Let It Go: Sergey (Mikhailov Brothers Book 1)

  Let it Go

  Amanda Hough

  Copyright © 2014 Amanda Triplett

  All rights reserved.

  Cover art by Morgan Black. See Morgan’s work at http://authormarketingclub.com/members/morgan-black-pre-made-book-cover-designs/

  Editing by Progressive Edits. For editing services visit http://www.progressivedits.com

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review with permission.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  A special thank you to the Travis County Sheriff’s Department for taking the time to answer my questions. And to the locally-owned businesses in Austin Texas, I say, “Stay Weird.”

  Chapter 1

  “Answer the nurse’s question Misty, so we can get you through the booking process,” the deputy ordered.

  I allowed my eyes to leave the computer monitor to study the young woman, Misty, my first patient of the night. Her hair clung in greasy strings around her face. Her complexion was ashen and pockmarked. Her eyes seemed wild and vacant. I had seen this look many times in my years as an ER nurse. All the signs of an addict were there and in one so young, it saddened me. Though she told the officers who had picked her up for public intoxication she was eighteen years old, beneath the grime she looked more like fifteen.

  Unsure if my query was understood, I swung my gaze back to the electronic medical assessment. I was required to get a medical history of all incoming inmates. Emphasis was placed on early identification of health concerns and care for acute and chronic health problems to ensure the well-being of inmates while in custody.

  “Are you currently taking any prescription medication, miss?” I repeated, glancing up to the sheriff’s deputy who stood behind the female inmate. He seemed only mildly interested in the scene. His focus was on a pair of tattooed Hispanic males, heads together in deep conversation in the chairs behind him.

  The woman, thin and haggard looked at me then, her eyes narrowed and focused, as if she was seeing me for the first time.

  “How about you,” the prisoner suggested with a sneer, “go fuck yourself, you prissy cunt.”

  As the woman leapt from her seat, I rolled back and up from my chair. The girl, now spitting obscenities, dived across the desk.

  My retreat created too fast a target and the screaming junkie flipped over the desk, her face smacking hard on the concrete floor.

  Uniformed bodies descended on my cubicle in a rush as I slipped free of the mêlée.

  The cursing was swiftly replaced with remorseful sobs as the deputies pounced on the attacker, pepper spray in hand and Tasers at the ready.

  Once the cluster of uniformed men and women had restrained the patient to a chair, I knelt before the weeping woman. With gloved fingers, I lifted her chin and examined her face. The nose was broken and at least one eye would be swollen shut within the hour. The kid and she was just a kid really, looked tired and defeated. The fire she had shown only moments ago was replaced with a weariness that seemed out of place on one so young.

  “She needs to be transported to the hospital. Her nose is crushed and she may have fractured her cheekbone,” I announced to everyone and no one in particular. I pressed my forefinger and thumb gingerly around the jawline, watching for telltale signs of pain.

  “Your head is probably hurting like a bitch right now, isn’t it?”

  The girl smiled through the tears. “Yeah,” was her only answer.

  I got on my knees and finished the assessment. She looked battered and excessively skinny.

  “Do you inject, Misty?” I asked in a whisper as I studied her arms for track marks. There were none. Misty looked at me beneath hooded lids. No answer.

  “I’m a nurse not a cop. If you’re shooting up you need to use clean needles. Do you know where to go to get them?

  Her stare leveled on me now. Her interest piqued.

  “Needles freak me the fuck out. No needles. I smoke it mostly.”

  I eyed her. “Mostly,” I repeated with a query in my voice. I raised a brow. She had a steady flow of snot and sniffles before the crying. Something other than a finger was going up that nose. I knew she didn’t just smoke it.

  She rolled her eyes like a kid. For a moment I caught a glimpse of what she should look like then— know-it-all eighteen year old with a bitchy attitude. She eventually replied, “My boyfriend digs heroin, I snort that if I’m with him. Sometimes when we screw he gives me a booty bump. The sex is fucking—”

  I waved my hand to stop the dialogue. I didn’t want details. I nodded my head, careful not to let her see any judgment in my expression. A booty bump meant ingesting drugs anally. If done haphazardly it was quite dangerous. I’ve treated more than one drug addict who ended up with a perforated colon.

  “You ever been in treatment?”

  Her answer was a scoff that I interpreted as a ‘No’.

  I resumed my inspection, lifting her pant legs and slipping the jail issued slippers off to check between her toes for needle marks. Addicts, in my vast experience and regrettably it was vast, were compulsive liars. No marks between the toes or on the tops of the feet.

  I pulled a sticky note from the pad on the desk and wrote down a name and address.

  “You ever go to the free clinic on Guadeloupe Street?” I asked.

  “Nope,” she replied, taking the note and stuffing it in her pocket.

  “There is a dentist there every Wednesday. So go and get your teeth checked out. No appointment necessary to get a physical too.”

  Her mouth was a mess. She was rotting from the inside out. Probably in more ways than one.

  Photos of the girl were taken into evidence and the paramedics arrived shortly afterward. The girl, covered in blood and mucus, gave a wave and apologized for calling me a cunt.

  “I was pissed about all your questions,” she explained.

