Ava Gray - Skin Game

His voice came out low, harsher than his usual tones. “Ever’ time I see you, Ma.”

She laughed. “Well, then. Come on over here and give me a kiss.”

Foster did as he was bid, brushing the old lady’s cheek in a gentle peck. Then he sat down opposite to hear who was cheating at cards, who was sneaking into whose room at night, and who probably wouldn’t last the month. It had to be depressing to get old, he thought, not for the first time. Good thing I am not likely to live to a ripe old age.

He spent the requisite hour with her and wrapped up the visit to the second. She wanted a second kiss, but he dodged away from a hug. Close physical contact would reveal that he was taller and slimmer than her incarcerated offspring, and he’d miss Beulah Mae if his deception were exposed.

With a muttered, “See ya next week, Ma,” he stepped out into the hallway.

Time for part two of his weekly pilgrimage. Foster made his way to the other part of the facility, where they kept long-term, no-hope patients. Oh, the administration wouldn’t call them that, but the people in this section would never wake up from their comas. They’d never pull out their wires and IVs and go dancing down the hall. These people were locked into whatever worlds their minds could conjure because their bodies were done.

The nurse here recognized him, too, but not by the name he’d received at birth. Unlike Beulah Mae Finney, he was , however, related by blood to the girl who lay pale as snow against her linen sheets. It had seemed to make sense to bring Beulah here, where they took such good care of his little lost one. She had his blond hair and pale eyes. Such fair coloring looked fragile as glass in her unnatural repose.

Infirmity had stolen away most of her puppy fat. She was small for her age. Though she should be a young woman by now, time had passed her by. Now she lay there stick thin, nourished by needles in her veins. Nurses trimmed her nails and cut her hair. They washed her and dressed her like the living dead while the heart monitor tracked every little blip. If he were so inclined, he could chart her permanent sleep.

Foster closed the door, and stood for a moment with his forehead resting against the cool wood. Each time, it hurt a little more, and yet he returned, week after week. Apparently, he represented some brave new world of masochists who liked their wounds so deep nobody else could see them bleed. It took almost more strength than he possessed to straighten and square his shoulders, if it mattered that she shouldn’t see his weakness.

She hadn’t seen anything in six years.

He’d decorated the room with her drawings and her favorite things: pictures of unkempt kids skateboarding, a teddy bear she’d painted in art class. He paid enough money that the staff didn’t complain. Deliberately, he lowered himself into the chair beside her bed.

“Hey, Lexie.” He waited a count of fifteen as he always did, offering her the opportunity to respond. It was a ridiculous ritual, one he could no more discontinue than he could fly.

She lay pale and quiet, but no number of kisses could rouse her. He’d tried that at first and then desperate arms around her, and then finally, his tears. Like the Ice Queen, she could not be moved. She could only sleep and dream.

So into the bleak silence he spoke of Gerard Serrano, his own plans and schemes. The medical equipment that kept her alive offered a steady accompaniment to his voice. Sometimes, in this closed room, Foster felt more alone than anyone else in the world. There was no one left who knew who he had been, the people he’d loved.

Loss motivated him. At last, as the light waned, he stood. Bent to brush a kiss across her cool brow.

“I’ll see you next week, min skat .”

In the old days, she would have hugged him around the neck. She would have wrestled with him, spilled grape juice on his freshly ironed shirt, and laughed like a hyena over it. When he got home from work, she would’ve demanded a pint of ice cream. So many things had changed—so much he loved, lost, and all for the sake of greedy men.

Most likely, he should sign the papers and let her go. In the six days between his weekly visits, he considered the problem from all angles. Logically speaking, it was the wis est course. He knew it; he just couldn’t make himself go to the director and request the forms. On some level, he hadn’t stopped wishing for a miracle, even though he didn’t believe in such things. Not for him. But maybe God, if such a being existed, could spare some grace for Lexie.

On another level, she kept him from deviating from his self-appointed task. When she wound up in the hospital—and he’d discovered who was to blame—he had promised himself he would not rest, would not allow himself a moment’s peace, until the guilty paid with everyone and everything that they loved.

So he’d worked quietly. Cleanly. Sliding from one disaster to the next like an albatross in human form. Gerard Serrano was the last one on the list.

And no matter the cost, he wouldn’t stop.

Kyra peered past Rey’s shoulder, stunned speechless by what she saw.

Through the gap between cheap curtains, she’d been able to tell the lights were out—and she’d thought that meant he was gone. But she’d knocked anyway, digging up a tiny bit of faith. Maybe he’s asleep, she’d told herself. But he wasn’t. She’d heard him stirring inside; in a motel like this one, the walls were tissue thin.

First, relief surged through her. Then he swung the door wide, and she glimpsed a sea of flickering candles. Ah, crap. Maybe he’d picked up a woman somewhere between Lefty’s Tavern and Motel 5, which sadly wasn’t up to the rigorous standards set by the Motel 6 up the road. But at least he’d come back.

If it had been anyone else, she would have just assumed he’d split and gone to bed herself. Kyra wouldn’t even have bothered knocking. In fact, she’d never taken such a leap of faith before. If it had been her father, she wouldn’t have hesitated to run that particular con, but without him, it hadn’t been possible in years.

As she’d driven back from the bar, she’d wondered whether he had skipped out with their night’s take. She could afford the loss, which was why she’d taken the risk, but joy ricocheted right through her at finding him waiting for her, just like he’d promised. Maybe she’d really found a new partner.

“I’m sorry to interrupt,” she muttered. “I didn’t realize—”

“That I was making dinner?” Rey cut in smoothly.

He stepped back to reveal the rest of his room. Nothing could disguise the cheap furniture, but the candlelight helped. From somewhere he’d found a red-and-white-checkered tablecloth, which he’d spread over the cheap café table beside the window. He’d laid the table with Chinette, plastic silverware, and wineglasses. The man even had a wicker basket for the food.

“I don’t understand.” Kyra took a step back, puzzled.

In answer, Rey reached out and snagged her hand, tugging her into the room. “Come in already.”

There was a little sizzle, but nothing like the usual reaction. Though it meant she might get sick later, she didn’t jerk away. She felt completely ambushed—in a good way. Kyra let him seat her, and then he laid out her choices, mostly sandwich makings and fresh veggies. He sat down opposite her, smiling. His teeth gleamed white in the dark. Mechanically, she started assembling an enormous sandwich with turkey, Swiss cheese, sliced tomatoes, lettuce, some Colby, and roast beef. The thing was six inches thick by the time she finished.

“What are you doing?” She gestured at her sandwich.