Tyler leveled a hard stare on her that told her she was dead wrong. Then he saved her from muttering an awkward reply by starting the movie. She stifled what she’d planned to say, since his life was none of her business and she was in no shape to be giving advice. Instead, Kata focused on the familiar Bella Swan voice-over that began the film.
About halfway through, he shuffled into the kitchen for popcorn, and Kata noticed that while it popped, his stare barely left the screen. Pulling one of the sofa’s throw pillows to her chest, she smiled.
“Oh, come on,” he groused. “Helen Keller and Stevie Wonder could both see this love triangle coming. And this movie made how much money?”
Kata threw the pillow at him. “Shh!”
“Don’t shush me, woman, or I’ll take you over my knee.”
She froze. “You roll that way, too? What am I saying? Of course, you do. You’re friends with Hunter.”
And didn’t she feel stupid for failing to figure it out sooner?
A frown creased Tyler’s face. “Roll what way?” He frowned, then shook his head. “Oh, Hunter is into the BDSM thing. Control freak. No, that’s not my thing. I leave that to him and Jack Cole.”
“The Jack who’s coming to get me tomorrow night?”
“One and the same. He’s one cool customer, man. And his wife is a doll. You’ll like Morgan.”
“Because she’s . . .” Kata searched for the most flattering words so she didn’t insult a woman Tyler obviously admired. “Easy to get along with?”
Had Jack erased Morgan’s personality and replaced it with that of a “yes, Sir” kind of woman?
Tyler howled with laughter. “Morgan, easy to get along with? I made that assumption once. She nearly strung me up by the balls. That’s one scary woman when she’s pissed. Even Jack is smart enough to steer clear of her then.”
Kata wasn’t sure how to interpret Tyler’s words. If her mother tried to assert herself, Gordon found a thousand not-so-subtle ways to tell Mamá that she was wrong and her “tantrum” ridiculous. But when he got mad . . . watch out. But Tyler made it sound like Jack heeded his wife’s moods, rather than belittled them. Was that the norm in a BDSM marriage, or just Jack and Morgan’s?
It didn’t matter. As much as she had feelings for Hunter, as much as they were explosive between the sheets, she didn’t belong married to someone she’d met less than two days ago, who could wring both her body and her heart inside out.
She needed to talk to someone. To Mamá, who always understood her.
“Hey, um . . .” she called to Tyler. “I’m going to take a pee break.”
Thoughts whirling, she headed down the apartment’s lone hallway to the bedroom, which was pure masculine—heavy woods, comforter striped with three shades of brown and a touch of black. Guns everywhere, along with a dizzying array of electronic devices.
Kata found her suitcase in the corner and dug into it. There was her cell phone charger. The damn phone had died early this afternoon, and she’d been unable to fish it out under both Luc and Tyler’s watchful gazes.
“Want me to pause the movie?” he called back.
“No, I’ve seen it, so I won’t be lost if I miss a bit. You go ahead.”
With Tyler occupied, maybe she could sneak in a quick, whispered call. Yeah, Hunter had told her that her phone was traceable, but it seemed far-fetched for most anyone outside of a government agency to have access to that kind of technology.
As soon as she plugged the phone in, she silenced the device. Text messages and voice mails started pouring in. Mari, Chloe, Hallie, Ben. She knew what they had to say before reviewing the messages. Sure enough, Mari wanted to know if she was all right after the shooting and if she’d gone insane, marrying a man she’d only just met. She’d insisted that Kata call immediately and bring Hunter around for dinner on Sunday. Clearly, Chloe and Hallie hadn’t yet heard about the shooting because they only wanted the deets on how hot he was in bed. Ben . . . was hurt and confused and angry. And she didn’t blame him. He’d tried to give her the birthday present of her fantasies, and from his point of view, she’d stabbed him in the back. Definitely, she owed him a return call . . . and some sort of explanation.
Another voice mail popped up from an unfamiliar local number. Kata listened to this latest message. When she first heard the woman’s wheezy, scratchy voice, Kata frowned in confusion—until the caller identified herself as Mamá.
“Mija, I heard that someone shot at you.” Concern laced her voice. “Please let me know that you are all right. Gordon is on a trip and took our phone, so I am calling from my neighbor’s.” She coughed, a long string of hacks resounding from deep in her chest that made Kata wince. “Sorry. Gordon says I suffer from allergies, and he is probably right.”
“If that’s allergies, I’m Bigfoot,” Kata whispered, worry toxic in her veins. Her mother’s chest rattled with every breath.
“He left me some ibuprofen and decongestant, so I will be fine soon.” Mamá paused to cough for another long spell. When she resumed speaking, her voice sounded even weaker. “Come by as soon as you can, Mija. I love you.”
As her mother hung up, she began coughing again. Panic raced through Kata. Her mother had bronchitis—or worse. Damn Gordon for being too blind or self-centered to care that Mamá might truly be ill. He’d left her with no car, no phone, and probably no money. In his mind, if she went nowhere, spoke with no one, and did nothing, why would she need it? The bastard knew well that Mamá’s dependence on him made her weak, and nothing gave him a hard-on faster than bending someone to his mercy.
She clutched her phone and tried to decide what to do. Mamá had no way to call a doctor, and she wouldn’t have lingered at the neighbor’s. It would only piss off Gordon if she made a “scene.” Mamá should call Mari, but since her older sister was now a mother herself, Mamá didn’t want to make Mari’s life any busier.
For now, the only way to truly assess how sick her mother might be was for Kata to see her herself.