were his thing. Audio. Video. Programing. Networking. Hacking. You name it. If there’s a way to track this guy, to catch him and make him pay, Fig could do it. “Do you have the link?” he asked Roxie.
“On my cell phone, wherever that is.”
Fig reached into his pocket and handed it to her. She pressed a few buttons and held up the screen to him. “May I use your computer?” he asked Victoria.
“To go to a pornography website?” She paled. “Use my laptop.” She took it out of her briefcase, placed it on her desk and booted it up. Then she stood so Fig could take her chair.
He typed in the link. A few seconds later Roxie’s voice called out through the speakers. “Harder,” she demanded. Fig fumbled to find the volume. “Yeah, baby. That’s how I like it.”
Just as he’d thought, Roxie was as take-charge in the bedroom as she appeared to be in every other aspect of her life. It’d take a strong man to stay in control. Anticipation of the challenge excited him.
Until the slam of Victoria’s office door reminded him where he was.
“Do you have to be so loud?” Victoria chastised Roxie.
Fig didn’t mind loud as long as the volume was attached to moans and screams of delight.
“Did you honestly think I’d be quiet in the bedroom?” she asked with a hint of a playful smile.
Fig muted the computer. “Twenty-seven minutes,” he commented about the length of the video, giving a nod of approval.
“Not my best night,” Roxie joked.
Fig relaxed a bit.
“Almost eighty thousand views in the six hours your video’s been up on this site.”
“Delinquents, all of them,” Roxie said, standing up and walking over to stand beside him. “What are all those people doing home during the day? Shouldn’t they be working?”
“Degenerates is more like it,” Victoria said, looking uncomfortable. “Can you make out the man’s face?” she asked Fig.
“Five stars,” he noted instead, impressed.
“I bet you’re regretting standing me up on Friday night.” Roxie nudged his shoulder with her hip.
More than he regretted just about anything else.
“Standing her up? You didn’t tell her what happened?” Victoria asked.
“No.” And Victoria had better not say anything, either.
“Tell me what?” Roxie asked.
The last thing he wanted her thinking was he was some sort of pansy mama’s boy, running home every time she called. “Nothing,” Fig said and flashed Victoria a “keep quiet” look.
“But …”
“Woo wee,” Roxie cut Victoria off. She leaned in close to the laptop. “I look good on screen.”
Yes, she did. And since she didn’t seem at all upset about the video, Fig commented, too. “You have an amazing ass.”
Victoria sucked in an affronted breath.
“It’s one of my best features,” Roxie replied proudly. She had quite a few other mighty-fine features. Fig tilted his head to get a better look at one, watched her lift her long, smooth leg. No way. She couldn’t possibly … She did.
“You liking what you see?” Roxie’s voice turned sexy. Alluring.
Heck yeah! But Fig thought it best not to mention how much.
As if Roxie knew, she bent close to his ear and whispered, “Then I suggest you download my video so you can watch it over and over. Because that’s as close as you’ll ever get to sampling my goodies, you creep.”
Shut. Down.
“For heaven’s sake, Roxie,” Victoria said. “A man taped you having sex and loaded it onto the internet. Without your consent. And you’re standing there, watching yourself as if you’re okay with it. You should be outraged. Shut it off, Fig.”
“And what good would my outrage do?” Roxie asked. “The video is out there. And from the number of messages I’ve received today, people around town have seen it. There’s nothing I can do. Heck, if I can’t get another nursing job, maybe I’ll use it as an audition tape.” She turned to Fig. “Can you make me a copy?”
“You can’t be serious,” Victoria said.
“I’m totally serious,” Roxie said, turning somber. “You may think you know me but all you know is the part of me I allow you to see. So let me share this. At the age of fourteen I gave my virginity to the owner of the superette down the street from our home to pay off our account when my mother had no money. That may have been the first time I used my body to barter, but it certainly wasn’t the last. I’m a survivor. I do what I have to do.”
Based on Victoria’s look of complete and utter shock, she’d had no idea. Just how close were they? Roxie’s defiant stance made Fig wonder if she shared her deepest, darkest secrets with anyone.
He couldn’t stand the thought of lecherous men using a young Roxie who was desperate for food. He felt sick. Yet despite her experiences she still managed to enjoy life, with a wonderful sense of humor and a vivacious spirit he envied. “The man’s face is blurred out,” Fig said, to change the subject.
