Hearts of Jade (A Hidden Hearts Novel Book 3) Page 5

“It was a pretty quiet night and Everett was just telling me about his kids’ basketball game and how they hope to make the playoffs. We had a couple passengers to let off at the last stop and then he was going to put his rig to bed. He wanted to stop and get his boys a little something at Walmart before he went home so he was asking me what I thought would be a good present for a nine-year-old and an eleven-year-old. Then he remembered I don’t have any kids and he was teasing me for being perpetually single. The lady on the shuttle was telling me that she had a daughter who had a really good personality that would be a good match for me.”

  “Poor thing, you’re a handsome rockstar, but you have to have little old ladies on the bus play matchmaker; that’s too funny,” quips Jade.

  I don’t even know what to say about that, so I just plow ahead with my story, “Anyway, everybody was in a great joking mood. The lady stood up to get off the bus and dropped a twenty in my guitar case while her husband got their bags. I helped her husband lift a heavy bag and make sure that the handle was locked into place as we maneuvered it down the bus steps. When I turned back around to get back into my seat, someone blindsided me with a sucker punch. Someone else hit me with some sort of metal pipe on my back and the back of my knees. As I struggled back to my feet, I could see them take all of the money from my guitar case. That ticked me off because I had just gotten a really good tip and the rest of my night hadn’t been terrible either. I couldn’t figure out who these punks were because they didn’t match the description of anyone we had seen that night.”

  Jade scowls as she speculates, “That bites. Maybe the bus has surveillance.”

  “I don’t know, I’ll have to ask Everett,” I reply, shuddering at my memory. “I just know they weren’t your average teenage thugs. They must’ve had some training in fighting or something because the next thing I knew, this person was pummeling me in the face with rapid-fire punches. I’m not a professional by any means, but my brothers and I had a little bit of karate and basic martial arts when we were kids. My mom said if she was going have three boys, we had to have some sort of discipline or she was going to go crazy. I know that there were two of them, but there’s no way I shouldn’t have been able to get a lick or two in. I haven’t gotten my ass handed to me like this since about the sixth grade when I started growing my hair long and some older kids cornered me in the bathroom and decided I must be queer. They told me that they were good churchgoing kids and were going to beat the gay out of me. I never forgot that beating, and I’ll probably never forget this one either — or at least the parts of it I can remember.”

  I almost lose my nerve to finish the story as I watch Jade’s emotional reaction to my words. It’s almost as if she’s reliving the fight. There is no sign of the legendary aloof Ice here. She is wearing every emotion on her face. “What did they want from you?” she asks in a tortured whisper.

  “That was the weirdest part to me. It was eerily silent except for the sound of his punches and the pipe hitting my flesh. They weren’t making any threats or calling me anything derogatory. They were just systematically beating me to death for no apparent reason — it was almost like a sport or compulsion.”

  Jade shudders as she tries to regain her ability to speak. “What was the bus driver doing?” she probes, her voice full of indignation. “Shouldn’t he have done something?”

  I shake my head and then immediately regret the motion as the room starts to spin. It is then I remember that some doctor I saw yesterday told me that I had a pretty severe concussion from the repeated hits on the back of my head from the metal pipe. “Everett was outside the shuttle with the couple that gave me the tip; the next thing I knew, I woke up here puking my guts out.”

  “What about those lousy carbon dioxide producers? What happened to them?” Jade demands.

  The side of my mouth that isn’t completely swollen quirks up as I reply, “That’s not exactly what I would call them, but I don’t know. The way my luck runs, they probably got away with my favorite guitar. I loved that thing too. It sounded sweet and fit me like a glove.”

  “I’m so sorry, Declan, that sucks. µ I had to go and make it worse by starting a pissing war with your friend,” Jade comments while she twists her hair between her fingers.

  “Jade, don’t worry about it. The guy really wasn’t my friend. It was a place to hang my hat for a while. I’ll find another place. Although it might be a little tricky right now. I doubt I’ll be able to do my usual trick of staying in people’s attics or in the loft above their garage. I don’t think I’m up to climbing a bunch of stairs these days.”

