Page 5 of Slay Ride

I’ve searched for a Luisa Carter in Texas, but she doesn’t exist. My mother and Ezra’s mother gave us our father’s last name, but I’m not surprised that the third woman chose to leave off the asshole’s claim to her daughter.

“Do they all share the last name?” I’ve asked this question twice before, and both times I received a knowing look, like she was just a tad too lucid to spill those beans. She might be far enough gone to tip the cup now.

“The boys do,” she says. “I guess the British woman and I were a little too fond of the fellow who cut us so deeply. The woman from Texas passed down her maiden name.”

I sit on the edge of my seat. This is the closest I’ve come, and I’m mere seconds from getting enough information to find our sister.

My mother places her dainty fingers to her forehead. “Oh goodness. What was it? It wasn’t Gonzalez, but it started with a G and was Hispanic in origin.”

“Garcia?”

“No.”

“Gomez?”

“No, no. I can’t remember. Would you like some tea, young man?”

She’s already forgotten I’m supposed to be an orderly. But it doesn’t matter. She’s given me enough for today, and I don’t want to push her any further.

“I’m not very thirsty right now, but I’d love to sit and visit with you for a bit.”

She smiles. “I’d like that.”

For the next hour, I talk to her about other things and steer clear of the topics surrounding my father. I listen to her tell the same stories I’ve heard a million times, and I smile and nod in all the right places. For her.

I’m a bit of a mama’s boy. Fucking sue me.

Then her eyes begin to fog a bit more, and the ugly side of her disease rears its head. She shifts from confusion to rage in the span of minutes, moving so gradually between each phase that it’s hard to realize what’s happening. Especially for her son.

“Leave me alone. I’m tired,” she finally says. “This shirt is uncomfortable.”

Before I can stop her, she begins ripping off her clothes. I call for one of the nurses. I’d drape my jacket over her shoulders to preserve her dignity if I thought it would help, but she’ll just fight me. Dementia is an asshole like that.

The orderlies arrive in their white outfits, and, after a bit of gentle prodding, they convince her to retreat to her room where she might be more comfortable. She’ll be safe with them.

Once they disappear inside, I head back toward my bike. When I get home, I need to get in touch with Ezra. If anyone can figure out who this elusive Luisa G. is, it’s him.

Chapter Three

Cat

The plane touches down in Alaska in the early morning. You wouldn’t know it was morning, though. It’s still so dark outside. During this time of year, the area only sees a few hours of sunlight each day.

Kindra and Ezra thought of that, though. They made Jim install lighting to every event area so that we can see what the fuck we’re doing. The mansion windows have also been fitted with screens that come down and mimic daytime. It’s supposed to help with seasonal depression.

Who the fuck could get depressed on vacation? Not me, that’s for sure.

Shorty lets out a yowl as I pull his carrier from beneath my seat. Everyone on the plane thought his little protests were cute at first. Now, more than a few pairs of eyes shift toward me with an angry glare.

“At least it isn’t a crying baby,” I say with a smile.

“I’d have preferred a wailing newborn to the incessant yowling,” a man grumbles.

“Then go fucking make one,” Kindra says.

I’m so glad she’s my friend.

And to be fair, it’s not as embarrassing as Kindra’s plane ride a few months ago. My toys stayed quiet for their flight to Alaska.

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