The jake ryan complex, p.1
The Jake Ryan Complex, page 1
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Text copyright © 2021 by Bethany Crandell
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by Montlake, Seattle
www.apub.com
Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Montlake are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.
ISBN-13: 9781542026000
ISBN-10: 1542026008
Cover design by Caroline Teagle Johnson
For Boog, G & Doozie,
my favorite trio
CONTENTS
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Chapter 1
“Aaaaaaagh! It feels like a watermelon’s coming out of my butt!”
Despite my patient’s distress, I can’t help but chuckle. Of the nearly one thousand mothers I’ve cared for in my ten-year career, I’ve heard active labor described a lot of ways: “A volcano exploding inside my vag,” “Like an alien is trying to eat its way through my ass,” even “Satan playing jump rope with my guts!” but I’ve never heard the watermelon-out-the-butt comparison before.
“Get it out!” she cries. “Get that little bastard out of me!”
Little bastard. I’ve heard that one . . .
“We’re almost there, Rena,” I reassure her with an encouraging nod. “Just a few more pushes and she’ll be here.”
“Oh, baby, you’re doing so great. So, so great.” Once again, the helpless father-to-be drags his palm across his wife’s sweaty forehead, then smooths her black hair back from her face. “I’m so proud of you, baby. You’re doing such a great job—”
“I swear, Jason, if you touch my face or call me baby one more time, I’ll rip your head off and shove it straight up your ass!”
The usually mild-mannered preschool teacher swats her husband’s hand away, teeth bared like a wild dog.
“This is all your fault!” she screams. “You did this to me. You did this to me, you dick! What kind of man does this to his wife?”
Jason Harrison stumbles backward, looking terrified. “Sweetie, it’s okay. This will all be over soon—”
“Don’t fucking patronize me! This will never be over! I’m going to spend the rest of my life shitting watermelons, and it’s all your fault!”
And welcome to ten centimeters dilated.
“All right, Dad, time for you to take a seat.” Moving with familiarity, Debbie, the veteran nurse I’m fortunate enough to be working with tonight, ushers Mr. Harrison to a chair in the corner and instructs him to sit down and keep his hands to himself. Wisely he doesn’t object.
“Okay, Rena,” I continue, focused on the task at hand. “One more big push should do it. Give me one more big one . . .”
“Come on, sweetie. You can do this,” Debbie adds, encouraging her from the bedside. “Let’s get this done. On three. One, two, three . . .”
“Grrrrrrrrhhh!” Rena lets out a deep, demonic-sounding growl that should probably make her head spin but instead provides her with enough strength to bear down against the stirrups and push one last time.
That’s right. There you go. Your six hours of labor are about to pay off . . .
“No! Wait!” she wails. “I changed my mind. I don’t want a baby. Put her back! Put her back in!”
“Sorry, too late.” I grin beneath my surgical mask as the baby’s head finally emerges, a coat of slick black waves covering every inch of it. “She’s here, and with a headful of dark hair just like you, Mom.”
I place my hands under the baby’s slippery body and, with a gentle tug, proceed to guide her out into the world. Hello, little girl. As if rudely awakened from an afternoon nap, the baby opens her steely-blue eyes, and lets out an ear-shattering scream.
“Oh my god,” Rena cries over an exhausted breath. “That’s her. That’s our baby. Jason . . .”
Forgetting their earlier grievances, the new dad explodes from the chair and races to his wife’s side, pulling her into his arms and bathing her head with kisses, all the while keeping a nervous eye on me. “She’s actually here?” he asks. “Our girl is—she’s here?”
“Oh yes,” I say. “She’s definitely here.”
Debbie and I move quickly, expectorating mucus from the little one’s mouth and nose and tying off the umbilical cord. (Mr. Harrison made it clear that he wasn’t interested in cutting the cord, so I don’t even bother to ask.) Debbie wraps her in a warm blanket and then quickly hands her off to her parents. With tears streaming down her flushed cheeks, the new mom pulls the baby in close against her chest, burying her lips against the sleek, downy-soft locks covering her head.
“Hello, sweet Charlotte.” Rena’s voice is thick, wavering with emotion, and absent of all traces of demon possession. “I’m your mama. I’m so happy to meet you.”
Hearing her mother’s voice, baby Charlotte stops crying and blinks hard, as if trying to orient herself in this big new world.
“There’s my little angel,” Mr. Harrison says, a joyful strain in his voice. He tips his head thoughtfully, basking in the beauty and wonder of the tiny little person in front of him, and then, like all the good ones do, turns back to his wife and says, “I couldn’t possibly love you any more than I do right this minute.”
Sniffling beneath her tears, Rena smiles and nuzzles her way into that tender, safe space beneath the crook of her husband’s chin and against his chest. I turn back to the work in front of me, trying my damnedest not to be jealous of her—not so much the baby but the man. Not that I’m in any way attracted to Mr. Harrison (besides his being at least ten years my junior, hipster beards and corduroy pants aren’t really my thing), but because his unwavering love for her is so obvious—so real—I can’t help but wish I had it for myself. Sadly, though, the universe has made it pretty clear that’s never going to happen . . .
