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The real reason I’m so overwhelmed is that I’m raising Caleb and Carly by myself. Their father died six years ago. The only things I have left to remember him by are a few pictures and a stupid t-shirt that says FUCK CANCER.
And the kids. Both of them inherited his exuberant, boisterous personality, and thinking of the way he used to play with them makes me love and hate him all over again.
It’s not his fault he got sick, and I don’t blame him for it, obviously, but trying to raise two growing children alone in a strange new home is taking every last ounce of energy I have.
His military pension is enough to cover the mortgage on the new house. When he got sick and received an early discharge, I was afraid that would mean his income would dry up but his JAG advocate managed to secure his disabled veteran status and ensured that I would receive his full pension even after his death.
Yay me, right?
I can’t pretend I’m not grateful for it, though. Freelance writing is barely enough to pay the rest of the bills and keep food on the table. If I didn’t have his pension to cover the mortgage, we’d be living with my parents, or worse, back in on-base housing where I would be surrounded by reminders of his absence.
I sigh and head upstairs to my office. As I set my computer up and prepare to work, I glance out the window at my next-door neighbor. He’s mowing his backyard lawn shirtless and I feel a tingling between my legs watching him work.
I’m a thirty-five-year-old single mother who works part-time and lives primarily off of her dead husband’s pension but hey, at least my neighbor is hot.
I decide I have a few minutes to spare and lean back in my chair, allowing my hand to slip underneath my panties.
When I’m finished, I feel a little better, and I’m able to get through the rest of the day without tearing my eyes out.
Thank God for small victories.
CHAPTER TWO
Raymond
The world seems to slow around me, even as I rush through the hospital barely avoiding collisions with three different nurses, a PA, and an alarmed security officer who tries to stop me before the charge nurse waves her off. Everything seems to flow around me with syrupy slowness and everything sounds like it’s far away and buried underwater.
Please no
That is the only thought in my head, the only thought that’s been in my head since I received the call that morning and immediately dropped my tools and rushed to my car.
I can still hear the clinical voice over the phone—the last clear sound I heard before everything morphed into this strange fog that still envelops me.
“Mr. Raymond Leclerc?” the voice asks.
“Speaking,” I say.
“Is your sister Rosemary Leclerc?” the voice asks.
“She is,” I say, feeling the first prickling of fear rising up my neck. “May I ask what this is about?”
I already know what it’s about. My sister has been a drug addict for the better part of her adult life, thanks to a prick boyfriend who got her hooked on heroin when she was barely a year out of high school. The boyfriend barely lasted a month thanks to me and a few shifter friends of mine who made sure he understood exactly what would happen to him if he ever came near my sister again.
The drugs lasted far longer and there’s only one reason why a clinical-sounding voice would be calling me and formally confirming my identity as her brother.
My fears are confirmed when the voice says, “Mr. Leclerc, I’m calling from Grove Regional Hospital. Your sister was admitted to our emergency room with symptoms of a heroin overdose.”
I don’t hear the rest of what the voice says because I drop the phone immediately after those words. I shift to my leopard at first, then my last burst of reason reminds me that as fast as I am, my car is still faster.
I shift into human form and break about every traffic law known to man as I head for the hospital. The entire time, only one thought fills me.
Please no. Not my sister. Not Rosemary. Please.
I reach her hospital room and even that thought is silenced as I stare numbly at the orderly as he carefully removed the lines and hoses that cover my sister.
She won’t need them anymore.
The attending physician talks quietly with a nurse on the other side of the room. He looks up and sees me and dismisses the nurse. She nods and flashes me a sympathetic smile before walking past me down the hallway.
