Complex Kisses (Here & Now Book 1) Page 2

  He winks at me and the world stops spinning.

  My body chemistry is going in one direction while my emotions are being pulled in another. I’m lusting over a man, while making light hearted banter with a sick child, and my dad lays dying in another room.

  Maybe I really am heading for a mental breakdown.

  “Um … yep. Definitely a charmer,” I sputter.

  “So tell me, beautiful. What’s got you so bummed. Tell me who stole your puppy so I can go kick their butt,” Caleb urges.

  Pinning me with bothered glares, both of them look ready to take on a fight. If I really was in trouble I don’t think I’d even have to ask. I think they’d not only have my back, but would step in front to be my shield.

  This is possibly the sweetest, most surreal moment of my life. These guys seem to wear their hearts on their sleeves, like a badge of honor, while I’m busy hiding mine behind made up medical conditions.

  Feeling sad? It must be depression. It doesn’t matter that my father’s dying and I’m all alone to deal with it. That’s just an unfortunate inconvenience.

  Feeling stressed out? It must be a heart condition. Never mind that I’ve left the only important person in my life back home. That’s just a temporary disruption.

  So many lies. But lying to myself seems like the easiest way to make it through the day.

  “I’m just missing someone.” That’s not a lie. That’s a moment of stark honesty, and hearing it come out of my own mouth surprises the hell out of me.

  “Someone male or someone female?” Caleb asks cheekily.

  “Someone almost as charming as you, actually. And I’m worried that he’s probably sitting at home missing me too. Or worse, maybe he’s not missing me at all. Maybe he’s busy having the time of his life while I’m away.”

  Clearing his throat, Eric’s voice is hard, “Well, if he’s not missing you, he’s obviously a fool.” He actually looks pissed off.

  What the heck does he have to be angry about? I’m the one that should be offended.

  Anger and defensiveness are my go-to reactions anytime someone has the audacity to say anything, even remotely, bad about Hunter. This time’s no exception. I mean, how rude? This guy is a complete stranger, where does he get off?

  But then, slowly, I clue in. They don’t know who Hunter is. I forgot to mention that he’s not just some random guy. He’s my son.

  “No …” I try to explain.

  “Eric, man. Not cool. The lady needs some cheering up. I think we can be nice to her, don’t you?” Caleb says, cutting me off.

  “No, but …”

  “Sorry. Caleb’s right. That was disrespectful. And It’s not really any of my business,” Eric interrupts me.

  His examination’s so intense. It feels like he wants to make it his business, leaving me even more flustered and confused, unsure how to respond.

  “Hey, I didn’t even ask you your name!” Caleb exclaims, breaking my attention from Eric’s heated stare, snapping me back to reality.

  Maybe it’s better to just drop the topic of Hunter and move on.

  “Jamie,” I answer. “Well, Jameson actually. Nobody bothered telling my parents that it’s a boy’s name. Everyone just calls me Jamie. Verdict’s still out on whether or not I like it,” I ramble, still uncertain how this conversation got so far out of control.

  “Well, Jamie. I think it’s a lovely name. Suits you perfectly.” Still the charmer. “I’m Caleb. That big idiot is my brother, Eric. I make no apologies for him though. He’s acting a bit douchey right now. Normally, he’s a great guy.” Caleb smirks at Eric, as though winning some silent competition.

  “Okay, hot-shot.” Eric clamps a hand on Caleb’s shoulder. “We need to get going. Mom and dad will be worried if you’re gone too long.” The joking tone doesn’t hide the touch of regret and sadness seeping into his expression.

  “Yeah,” Caleb sighs but looks at me with poorly hidden mischief. “It was really nice to meet you, beautiful Jamie. You can keep my chocolate pudding. And if you stop missing that other guy you can come visit me. I’m being admitted to room 1202A.”

  I’m sure the momentary shock resonates on my face.

  Eric just laughs at his little brother, shaking his head. “Caleb, dude …”

  “Too much?” Caleb jokes.