“Trust me,” Roxie said. “I know who he is. And as soon as I find him you’ll know who he is, too. Tell the E.R. to be on the lookout for a white male, around five feet ten inches tall, two hundred and twenty pounds, who will be arriving most likely after midnight, sometime in the next week. If things go as planned he’ll be unconscious with severe facial trauma and both testicles rammed so far up into his pelvic cavity he’ll require the skilled hands of surgeon to set him back to rights.”
“You need to stay away from him,” Victoria urged. “He’s probably dangerous.”
“No more dangerous than a pissed-off Puerto Rican with a grudge. So what’s your call, Vic?” Roxie stood tall. Proud. “If you’re going to fire me, do it now. Otherwise I need to get back to my patients.”
“Let me talk to the director,” Victoria replied. “Finish out your shift. You’re out on vacation for the next week due to return on Wednesday. Hopefully I’ll have everything worked out by then.”
“Thanks,” Roxie said to Victoria. “I really am sorry about all this.”
“Me, too.”
After Roxie left, Victoria asked Fig, “Can you take down the video?”
“I’ll need to use my own computer, but yeah. I’m sure I can.”
“Do you think it’s up on more than one site?”
“If it is, I’ll find it.”
“She’s going to go after that man,” Victoria said.
“I’ll keep an eye on her.” Fig stood. He owed her that much. “I need to get back to work, too.”
“Now that we know what happened you don’t have to stay on here,” Victoria said.
“I know. But I’ll finish out my shift.”
Roxie pulled her red Scion onto the short, bumpy, part-gravel, part-concrete patch that served as her driveway, turned off the engine and leaned back in her leather seat. The tiny house she shared with Mami held not one good memory, and yet, rather than filling her with excitement, the prospect of being forced to live somewhere else filled her with dread—mostly because Mami would not handle the change well. Dull blue paint, faded, chipped black shutters—one hanging askew—and overgrown, half-dead landscaping told the world this was not a happy place. The moss growing on the roof, the saggy porch and the collection of other people’s discarded stuff that overflowed into the side yard added to the dilapidated appearance.
Oh, to have her own home to return to after a hard day’s work. To live a stress-free, clutter-free, mother-free existence where the only person she was responsible for was herself. To be able to open a beer, actually sit down on the living room sofa and watch some mind-numbing television.
Her cell phone rang. She dug into her huge purse on the seat beside her and looked at the screen. The hospital. She let out a breath. What did she forget? Or was it Victoria calling to tell Roxie her fate? “Hello.”
“Hey,” Fig said. “You ran out of here before I could give you the message from your brother.”
No need to ask which one. Only Ernesto, the one closest to her in age, took the time for an occasional phone call. But, “He called the hospital?”
“No. Your cell phone. While I had it. I thought it might be your mom so I answered it.”
Well, surprise, surprise. A nice gesture.
“He, uh—” Fig hesitated “—sounded angry.”
What did he have to be angry about? She was the one desperately trying to reach him for over a week with no response.
“I think—” Fig hesitated again.
“Just spit it out already,” Roxie said.
“I think he may have seen your video.”
Not Ernesto. He’d be the last one she’d expect to …
“I’m sorry, Rox. I got tied up. I’m on my way home now, and I’ll take it down as soon as I get there.”
Help. From an unexpected source. “Thanks.”
“You doing anything tonight?” he asked. “I thought maybe we could …”
“If I decide I need sex you’re unlucky number thirteen on my list.”
“I’m not calling for sex. Just dinner. I want to explain …”
Roxie noticed the bags on the front porch. “No.” She sat up. “She didn’t.”
“What?” Fig asked.
“I’ve got to go.” Roxie ended the call then pushed open the car door, lunged out and slammed it shut. “Not again.” She stormed across the patchy grass and packed dirt of the small front yard, whipped out her key and tried to open the door. Met resistance. Shouldered it open just wide enough to squeeze through. “I told you we need to keep the doorway clear,” she yelled in frustration.
Behind the door her mother had stowed five white garbage bags filled with clothes. Roxie picked each up and hurled them, one at a time, into the depths of what used to be the family room, bringing the junk piled in the far corner up to chest level.
