Page 35 of For Her Own Good

My phone rings and it’s Tad. Again. He’s upped his campaign from once every three days to once every two, to now he’s calling me every goddamn day and I can’t with this on top of all the other shit I’m now handling on the regular. His number flashing on my screen makes me want to cry. But I also know if I completely lose my shit with him or stop responding altogether, he’ll use that as evidence I can’t be trusted to hold a controlling interest in Patrick Enterprises and I won’t let that piece of shit be the reason I lose my father’s company. He won’t, absolutely will not, be the reason I throw in the towel and say fuck it all and become the ultimate disappointment, the apex of failure in my father’s eyes.

“It’s Tad.”

“Ugh. That guy is the worst. Want me to stay?”

“No, this is probably going to take a while and no one wants in on that action, least of all me, but I have a fiduciary responsibility to the shareholders, blah blah blah.”

Holden points and laughs because he’s an asshole, and then grabs his coat from by the door, slinging it over his shoulders and then opening the door.

“Remember,” he says, pointing an accusatory finger in my direction. “Worst, worst. Don’t do it.”

* * *

Lowry

My buzzer rarely goes off unless one of my neighbors has forgotten their keys. It’s on the late side for that but, yes, they might buzz my unit because they know the Scottish doctor doesn’t have any children to wake up.

“Hello?”

“Lowry?”

Starla’s voice is near the last one I expected to hear, not least because it’s raining cats and dogs out.

I don’t bother responding before I’m pressing the button to let her up, and thoughts are racing through my mind in the couple of minutes it takes her to make her way to my door. She doesn’t make it all the way down the hall when I can see she’s not her usual put-together self, but looks more like a scraggly drowned rat, and her shoes are…squelching with every step.

“What are ye doing here? It’s pouring rain outside, and you’re soaked through. What on god’s green earth are ye—”

“Did you know your accent gets thicker when you’re upset? It’s rather remarkable,” she says, rolling her Rs in a mocking way and putting her hands on her hips, still standing in the hallway. Yes, I’m aware my accent makes a roaring comeback when I’m getting worked up over something or other, or when I’ve been hitting the bottle too hard, but I haven’t been imbibing and even if I had been, that’s not the important thing here. What is with this woman and not being able to remember to bring an umbrella to save her life?

“Get in here, and take off those clothes straight away before you catch your death.”

Her eyes get very wide, and she blinks up at me with a certain kind of gleam in her eye before she ducks into my apartment.

“You’re a medical professional. You can’t honestly believe that I’m going to ‘catch a chill.’”

“I can’t, can I? You have no idea how strong my gran’s superstitions were if you think she didn’t drill all these old wives’ tales into my thick skull when I was a wean. So, yes, you’re never going to convince the me with a medical degree that my gran was wrong.”

It does occur to me that it’s not perhaps the best idea to demand a woman come into your apartment and take her clothes off, but Starla doesn’t seem to mind, just looks around at my living space. It’s not as nice as her apartment or anywhere near as well-furnished or decorated, though more spacious because I’ve got two bedrooms.

Why, anyway, does Starla live in a studio? I would’ve asked her last week when we had dinner at her place, delivered from the very swank restaurant on the first floor of her building. Nice perk, that. But I’d been happy she’d agreed to not go out since she was still hurting from her fall the week before so I hadn’t pressed.

She’s here at my flat now, though, which is odd. She’s had my address for a while but she’s never made use of it. And it’s surprising it’s without warning since she plans everything. But perhaps…

“Really, you’re making me nervous. I’ll get you some clothes and show you to the bath, you’re going to take a hot shower before you get dressed.”

I’ll have to find some clothes that won’t fall straight off her—Christ—but I’ve got to have some clean sweats that will do the trick…

“Not a bubble bath?”

That nearly knocks me on my arse—the image of Starla in a tub full of iridescent bubbles, soaking and splashing and giggling like she hasn’t got a care in the world. I can’t even see her naughty bits in the picture and yet it still gets me short of breath and there’s heat creeping up my neck. I’ve showed her down the hall to the bathroom and she’s followed me inside.

When I turn round to face her, I notice something I hadn’t before because I’d been so zeroed in on her being soaked to the skin. She’s a bit flushed and she’s got that slightly blurry look to her that says she’s probably been at a pub. Ah, fuck’s sake.

“I don’t have any bubbles for ye, lass.”

She laughs as I let my speech take on an even heavier burr. I like to please her, make her laugh, and she won’t feel as guilty about enjoying it if she’s buzzed.

“That’s too bad. Although I didn’t really come here for a bath.”

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