As I always do after a long delivery, I hit the Starbucks drive-through for a soothing cup of cocoa before I start the forty-mile drive home. I could have gone with a condo in the city, but I like the commute from downtown Chicago to Naperville; it’s relaxing, when there’s no traffic, and once I get there it’s just like being home in my Michigan childhood, where churches anchor every corner and paperboys still deliver from their bicycles. It’s the perfect place to live—or it will be once I can find a reliable handyman. There’s always something going wrong with my old craftsman.
It’s nearly ten o’clock when I finally turn onto my street. Lined with statuesque elms and old-timey lampposts, it’s about the best greeting I could ask for after the day I’ve had—
My stomach sinks when I see a black pickup parked in front of my house, a Walsh and Son’s General Contracting magnet displayed across the tailgate.
Dammit, now what?
I shield my eyes from the rotted-out woodpile (formerly my front porch) that’s sprawled across my lawn and head up the long driveway. My house is dark, but the granny flat out back is lit up like the Vegas strip, which means that whatever catastrophe brought a contractor out in the middle of the night is happening at my twenty-two-year-old tenant / dog walker’s place.
Crap.
Most nights Rerun, my elderly Labrador, is waiting at the gate to welcome me—his thick black tail swaying with anticipation—but tonight the only one standing watch is Gia. As always, she’s the epitome of cool with her spiky platinum hair and retro cat-framed glasses, but based on the death glare she’s firing at me, it’s clear she’s not very happy.
“Hey, what’s going on?” I ask cautiously, motioning to the granny flat as I climb out of the Jeep.
Her glare tightens, and she settles deeper into her crossed-arms stance.
“Your house is a shit box. That’s what’s going on.”
“What happened?”
“That fucking pipe burst in my bathroom again.”
My shoulders sag. “It did?”
“Yes. But thankfully this time it happened while I was out walking Rerun, so it was probably only running for like a half hour before I found it. But still, there’s water all over my fucking house, Mac. All my stuff is drenched.”
“Is your artwork okay?”
Gia refers to herself as a “hijack artist,” which basically means she replicates other artists’ famous pieces and then embellishes them with some of her own flair. It used to be flowers or maybe a weird symbol, but lately it’s all about Steve Guttenberg. She stumbled upon a random airing of Police Academy a few months back and has been inspired by him ever since. Steve’s shown up—naked, always naked!—in more than a dozen pieces that have, surprisingly, sold for hundreds of dollars apiece, which is why she nearly strangled me when this exact situation happened last month and her latest Steve project (a naked Steve replacing Judas at t he table in da Vinci’s The Last Supper) was ruined from water damage. Not only did I have to pay to have all her things cleaned, but I also had to ante up $400 for the world’s most sacrilegious painting.
“Yeah, my pieces are all fine, but only because there was a pile of clothes on the floor that sopped up the water. A few minutes longer and everything would’ve been destroyed.”
Gia’s messiness usually annoys me, but in this case her piggish style seems to be working to both our benefits.
“Well, thank god for dirty clothes,” I say. Then I motion back toward the street, saying, “But the good news is it looks like you finally found us some help . . .”
Thankfully, she eases her stance a little. “Yeah. He comes into the flower shop all the time, left his card a few weeks ago. I remembered him saying something about being up for after-hours emergency work, so I figured I’d try him. He’s inside assessing the damage now.”
Along with her Steve art, Gia also works part-time at a local flower shop and picks up other odd jobs as the moods strike. I admit I was skeptical of her at first—septum piercings and come-and-go paychecks don’t scream “reliable tenant”—but she’s proven to be a great fit. Besides the fact that she’s never late on rent, she adores Rerun and is more than happy to look after him when I’m not around. Considering the hours I keep, that’s invaluable. And on a personal level, I like Gia. Sure, she’s brash (and a little scary when she’s mad), but she’s also bold and lives her life with a kind of reckless confidence I’ve always wished I had. It feels good to be around someone like that.
“He seems like a pretty good guy,” she goes on. “He came over as soon as I called.”
“To come out this late on a Thursday night, he has to be.”
Considering he even showed gives him a leg up on all those five-star Yelp reviews that did me no good.
“Rerun’s completely in love with him,” she continues. “He’s been following him around all night.”
“Rerun’s in love with everybody.”
“Not Mr. Feldspar.” She grins snidely. “He took a dino-size dump on his lawn, right in front of him. The old fart was standing at his living room window watching the whole thing—”
“No! Not Mr. Feldspar! He’s so fussy about his lawn.”
“Yep,” she goes on while I raise the cup to my lips for another swig of cocoa. “And we were out of poop bags, too, so I had to barehand it—”
Pffffttt—“You what?”
Cocoa erupts from my mouth, sending a spray of chocolate bubbles catapulting through the air and onto—
“Whoa! Hold your fire!”
My eyes spring wide, and I gasp as a tall, broad-shouldered man suddenly appears in front of me, his work gloves raised over his face in defense against my spray.
“Oh my god!” I sputter while swiping wildly at my mouth. My cheeks already feel hot beneath my hands. “I’m so sorry. I—I didn’t see you there.”