  Our conversation is interrupted when a CNA comes in to take my vitals. It seems like she’s been doing it every ten minutes since I woke up this morning. You should’ve seen how excited the medical staff was when I pooped. I haven’t had anybody this interested in my bodily functions since I was about three and my mom used to give me stickers. Finally, when she finishes all of her paperwork, she announces, “Dr. Shelton said that you would be able to go home this morning as long as your blood pressure is normal. You haven’t shown any signs of further complications from your concussion, so we’ll send you home with some instructions about how to monitor yourself. I assume you’ll have someone with you, correct?”

  Jade has resumed pacing in front of the hospital window; I can’t see her very well because the medical technician is blocking my view from where I’m sitting in bed. The atmosphere in the room feels weird and I’m not sure what’s going on. It almost feels like Jade and I should be arguing with each other, but we’re not saying a word. I can’t figure out what’s going on and it’s frustrating as hell.

  Finally, Jade walks over and stands in front of the CNA and she answers the question as if no time has past instead of three or four minutes, “Yes, Mr. Ailín will be supervised. My home is a safe environment for him. His bedroom is downstairs so he won’t have to navigate any stairs. I have safety equipment installed in my restroom because my grandparents used to live with me.”

  She looks at Jade with admiration as she says, “My, you certainly have put a lot of thought into this, that sounds ideal.” She turns to me and asks, “I assume you have no objection to this plan? Most folks are itching to get out of here by now? Our food leaves a little bit to be desired.”

  Before the part of my brain that has common sense kicks in, the part of my brain that rules my heart answers, as I blurt, “Sure, sounds like a solid plan to me.”

  EVER SINCE I WAS A small child, I’ve always had conversations with myself in my head. Onyx used to think this was so weird. When I was in the first grade, he totally had me convinced that I had a twin who was stuck behind my bellybutton and that my blood vessels were like a telephone line to my brain. I completely believed him for more years than I want to admit. The voice in my head is having a full on argument with my soft and gullible heart right now.

  I have to admit, the “What the hell were you thinking?” camp started winning from the moment I catch my new kitten, Inkblot, playing with a tampon from the box I left out on the bathroom counter this morning. He is currently chasing it across the floor like it’s the best cat toy he’s ever seen. The shiny, hot pink wrapper is like a neon sign announcing “Hey, a chick lives here!” A chick does live here. A chick who wasn’t even remotely expecting to bring a guy home. He is going to get a look at the unfiltered version of Jade. He has only seen me at work and in carefully orchestrated social environments, and my work facade is really organized. Okay, that’s kind of the understatement of the century. I am extremely regimented at work — we all have to be. In the tattoo business you have to be clean beyond reproach. It’s one of the things that Ink’d Deep is known for. When I come home, I’m not afraid to let my inner slob run free. My habit affects no one except me — usually. I try to discreetly hide a large laundry basket full of underwear and bras that’s sitting on the guest bed as I escort a very shaky, sleepy Declan to his new quarters. I thought that I had gotten away with my habit of using my who
le guest room as a huge oversized dresser because Declan seems really out of it as I cover him with a large blanket and adjust his pillows. As I flip off the light and leave the room, I hear him mumble, “The pretty panties are really nice.”

  I can hear Declan snoring as I stand in front of my refrigerator, surveying its pathetic contents. What am I going to feed the poor man? He’s probably not going to much like my constant diet of cheap TV dinners. I know I could afford more now, but they are like a comfort food for me. I actually like some of them and it seems stupid to pay more for food when I don’t need to. I live by myself. I don’t have to impress anybody and nobody cares if I eat food from boxes with pictures of dinner on the front. It’s just easier. I feel foolish as I look at the shelves. It’s not as if I don’t know how to cook, because I do. I’m not as good as Mama Rosa, but then again, few people are. My Grandma Dimitra taught my brother and me to cook when we went to stay with her in the summer. It breaks my heart a little to cook without him. It was a hobby we shared and my kitchen feels empty without him in it.

