Page 15 of Twice as Twisted

I pick up my bagel and stalk out to the sounds of them working up to one of their epic fuck-fests. They’d probably just fuck in front of me if I stayed. I’m not even sure they noticedI was there. If anything, my presence is an annoyance, and imposition. They’d be happier if I wasn’t here.

Baron’s right. It’s time to go.

But I have a few things left to do. I pull the H2 out onto the road into town, finishing my bagel on the way. When I get to the hospital, they tell me only family is allowed to see Olive.

“I am her family,” I growl.

“I’m sorry,” says the receptionist. “You’ll still have to wait for visiting hours.”

I go back to my car and throw myself into the seat, too frustrated to muster up a flirtation and try to talk my way past the desk. I haven’t seen Olive since I hurt her, and it’s killing me. Last night, she was in the ER, and no one could see her. Eventually, I drank enough to black out, but apparently Royal took me home to get some sleep. Now I reach under the seat and find a fifth of whiskey and a couple bottles of beer. I open the heavy bottle and tip it back, letting the sweet burn of liquor slide down my throat and warm my belly. Then I lean back in my seat to wait.

A half hour later, I start to rethink my presence. After what I did last night, Olive might not want to see me. Colt is right. She’d be better off without me. This town would be better off. Hell, the whole fucking world would be better off without Duke Dolce in it. Unlike Royal, our family business doesn’t need me. And Baron, he’s a genius. He might think up some crazy invention that saves the world over breakfast one day. I’ve never done shit. All I do is screw up and hurt people, even when I’m trying to be good, like I have been since Baron left last winter.

A man can only go against his nature for so long, and anyone who’s ever known my family knows that evil runs in our blood. Even when I tried, I’ve never done anything good. At least not for anyone who deserved it.

I sit up in my seat and thumb on my screen, then hit call. When it goes to voicemail, I hang up and try again. He answers on the third call.

“It’s Saturday morning, Duke.”

“I know,” I say. “But you work for our family, and I need something now.”

He sighs. “What do you need?”

“I want to transfer my shares of Dolce Sweets.”

Mr. Delacroix is quiet a long minute. “Transfer them?”

“Yeah,” I say, taking a swig of whiskey. “There’s a kid who needs them.”

“I’m sorry, but it’s not that simple,” he says. “Besides the fact that she’d have to be eighteen to own shares in the company.”

“I don’t care. Make it happen,” I say, remembering Royal’s words in the kitchen. “I don’t want her to ever have to worry.”

“I can set up a trust in her name,” he says after another pause.

“Yes, do that,” I say. “Send me whatever you need me to sign.”

“You can put whatever you want into it and set the conditions for her to access it, but again, she won’t be able to access it until she’s eighteen.”

“Fine. Do your job,” I say, then hang up and finish off the whiskey.

As I screw the cap back on, I realize what a fucked up thing I’m doing. If Harper told the doctors what happened, they might guess I’m the one responsible. That I’m the fuck-up who didn’t listen, and now there’s a poor little kid with no health insurance who probably has permanent brain damage or scars and no money to fix them. Even if no one else knows, Oliveknows. How could I show my face after what I did? What could I say to her? No words can fix her.

I grab one of the beers and climb out of the car. I stumble to the hospital doors on leaden legs. When I reach for the handle, I realize I’m still holding the beer. I shove it into my pocket and lurch through. That’s when I see the gift shop and realize, fuck-up that I am, I didn’t even bring her anything.

I sway my way up and down the aisles inside over and over until the guy behind the counter asks if I need help.

“Do you have any koalas?”

He shakes his head. “I don’t think so, man. I think there’s one in a coloring book somewhere around here…”

He goes to look, and I spot a jar of pens on the counter, each one with a tiny animal clipped onto it. I search through it, finding a half dozen sloths and monkeys. And then, just as I’m about to give up, I see a little grey animal clinging onto one of them. I turn it slowly, drunken desperation welling inside me. I have to blink a few times before I can believe it’s really here. The guy comes back, and I put it on the counter along with a Magic Eye book that looks like it’s been on the shelf for decades instead of a coloring book.

A few minutes later, I turn the knob to a room on the second floor. Pushing it open, I see the shape under the white spread, so small it’s hard to believe it’s a whole person. She’s not moving, and as I stagger toward the bed, an awful, sinking sensation starts to drag me toward the floor. If she’s not breathing when I get there, if I’m too late…

Her head is wrapped in bandages, and her chest rises and falls. There’s an IV drip attached to her hand, and monitors beep steadily beside the bed. That settles me, since I’ve been in hospitals enough to know that means she’s alive and stable. Her eyes are closed, her mouth hanging open. Asshole that I am, I want to take a picture, to show it to her later and tease her thatshe looks goofy as hell. But I won’t be laughing with her. I’d be laughing at her. She’s not going to want to laugh with me again after I slammed her head into a cement block.

I should be in fucking jail right now.

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