“It’s okay,” he chuckles. “Just confirm that you’re done.”
My blush deepens, and I raise my cup to underscore my apology, mortified. “Yes, I’m done. It’s safe to come out.”
He cautiously drops his leather-clad hands, revealing kind eyes and a strong, chiseled jaw that’s blanketed with a sexy coat of day-old stubble.
“Well, that’s a nice how-do-you-do,” Gia says over a hearty laugh. “Mac, this is J.T., the contractor.”
“H-hi. Nice to meet you.” Blinking hard, I extend my hand to greet him, but before he accepts, he peels one cocoa-spattered glove from his right fingers, then scrubs his palm against his jeans.
Dear god, I just spit all over this beautiful man . . .
“Nice to meet you, too, Mac.” He gives my proffered palm a solid shake, the calluses lining his warm skin prompting my insides to quiver with delight.
“I’m so sorry,” I say again. “I don’t usually spit cocoa on people when I first meet them.”
“Yeah, she usually saves that for the second encounter,” Gia mumbles.
“Really, it’s fine.” He looks straight at me and offers a charming, reassuring smile that extends all the way up to the cute little wrinkles kissing the edges of his brown eyes. “An unexpected shower is good every now and then.”
On instinct, my gaze wanders to the cocoa splattered across his close-fitting T-shirt, partially hidden beneath his unbuttoned plaid flannel.
That’s not the kind of shower you deserve—
Rerun suddenly bounds out of the flat, squashing my naughty train of thought. He thunders past J.T. and slams into my legs, groaning happily around the tennis ball in his mouth.
“Hey, old man.” Easily adopting my doggy, baby-talk voice, I drop down to the dewy night grass and give him a hearty scratch. “You were a naughty dog tonight. Yes you were. You can’t be pooping on Mr. Feldspar’s lawn. No you can’t, bud. You can’t do that . . .”
“It was classic,” Gia chuckles.
“No, it was gross,” I scold her, sounding more like my mother than I’d ever want to. “You should never touch dog poop with your bare hands, or any kind of poop for that matter.”
“Says the woman who plays with placentas for a living . . .”
Ignoring her remark, I stand and direct my attention back to J.T. “So, that old pipe is causing problems again, huh?”
“Yeah, but I don’t think the pipe in the bathroom is the real issue. I think the problem stems from the supply line.”
I scowl.
“It’s actually not as bad as it sounds,” he assures me. “Come on in and I’ll show you.”
With a courteous wave, he leads me into the flat while Gia hangs back in the yard to throw the ball for Rerun.
“Sorry about the mess,” he says while navigating his long legs through the minefield of tools and soiled rags gathered in the hall outside the small bathroom. I can’t help but chuckle. No different than any other day in Gia’s flat . . . He drops down to one knee in front of the pedestal sink, his worn leather work boot grazing the baseboard behind him, and shrugs out of his plaid overshirt. He spreads it on the floor beside him and with a little pat indicates I should use it to kneel.
Who says chivalry is dead?
Holding back a nervous grin—mindful of the close quarters—I crouch beside him and feel my pulse spike unexpectedly when I find myself just inches from the taut biceps muscle that’s peeking out from beneath the sleeve of his T-shirt.
Well, hello there—
J.T. points toward the metal pipes extending from the wall, reclaiming my attention. “You see how it’s all warped back here . . . thankfully it’s just this small section.” He punctuates his point with a soft knuckle rap to the wall. “But it’s definitely been leaking for a while.”
I lean in for a better look.
“Oh wow. I never noticed that before.”
I reach forward and press my fingers against the wall to where the paint is raised and rippling like lasagna noodles buried beneath a blanket of sandstone beige.
“And it’s happening over here too,” he says. I catch the faintest hint of peppermint on his words as he points away from me to his right, where the pipes come out of the wall and into the back of the toilet. I narrow my eyes. Sure enough, the same bubbly mess. “You’ve got a clog in the main that’s forcing all the secondary lines to back up,” he explains as he stands up, unaware of the tempting vantage point he’s now offering me. “Have you had any leaks in the main house?” he asks, removing the glove still on his left hand.
Cheeks growing warm again, I shake my head as I slowly back-crawl out from beneath the sink. “Not that I’ve noticed,” I say. “Though there are plenty of other things wrong with the main house.”
He chuckles. “So I’ve heard. Here, let me help you.”
My breath flutters as I reach up for his newly bared hand—
The light reflecting off his wedding band could land airplanes.
Ugh.
Of course . . .
Swallowing a silly, disappointed sigh, I lay my palm in his and allow him to help me up while simultaneously fighting the urge to punch myself in the face. How could I have possibly thought he was single? The universe doesn’t offer me charming, chivalrous men with sexy calluses—I know that! I get the weirdos who only speak pig latin or live in their grandmother’s basement. God, I’m an idiot . . .
“So, what’s our plan of attack?” I ask, wiping my hands on my thighs as I quickly backpedal toward the door. He watches with a crinkled brow, then lifts his overshirt from the floor and puts it on again, this time buttoning the placket.
