Page 6 of Judge's Mercy

“I know, I’m sorry. I only called because Lucky said she stopped by the ranch today and has something to talk to me about, but when I tried to reach her, she didn’t answer.”

“I don’t know where her phone is, but it’s not out.”

“Okay. Well, I guess when she wakes up, will you tell her I called?”

“I will.”

“Thanks, Judge.”

The line disconnects, and I let it slide down between the cushions of the couch, not wanting to take my hands off Myla. I don’t let myself dissect whether my intentions are to keep her comfortable, or if I’m doing it simply because this is the only way she’ll ever allow me this close.

Trying to think of something else I can do to help her, I realize this would be a good time to practice Reiki. So, as much as I don’t want to stop touching her, I pull away and close my eyes, focusing on my breathing. In my mind’s eye, I picture white light pouring in from my head down to my heart. Rubbing my hands together, I allow that light to travel down my arms to my fingers. Warmth spreads through me, and I set the intention of delivering healing. With my palms hovering over Myla’s head, I feel the energy travel through me and into her.

After a few minutes, my thoughts stray to what it would be like if Myla was mine. I don’t have a lot to offer anyone. My life is simple, and not because I’m poor. My share of the club’s profits has padded my bank account nicely; I just choose not to spend it. The kind of wealth I strive for is in happiness and love, not material objects.

“Shit,” I mutter, my focus lost.

“What are you doing?” Myla’s voice is groggy and quiet.

Before replying, I close my practice by circling my arm in front of me and touching my fingers together to seal off the energy while saying a silent prayer of gratitude.

“Reiki,” I say, noticing how glossy Myla’s eyes are from the medication.

“I’m in your lap.”

“You are.”

She sits up slowly, removing the washcloth and rolling her head, looking confused. Her movements are slow, and I can tell the short nap wasn’t nearly enough.

“Wait, what were you doing?” she asks again.

“Last year, I focused on learning Eastern philosophy, which brought me to Reiki, or energy healing. I thought this was as good of a time as any to practice.” I smile at her frown. “How do you feel?”

She stretches, lifting her arms over her head, which has her shirt riding up high enough for me to get a glimpse of her outie belly button. It’s the cutest thing I’ve ever seen. “Actually, I feel better than I deserve to. Did you give me medicine, or did I imagine that?”

“I did.”

Her gaze shifts to everywhere but me. “And you massaged my scalp?”

I nod. “Along with the Reiki. It seems it was a winning combination.”

“I thought you were some kind of priest? Doesn’t Eastern philosophy kind of go against Christianity?”

“That’s a really big question”—I stand—“that I’ll save for another time. I’m glad you’re feeling better. Come lock up behind me.”

“Oh, okay.” She’s too tired and medicated to hide her look of disappointment, which fuels the tiny flame of hope inside me. I can’t dream a woman like her would ever love me, but maybe someday she could call me a friend.

“And call your sister,” I say before shutting the door, not leaving until I hear the snick of the lock engaging.

“It all comes back to money, doesn’t it?” Tinleigh says more than asks.

“And power,” I agree.

“They’re firm in their beliefs until the government threatens to take away their tax-exempt status, and then they suddenly have a change of heart.” Her feet swing between the legs of the barstool, and I note how content and relaxed she is, so different from the girl I met months ago when our morning religious debates began.

I nod and smile, taking a sip of coffee. I can’t take credit for the change in her, but I like to believe I at least played a small role in her evolution. Lucky would probably disagree by saying something crass about how a part of his anatomy is responsible for her newfound happiness. Thank goodness he’s not around.

The front door to the clubhouse opens, drawing both of our attention. In walks a more severe version of the twin I’m sitting next to, one who seems to have had a makeover since yesterday. Myla’s once long blonde hair with purple streaks is now black as night, cut in a severe bob that ends at her jawline. The seductive clothes and shoes she usually wears are gone, traded in for a simple pair of black leggings, a cropped hoodie, and black tennis shoes.

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