Then he said to the window, "Yeah, babe."
I pressed my forehead into his back.
Then I lifted my head away but pressed my body closer and carefully said, "He's not taking his nausea medication. You need to talk to him about that."
I looked over his shoulder at his profile and saw a muscle in his jaw jump. He made no verbal reply but I knew he heard me and he'd do what he could.
Then I gave him a squeeze and kept whispering. "Take that plate, honey, and go sit with your Dad. He's got the game on. I'll make another one for me and be out in a minute."
He nodded to the window.
Then his body moved, I let him go and he walked to the bowl. Then he looked at it and walked back to me. Then he lifted both hands, cupped my jaws and tilted my face up to his so he could touch his mouth to mine.
When he lifted his head, I whispered, "He loves you."
He closed his eyes, that suffocating feeling suffused the room before he opened them and whispered, "I know."
"I love you too."
His eyes got soft, the weight in the room lifted. Then he repeated his whispered, "I know."
"We'll get through this," I promised.
He didn't look like he believed me and he didn't repeat himself again.
"Go eat, it's getting cold," I ordered.
His eyes held mine a moment before he let me go and walked back to his plate.
I made my own, took it out and watched the Nuggets game with Brock and his father.
Cob held down the soup, crackers and one of the cupcakes his granddaughter baked that I ran out to my car to bring in.
The Nuggets won.
Chapter Eighteen.
Somewhat Good for Now
"Gonna swing by Dad's with this TV then I'll be over."
I had the phone to my ear, Brock on the line and I was sliding a chicken into the oven.
It was Thursday and it was a Thursday after Brock called his sisters to get them to put him and me on the Cob Rotation. It was also a Thursday after Brock found out that Cob had only one TV and it was in his living room. So, lastly, it was a Thursday after Brock swung by Best Buy to get his Dad a TV for his bedroom so he had something to do when he was feeling double extra shit and didn't want to leave his bed. Brock had even called the cable company to add an additional set and he'd laid it on thick about his father's illness which meant the wait was not seventy-two hours but twenty-four. They were showing tomorrow and they'd thrown in a couple of months of free premium channels just because.
Brock, clearly, did not mess around when it came to TVs or cable; he pulled out all the stops and got results.
So, nothing new.
"All right, honey," I answered. "Dinner'll be done in an hour and a half but it'll keep warm if you aren't home."
"I'll aim for that," Brock told me then, "Later, babe."
"Later."
Then he was gone.
I hit end call then sent a text to Martha in return to hers. She was planning a girls' night in at her place for the weekend after this one, being cool about planning it when Brock had his boys so I could finagle some time for the boys alone with their Dad without Brock (hopefully) cottoning on.
And I was at odds, as I usually was, with how I felt about Martha's girls' night in. This was not a new concept for Martha but it was a crapshoot what you'd encounter when you arrived. She would either be in the mood to experiment with a variety of recipes she'd totally made up, none of them successful, all of them you at least had to try or she'd fill her house with junk food and unearth all her vast collection of romantic comedies.
I was hoping for the latter.
My text to Martha started a flurry of texts that included Elvira, Gwen, Camille, Tracy and even Shirleen getting in on the act. I fielded them all while dealing with the rest of dinner and felt great relief when Elvira firmly took charge of food preparation and stated in a way even Martha couldn't protest she was making her "boards".
I didn't know what Elvira's boards were but whatever they were they had to be better than fried celery.
Celery as celery was bad. Celery fried was the work of Satan.
The texting frenzy died down and I was basting the chicken for the last time when another text came through right when my landline rang.
I glanced at the screen on my cell to see it was Brock saying "on my way" then I went to my landline, grabbed it out of the receiver, hit the on button and put it to my ear.
"Hello," I greeted.
Nothing.
"Hello?" I repeated.
More nothing.
I was about to take the phone from my ear when I heard a man ask, "This Tessa O'Hara?"
A shiver shot down my spine. I didn't know why, it just did.
And it wasn't pleasant.
"Uh..." I started.
