Page 12 of Unleashed

“Maren.” I stop her just as she crosses the threshold. When she turns to look at me, I give her a smirk. “In case you haven’t already noticed, I have a private bathroom. Let me know if you ever want a tour.”

A flicker of outrage flashes across her face, chased by something significantly more carnal. Something that brings a flush to her cheeks. The tip of her tongue flicks across her lower lip as her eyes drop to my mouth before snapping back to my face. Her reaction is gone as quickly as it appeared, replaced by squaring of her shoulders and another flick of her hair.

“That’s a weird thing to say.” Then she retreats.

Quickly.

Leaving me grinning at her back.

Guess her plan is to pretend nothing happened. Like I didn’t go home Saturday with her pussy juices drying on my skin.

That’s fine. I don’t mind playing this game with her. If Maren wants to act like it will never happen again, I’m going to let her.

Even if she’s wrong.

4

Maren

“Miss ma’am. Can you please, for the love of God, hold still?” The braid I’ve been trying to weave down one side of Zara’s head slips through my fingers yet again. “Otherwise we’re going to be late, and you will never let me hear the end of it.”

No one told me the hardest part about parenting was going to be maintaining the schedule of a five-year-old. I feel like all I do after getting home from work every night is run my sister from one place to another. Her social schedule is more packed than mine has ever been.

Probably because she’s a butterfly and I’m a wasp.

“I am holding still.” Zara wiggles again, completely oblivious to just how much she’s moving around. “And I don’t want to be late. I want to talk to Breanna.”

“Breanna isn’t going to be at dance class tonight. Her dad texted to let me know she’s not feeling good.” Zara’s best friend at the dance studio apparently has a wicked case of strep throat, and I appreciate her dad keeping her home. The last thing Zara needs is strep. She’ll lose her shit over having to miss school and then I’ll lose my shit over having to stay home, listening to her lose her shit.

“What?” My sister tries to turn to look at me, her movements stunted by the grip I have on her dark hair. “For real?”

“For real.” I widen my eyes at her. “Now stop freaking moving.”

Zara slumps down in her chair, a pout plumping her lower lip. And of course it makes me feel bad. She likes dancing, but I know her favorite part of the weekly class is getting to see Breanna.

As I finish winding the tail sections of her connected double Dutch braids together, I let out a sigh. “Do you want to stop for ice cream on the way home?”

As I expected, that perks her right back up. And just like that, Zara is as eager to get out of our trailer and on the road as she would have been if her friend was going to be in attendance. And since it’s now ten times easier to get on the road than it was when I had my sedan, we still have plenty of time to make it to the studio before class starts.

Activating the automatic door on our new-to-us accessible van, I wait for the bifold ramp to engage, then wheel Zara up into the vehicle, securing her chair to the designated points before closing her in. As soon as I’m behind the wheel and all our bags are settled on the passenger seat, we are officially on our way.

The minivan is for sure bigger than my old four-door, but it doesn’t feel as giant to drive as I expected. Not that it would’ve mattered if it did. It wasn’t really an option. Over the years, it got more and more difficult to make the car work for us. Not only because her chair got bigger and—even collapsed—took up more trunk space, but also because she’s gotten bigger. Maneuvering her into the backseat was a whole workout. For both of us.

Now, there’s no disassembling or collapsing. No worries I’ll crack her head on the frame or drop her into the floorboard. The van is most certainly more expensive, but thanks to my increased salary and holiday bonus, the added monthly bill is manageable.

Which is great, because I really didn’t want to tell Zara she was going to have to give up one of her beloved activities.

We pull into the lot at the dance studio, and I blow out a sigh of relief when I see there’s an accessible parking space available. That’s probably because every time I catch one of the parents who doesn’t require the spots taking one, I lose my shit. They aren’t actually the closest parking places, but that isn’t why they’re so valuable for people like me and Zara. Zara’s in a wheelchair. She can go as far as I have to push her. Distance isn’t the issue for us.

Space is.

I back the van in so the extra lined-off area is next to the door with the ramp, then shut off the engine and open Zara’s door using the button on the console. While it slides open, I collect our bags and climb out, rounding the front just in time to engage the ramp. I unhook Zara, loop our bags over the back of her chair, and roll her down the ramp. Then I close everything up and head inside.

Breanna isn’t here, but plenty of other kids Zara is friendly with are, and she quickly finds a pack to chat with while I stake out my spot for the next hour. Many parents leave for the duration of the class, going for coffee or to do a little shopping, but I’m not comfortable abandoning Zara just yet. Not when there isn’t someone completely capable of navigating any problems that might creep up. She’s pretty freaking healthy considering how things started out, but there are still issues that can arise out of nowhere, and I don’t ever want her to feel like she’s afraid and on her own.

I know what that’s like, and I’ll be damned if she ever will.

Their cute little ballet teacher comes out, sweetly smiling and chatting with all the kids as they file past her into the studio. I watch to make sure Zara doesn’t get left behind, and smile a little when one of the kids pushes her forward.