Chapter Ten
Bree
Her phone said it was after two. The students upstairs had finally quit stomping around close to midnight. Bree flexed her hand again. She could still feel Eric holding it. Bastard.
His apology was decent. Not great, but at least now she knew it hadn’t been her. Not just her, anyway. She hadn’t driven him away. It was a shame it came a year too late. Why couldn’t he have said something when it still mattered? While she still mattered?
Eric’s concern now was disconcerting. It’s not like a torch could simply be relit after sitting in a bucket of heartbreak. That didn’t mean she didn’t miss him. Eric used to be physically affectionate. He’d always had his arm around her, or his hand on her back. God forbid she try to watch television without him doing an octopus impression on the couch.
She wrapped the sheet around her tighter.
What did he want now? If it was to apologize, he would have said his piece and left. But he’d waited for something, which she evidently hadn’t given him.
God, man-logic sucked.
Bree tossed and turned for another four hours before her alarm went off. Then she enjoyed a shower with no hot water, got caught behind two trains in a row that stopped traffic to a stand-still for half an hour, and was welcomed at the door by Tyson holding a screaming Taylor, who handed his daughter off without a word. The four-year-old continued to scream until the second she walked into the door to her kindergarten classroom, where her tears vanished, and she greeted her teacher with a huge smile.
Bree got Allison to and from her first chemo session with no problems until an hour after they got home. Then her friend’s nausea hit all at once. It hit the sheets, the floor, and the toilet. Once Allie was empty, Bree manhandled her into a clean bed. If this was a precursor to every treatment, Allison was in for a horrific five weeks. As long as it worked, it was price Bree was willing to help her pay.
Tyson got held up at the office. Taylor would only eat peanut-butter and banana sandwiches for supper, but she’d stopped screaming. Allie kept sleeping. By the time Bree left for the day, she was exhausted.
She should have noticed the motorcycle parked outside her house. She’d promised to keep her eyes open. But she was so damned tired.
“Hello again, Bree.”
There was a man. In her house. A man she knew. Marcus was all in black, from his boots to his ball cap. It was a shame she preferred her bad boys to wear white hats. He would have filled the bill nicely.
Stop it.The biker always seemed to evoke the wrong response. “Why are you in my house?”
“I have a job for you.”
“That doesn’t tell me why you’re in my house,” Bree said.
“You used to be such a quiet kid. Now you’re awfully mouthy. I don’t know if I like it or not.”
For the love of God, shut up, Bree. Don’t piss him off.“I’ve been puked on twice this afternoon, and a four-year old performed acts of terrorism on me. I’ve had a really rough day. What do you want, Marcus?”
“I told you. I require your services. Your translation services,” he specified.
Since when did motorcycle clubs needed translators? It couldn’t be for anything legal. “I’m on sabbatical while I take care of my friend. Really,” she stressed. A polite refusal couldn’t hurt.
Marcus took her by her arm and shoved her into the seat at the breakfast bar. “I heard about Allison Grey. That sucks, but this won’t take long. Then you can go back to your friend.” He pulled out his phone and called up an audio file. “Tell me what this says.”
Bree’s hands moved for the notepad and paper on the counter which held her grocery list. She ripped off the top sheet and poised the pen. “Okay.”
The file lasted less than a minute. She didn’t write down a word.
“Again, please,” she requested. She repeated some of what she heard quietly, testing the sounds.
When it was done, she looked up at Marcus. She shivered as the vent in the ceiling blew cold air onto her when the fan kicked in. “I can’t translate that for you.”
“I think you misunderstand the situation,” Marcus said.
“I’m not saying I won’t. I’m saying I can’t.” Bree stressed the final word.
“I was told you spoke French and German.”
“I do,” she agreed. “But that is neither French nor German. It might be Flemish or Dutch, but I have a feeling it’s Afrikaans.”