"Tessa O'Hara who's seein' Brock Lucas?"
Ice filled my veins.
"Who's this?" I asked.
"It is," the voice whispered then I had a dead line.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck!
I put the phone in the receiver and moved to my cell, making quick work of calling Brock.
A ring then, "Babe."
"I just got a creepy call."
A small hesitation then, "What kind of creepy?"
"Creepy creepy. Creepy wrong creepy. It came in on my landline."
"You listed?" he asked.
Heck no, I wasn't listed. First, I was a single female. Second, my ex-husband was a whack job who raped me and eventually turned out to be a drug lord.
I didn't give Brock this answer.
Instead, I answered, "No."
"Fuck," he muttered then, "What'd they say?"
I sucked in breath then told him, "He asked if I was Tessa O'Hara then he asked if I was seeing you. I didn't answer either but I asked him who he was and he said, 'it is,' meaning he knew he got me and I was seeing you and then he hung up on me."
"Doors locked?" Brock asked instantly and I felt another shiver.
"I don't..." I paused. "I don't know," I told him, moving directly toward the backdoor.
"Check. Lock," he ordered.
Backdoor secure, I headed toward the front saying a shaky, "Okay." Then I asked, "Is this the kind of thing Olivia would do, you know, to play with me?"
"Never played this dirty but wouldn't put it passed her," he answered.
Freaking great.
"I'll be there in ten minutes," he said softly.
"Okay," I replied, locking the front door then I told him, "I'm all locked."
"Good, baby, see you soon."
"Okay."
Then he ended the call, I moved back to the kitchen, my eyes going to the microwave to note the time. Then I tried to control the fear that was mixing with the anger should this be Olivia as I dealt with the final preparations for dinner.
Eight minutes had elapsed when it happened. I knew this because I had just checked the microwave for the fiftieth time.
And what happened was I heard gunshots, six of them, one after another sounding like they were right in front of my house.
I stared at the window a nanosecond before I crouched down behind the island as more gunfire sounded and it penetrated my frozen with terror mind that it sounded like return fire.
As the gunfight continued, I came to my senses, scuttled in a crouch to the landline phone, reached up, grabbed it, hit the on button then dialed 911.
"Nine-one-one, what's your emergency?"
"Gunshots outside my house," I whispered.
"Where are you, ma'am?"
I started to give my address as I heard noise at my front door and I stopped, staring through my house at it, paralyzed with fear.
"Ma'am," the operator called, "please confirm you're safe and your address."
"Someone's "
The door opened and Brock walked in, his overcoat on one side dusted with snow. He turned, slammed the door, locked it and prowled to me holding his gun in his hand.
I didn't, as I usually did, admire him in his work clothes. Today, a nice, thick black turtleneck (one, incidentally, I bought him for Christmas and I say one because I bought him three), jeans that weren't nearly as faded as his normal jeans, a great black belt that the sweater was tucked behind (and that was the only part of the sweater tucked, I didn't know if he did it on purpose or what but for some reason I thought it looked awesome) and a handsome, tailored, black wool overcoat (which, also incidentally, Laura and Jill got together to buy him for Christmas and on him it was the bomb).
Although his work attire was only a nuance away from his non-work attire, when he got home, after greeting me, he never but never hesitated in taking it off, putting on faded jeans, no belt and, now that we were in the dead of winter, either a faded, long-sleeved tee or a thermal.
Now he prowled through the house toward me and I didn't notice how hot he looked in his work clothes. I only noticed the dusting of snow on his overcoat and the gun in his hand.
How did he get that dusting of snow?
"Ma'am?" I heard the 911 operator call. "Are you with me?"
"That emergency?" Brock growled when he got to me, staring down at me still crouched by my kitchen counter.
I didn't respond. He bent and pulled the phone out of my hand and put it to his ear.
"This is Detective Brock Lucas. I was just fired on and exchanged fire with an unidentified male..."
He kept talking but my mind blanked of everything but his words repeating in my head.
I was just fired on and exchanged fire...
I was just fired on and exchanged fire...