Tank and Troy nodded but said nothing else. Their stance, muscular arms crossed over chests, standing with booted feet shoulder width apart, said they were ready. She wondered how they’d get any work done if they were constantly watching out for her. How boring was that job going to be?
* * * *
Trevor Dornan cursed softly as he pulled into the coffee shop parking lot. He quickly changed into the other jacket and put on the straw cowboy hat he’d found in a discount store on the way to town. He’d figured in such a small town that their hospital security would be piss poor but he’d been wrong. It didn’t happen often.
He’d considered slipping into that other bitch’s room but he didn’t want to get trapped in a hostage situation that didn’t give him what he wanted right off the bat, namely his bitch and his kid, but she’d been surrounded by people so he’d had no hope in hell of getting close anyway.
“Need a donut and some coffee to settle my nerves,” he muttered to himself. “Need to regroup. Plan.” She was havin’ that kid, he was certain. He’d know that pained moan anywhere. He’d enjoyed the sound as he walked away, liked the way it’d sent a thrill down his spine. Too bad he hadn’t gotten to her sooner. He could’ve grabbed her and listened to her moan and scream as she gave birth. Then he’d be done with her and have the one thing he wanted in all the world. His kid.
“Hello, sir, how can I help you?” a chunky, middle-aged woman said with a polite smile on her face.
The tag pinned on her blouse said her name was Cassie. There was flour dusted on her cardigan and the little coffee shop smelled good. He was willing to bet she could cook good and wondered why in the hell she wasn’t at home where she belonged. Maybe she didn’t have a man.
She had her pad and pen ready so he gave her his order and then took a seat in the corner, looking out a window on the main street. Had to keep vigilant. Couldn’t be too careful. He was still a wanted man.
He played scenarios in his head, and by the time she brought him his coffee and apple fritter, he had the beginnings of a good, solid plan worked out. He’d change his appearance first and then make another attempt at the hospital. The nursery was near the entry doors. If he timed it right, it could work. And if not, he also had the makings of a good backup plan in place.
He’d get his boy, come hell or high water.
* * * *
With the workday done, Presley Ann climbed the stairs to the apartment she shared with Leah. Shared. Maybe that wasn’t the right word. Presley Ann lived with her. Sponged off of her.
One more thing to be ashamed of.
Any time she paid her share of the rent, Leah actually showed surprise because it happened so rarely. A good money manager she was not. She’d always justified her lack of payment in the past because the job her dad had given her didn’t pay all that well. She’d shifted the blame to him, but the truth was she’d never pursued her commission sales with much vigor so that, too, was her fault. She knew her dad made up the difference every month for her rent with her sister. Being Leah’s gold-digging roommate was just one more way she’d failed at showing independence.
That’s changing now.
She’d seen Leah sitting out on the balcony, her feet propped up and a longneck bottle in her hand when she’d pulled up. Maybe she could have that talk with her now. She felt like they hadn’t shared more than the briefest of conversations in days. Every time she saw Leah, her sister looked more drawn, more grief-stricken, and she hadn’t felt it was right to intrude on that. It was a painful reminder that she wasn’t the only one with troubles.
As Presley Ann opened the front door, she heard George Strait playing on the stereo. She dropped her keys and purse on the side table by the door. “Marina Del Rey” filled the apartment but some instinct told Presley Ann not to call out. The French doors leading out to their balcony were wide open and the soft spring air filled the space, the scent of the blooming mountain laurels planted in front of the apartment building wafting through.
Presley Ann stopped in her tracks and scanned the space for some hint of what was wrong. Leah was fastidious about not leaving the air-conditioning on while the windows or doors were open. It was a waste of hard-earned money she always said. A check of the little box on the wall verified that the AC was humming right along, “cooling the great outdoors” as Leah would say.
Leah sat so still in the lounge chair on the balcony, Presley Ann might’ve thought she was asleep but then she lifted the longneck bottle to her lips. After taking a sip, she lowered the hand holding the bottle until it hung just an inch above the balcony floor and stayed there, little drips of condensation forming a circle on the cement.