Page 9 of Absinthe Dreams
I patted it dry with a paper towel and put it on the third of the pan that wasn’t taken up by the spinach and tomatoes, before it went into the oven.
It went into the oven for twenty minutes at four hundred. You could also do it with chicken cutlets or pounded thin chicken breast, but I liked to get the omega-3 and fatty acids from the fish at least once a week, and this wasfast.
About halfway through the pan’s cooking cycle, the water was at a rolling boil. I measured out a couple of portions of fettuccine noodles, enough for dinner tonight and some lunch tomorrow, and stirred the pasta into the water.
The pan came out of the oven, and I portioned out Charlie’s share of the fish, then smooshed everything together. I drained the pasta and dumped the colander into the pan, mixed it, and dinner was served.
It was twenty minutes tops from freezer to plate when everything was preheated and the water was ready to go. That was the longest part, really – waiting for the water to boil.
I put some on a plate, the rest into a container for lunch tomorrow, and felt bad that, yes, I would be microwaving it and heating it up to eat at work the next day.
Tough.
Everyone else did their crawfish etouffee, so I could do my pasta.
I left Charlie to make himself fat and happy at his feeding station and took my wine and pasta into the living room to curl up on the couch.
I turned on the nightly news, and let it drone while I ate and considered the flowers and note I’d gotten.
It wasn’t the first, it might not be the last, but it was certainly tormenting me, though.
I didn’t know what to do about it. I felt pretty isolated at the moment. River was somewhere in Asia or Europe doing his thing. Reigel was only seventeen, and with Mom having him as late as she did in life, damn near when I was twenty and already in the college trenches – well, it wasn’t like we were close.
Part of working so hard to become a physician meant there were sacrifices. Most of the time, those sacrifices made were those of your social calendar. As soon as you graduated, most of the time your knot of fellow residents and colleagues loosened and unraveled. You didn’t always stay at the same hospital. I’d been lucky and had stayed put, but I was the only one. Everyone else took positions at hospitals far and wide to make a name for themselves elsewhere in the medical field.
I got up with a harsh sigh and went back to the kitchen.
I felt like I was in trouble – very real present and physical danger with Lucas Levi Belmar on the loose. Despite what the NOPD said, I didn’t really feel like they were looking for him very hard, and I honestly didn’t trust the cops much anyway.
Partially because of the lifestyle I’d grown up in, but mostly because of what I saw on a daily when it came to my ER rotations.
I rinsed my plate, the pot and pan I’d used to fix my dinner, and loaded the dishwasher. I ran it, despite it not being full, to ensure that if I came home dog-ass tired the next night, I wouldn’t have to hand-wash anything to be able to cook for myself.
I stood in the kitchen after pouring myself a second glass of wine and, with a bit of trepidation, opened my kitchen junk drawer.
I found it, caught between the folds of a takeout menu.
A card, torn at the corner, with nothing but a phone number in block numbers on its front.
I remembered the case like it was yesterday. Multiple gunshot wounds, one to the upper right chest, one to the left hip, and a third to the left leg.
I didn’t think I would have held onto the card or the memory for this long had it not been for the fact that he’d been a biker. A big man, overweight – sure; but solid, and the look in his eyes as he’d handed the card to me?
I’d seen the look before. In my father’s brother’s eyes as they’d handed my mother a wad of cash, demanding she take it. Demanding she use it to take care of us – because we were theirs as much as hers, as much as my dad’s.
I tapped the edge of the card against my kitchen counter, holding it between my index and middle fingers.
There was no telling if it was even connected to the biker that’d come through my trauma bay that night. He could have changed numbers. He could be in prison. He could have died sometime in the intervening years. But he’d told me, if I ever needed someone taken care of, to call this number. Honestly, I was less concerned about taking care ofmyselfthan I was about any other vulnerable person crossing L.L. Belmar’s path at the wrong moment.
I picked up my cellphone from where it was charging on the kitchen counter opposite where I stood, and took a deep breath, holding it and letting it out slowly.
This was crazy.
There was no way.
I set the card on the counter, but didn’t put it back in the drawer. Downing the rest of my wine, I put the glass in the sink and took myself to bed.
I was letting him get to me. Letting him live rent-free in my head, which is likely what he wanted. Lord, this had been happening for weeks – and he hadn’t done anything yet.