“This is crazy!” Roxie screamed. “Why are the bags back on the porch?” Two huge black garbage bags, filled to capacity, put out at the curb for the sanitation service to pick up that morning. Two bags of trash that were no longer adding to the safety hazards of their home. A mere speck of progress in cleaning out the house. Derailed. “And I told you to stop accepting used clothing from the church.” A total of five bags that she saw. But who knew if her mother had more stashed somewhere?
“Deja de gritar. Stop yelling,” Mami said, shuffling slowly, carefully along the narrow pathway from the back of the house to the kitchen, the clutter on either side of her hip-high.
“Do you understand what happens if the fire marshal doesn’t see a noticeable improvement in our living conditions? He’ll condemn this house as unfit for human habitation. If we don’t sort through this junk—like I’ve been trying to get you to do for years—he’s going to do it. We’ll be forced to leave. I can’t afford a mortgage payment and a rent payment. We have one lousy week left. One week.” An impossible time frame to sort through years of accumulation. The two bags she’d managed to drag to the curb had taken at least a dozen hours of encouragement and convincing to get her mother to part with her treasured possessions. And now, not only were they back, but she’d accepted five more.
“I won’t leave my house.” Her mother stood tall despite her slightly hunched shoulders, looked vaguely formidable despite her frailty and washed-out floral housedress. “These are my things. Tus hermanos vendrán. Your brothers will come. You’ll see.”
Not one of her four brothers had visited “the den of crazy” in the fifteen years since the last one had moved out, leaving Roxie—her mother’s unsuccessful attempt to save her failing marriage—to care for her mother, the house and herself, on her own, since the age of ten.
“If they think it’s unsafe for you to go on living here—” and what normal person wouldn’t? “—they will make you leave.” The interior looked like a huge refuse heap, with only the tops of long-standing, partially collapsed piles available to view. Children’s clothes, toys, magazines and books—for the grandchildren her mother had never met. Housewares—for the daughters-in-law who shunned her. Newspapers—to wrap the castaway finds for safe transport when her sons returned home to finally accept their mami’s gifts of love.
Too little. Too late.
And while the brothers, who’d never had time for their way-younger sister, continued to rebel against the past and focus on their futures, Roxie lived an ant-farm existence, maneuvering along paths she maintained daily, leading from the front door to the kitchen, two of the three bedrooms and the bathroom. Seven years ago she’d closed the door to the third bedroom—so cluttered with junk it was unsafe to enter—and to her knowledge, the door hadn’t been opened since.
“They’ll physically remove you, Mami.” When she refused and fought, like Roxie knew she would, what then? Would she get hurt? Have a heart attack? Get a free trip to the psych ward over at Madrin Memorial?
Maybe that’s what she needed. Maybe the firemen alerting the fire marshal and health department to the state of their home was exactly what Mami needed to finally deal with her hoarding and allow Roxie to clean more than the bathroom and kitchen counters.
“Lo siento,” Mami said, wringing her hands. “I’m sorry. But I couldn’t find the stuffed frog for little Daniel. I thought maybe it was in one of the trash bags.”
“It’s in the dryer,” Roxie said. “It needed to be washed. Remember?”
Mami looked down at her hands.
No. She didn’t remember. Which was another reason Roxie needed to clean out the house. If Mami’s health continued to deteriorate, soon she’d need someone to supervise her while Roxie was at work. Whereever she happened to be working. If she was working.
She had to work. And she’d need a good job to continue to support the two of them and pay for the house and an attendant and the cleaning crew she’d put off hiring, worried the stress of strangers in their home would be too much for Mami.
But they were running out of time. “Mami. We need help. We can’t do this on our own,” she broached the topic. “There’s a …”
“No.”
“Please. Be reasonable.” It was the same argument every time. “We can’t continue to live like this.” Existing was more like it. Mami had no friends except for some women from the church, a bunch of enablers who inventoried the donated items and contacted her to see what she “needed.”
Roxie couldn’t entertain, spent the hours at home confined to her bedroom—the only clean, orderly room in the house because she dead-bolted the door whenever she left—unless she was supervising her mom’s shower, cajoling her to sort and clean or cooking the meals they ate on wooden TV trays surrounded by Roxie’s hepa filters which just barely neutralized the odor of decay, and God knew what else, that lingered outside her door.
