Page 12 of For a Goode Time Call…
“Give yourself a little grace, little sparrow.” His voice was deep and wild, a rumble of waterfalls and avalanches and thunder in the mountains, the growl of bison on the plains, the murmur of a Kodiak bear. “You’re too hard on yourself. Be kind.”
I swallowed hard. “Little sparrow?” I snorted. “More of a badger, most days.”
He shook his head. “No. You hide behind the badger, but that’s not you.”
My heart pattered, thumped. His hand was still on my knee and it was sucking in all my focus, all my attention. His hand was heavy, warm, and absolutely monstrously huge. Each of his fingers was more than twice the size of mine in length and width. I placed my hand over top of his; he turned his hand over and my little hand was lost, engulfed in his.
“I’m not hiding behind anything,” I said. He just snorted, and I knew he didn’t believe me. I sighed. “Ink, it’s still me. Itiswho I am. I’m a fierce, and determined person. I made lead dancer at one of the most highly competitive professional dance troupes in the world. You don’t get there without a certain amount of ruthlessness and determination.”
“Didn’t say you was pretending to be anything you’re not. I said you’re hiding behind that.”
I shook my head. “You’re wrong.”
“I’m not.” His gaze remained level, imperturbable. “It’s who you are, sure. But it’s not everything. It’s all you’ve let yourself be, because it served you. Got you where you wanted to be.” A pause, a thick silence. “Now, you’re lost, because that part of you doesn’t serve you anymore and it’s all you’ve let yourself be.”
“How the hell do you think you know this shit about me?” I demanded, yanking my hand free, anger boiling through me. “You don’t know the first thing about me.”
He let out a slow soft breath; his eyes were thoughtful, his jaw working as if he was literally chewing on what to say, making the tip of his beard waggle. “You talked a lot, both when you were drunk and when you were delirious. The shit you said when you were delirious, half of it was just fever delirium nonsense, but the other half was…” He shrugged. “Shit, you probably would rather have not said.”
I lay back on the bed, letting myself slip back down. “Shit.”
“It’s okay. It’s just me, and I’m the best secret keeper there is.”
I closed my eyes, suddenly weaker than I’d ever felt, exhausted beyond all comprehension. “I can’t handle this conversation right now.”
He reached into the pocket of his shorts—the only article of clothing he was wearing, a pair of loose, shimmery pale blue basketball shorts which hung to his knees—and pulled out my cell phone. “Your mama been callin’ you like crazy. I sent word through Juneau to your mom that you was sick and being taken care of, but I guess she’s gotta put eyes on her baby girl, or at least hear your voice.”
My heart seized—three days in the world of a worrying mother was an eternity. I took the phone, unlocked it, and glanced at my notifications: sixty-three text messages, fourteen missed calls, seven voicemails. “Damn, Mom. You havenochill,” I muttered to myself. I dialed her number, and it rang precisely half a ring.
I was too tired to hold the phone so, with a brief, apologetic glance at Ink, I put it on speaker and set the phone on my chest.
“Cassandra Danielle Goode!” she yelled. “Where thehellhave you been?”
“Did you not get the message?” I asked, letting my voice sound as raspy and weak as I really did feel. “Ink said he passed a message to you that I’ve been sick.”
She sighed, a pained, irritated, complicated sound. “Yes, yes. Lucas called and told me that, and I quote, Roman told him that Remington was told by Juneau, who was told by Kitty, who was told by I’m not sure who, that you were very sick and that you were beingtaken care of, whatever that means, by someone named Ink, whomever that is.” Her voice rose again. “But that’s just a big game of telephone tag. Doesn’t tell me where you are, who you’re with, how you got sick, why you left without telling me—”
“Mom—”
“Cassandra, I know you’re an adult, but you can’t just run off without—”
“Mom!” I shouted, making my head pound. “Fuck, that hurts.”
“Cassandra, language! I raised you better than that.”
“God, could youpleasenot be Captain America for ten seconds, Mother!”
“I don’t even know what that means,” Mom muttered.
“Could you just…not yell?” I rested my forearm over my eyes. “I’m really sick, Mom.”
“What kind of sick?”
I sighed. “You know what? I’m a grown woman,mother.”
“I know that, I just—”
“I got hammered, if you must know. Obliterated. Drunk beyond all reason. Completely and totally fucking shit-faced.”