  “No,” I corrected with a grin, “you were pissed you got arrested.”

  I watched my first patient of the night being wheeled down the hall, through the double doors and into the awaiting ambulance. Maybe I would not see her again. That could be good or bad.

  With a shrug, I made my way back to my desk. Cleaning, disinfecting and righting the monitor before me. An interesting start to my new career as the clinic supervisor for the county jail. Two weeks of working in Central Booking and then the fun stuff starts. General population patients.

  The remainder of my evening/morning went well. No more random acts of violence. I made my way to the lounge to retrieve my handbag and still-full lunch tote. I am not one of those women who “forgets” to eat. However, the steady rhythm of prisoners, fights and fake seizures had kept me occupied.

  I squinted my eyes to the early morning sun that was peeking between buildings to illuminate the path to my Toyota. Approaching my car, my cell phone rang—I ignored it and slid into the driver’s seat. No one called at seven in the morning unless it was bad news. In addition, since my brother was persona non grata and my friends were, no doubt still asleep, I let it go to voicemail. It was probably the ER asking me to pick up a shift. Since I had resigned from St. David’s a month ago, I had been called to fill in for sick nurses at least a dozen times.

  I thought I would miss working at the hospital more than I did. Not only did
I intern at St. David’s it had been my home away from home for 10 years. If I did the math, I feel confident I spent more time in that hospital than at home.

  Financially, leaving the hospital was a risk. But I had a healthy savings account, a condo and a Toyota with no payments. As a nurse in Austin Texas, I had plenty of prospects, at least professionally.

  On route to my condo I’d passed several local coffee shops, contemplating a tall Americano each time. However, I had enough trouble sleeping of late. I didn’t need to ask my system to battle caffeine too. By half past seven I was home—mercifully braless, face and teeth clean. My cell phone rang again. I did not answer. I considered listening to messages for about five seconds before I crawled under my fabulously soft puma cotton bedspread and fell into a fitful sleep.

  The next few days at the jail were mostly like the first. There was a lot of yelling, cursing and fights. I even saw a few of my ‘frequent flyers’ from the ER getting booked into the jail. It was interesting seeing another side to their lives. Many recognized me, excited to see a familiar, friendly face. On the last of my four, 12 hour nights at Central Booking, I got the chance to meet the other side to a domestic dispute I had heard about many times.

  Edith Jones was not what I expected. Diminutive and as neat as a pin, she approached my desk with a frail smile. Two plain clothed officers flanked her. A towering blonde-haired person who looked like a creepy homeless surfer and a dark and handsome Latino man with an easy smile and beautiful white teeth. The words “POLICE” printed across the chests of their T-shirts.

  The homeless surfer spoke first.

  “You work here babe?” His voice sounded surprised and pleased.

  I glanced behind me. Looking for his “babe.” I had spent too many years having dickhead doctors call me cutesy names. Touching when there was no need. The last thing I needed was a creepy Serpico hitting on me in front of the first cute cop I’d seen all week. I was going to nip this in the bud.

  “I am not your babe, but I am new at this facility.”

  The officer acknowledged my censure and nodded. His eyes sparkled. Amused.

  I gave a smile of forgiveness, my focus returning to the elderly woman.

  “Edith Jones? Am I right?” I asked with enthusiasm. I had seen this woman’s picture a dozen times. I couldn’t believe she was in front of me. Her husband had always given me the impression the police were never involved in their skirmishes.

  “I am,” the elderly woman responded without animation. Her little smile gone. She eyed me suspiciously. Her voice was throaty and toneless though I could hear the faint English accent. This was Edith Jones.

  I laughed and pointed to the chair in front of my desk.

  “Have a seat,” I started. “I used to work in the ER at St. David’s Medical Center. I have stitched up your husband Eddie on many occasions. He shows me your picture every time. He says you are the most beautiful woman on Earth.”

  Eddie Jones was a regular for me at the emergency room. At least once a month, he and Edith would get into an intense argument over who had control of the TV clicker or who failed to lock the screen door at night. Something innocuous. Eddie would get drunk, fall asleep and Edith would beat the crap out of him. He would make his way to the ER eventually to get tacked back together again. It was an odd relationship but not the weirdest I had seen by a long shot.

  They had met when Eddie was convalescing in England after his turn in the Korean War. Edith was a nurse. They met, fell in love and made a life together in Austin Texas.

  “So,” I asked with a grin, what was it this time? “Did your Eddie forget to put the toilet seat down?” Eddie had told me that Edith despised his drinking habit. And when he overindulged, he got slovenly. She got even. Don’t mess with a woman and her tidy house.

  Edith just stared at me. Her lips a pale line across her face. Her eyes blank. The longer I looked at her, the more nervous she made me. Eddie had always described his wife as a vivacious, spirited woman. I was captivated by his story of how they met. Romantic declarations and forfeited dowries.

  I looked up at the officers with a questioning look on my face. The one who looked like a creepy homeless surfer answered my inquisitive look. His response was matter of fact.

  “According to Mrs. Jones, her Eddie came home late last night. Thinking he was an intruder, she shot him in the head four times with a revolver.”

