Somebody to Love (Tyler Jamison #1) - April Wilson Page 0,41
hear her diagnosis. They jump to conclusions before they know the facts, and they fear her. It’s completely unnecessary, and it’s not fair. My sister wouldn’t hurt a fly. But he has a point. “She’s also schizophrenic.”
Miguel’s eyes widen, but he doesn’t say a word.
“It’s nothing to worry about,” I tell him. “You’ll realize that when you meet her.”
“Hey, I’m not worried. Who said I was worried?”
We park in the back and walk up to the rear door. Layla’s there already, waiting for us just inside, her backpack slung over her shoulder. She looks like a typical co-ed, dressed in ripped jeans, knee-high boots, and an off-the shoulder slouchy gray sweater with a black tank top underneath. Her long black hair is pulled up in a high ponytail.
Standing behind Layla is Margaret, my parents’ middle-aged housekeeper, who is currently glaring daggers at me. Margaret runs this household and everyone in it. She’s dressed in her typical uniform—a navy blue skirt and white blouse. Her gray hair is pulled back in a severe bun, and her only accessory is a pair of small gold studs in her pierced earlobes.
“Hi, Margaret,” I say, trying to head off a lecture. We don’t have time for that. I smile at my sister as I point a thumb at Miguel, who’s standing behind me. “Layla, this is Miguel. He’s my bodyguard, and today, he’s kindly offered to fill in as yours.” That last bit was for Margaret’s benefit.
Layla’s dark eyes, enhanced with kohl cat’s eyeliner, widen. “You have a bodyguard?” She knows how I feel about bodyguards.
“Yeah, well, it wasn’t exactly my idea to have another bodyguard. But I’m stuck with him, so I’m dealing with it. He’s actually a really nice guy, so it’s not too bad.”
“Gee, thanks,” Miguel says.
Layla laughs, instantly at ease. She turns a hopeful expression to Margaret.
I face off with Margaret. “Layla has an exam this morning that she can’t miss, and her bodyguard hasn’t been replaced yet. So, we’re taking her to campus so she can take her exam. We’ll bring her straight home after her test, I promise.”
Margaret doesn’t look impressed. “Ian, your parents would never agree to this.”
“I know. And that’s why we’re not going to tell them,” I say. “Just let her go, Margaret. She’ll be fine, I promise. Miguel and I won’t let her out of our sights for an instant.”
Layla turns her puppy dog eyes on the housekeeper. “Please, Margaret.”
Margaret releases a heavy breath, her lips tightening into a thin line as she assesses Miguel. “You’re a professional bodyguard?”
“Yes, ma’am.” He pulls out his wallet and shows her his identification. Then, when Margaret doesn’t seem impressed, he unzips his jacket and gives her a glimpse of the black handgun tucked into his chest holster.
“Fine.” Margaret’s glare shifts to me. “But you’d better have her back to this house as soon as her class is over, or I’ll call your father.”
“Deal!” I say.
Layla jumps for joy. “Thanks, Margaret!” Then she follows us to Miguel’s car, giving me a grateful smile as she climbs into the back seat.
As we pull away, I turn to face her. “So, what happened last night? How did your sugars get so out of whack?”
She sighs. “I went to a party last night and I might have had a beer or two.”
I frown. “Rob shouldn’t have let you drink alcohol.”
“He was too busy flirting with a girl at the party to notice what I was doing. Besides the beer, I had a tiny sliver of cake.” She holds up her index finger and thumb, just half an inch apart. “Just a tiny bit. And maybe half a scoop of mint chocolate chip ice cream.”
“Jesus! No wonder your blood sugar levels crashed. He didn’t check them during the night? He’s supposed to.”
Layla’s attention drifts out the window as she stares at the passing traffic, completely ignoring me.
“Layla?” I wave at her, trying to get her attention, but she doesn’t respond. Then I snap my fingers. “Layla!” Still no response.
“What’s wrong?” Miguel says, shooting me a quick look of concern.
“She’s hallucinating,” I tell him.
Miguel watches Layla in the rearview mirror.
“She suffers from auditory hallucinations, and she’s easily distracted by them. The voices—mean girls, all of them—make it hard for her to pay attention to what’s going on in the real world.” I reach back and gently pat her leg. When she still doesn’t respond, I shake her leg. “Layla! Look at me.”