Virginia Kantra - Guilty Secrets

What had he given up?

Too damn much.

He shook out the match and stumped along, forgetting for a moment to disguise his limp. “I was going to go without sex tonight,” he said. “But if you want to change my mind, sweetheart, I—”

Instinct stopped him. Instinct or some habit of observation honed in war zones across Eastern Europe and the Middle East.

Three young toughs loitered in the block ahead of them, beside the line of empty cars. Joe was too far away to make out their gang colors, but he recognized the aggressive confidence in their moves, the casual menace of their posture. Trouble carried itself the same, in Chicago or in Gaza.

Their symbols were anchored on the right: caps tilted, a pocket inside out, a buckle worn to the side. That meant their gang, whatever it was, was affiliated with the Folks nation. Joe tried to recall what his brother Mike had told him about the Folks, back in the days when the Reilly brothers talked easily about everything. More spread out than their rival nation, the People, gangs in the Folks were quick to defend their territory lines.

Automatically, Joe looked for an open business, a bodega, anyplace with lights. Witnesses.

Nothing.

Hell.

He put a hand on Nell’s arm, mentally calculating the distance back to Flynn’s. He’d never make it. Could she? He registered the exact moment the boys spotted them, saw the nudge and the shove, felt the stirring of their interest like something nasty poked with a stick.

He and Nell should cross the street. Now.

Too late.

The toughs uncoiled from their stoop and sauntered toward them. Two walked abreast, blocking the sidewalk. One slid between the parked cars to the deserted street, cutting off escape in that direction.

Joe felt the anger cruise through his veins. Anger and fear. The taste of it was sour in his mouth. He wasn’t carrying a lot of money. He didn’t care much about his life. But the woman with him…

He crushed his cigarette underfoot, damning his unsteady balance, and put Nell firmly behind him.

The gang members prowled closer, making no attempt to be silent or subtle. Light gleamed from their chains, their belt buckles, their eyes. Joe shifted his weight to take their attack.

And then Nell’s clear voice piped behind him, “Benny? How’s your mother? Are her bunions still bothering her?”

The two boys in front of Joe stopped, confused. Nell stepped forward, smiling, and took Joe’s arm.

“Benny’s mother works in retail sales,” she explained. “So she’s on her feet all day. She was in a lot of pain when she first came to the clinic.”

She smiled again at the taller of the two toughs blocking the sidewalk, holding Joe’s arm tight against her breast so he couldn’t swing, couldn’t move without hurting her. He could feel her heart pounding against his arm.

“How is she?” she asked again, her tone relaxed and solicitous. “Are those new shoes helping?”

The young man looked down at the sidewalk and over at his friends. “Yeah,” he said finally. “She’s doing okay.”

“Good,” Nell said. “You tell her to come see me if she has any more problems. She can come after work. We’re open until seven Mondays and Thursdays.”

The gangbanger shuffled his feet. “Yeah. Okay.”

“You’ll tell her?” Nell pressed.

The tough standing next to him, the one with the tattoo on his cheek, snickered.

Benny silenced him with a glare. “Yeah. I’ll tell her.”

Nell nodded. “All right. Good night, then.”

She started forward, still hugging Joe’s arm so that he had no choice but to fall into step beside her. Pain lanced his ankle every time his foot hit the pavement. He could feel the faint tremor of Nell’s body as she pressed against his arm.

But her steps never faltered. In the orange glare of the streetlights, her red cape gleamed like a military cloak, like an archangel’s wings.

No one followed them.

Joe shook his head. It was almost enough to make a man believe in miracles again.

Melody King turned twenty-four today, and the nurses were throwing her a party on their lunch break. The office manager had had few opportunities to celebrate in her young life, and few people to celebrate with. A runaway at seventeen, an addict at eighteen, pregnant and in rehab at twenty, Melody had come to Nell straight from community college.

Nell had known she was taking a risk in hiring the inexperienced single mother. But, fresh from her own humiliation at the hospital, Nell had been determined to provide the younger woman with a second chance. And today, watching Melody’s thin face light in the glow of a single candle, Nell prayed her gamble had paid off.

As Melody cut her cake, Nell kept an eye out the window for the police. After checking and rechecking the lists last night, she’d called them herself this morning. But what would her discovery mean to the nurses crowding around Melody’s desk? What would her decision cost her?

“Cake?” offered Billie.

Nell’s stomach lurched uneasily. “No, thanks.”

“Nice flowers,” Lucy Morales said, nodding at the daisy bouquet by Melody’s computer. “Who are they from?”

Melody blushed. “Dr. Jim.”

James Fletcher, volunteer pediatrician, acknowledged stud muffin and all-around good guy. His offering raised eyebrows and knowing grins around the nurses’ circle.

“It’s not like that,” Melody insisted with quiet dignity. “He’s just being nice.”

“Bet that’s your favorite present, though,” teased Lucy.

Nell came to the office manager’s rescue. “No, her favorite present is from her other admirer. Show them, Melody.”

Proudly, Melody showed off the birthday card her three-year-old daughter had made at day care.

“Pretty,” Billie approved. “Trevor’s nine, and I swear that boy still can’t be trusted with scissors.”

Billie’s nephew Trevor had sickle-cell disease. His mother couldn’t afford health insurance, and Billie brought the boy to the clinic for treatment.

While the nurses oohed and aahed over the card, Nell asked quietly, “How’s Trevor doing?”

Billie smile was strained. “He’s managing. That’s all we can hope for, right? We all manage.”

A black-and-white police car pulled to the curb by the fire hydrant. Nell’s pulse kicked up.

One of the nurses glanced out at the flashing lights. “Wow. This is turning into quite a party.”

“I’ve got it,” Nell said.

“If they’re cute, offer them some cake,” Lucy called.

Nell hurried to open the front door as two officers—solid, uniformed, with matching gaits and hair-cuts—climbed out of the car and approached.

“How’s it going, Nell.” The first cop wiped his brow with his forearm before resettling his checkerboard hat. “Heard you had a little problem.”

“Hi, Tom.” She smiled. One of the beat cops, Tom Dietz had worked with Nell on a domestic-violence awareness program last year. She liked him.

“Nell Dolan,” she said, offering her hand to the younger man looming beside him. She didn’t remember meeting him before, but his rugged good looks were vaguely familiar. A definite cake candidate. “And you are…?”

The second officer’s grip was warm and firm, his smile friendly. “Mike Reilly. Nice to meet you.”

Her mouth dried. He couldn’t be.

They think you’re a cop, she’d said to Joe Reilly yesterday.

Not me. My brother.

Nell’s heart banged against her ribs. She could deal with this, she told herself. She could deal with anything.

“Nice to meet you, too,” she said faintly as she led them away from Melody’s birthday party and back to her office cubicle, crammed in behind a wall of filing cabinets. “I think I know your brother.”