Page 51 of South of The Skyway

“Noel?!” Silence was the only response. Fingers flying for my phone, I barked, “Noel?” Chloe, her little tabby cat, jingled down the stairs with a meow, and I bent to scratch her ears as the phone rang again. Finally, she answered, her voice soft.

“Brex?”

“Noel! Thank God. Where the hell are you?”

“Sarasota Memorial.”

“What?” I balked, straightening. “Why? Are you okay? What happened?” About a million questions demanded answers, but I shoved them back down, aware that the four I’d rattled off were likely three too many. Pinching the bridge of my nose, I forced down a breath.

“I’m okay,” she said softly, entirely unconvincing. “Look, I just want to get out of here, but they won’t discharge me yet.”

“The doctors want you to stay. Why? Noel, give me something here.”

“I fractured my wrist and broke my clavicle. They were watching for a concussion.”

I jammed my eyes closed, sliding down to sit on her cool tile floor as Chloe weaved between my legs. Noel was my entire world at this point. The one person I’d always been able to count on, who saw me for me and loved me, anyway. The idea of anything happening to her made a cold sweat coat my palms.

“Honestly, I just want to sleep in my own damn bed.”

“Okay. I—uh, my car wouldn’t start, but I’ll find my way down, okay? I’ll see you soon. I’m here now.”

“At the hospital?” The confusion in her voice made me ache.

“No, sweetie, I’m at your house. I’ll feed Chloe. She’s fine. What do you need before I come to see you?”

“Brex, you don’t have to do that.”

“Listen here, twat, you gave me a freaking heart attack. Like hell am I not showing up after you got yourself in a car wreck.” She gave a watery little laugh that felt like a blade to my chest. “Now, what do you need?”

TWENTY-TWO

RHYETT

“Mom, you’re still in your prime. Stop that.” Juniper Rhodes was many things, but old and haggard was certainly not one of them. She had it in her head that every piece of the homestead needed to be done with the same urgency as a fire evacuation. But the reality was, the woman wasn’t even sixty, hiked every morning, did yoga three times a week, and was likely to outlive her caffeine-addicted work-a-holic children at this rate. She harrumphed.

“Easy to say when you’re five thousand miles away, warm as fresh toast, while I’m shivering so violently, my muscles cramp.”

I chuckled. Some things, it seemed, never changed. “Well, then get your ass down here. I’m sore for company.”

“How are you doing, baby? You okay off on your own?”

“I’m fine, Mom.” I’d be better if Brexley had reached back out. Aside from one or two-word replies to my vague ‘how are you’s’, she had said nothing after I’d thrown my offer out there. My dreams had been one ongoing vivid vision of her perfect pussy, that round ass, bright smile, and a perfect palmful of breast since I’d touched her the first time. Remarkably enough, her colorful vocabulary, that husky laugh and frequent sass were too. Of course, I wasn’t about to say any of that to my mother. “Swear it.”

“I know you’re fine—you’re my resilient one, always have been. But you’ve always been the heart of this family, Rhyett. If you’re homesick, we can have you on a flight the next day.”

“I know, Mom.” I rolled my eyes but, in a pathetic way, appreciated the sentiment. Being a grown-ass man didn’t cancel out her overbearing maternal instincts. “And you say that to all your kids.”

“Because you’re all at the heart of it, baby. But with you…you’ve always glued us together. Your dad and I have always known it, though having you gone has definitely reminded me to appreciate when we’re all in one place.”

“Thanks, miss you too. Hey—” I glanced at my watch, “—what in the hell are you up so early for?”

“Oh, the ice storm took down our power. Woke up freezing and had to go flip the breaker. Couldn’t go back to sleep.” Dammit. I hated being so far away. With Milo and Jameson out on the water, it suddenly felt imperative to make sure she was taken care of. Not that the woman hadn’t been tackling life independently since her teenage years. Before I could offer Broderick in case of an issue, she asked, “So, how are things?”

From her perfect vintage porcelain farmhouse sink to the bronze fixtures and paint pallets, I walked her through everything that had been ordered and signed off on. Being a persistent jackass with boots on the ground, the contractors were having a much harder time brushing off her concerns when they tried to pull some shady shit.

“At this rate,” I said after a forty-minute Q&A, rolling off the creaky RV mattress and heading down the three stairs into the kitchen. Little by little, I’d been transforming this space, too. Making it feel more hospitable and less temporary. “We’ll be finished in time for winter, which means we can officially start planning Christmas on the beach.”

Her joyous yelp earned a wince as I pulled the phone away from my ear. “Oh, I can’t wait! Your dad will be so excited when he gets home.”

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