“She refused to take a paternity test. That’s all I need to know.”
“I wanted her to get the test, too. She thought it was funny making you squirm not knowing the truth for nine months.”
“I don’t squirm.”
She looks me up and down, shaking her head. “Obviously. But there is a baby at the hospital now. Alone. Without a parent. Without anyone.”
“Not my problem.”
“If you think it’s not your problem, then go take the test. They already collected cord blood; all they need is your saliva. A quick mouth swab. Under these circumstances, they said they could expedite the test and you may even have the results tomorrow or the day after.”
“Whatever.” I nod to the door. “Do you mind? I need to get back to my beauty sleep.” I glance down at my bare chest. “All this doesn’t just happen magically you know.”
She stands. “You’re a real asshole, Hawk McQuaid.”
“Tell me something I don’t know.”
Halfway to the door, she stops and turns. “Don’t you even want to know how it happened? How she died?”
“You told me how she died. Giving birth.”
Her eyes fill with tears that do nothing to me. I get that she’s sad and all, but it’s an emotion I’ve never had to feel before. I’ve never been close enough to anyone to feel it. I suppose if one of my brothers died I’d feel like her. And for a second, when I think about that happening, I can almost empathize with her. Almost.
“I have no idea what Shannon ever saw in you,” she says. “Why she would want to be with you let alone have you raise a child with her is beyond my comprehension. You are the most uncaring narcissist I’ve ever known. Except for maybe those you share blood with. This baby will be lucky if it’s not yours.”
“Money,” I say.
She narrows her brows.
“My trust fund. All those dollar signs. That’s all anyone ever sees in me.”
“Yeah, well considering there’s not much else beneath the surface, I can believe it.”
I consider coming back with a snarky remark but restrain myself. She did just lose her sister. “Shut the door after you leave.”
Her stare tells me she thinks I’m lower than the flies that feast on dog shit. “Just go to the hospital today, let them swab your cheek. And until then, I’ll pray Shannon was lying to us all along. You’re not fit to be anyone’s father.”
“From your lips to God’s ears,” I say, and take another sip. “Later, Melissa.”
The front door closes. I head back to my bedroom but then realize the caffeine is kicking in and I’ll never be able to go back to sleep. I go to my bathroom instead, step into the shower, and let the warm water soothe my aching head.
I realize any other man might be trying to avert a headache that resulted from anxiety over the situation. I have none. The only stress in my life comes from the stupid job I was forced into years ago. I couldn’t give a rat’s ass about selling cars and running my grandfather’s dealerships. Hell, half the time when I’m at work, I’m doing other shit. Surfing the net. Watching YouTube videos. Writing mindless shit. Figuring out ways to increase the wealth I’ll inherit nine years, ten months, two weeks, and three days from now.
Getting out of the shower, I only have one thought. Melissa was right. I shouldn’t be anyone’s father. And the fact that it’s just now occurring to me that I didn’t ask if the baby is a boy or a girl proves it.
Chapter Two
Addison
“My leg fell off again.”
Lionel, my physical therapist, stares down at my prosthetic with a frown. He’s been my PT since I lost the lower part of my left leg four years ago. I don’t see him nearly as much these days as I did back then, but I still need him from time to time. Being an amputee comes with a good deal of pain as the imbalance can lead to lower back problems, shoulder pain, and neck discomfort. Lionel is a god at helping me relieve it. He’s the reason I wanted to go into physical therapy in the first place. Something I’m not so sure I want to do anymore.
“Also,” I add, “my hip really hurts lately.”
He runs a hand over the socket of my prosthesis, down the pylon, and across the foot. “I hear you’ve been working at Donovan’s.”
“For a few months now.”
He looks at me like I’m five years old. “Addy, I know you don’t like to think of yourself as having limitations, but being on your feet all day is going to cause you issues. Walking on a flat foot that doesn’t have flexion like your real one is very hard on the hips.”
“I know. I know. I just thought…”
He hops up on the patient table next to me and puts an arm around my shoulder. We’ve become close over the years. He’s like another brother to me. “You’re not only my favorite patient, you are an inspiration. Do you know how often I talk about you to my other patients when they claim they can’t do the exercises I prescribe? I can’t refer to you by name because that’s against the law, but when others hear about a patient who lost part of her leg and still hikes, swims, works, and goes after all life has to offer, it gives them that extra push they need to overcome their own obstacles.”
I laugh. “Like they don’t know who you’re talking about, Lionel. Name one other person in Calloway Creek who has a prosthetic.”
“Okay, you’ve got me there. My point is, although you can do pretty much anything, there are consequences for you that people with two functioning meat legs don’t have. Not to mention, your prosthetic is showing wear and tear. You should think about having it replaced.”
“My insurance will only cover one every five years unless it’s broken.”
He raises an eyebrow. I can read his face like a book.
“Yeah, I’ve considered it,” I say. “But if I break it, I’ll have to live with crutches for weeks, maybe even months, while the insurance goes through.”
“You’ve been keeping up with your exercises?”
“I have.” I pound a fist on my left thigh. “Hard as a rock.”
Lionel warned me early on that atrophy of the remaining part of my leg would occur if I didn’t keep up with my exercises. In the beginning, I did them religiously, not wanting to have my left thigh look a lot skinnier than my right one. Back then I thought I already looked freakish enough without that adding to my disfigurement. Then it became a habit, one I’ve kept to this day, like brushing my teeth.
“Let’s take it off and have a look at Eileen,” he says.
I still snicker at the name. When I first met Lionel, he suggested naming my stump. He said it was one way to embrace it as being a normal part of me.
I put my left leg up on the table, press the button down by my fake foot to release the suction, and slide my prosthetic off. Then I remove the sock cover and the silicone liner.
Lionel visually inspects my stump and all the areas where the prosthesis tends to rub on me. He shakes his head. He’s displeased. “Just how many hours are you working?”
I shrug. He stares me down. “Fine. A lot. Sometimes eight or more. They’ve been short-staffed. But now that Lissa is back from Europe and Donny has recovered from his surgery, I won’t have to work as much.”