“Lo siento,” Mami said again, this time with a sniffle. “I’m sorry.”
Great. Roxie felt like a big bully. She’d made her mother cry. She stepped over a small stack of magazines and skirted around a laundry basket that held dozens of her mom’s favorite frogs to reach her. “I’m sorry, too.” For yelling, for forgetting, albeit momentarily, that hoarding was a mental illness and not laziness or purposeful behavior meant to upset Roxie. She pulled the only family member who really mattered to her into a hug. “It’ll all work out, Mami.” Although how it would, she had no idea.
“I’ll do better,” Mami said. “After dinner. We can try again.”
It was always later or tomorrow. Any time but right now.
“We can do it. We don’t need a bunch of strangers in here.” Mami scanned the devastation that had once been a large eat-in kitchen, family room and dining room, and sighed. “It’s overwhelming.”
“One area at a time,” Roxie said, taking Mami’s hand and leading her along the path through the kitchen. “You decide, like on the television show. We’ll continue with our piles. One for each of the boys and their families. And one for…Papi.” She nearly choked on the word. “But you’ll have to let me box it all up and mail it.”
“No. They need to come. I want to see them to show them.”
They weren’t going to come. Mami’s ex-husband—who Roxie referred to as such because he refused to accept she was his daughter—had remarried years ago. As for her brothers, the only one she had any semblance of a relationship with was Ernesto—if you considered an annual birthday telephone call and occasional requests for money a relationship—and he hadn’t come home any of the other times she’d asked him to, so she didn’t hold out much hope he’d suddenly developed a conscience.
“Let’s eat,” Roxie said, changing the subject. She’d had about all the confrontation she could handle for one day.
Despite her moratorium on men, by Thursday night, forced by the frustration of Mami refusing to clean and annoyance at the number and tone of the messages piling up on her cell phone in relation to her video, the neon-pink and fluorescent-orange walls of Roxie’s bedroom seemed to squeeze in on her. And under the weight of worry about where they’d go when forced to leave their home and what would happen if she lost her job, her bright sunshine-yellow ceiling seemed to sag until she felt it just might smother her. Roxie needed to get out, to mingle and occupy her mind so she’d stop obsessing about things outside of her control.
“Shake it off.” Roxie shook out her arms and legs then rotated her neck. “Nothing you can do about it.” Play it cool. She slid each foot into a flat gold-colored sandal that showed off her bright pink self-manicured toenails to perfection. “Nothing bothers Roxie Morano.” She walked over to the dresser and inserted a large gold hoop earring into each earlobe. Then she stood tall and evaluated her reflection in the full-length mirror angled high on her wall.
Denim mini hugging tight to her curves. She swiveled to get a look at her butt. Check.
Legs smooth and lotioned to an enticing sheen. Check.
Hair a mass of loose, wild curls lending a carefree, untamed appearance. Check.
Tube top—in an attention-getting hot-pink—accentuating each of her womanly assets. Check and check.
Roxie was ready to go. A quick peek to make sure her mother was sleeping, and she went outside to wait for the cab, antsy to get find-the-humor-in-anything drunk, psyched to lose herself in some make-me-forget-how-much-my-life-sucks-at-the-moment sex. Preferably of the un-videotaped variety.
Outside the heavy wooden doors to O’Halloran’s Bar, one of three bars in town, and the preferred drinking and bar food eating establishment for the majority of Madrin Memorial employees, Roxie hesitated. While the music from the jukebox beckoned her, she sought fortification in the vibration of the bass and swayed her hips to the slow rhythmic beat.
She could do this. So what if the people inside had watched her video, had seen her naked and wild with passion? At least they hadn’t seen the worst of it. She let out a breath, determined to enjoy this night. Tomorrow she’d deal with Johnny’s new threat.
“You don’t have to go in there,” a male voice said from behind her.
For a split second she stiffened, until she recognized it as Fig’s voice.
“We can go someplace else. Maybe talk a bit more about what we’re going to do to each other when we get naked.”
Like they’d passed the time at the employee recognition dinner last week. “You see that’s where we differ.” She turned and gave him the once-over, noting his loose-fitting, expensive-looking jeans, long-sleeve white tee, black leather vest and black ascot cap. Damn it if he didn’t smell even better than he looked. “I like the doing more than I like the talking.” She reached for the handle on the door. “And I’m not one to hide out because of a little controversy.”
