Have Me. Jo Leigh

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СКАЧАТЬ but coffee and dominoes. “Just one—” his dad said.

      “But he’s never around when you need him,” finished Liam.

      The three of them laughed like asthmatic hyenas. The worst part about it? Someone had to be pushing the transmit button the whole damn time in order for Jake to hear it.

      “Yo, Old Men?” he said, when he could finally get through.

      “Who you calling old?” Pete yelled.

      “You three. I’m trying to put in a sink. You know how much this sink weighs? I don’t want to hear one more goddamn cop joke, you got it? No more. I swear to God.”

      “Yeah, yeah,” Liam said. “Mikey always said you had no sense of humor.”

      “Well, I think he’s damn funny looking, so I guess he’s wrong about that, too.”

      “I can still whip your ass, Jacob Donnelly,” his father said, “and don’t you forget it.”

      Jake went back to the computer, replayed the section about the plumbing, then squared off against the sink. It hung off the wall, so the wheelchair wouldn’t be an issue. In fact, the spigot was motion-controlled so his dad wouldn’t have to touch anything if his hands were acting up.

      Jake had already widened the door leading into the new master bath. It used to be a guest bathroom before his dad’s rheumatoid arthritis started getting so bad. The wheelchair wasn’t a hundred percent necessary yet, but soon his father wouldn’t be able to make it up to his bedroom on the second floor, even with Jake’s help.

      He picked up the damn heavy sink and moved it over to the semipedestal, the plumbing all neatly tucked behind the white porcelain. It actually set easily, and since he’d been getting better with this plumbing business, he didn’t find it necessary to curse the entire time he secured the top to the pedestal.

      The problem wasn’t the tools, but the pain. As soon as he could, he stood, stretching out the damaged thigh. The bullet had been a through and through, but what they don’t say on TV is that it goes through muscle and tendon and veins and arteries on its quick voyage into, in his case, a factory wall. At least the thigh was less complicated than the shoulder wound.

      Sometimes he felt as if it would have been better for everyone if the bastard had been a better shot. He rolled his left shoulder as his physiotherapist, Taye, taught him to do, then did a few stretches. This DIY crap had never been his bailiwick, but his dad needed the house to work for him, and the doctors had all thought it would be good for Jake to use his body to build something tangible.

      Jake had realized when he was widening the wall that he actually liked remodeling. That was quite satisfying. The actual work itself though sucked like a Dyson.

      But this was his life now. Crazy old men on the porch, fixing every problem the world had ever known. It didn’t matter that it was March and as cold as hell outside; they kept on playing their bones, the space heater barely keeping them from hypothermia. Of course they had their cold-weather gear on. These men had been beat cops in so many New York winters the cold didn’t stand a chance.

      Thank Christ for electric blankets. ‘Cause Mike Donnelly, for all his bluster, was getting on. It would be good when Jake had the new shower finished. Nothing to step over, nothing his crooked hands couldn’t handle. Then he’d be able to jack up the heating bill to his heart’s content, shower three times a day if he wanted.

      In the meantime, there was plumbing to do. Jake limped over to the laptop and continued the how-to. Two minutes in, his cell rang. It was Katy Groft, which was weird. They’d gone out, it had been fine, but Jake had been pretty damn clear about his intentions. He wasn’t one of those guys who said they’d call, then blew it off. None of that bullshit. “Hello?”

      “Hey, Jake. Got a minute?”

      “Sure.”

      “I’m sending you a picture.”

      “Okay.” His phone beeped a second later. “Hold on.” He clicked over to the photo, and what he saw surprised him even more than the phone call itself. It was … what’s her name, the Winslow who wasn’t called Winslow. Thorpe. That’s right. Rebecca Thorpe. Ran some kind of big foundation or something, was always in the papers, especially the Post. What he didn’t know was why Katy Groft would want him to see Thorpe’s picture. “Okay,” he said again.

      “This is my friend Rebecca,” Katy said. “Interested?”

      “In what?”

      “Her. Going out with her. You know, a date?”

      He stared again at the phone, at the picture. Rebecca Thorpe was a beautiful woman. Interesting beautiful. Her face was too long, her nose too prominent, but there was something better than pretty about her. Every picture he’d seen of her, didn’t matter who she was with, she seemed to be daring everyone to make something of it. Of her. Right now, looking at the overexposed camera phone photo, he had to smile. No choice. It didn’t hurt that she had a body that struck all the right chords. Long, lean, like a Thoroughbred. “You do realize you called Jake Donnelly, right?”

      Katy laughed. “Yes. I’m very aware of who you are. And who she is. And I happen to believe you two would hit it off well. I’m pretty clever about these things. And don’t worry, she already understands you’re not in the market for anything serious.”

      So this Thoroughbred wanted to go out with a quarter horse for a change of pace? “She knows I’m busted up, right?”

      “Not a problem.”

      He gave it another minute’s thought, then figured, “Sure. Why the hell not?”

      “Great. How about the Upstairs bar at the Kimberly Hotel, tomorrow night at eight?”

      It was his turn to laugh. “What is this, some kind of gag?”

      “No. I swear. She’s great. You’ll like her. A lot.”

      He’d have to wear something nice to the Kimberly. But he hadn’t worn anything nice in a long time. Before he got shot, that’s for sure. “I’ll get there a little early. Introduce myself.”

      “Excellent. You’ll thank me.”

      “I’m already thanking you. For thinking of me. Although I’m still unclear why.”

      “You’ll see,” she said.

      “Fair enough.” He disconnected from Katy, but stared at the picture on his phone for a while. God damn, she was something else.

      Katy had been only the second woman he’d been with since he’d been put out to pasture. She’d been great, and if his life had made any kind of sense, he might have pursued more than a onetime thing. But the only thing he knew for sure at the moment was that he was a broken ex-cop without a plan in the world except for rebuilding the house he was born in so his father could live out the rest of his days at home. After that was anybody’s guess.

      “Hey, Jake?”

      He winced at the sound of his father’s voice, tinny over the walkie. “Yeah, Dad,” he said, his thumb finding the transmit button without his even having to look.

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