  At least I’ve gotten the rest of the house in pretty decent shape while Declan’s been sleeping. I feel a little bit better about my decision now. At least there’s less to embarrass myself over now. I still wonder what he is going to think of the place. I rarely invite people over because seeing my home is like a window into who I really am on the inside. Most people see a cartoon version of me based on the person I am at the shop, dance club or when I’m out performing karaoke. None of those public, social personas really reflect who I truly am. Part of me wonders if I even remember who I am at the core. Now that Onyx is gone, I sometimes forget which Jade is the real one and which is the one created for public consumption. He was always my reality check.

  I take a deep breath and try to shake off my maudlin mood as I walk over to the pantry and check its admittedly scarce contents. I smile a tiny grin of victory when I spot a couple of boxes of shell pasta. Thanks to my grandma, I can make a mean batch of macaroni and cheese. There’s something to be said for having both African-American and Greek heritage. We do comfort food like nobody’s business.

  Just as I get the casserole in the oven, I hear a loud stream of cussing coming from the back of the house. Crap! I didn’t even hear him get out of bed. Declan was supposed to call me if he needed help. I take off at a dead sprint to the back of the house, scaring Inkblot half to death as I almost fall over when I try to avoid stepping on his tail.

  I head directly toward the guest bedroom because that’s where I left Declan. As soon as I pass the bathroom, it becomes abundantly clear that I need to go no further. It sounds like I’ve trapped a herd of elephants in there. After another long, creative tirade of colorful words erupts from Declan, I knock on the bathroom door and ask politely, “Is everything okay in there? Should I send in some sort of rescue team? Tristan and Isaac specialize in those, you know,” I quip. “Mitch even has dogs that could find you. I think he’s here doing a seminar with Isaac and Tristan.”

  “Very funny!” snaps Declan. “It’s not like I don’t know how to dress myself, I just can’t because of this stupid cast.”

  “I can see how that would be tricky,” I sympathize, trying to keep my voice even – it’s hard not to laugh at his predicament; he looks like a four-year-old whose favorite balloon has blown away at the fair. Before I can stop to think of the ramifications, I offer, “You want some help?”

  Declan looks down at himself as his hair flops limply in his face. “I don’t know what you could do, my jeans are too tight for me to button with one hand. They are the kind with buttons on the fly. It took me next to forever to get them undone, I may have ripped out a buttonhole.”

  I study Declan for a few moments before making an impulsive offer, “How you feel about purple?”

  Declan wrinkles his nose at me as he responds, “You know I’m from Florida, right? It’s sacrilege to ask a Heat fan to wear purple. Lucky for you I also like the Saints.”

  I stick my tongue out at him as I blow a raspberry. “Geez, you’re as bad as Onyx. I don’t really care much about sports unless I’m winning money off Marcus in the shop pool. To be honest, I choose the winning team by which starter has the prettiest eyes.”

  I laugh at Declan as he gasps in horror. “Oh, please! It’s not like your method is any more scientific. Anyway, my preferences in sweats are based solely on comfort and not team loyalty, so you would be betraying no one.”

  I watch as he sizes me up skeptically. “I know I wear my hair long and all, but last I checked I’m still a guy and you’re still a girl —”

  Despite my best intentions, I can’t stop my eyes from settling on his open fly as he says those words and my face turns bright red. “I’m aware,” I bluff as I try to gain my composure. “It won’t be a problem because I wear my sweats several sizes too big. They are just for lounging around the house and I like being comfortable. Even my dad can wear them and you know how big he is. We found that out the hard way couple years ago when he fell into my pool.”

  “Wow, your dad is bigger than me. Your dad is bigger than most folks. Are you sure you don’t mind?” he asks.

  I shake my head as I respond, “Of course not. It’ll be several minutes before dinner is through cooking. Why don’t you take a shower and I’ll get you some clean clothes to wear while we wait for dinner?”

  “I think I’d like that. Hospital funk is worse than road trip funk. I’m not sure how to keep this thing dry though. The doc said that there are some stitches under the cast and it would be gnarly if I got it wet,” he explains, holding up his hand.

