Kickin' It (Red Card #2)(20)

Hands shaking, I felt tears well in my eyes.

The universe was against me.

Or maybe it was just powerful men with too much of everything going for them who were out to get me.

Or consume me.

Control me.

Own me.

I clenched my hands into fists and followed him out into the living room expecting the worst, when I saw a really pretty older lady with cheerful eyes and silver streaks through her black hair. “You must be Parker!” She walked up to me like she knew me, pulled me in for a hug, and then grabbed my hand and started walking me away from Matt.

Was this normal?

He was looking at his phone.

Hello, stranger danger!

I mean I could take her but . . .

“My name’s April.” She grinned. “This will be fast and easy. It always is. I’ve been working with Matt for the last few years, love his clients, and you look delightful.” Was this the part where she pinched my cheek and offered me a Ricola?

Before I knew it, the elderly woman in the black pantsuit with the pretty gold earrings was shoving me into the bathroom with a little cup. “We do this for every client.”

I bet they did.

It wasn’t unusual.

It still made me sweat.

For reasons I couldn’t talk about.

With shaking hands I took the cup, closed the door, and leaned against it as I let another tear fall before I walked over to the toilet and laughed at my predicament. That guy was a total ass, wasn’t he? I could barely even hover over the bowl and now I had to try to pee in a cup without my legs giving out on me?

Hilarious.

It took me at least ten seconds to get into position, and when everything was over, my legs were burning so much it felt like someone had lit them on fire and then done it again just to be sure they had enough to roast a marshmallow.

I winced, screwed the top on the cup, and then left it on the counter and made my way back out to the living room, where Willow was eating breakfast and Matt seemed to be stewing on the phone again.

“Alright, dear.” April walked past me and into the bathroom. I went in search of some orange juice. Within five minutes, April was escorting me back into the bathroom and doing her physical, checking each part of me and then pulling out a tourniquet. “I need to take some blood and then we’re all through!”

“I hate needles,” I confessed.

“Don’t we all?” She just laughed. “You sit on the stool right there, and I’ll tell you a Matt story about when he was little and refused to get a shot for pneumonia.”

I sat immediately. “You knew him when he was little?”

She scrunched up her nose. “Of course, he’s my grandson.”

“Wait, what?” I almost shot out of my chair except I was so sore I couldn’t move. “His grandmother, but you work for him?”

“Private contractor. I retired from the hospital several years ago and make house calls in my free time. I like to travel, so it works for me.” She pulled out a needle and a few vials.

I gulped.

“He was ornery when he was young. He’s just angry now.” Her laugh was infectious and light as she put on gloves then grabbed a cotton ball and rubbed a spot on my inner elbow. “Once, when he was fifteen, he got sicker than a dog. I told him he needed a shot in his bum and he said he’d rather die, so I told him I would give him two Snickers if he got on his hands and knees and let me stick him.”

I burst out laughing, despite the fear trickling down my spine. “You asked to stick him?” I could only imagine what Matt thought of that, and visions of a handsome teen too cocky for his own good entered my mind. I tried to focus on that, focus on that image of innocence. I would have had the same reaction as a teen. I didn’t have time to be sick because there was soccer and friends and all the things an angsty teen focuses on instead of the real world. Spring days filled with training and laughter, the smell of fresh-cut grass, and people cheering. And then, all of those things started to get mixed in with right and wrong, and crossing boundaries, lines. They were mixed in with tears and sweat and anger and shame.

I swallowed the soccer ball of shame lodged in my throat, and tried to keep my expression happy and my mouth wide instead of lips tightly pressed together, ready to lash out at anything and anyone who looked at me wrong. It was so much easier being angry than being afraid, wasn’t it?

“He was mortified.” April giggled. I hoped I didn’t look like I felt: faint and probably pale. “Mainly because I did it in front of his two friends.” She shrugged. “I figured I’d get him in the exam room one of two ways: embarrassment over his crazy grandma, or chocolate.”

“Smart,” I managed to choke out.

“He took the shot, and I gave him a sticker with a naked chicken on it that said I’ve been shot. I think he’s kept it to this day.” She grinned wide and then patted my leg. “Alright, now I’m going to stick you.” She followed that statement with a wink. “But I’m very gentle. Tell me about yourself.”

“I love soccer.” I started with the truth so she wouldn’t see past the forced smile on my lips or the way I shook whenever I thought about all the memories linked to soccer, the ones that made me afraid. I hated fear more than I hated the shame that was chained to it like a heavy pile of bricks with all of my insecurities scribbled across them in angry black letters.