  “No,” I reply, lapsing out of my shock. “It’s perfect. Just what I needed, actually.” Smirking back at him, I pick up the chocolate pudding, with the one bite missing, and dig in with flare. I shovel a spoonful of it in my mouth and declare, “Chocolate is my fav!”

  Both guys smile while watching me gorge on gelatinous sugar. Caleb’s smile, big, bright and proud. Eric’s smile, just as big, but laced with a deeper recognition.

  It feels like an incredible, unexpected connection was made here. Too bad I’ll probably never see either one of them again. I sure as hell won’t be wandering into strange hospital rooms for any kind of social call.

  “It was nice meeting you boys,” I say around a mouthful of pudding. So very unladylike, but done with sincerity and conviction. I do this, hoping that Caleb will remember me the way I’ll remember him - a light point in an otherwise dreadful day. Smiling, I wave my chocolate covered spoon at them.

  Chuckling as they leave, Eric turns his head at the last minute, calling back over his shoulder, “See you around, beautiful Jamie.”

  Wow.

  I’m still stuck in a hospital, hours away from my son and my home. The father I’ve neglected for ten years is still going to die. And I’m still tempted to catalog every one of my physical ailments.

  But there’s a smile on my face.

  And I think it may be permanently etched there.

  Another sleepless night has come and gone. That makes three nights of zero rest. At least I’ve managed a shower and some clean clothes this morning. But convincing myself to come back to this hospital was definitely a chore. It took an entire ten-minute conversation with myself in the mirror to determine that I should just suck it up and do the right thing.

  How many days can a person go without sleep before insanity takes over? I’m tempted to research the side-effects of sleep deprivation - there could be a legitimate link to my mental instability and the insomnia. But I’ve promised myself no more neurotic symptom checking. I need to keep focus where it belongs and not get sucked back into a self-indulgent state.

  “Goddammit,” my father spits. He’s in fine form today. “Why do I have to have all these machines hooked up to me.”

  In the three days I’ve been here, this is the first time he seems fully aware of where he is and what’s going on.

  “Mr. Hartley,” the nurse scolds, as she reaches for the tube he’s trying unsuccessfully to pull from his arm. “Please. You’re not doing yourself any favors if you pull that out.”

  “Don’t, Mr. Hartley me! I don’t give a shit about this stupid thing, or your stupid ideas of what’s good for me!”

  This is the father I remember. All asshole, all the time.

  Craptastic attitude aside, I find myself feeling sorry for him. There’s no dignity in dying this way. Even with the fabulous level of care, being tied to a bed without the ability to dictate my own needs is one of the most miserable ways I can imagine spending my final days. Seeing him struggle like this, knowing he won’t get any better, makes it easy for me to commiserate with the bastard.

  “Dad, stop. She’s just trying to do her job.”

  I’m definitely thankful for the care he’s receiving. Even in the relatively small community of North Bay, living in Canada really does have its perks. The hospital may not be as big or state of the art as the ones I have access to at home, in Toronto, but the staff here are kind, and I’m sure the morphine drip in his arm works just the same.

  “Ah, fuck you too, James!”

  James. He’s the only one who’s ever called me that. It used to be a big joke, back when mom was still around. They all used to get a good laugh out of his teasing. He�
��d tickle my ribs or mess up my hair and say; “You find my daughter yet, James?” Mom, dad and my sister, Trina all thought it was hilarious. I hated that I had a boy’s name. The fact that I was such a girly-girl made it even funnier to them.

  It’s been a long time since he called me by that nickname. It’s been a long time since he called me anything at all. The laughter and the humor all stopped after mom and Trina died.

  That name means something to me, though. It’s a souvenir of my lost childhood. A memento of all the goals and dreams I left behind. A reminder that there were good days, and that my dad used to love me.

  “You’re useless here,” he continues, “Useless, just like me. You might as well leave, just like you did eleven years ago. Eleven years … and now you come back ... Now … Just useless.”