  I kept my eyes on the homeless surfer; I could feel the blood draining from my face.

  Really? I mouthed to him silently.

  Really, he replied in kind, one eyebrow cocked. A sardonic grin on his face.

  After a moment, I gave myself a mental shake, returned to the medical assessment, asked the obligatory questions, checked and recorded her vitals and sent her to the next stop in booking. I wasn’t sure what shocked me more—Eddie’s death or his wife’s aim.

  By the time, I had Edith’s assessment complete and logged into the system my shift was finished. I added some notes on two inmates in the clinic for my morning replacement. Said my goodbyes to the other nurse, Seth, who was not off duty for another hour and made my way to the lounge where my purse was stashed.

  I felt tired for the first time this week. It was wonderful to have three days in a row off but the four, twelve-hour shifts had taken a toll on my body. I was stiff, my muscles tight from underuse. Moreover, I had a headache creeping up my neck.

  I was used to being on my feet for twelve hours in the emergency room. Hustling from bed to bed. Taking patients who were to be admitted to their rooms. Trying to break up the occasional baby’s momma drama induced fistfight in the lobby. I was on my butt a lot more at the jail. A reality I needed to factor in when I decided a Snickers and a coffee was a good breakfast choice.

  Not fat, by my standards anyway, I have, as my friend Toni once described, juicy curves. I have never been plagued with that affliction of constantly assessing my body, worrying about that last fifteen pounds. My scale is simple. If I couldn’t get into my favorite Levis size twelve jeans, I cut back and exercised more until I could.

  The lounge was busy with staff of varying uniforms, exchanging information and making plans. I worked my way around the room to the refrigerator to retrieve my lunch tote. Grabbing the purple thermal bag, I turned to leave the room when strong fingers wrapped around my elbow and edged me to the nearest wall.

  Creepy homeless surfer dude kept his hand on my arm and stared down at me, his shoulder against the wall. His eyes, a muted green with what looked like flecks of gold, took in my face, my neck and rested briefly on the pink tank top I wore. My cleavage, which had been hidden behind the buttons of a nurse’s smock, was on full display. He seemed relieved.

  Once again, his eyes met mine. I took that as my cue to give him the once over. Mimicking his stance against the wall, I observed the man before me. A mocking grin played on my lips.

  A good head taller than my five foot seven inches and vibrantly male. His body seemed to give off a subtle vibration. His bronze and blonde hair, lashed by a tattered leather cord, trailed down his back. His nose was long, nearly straight with a bump on the bridge likely from an old break. His skin, what I could see of it, looked ruddy. His moustache disappeared into a massive beard that was so long it nearly touched his broad chest. From the looks of him, his only physical attribute that warranted remembering was his mouth. He had what could have been referred to as fuck me lips. Since I was enjoying myself, I continued my perusal down his chest to his narrow waist. His badge and a gun were hanging from a well-used black leather belt. His jeans were faded light blue and threadbare in all the right places. My eyes rested briefly on the worn material over his button fly before finishing their descent down a long pair of legs and a pair of black worn cowboy boots.

  A wonderfully deep, masculine chuckle brought me back to reality. I resumed my study of his eyes, trying to look unaffected and bored. I could feel the blush spreading up my neck and into my round cheeks. My embarrassment unmasked.
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  “Wh…what’s your name?” His expression showed surprised by his own stuttered words. His head bent to get closer to my face, he seemed confused, like that wasn’t the question he had intended to ask. He seemed at ease so close to me but something violent hid behind his eyes.

  His brows raised in anticipation of a response. Did this man think he was going to get my name? Was I being hit on by the creepy surfer? Where was the tall, dark and handsome one?

  I gently extradited my elbow from his grasp, secured the strap of my hobo purse across my chest realizing when I did that a small audience of deputies and staff had gathered to watch our exchange.

  Just my luck, I find a man appealing and it’s his friend who hits on me. I am a magnet for men like this guy. Arrogant and sloppy. No thank you.

  “I asked your name,” his tone more controlled, serious.

  “I’m,” I said with a wink, “going home.” With that, I pushed off the wall and walked out of the room.

  Chapter 2

  I got home from work by seven thirty and fell asleep on my sofa until my cell phone rang at twelve thirty.

  It was Toni, succinct as ever. “Brunch at Annie’s in one hour. Be there.” The phone disconnected. In my half-asleep stupor, I frowned into the screen, needing confirmation that I hadn’t dreamed the one-sided conversation. I really needed more sleep. Five hours of sleep was fine when I was twenty. But at thirty-years old, my body needed at least seven. With a groan, I rolled off the couch. I wanted Annie’s eggs Benedict and a mimosa more than sleep.

  On my way to the bathroom to ready myself for lunch, I stopped in the bedroom, pulled out a pair of boot-cut blue jeans, my snowy white cotton peasant blouse and my satin ballet flats.

  After I was showered and shaved, I lotioned, dried and braided my hair into a loose knot on the top of my head, applied just enough make up to fake a good night’s sleep and headed to brunch at 1:30 p.m. And since Annie’s Cafe and my condo were both nestled near Lady Bird Lake I was five minutes away from food if I drove with purpose.