  I have to bite my lip to keep from laughing. “I think one of the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles called and asked for their slang back,” I tease.

  “What you want from me, Ice? I’m tired; it’s been a really long day and honestly, I feel like I been run over by a truck.”

  Immediately, I feel guilty for making fun of him. “Be right back with your clothes and some towels,” I yell as I run down the hall. I return and stack the stuff on the counter as I comment, “I’ll be down in the kitchen if you need anything.”

  I usually make my grandma’s carrot salad when I have macaroni and cheese; I decide that it might not be such a great option with Declan’s sore jaw. An idea strikes me as I remember the huge fruit basket my parents gave me. The other day, the bananas were really green, but today they should be just about perfect. I sprint to my pantry and hope I’ve stashed all the ingredients I need. I haven’t made this in a while. It used to be one of Onyx’s favorite dishes and secretly it’s one of my favorite comfort foods. I drag a kitchen chair over and stand on it so that I can reach to the very far back corner of the highest cupboard in my kitchen. I have to catch my breath when I see a familiar yellow box with red letters. I can’t open a box of these without remembering Onyx teaching me to count using these silly vanilla wafers. More often than not, it ended up with him eating my cookies and telling me that I needed to learn to count faster if I was going to keep up with him.

  I grab the Jell-O pudding mix from the pantry. That was always another bone of contention between us — I prefer this dish made with the vanilla pudding, but Onyx was old-school and wanted his fixed with banana pudding if I could find it in the grocery store. I have one box of banana pudding left — it’s probably hopelessly out of date and not even safe to use, but I’ve never been able to bring myself to throw it away. I was planning to fix it for Onyx when he came home for the holidays, I just never got that chance. Swallowing hard, I gently place the box of banana pudding in its traditional spot in the pantry and start to mix the vanilla pudding with some milk and set it aside while I clean up my crystal bowl that my grandma gave me; it has a little pedestal on it that makes this little humble dish look very grand.

  It’s odd cooking my favorite food for someone else, but I feel a little ball of happiness glowing in my chest as I peel and slice up the bananas and arrange them in the bowl with the cookies, pudding and whipped cream. I
come scarily close to slicing my finger when the floor above me shakes and there is a loud crash. I set the food aside and give my hands a quick rinse under the kitchen faucet, dry them off and take off upstairs at a dead run. I’m almost afraid to open the bathroom door. I’m a pretty tall woman, but Declan is still larger than me. I take my cell phone out of my pocket and get ready to dial 911, because I’m not sure what I’m going to encounter.

  I knock softly on the door before asking, “Is it okay if I come in?”

  “Go ahead,” Declan’s snarls, “it’s not as if everything isn’t already eff’ed up anyway.”

  Almost holding my breath with trepidation, I peek around the door not knowing what to expect. The site before me is both comical and heartbreaking. Declan is sitting on the edge of the tub, trying to hold a sopping wet towel around his midsection and his beautiful long hair is laying around his shoulders in wet ringlets, half covered in soap. Even the plastic wrapping that I helped him so carefully apply to his injured arm is somewhat askew.

  Before I can even begin to apply a politeness filter, the words come flying out of my mouth, “Oh honey! You are in some serious need of some help. You are a hot mess.”

  Declan scowls at me as he answers, “You think? I practically launched myself through your shower enclosure. They told me at the hospital that I would be a little shaky, but I didn’t think I would be this weak. Hell, I am a full-grown man — I should be able to stand long enough to get a shower. This is stupid. All I wanted to do was get clean. What kind of weakling can’t even stand up to take a shower?”

  I shake my head as I answer, “First of all, nobody ever said you were a weakling. Secondly, you just had the crap beat out of you. You’re not weak, you’re recuperating — that’s different. The only reason you got out of the hospital was because I promised to take care of you. You need to let me do that.”

  “That’s the other thing, I’m supposed to be earning your affections, not making more work for you. It’s not as if you don’t have enough stuff to do at the shop.”