  With the last part of his tirade no more than a whisper, I know his body is shutting down. He’s never been the type to care who witnesses an argument, never afraid to show off his exceptional anger. Although I’m certain he means every word spoken, with his voice failing, those words lose conviction

  “It’s actually only been about ten years, dad. But ten years, or ten days, it doesn’t matter. I’m here now and I’m the only one. Other than your lovely nurse. Who, by the way, is just trying to help you. So why don’t you calm down and let her.”

  Telling him to calm down seems pointless when he’s lost the stamina to continue fighting us. With his hair turned completely white and his saggy skin taking on a grayish hue, he looks like he should be dead already. He’s lost so much weight that the contours of his face are hollowed to the point of looking skeletal. It creeps me out. That’s probably because when I last saw my father he was robust and red faced, screaming at me for being a filthy whore. Other than his attitude, this version of the man in front of me is something I don’t recognize. It’s hard to believe he’s the same person. His flash of temper, the only thing allowing me to connect the person he is now to the person he was back then. The father I ran away from ten years ago is the only version I know how to handle. I have no idea what to do with the sick and dying man he’s become.

  Maybe he doesn’t belong in this hospital. He may have been a complete asshole but part of me thinks I should give him the dignity to die at home.

  One of the doctors had explained the at home option to me when I first arrived. “Call me Dr. Jack,” he’d said, and then continued to admonish me on all the ways in which I’d failed to help provide the proper care to my father. There’s nothing like the guilt of a medical professional to make you feel like a shitty human being. It’s almost on par with religious guilt.

  With as much bullshit medical jargon as he could muster the doctor also explained, despite all possible treatment options for my father’s disease, it wasn’t caught in time to make much of a difference. After an unsuccessful attempt with chemotherapy my father finally asked his doctor to call me with the news.

  That was how I found out. Good-ol’ Dr. Jack.

  I’d also been told, failed treatment aside, had my father wanted to keep fighting they would have tried as many other options as they could, before giving up completely. But my father didn’t want any part of that. He just flat-out refused. And that was when my father was handed his death sentence.

  Now, it’s just a matter of time before the cancer wins.

  “Just leave me alone,” he huffs, “Just let me die alone.”

  More proof that he’s given up. Even without the words so plainly spoken, the truth reflects in his eyes. Life holds little, if any, meaning for this man. With no determination to fight, no will to survive, it’s like he has nothing good worth living for.

  That makes me angry. Angry and resentful for what could have been, and once again, for the fact that I’m here giving up time with my son to support a man who doesn’t care. He resents me being here as much as I do.

  “Mr. Hartley,” the nurse shakes her head at my father like she’s dealing with an ornery child. “That’s no way to speak in front of your daughter. You’re not alone. She’s here for you. So am I. And the rest of the nursing staff, for that matter.”

  My father’s stony glare doesn’t change, except to further harden. Not one flicker of remorse from the man. The only thing he projects is pure annoyance.

  “I don’t want a thing from any of you. And James is the worst excuse for a daughter that ever existed. So, what makes you think that I give a shit if she’s here?”

  Just when I was starting to feel sorry for him, he pulls out that ace, hitting me straight in the heart.

  “You hear me, Jamie girl? I don’t want you here. So you might as well just leave.” Condemnation never wavering, he stares me down with his dead eyes and cold, impassive heart.

  A surge of emotions threatens to overwhelm me. After ten years free of the man and his hate toward me, I wouldn’t have thought he’d be able to affect me this way. Anger and bitterness are sentiments I understand. The feelings of loss and rejection – I have no explanation for those. Adding his dismissal to my already pent up frustrations and regrets creates an emotional cluster-fuck that churns inside of me. I can’t look at him for another minute without losing my mind completely. But I don’t want the asshole to know how much power he still has to hurt me. I won’t give him the satisfaction of seeing me break down.

  Jerking out of my seat, I yell, “Fine!” And like a toddler, throw a temper tantrum of colossal proportions as I storm out of the room. I prefer he thinks I’m in a childish rage than to have him know the true depth of my wounds.

