“Yeah.” It came out as a gasp. The yummy burn in my throat was an improvement over the choking sensation of six months of suppressed tears lodged in there. “He thought I was my mom, his ex-wife… or wife.”
“I noticed she’s never come to see him,” Braden said in that nice, non-pushy way of his.
“She left us about a hundred years ago. It’s always been just him and me.”
We were quiet for a long beat. Lazy snow flurries drifted silently down from that midnight sky.
“Do you have to write up a report about tonight?” I didn’t want to ask the man to not do his job. But I also didn’t think I could face another layer of jeopardy to my father’s residency.
“We’re not writing anything up,” he promised.
I slumped in relief.
“Look, I know that this is a shit situation,” he said. “And I know that you’re doing your very best to keep it all together. But we all want you to know that when you’re not here, we’ve got your dad. We’re his family, yours too. And we’ll do whatever it takes to keep him happy and safe.”
“Thank you,” I whispered.
Tears blurred my vision and battled the cold for supremacy. My eyelashes were going to freeze shut, and I was going to have to stumble home blindly. But my father had people who had his back and that made any temporarily frozen corneas worth it.
“The rest of the staff want you to know that no matter what Deena the Bad Witch says, we want your dad here. No missed payments or late fees are going to make us treat him less than the best.”
“Aw, crap, Braden,” I said, swiping an errant tear away with my mitten.
“And one more thing,” he said.
“I don’t know if I can take one more thing.”
“Give me the damn laundry.”
“It saves me money to do it myself,” I insisted.
“Do you have a washing machine and dryer at home?” he asked.
I considered lying. But just the thought of it had my neck flushing bright red. “No. But there’s a laundromat with Wi-Fi just a couple blocks away—”
“You have better things to do than sit in a laundromat. We’re taking care of your dad’s laundry from now on. No charge.”
“I can’t ask you to—”
“You didn’t ask. And we didn’t offer. We’re telling you. Leave the damn laundry alone.”
I bumped his shoulder with mine. “You’re kind of my hero right now,” I told him.
He glanced down at his pants. “You think a cape would look good with scrubs?”
“Definitely.”
“Cool. Now get in the car so I can drive you home before you freeze to death out here.”
48
Ally
“I look like I ran face-first into a bar fight,” I complained to my reflection. My face hurt. Worse. It looked like it hurt.
The movies where the heroine gets backhanded and jumps back up to badassedly wipe the blood off her lips before grinning at the villain were total bullshit.
I’d tried makeup. All of the foundation and concealer I had still couldn’t disguise the swelling and the darker bruises. There was no way Dominic would a) not notice that half my face was bigger and more purple than the other half and b) let me get out of explaining what had happened.
I winced at the thought and then again at the pain the audacity of having facial expressions caused.
As much as I hated to do it, I had to call in sick. There was no way around it.
It was early enough that he wouldn’t be at the office for at least another hour. I wasn’t being a big ol’ chicken, I reminded myself as I dialed his desk extension instead of his cell phone. I just didn’t want to bother him with something as insignificant as my absence today.
My neck flushed hot and splotchy in the mirror.
“Hi, Charming. It’s, uh… me. Ally. I’m sick. I can’t come in today. But I swear I’ll make up the time. I can work late tomorrow or on the weekend or… whatever.” I remembered to cough, but it came out more like the honk of a wounded goose.
My neck was on fire with lies. I bobbled my phone, dropping it into the sink. “Damn it!” I hissed, making a grab for it and disconnecting the call.
I really needed to work on my lies. But for now, I had moisture-resistant Sheetrock to hang.
I spent the day hanging and taping Sheetrock in the bathroom and not answering my phone. Dominic called three times, and I let it go to voicemail each time. And, of course, listened to the messages immediately afterward.
He sounded concerned, asking if I needed soup, then annoyed because who the hell was supposed to do all the work I was supposed to do? Very on-brand for Dominic Russo.
I didn’t respond. But guilt at missing a full day of work started to eat away at me. I tried to stuff it down with a turkey sandwich, made just the way my dad liked—with thin slices of apple topped with sharp cheddar. It was nice to have cheese back in my life.
According to the nurse at the desk, it was a good day for Dad, which meant I couldn’t see him.
Not with my face looking like this.
Not if there was a chance that he’d realize the bruises came from him.
By early evening, I couldn’t take it anymore. I’d watched my inbox overflow with its usual frenetic energy all day, but I hadn’t been there to take care of anything. Looming responsibilities made me feel itchy. I decided I’d put in a few hours of work tonight and start fresh tomorrow… if my face cooperated.
I showered, dressed, and headed into the city. The night air was cold, crisp, and felt like snow. It was after nine by the time I let myself into the office with my keycard. The floor was dark and quiet. A ghost town compared to the daytime productivity.
In a nod to the overwhelming quiet—and, okay, to make sure Dominic wasn’t pulling an all-nighter in his office—I tiptoed to my desk.
The office was empty, and I was alone. I breathed a sigh of relief and flopped down in my chair. My desk had a stack of new files. My email inbox was demanding my attention, and I had nothing but a few uninterrupted hours to make some headway.
I put in my earbuds, cranked up one of my favorite dance playlists, and dug into the work.
The hand that clamped down on my shoulder half an hour later scared the ever-living shit out of me.
“Oh, sweet Jesus!”
“Who the hell did this to you?”
The demand, growled over the volume of my music, nearly shocked me out of my chair and onto the floor.
But he caught me.
I was staring into the eyes of one furious Dominic Russo.
I clutched at my heart to make sure it was still functioning. He yanked my earbuds free.
“Who the fuck hit you, Ally?” He enunciated each word with a burning fury that was both terrifying and touching. None of that rage transferred to the fingertips that gently tilted my chin so he could get a better look.
“No one,” I lied, trying to slip out of his hold. My neck was en fuego. This was so stupid. I should have just stayed home. “I had a little home renovation mishap. Not that it’s any of your concern.”
“That’s a fucking handmark on your face, Ally. Don’t lie to me.” He sounded pained.