Beth Andrews - Small-Town Redemption

He whirled around, and with long, determined strides crossed to the small garage in the corner of the parking lot. He unlocked the side door. Inside, he pressed the automatic opener, then swung his leg over the seat of his bike while the garage door lifted. No, sleep wouldn’t come tonight. Rest never came. Not for him.

He started the motor, revving the engine a few times before shooting out into the street, not bothering to lock up behind him. The wind blew his hair back. Rain stung his cheeks and eyes. At the corner, he barely slowed, then took a hard right, his rear wheel swerving for a moment on the wet pavement, much as the cat’s back end had done.

Unlike the stray, Kane had learned he couldn’t outrun himself or his past. But for a few hours, he could outrun his demons.

* * *

“HELLO?” ESTELLE MONROE called as she poked her head into the doorway. “Anyone here?” She waited a beat. Then two. “Hello?”

Silence.

She frowned. She didn’t even want to think about why he wasn’t home, safe and snug in his bed in the middle of the night. A man who looked like Kane, with his rough edges and bad-boy attitude, never lacked for female companionship.

Her mother had warned her years ago that if Estelle was going to love Kane, she couldn’t be jealous of his flings, the time and attention he gave other women. She had to learn to share him.

And console herself with the fact that he always, always came back to Estelle.

With an inner shrug, she walked into the dark apartment, slipping her key into the front pocket of her jeans.

She felt a little bit like Goldilocks.

She even had the blond hair. Well, Goldilocks minus the breaking and entering, running into angry bears and eating porridge, of course.

She’d never had porridge but it did not sound very tasty.

Hefting her backpack onto her arm, she took a cautious step only to hear Kane’s stern voice in her head.

Lock the damn door.

Even in her imagination, he was a grouch. That man needed more laughter in his life. For Christmas this year, she was so getting him the entire set of Friends DVDs.

She flipped the lock, then pulled out her phone and used its light to guide her around a tall-backed chair to the squat lamp on a table next to it. She turned it on.

And wished she hadn’t.

Por dios...

Because it couldn’t hurt, she crossed herself, too, since it seemed to go with the prayer and all. Or, at least, she gave a close approximation of the way she’d seen her best friend—ex-best friend—Pilar do it. If ever there was a good time for genuflecting, this was it.

Bare walls, ratty carpet and god-awful furniture he’d probably bought secondhand, though she’d explained to him time and time again it wasn’t sanitary. The apartment itself was tiny, a living room that opened into a kitchen and a short hallway. The man lived like a hermit or something. There were no decorations anywhere, no pictures on the wall of her or the rest of his family. Lord knew he didn’t have any friends to take snapshots of. Nothing even matched, for Pete’s sake.

Well, she decided, lifting her pack—and her chin—higher as she headed toward the hall, she’d just have to stick it out. The alternative was simply unacceptable. She skirted a particularly disgusting-looking stain on the floor. Honestly, though, she should get hazard pay.

It took her only a moment to find his bedroom. She probably should take a shower. But his bed looked so inviting with its heavy blanket and soft pillows. More importantly, it looked clean. Something she could achieve herself tomorrow.

She quickly changed into her oversize Texans jersey and slid beneath the covers. Her phone buzzed. Mouth tight, she checked the message.

I’m so sorry!!! Please call me!!!

Message number thirty-six. And those were just the ones Pilar had sent since Estelle landed in Pittsburgh’s airport a few hours ago. Pitiful.

With a flourish, and a great deal of glee, Estelle deleted the message and tossed the phone onto the other pillow. Pilar obviously didn’t understand that Estelle was not going to forgive her. Ever. There weren’t enough exclamation points, sad-faced emojis and sobbing voice-mail messages in the world to make up for what she’d done.

A betrayal like that was unforgivable.

She inhaled sharply, the sound loud and mournful in the silence. What if...what if her mom thought the same thing about her?

Queasiness turned her stomach. A nasty, sick taste rose up in her throat. Coated her mouth.

Breathing through her nose, she shook her head. No. They were two totally different things. Pilar had gone behind Estelle’s back with her secret texts and phone calls to Chandler, making sure she was there to keep him company when Estelle was busy.

All Estelle had done was be nice to Adam, her mom’s fiancé. Yes, she’d flirted, but it hadn’t meant anything. Surely her mom would understand that. She and Estelle were best friends, Mama always said so. There was nothing, nothing Estelle could do that would make Meryl stop wanting her. Stop loving her.

Estelle snuggled down until the blanket was up to her chin and said a prayer.

Just in case.

* * *

CHAR LOOKED UP from the computer at the nurses’ station to see Leo—back for the third time tonight, lucky her—push a gurney into room 4, his hair and clothes wet. She caught sight of the patient’s muddy, damp jeans and worn biker boots, the length of the legs, the size of the boots telling her their latest guest was a man.

She turned her attention back to the screen. Frowned when a cool breeze caressed the back of her neck. She rubbed at the spot but the tingling sensation remained. Looking up again, she tipped her head to the side, narrowed her eyes thoughtfully. There was something familiar about those legs, those boots. She knew him, she realized, walking around the high counter.

Then again, she knew most of her patients. All part of living in the same small town she’d grown up in. It was a blessing, being able to help those she cared for.

It was a curse when they were beyond help. When all she could do was offer comfort, try to ease their pain. Hold their hand while they slipped away. Then comfort the loved ones they’d left behind.

This guy didn’t seem to be in that situation. No codes had been called. Thank God.

“What do we have?” she asked Leo as he stepped out of the room. She’d been with a patient and had missed the EMT report given while they’d been en route to the hospital.

Jocelyn Deems, a fellow RN, brushed past them with a wave. She would take the patient’s information, get him registered into the computer system and determine the priority of the patient’s treatment based on the severity of his injuries.

“Male, age thirty-four,” Leo said, flipping through his book of notes. “Single vehicular accident on Songbird Lane. Patient took a corner too fast and lost control of his motorcycle. A passerby called it in, said the patient was on the side of the road, unresponsive. When we got there, he was conscious and had managed to sit up on his own. Suffered contusions and abrasions, possible concussion, rib injuries, as well as a likely fracture of right arm.”

Char winced. “Ouch.” She tried to look over his shoulder at his notes. “Intoxicated?”

“No, thanks,” Leo said with a grin. “I’m on the clock.”

“Ha-ha. I meant the patient.”

“My best guess based on years of experience and, of course, my infinite wisdom would be no.” Though a blood test would tell them for sure. Leo flipped his book shut. He had a thing about people reading his notes before he’d transcribed them into an official report. “So you won’t have to deal with a drunk puking all over your clean exam room.”