“Then allow me.” He pushed one hand past hers and opened the door. The other he set at her low back and, applying a gentle pressure, eased her inside.
Just as the song on the jukebox ended. The bar went quiet. All eyes turned on her. Roxie hesitated.
Fig leaned in close, his chest pressed to her back, his palm flat on her belly. “Time to muster up some moxie, Roxie,” he whispered. “Every woman in this bar is wishing she had a body as gorgeous as yours, and every man is wishing he had your long, beautiful legs clamped around his butt.”
Roxie relaxed. Smiled even. “Does that include you?” She allowed herself to be led to the large wooden bar.
“Nah.” He assisted her up onto a stool, even though she didn’t need assistance then slid onto the stool beside her. He looked up, locked a pair of dreamy green eyes with hers and added, “My wish involves them wrapped around my head.”
Hell-o! An excited tingle started—there—and flared out to her periphery. Roxie came dangerously close to grabbing him by the arm and dragging him off to someplace more private. So she could grant a little wish fulfillment. Because with men there was a Polly Pocket–size window of opportunity between “I want to make you feel so good” and “me, me, me.” But, “So that’s why you’re here? Sex?” Making him no better than the rest of her post-pornographic-video fan club. Too busy to bother with an official date, too cheap to shell out some bucks on dinner and a movie, but ready to get naked at the first opportunity. The slug.
“I’m here because Victoria’s worried you’re heading down a dangerous path.”
“Ah. How sweet.” Not. “And she sent her does-what-he’s-asked-to-do lackey to stop me?” Roxie stood. “Well, thanks anyway, but I don’t need a keeper.” She didn’t need anyone.
“I beg to differ.” He caught her by a belt loop on her skirt as she tried to walk away. “Sit down,” he said quietly, but it was an order all the same.
Not likely. “Who do you think …?”
“I can tie a cherry stem in a knot using only my tongue and teeth,” he said, calm as can be. The randomness of his comment caught her off guard. Intrigued, Roxie stopped.
“In eight seconds,” he added with a slow, confident smile.
He was too cocky for his own good. “Triple B,” she called the bartender. “The usual for me. My friend would like something with a cherry in it.”
“I guess that leaves you out,” Raunchy Rob from Radiology called from the other side of the bar. The guy next to him laughed.
“Ha-ha,” Roxie said. Idiot.
Fig stood, looking ready to do some damage. “Apologize to the lady,” he demanded.
“What?” Rob asked. “I was only having some fun. You know I love you, Roxie.” He snickered. “Even more so on my computer screen.” He elbowed the loser next to him. They both chuckled.
Fig took off.
Now it was Roxie holding him by the belt loop in a futile attempt to slow him down. “Don’t.” The man was a plow horse. She was the plow, her sandals absolutely no help in the traction department. “Oh, look,” she tried. “Our drinks. Time to prove your oral dexterity.” Fig kept on going. “For heaven’s sake, apologize, Rob. Or I’ll tell everyone …” about his stubby little pecker. What a miserable night that’d been.
“I’m sorry.” Rob hopped off his stool and backed across the dance floor. “I’m sorry. Hell, Roxie. Call him off.”
CHAPTER THREE
FLIRTY banter and sarcastic teasing aside, Fig refused to stand by and do nothing when a poor excuse for a man flat-out disrespected a lady. Especially one he considered a friend, whether or not she considered him a friend in return. When the loud mouth pleaded out an apology then scurried away, Fig stopped. “Anyone else have anything to say?” he asked the now quiet crowd. He stood tall, his arms at his sides, prepared to fight, hoping he didn’t have to.
Because he had plans for later tonight and they didn’t include a visit to the emergency room.
No one spoke.
Good.
Gradually the bar’s patrons resumed their conversations and turned back to their pool and dart games. Time to take Roxie’s mind off her quest for vengeance and convince her to leave. With him.