  The minute I step into the hallway tears streak hot and heavy down my face. I’m not sure how I’ve kept them at bay so long.

  I hate crying. It makes me feel weak and stupid. I am not weak. I am not stupid.

  But I am human.

  Despite my iron clad will to not become a sniveling little girl, I can’t hold off the tears. The feeling of powerlessness is something I’ve promised myself to never rediscover. It’s inescapable this time, proving my instability and knocking me back to a place of insecurity that I just barely crawled out of before.

  Pounding down the staircase at the end of the hall, I keep my head down, praying that I don’t have to pass many people. I just need an exit. Any exit will do. I don’t give a crap where it leads, as long as it’s away.

  Away from this place. Away from my father. Just away.

  In my reckless attempt to flee I blindly turn a corner and run, practically face first, into someone wearing a really soft, grey t-shirt. Someone with two strong hands that clasp easily around my biceps, effectively stopping my escape.

  “Whoa, there,” a surprised, yet deeply sexy voice exclaims.

  Regretfully, I look up to see stunning green eyes staring down at me. With his brows drawing together to form a slight crease, Eric once again captivates me with his incredible gaze.

  “Hey, Jamie. What’s the matter, beautiful girl?”

  It’s his sincere concern that triggers my complete breakdown. How could so much care and consideration be shown to me by this stranger, when my own father basically just told me to go fuck myself?

  It’s unfathomable. It’s astounding. And it breaks my already fragile heart.

  With big, heaving sobs wracking my body I’m completely, helplessly out of control.

  Lost.

  Big arms surround me, pulling me in toward that soft grey shirt and hard expanse of muscled chest. Eric gathers me in the tightest, most comforting embrace conceivable. Right now, it feels like he may be holding me together, like without his solid arms wrapped around me, I may crumble apart.

  He doesn’t say another word. He doesn’t force false wisdom, rhyme off ridiculous clichés, or offer any lighthearted quips to try to make me stop crying. He doesn’t question me. He doesn’t ridicule me.

  He simply holds me. And I cry.

  Like a broken little girl.

  I cry.

  * * *

  Work hard, follow the rules - good things will happen.


  My parents taught me that. They also taught me to set goals and make a solid plan because that’s what it takes to achieve your dreams.

  Mom and dad talked a good game. I bought into that shit like a zealot. With blind devotion I planned out every square inch of my life. I followed that plan like a mother-fucking lunatic. The rules were clear and I adhered to them all.

  My life was set. On track. Golden.

  Fate. God. Karma. Some crazy, unknown universal force. Whatever you want to call it. It came along and side-swiped my whole, ridiculous belief system. The day I found out about my brother’s cancer was the day my devotion died.

  The news didn’t just skew my perspective on life, it caused a complete upheaval.

  First, the boss at my dream job told me; “I’m sorry Eric, we really like you here, but simply can’t hold your position beyond three sick days.”

  Then, my fiancée, Amanda - the woman I’d been with for two and a half years - told me; “If you lose your job, we’ll lose this apartment, and if that happens we’ll never get married! I can’t wait forever, Eric!”

  The life I’d built started crumbling around me. All the planning and goal making was completely senseless. I’d worked my ass off, and for what? There’s no point in dreaming about tomorrow when it could all be taken away. Today might be it. This exact minute might be all I ever get, and how fucking sad would it be to miss it because I was too busy worrying about the next day, about some bullshit meeting or about where to buy the next designer throw pillow. What if I never get to live beyond now? Or worse, what if Caleb didn’t get to live beyond now, and I was stuck in an office building four hours away, listening to my boss go over next quarter’s budget?

  It’s extremely pathetic that it took something as drastic as cancer to make me stop and look at what I’d been doing in my life. But I did stop, and I looked hard. I asked myself a lot of questions about the choices I’d made, the goals I’d pursued, and who exactly I’d been living my life for.