“My hero,” Roxie teased from beside him. She looked down at the wood floor and nudged a small drink umbrella with the toe of her delicate gold sandal. “But if you’re looking to protect my honor, I’m afraid you’re at least ten years too late. I’ve had sex with—” she scanned the crowd “—at least half the men in here tonight. I bet the other half have watched me doing the videotaped hoochie coochie probably with their hands down their pants.” She shrugged. “I’m not proud of it. But I’m not ashamed, either. It is what it is. I am who I am.”
He appreciated her honesty. “I like who you are.”
She smiled up at him. “Because you want me to wrap my legs around your head.”
“Hey. Don’t knock it.” He matched her grin. “I’ll make sure you enjoy yourself as much as I do.” Turned out Fig had a real knack for pleasuring women. He may have hit the sex scene later than most, but according to several very reliable sources he’d surpassed the competition in the oral sex arena.
Two positives to come out of months and months spent as a patient in the hospital:
Patience. From waiting for the nurses to bring his medication, waiting to get strong enough to walk to the bathroom on his own, to get healthy enough to return home. Women seemed to like his unhurried approach to foreplay.
Chivalry. From the hours and hours of black-and-white classic movies his mother watched at his bedside. When he’d pretended to be asleep so she’d stop fussing over him. When he’d vowed if he survived long enough, got big and strong and lucky enough to find a woman who didn’t think he was a sickly, hairless freak, he’d treat her like a princess. In his early twenties he’d learned as much as they touted equality, women liked to be treated special, to be protected, cared for and respected. As much as they wanted independence, they liked a man to take charge.
With that thought in mind, Fig caught Roxie around the waist, pulled her close. “Dance with me.”
Roxie settled her body flush with his and clasped her hands behind his neck. “Since you asked so nicely.”
Fig rested his hands on her hips, his cheek to her mane of soft, lightly perfumed curls, and swayed in time with the slow beat, loving the closeness, the feel of her. But he needed Roxie to understand. “About our date.”
She leaned back to look at him. “You mean the one I got all dressed up for? The one I’d been looking forward to all week? The one you didn’t bother to show up for?”
“That’s the one.” He pulled her back against his body and held her there. “I had a family emergency and had to run home for the weekend. Can we leave it at that as long as you know I didn’t get a better offer, because there’s no place I would have rather been than with you that night? And if there was any way I could have gotten to you I would have? I should have called.” But he’d been enraged that his mother had manipulated him. Again. For the absolute last time. “I’m sorry.”
“And …” Roxie said.
“I’m sorry for what went down at the hospital. I had no idea the investigation was hospital wide. Victoria asked me to help prove your innocence, and that’s what I’d intended to do.”
“A-a-and?”
And what? Fig had no idea.
“And you’re going to make it up to me.”
“Yes.” Most definitely. “And I’m going to make it up to you.” Tonight. All night long. Fig slid his hands into her back pockets and eased her hips closer, putting her in contact with his growing arousal, making his intentions clear. They’d had quite a tempting flirtation going last weekend, and Fig was eager to back up his words with a little action.
Roxie turned her head, her mouth on his ear, her breath warm and moist. “By taking off your cap so I can feel your head.”
The head wearing the hat was not the head he wanted her hands on at the moment. He leaned back so he could face her. “You want to …”
She nodded. “Feel your head,” she said, looking up at him. “It looks so soft.”
What was it with women and a bald-headed men? Far from being the turn-off he’d once thought it to be, they loved it, asked to caress it and pet it. Holding Roxie in place with his left arm at her low back, Fig pulled off his cap. Holding it, his right hand joined his left and he said, “Feel away.”
She slid both hands up the back of his neck to the top of his head. For as loud and in-your-face as Roxie could be, she had a gentle touch, skimming lightly across his flesh. Fig wanted to bury his face in her hair, close his eyes and enjoy every second of it.
Total loser that he was, a simple caress from Roxie was capable of turning him to mush. Like on his twenty-first birthday, when he’d undressed Kyle’s gift—one of the always-looking-for-a-good-time Stavardi twins—and almost didn’t last long enough to lose his virginity. Luckily he’d had enough presence of mind to put his mentor’s sage advice into action: take control. Focus on the woman. Always satisfy your partner—multiple times when possible—before allowing yourself to come. That last one had taken some time to master. But he was nothing if not a good student, committed and willing to practice, often, until he’d gotten it right. After a few months his confidence grew and word got around and he’d never again needed Kyle’s help to attract women.
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