was a big ole teddy bear where his wife was concerned, so seeing her helpless and in pain must be awful.
Touching his shoulder so he’d look at her, Summer waited till their eyes met. “I’ll go stand in the driveway and guide the EMTs.”
“Thank you,” Bud murmured.
They both looked up at the same time when the sound of an approaching siren sliced through the air.
Summer waddled as fast as she could from the vestibule and used a trash can to prop open the driveway gate. She made it halfway down the drive before the ambulance pulled in. Waving to them, she called out, “Through here,” and pointed at the open gate.
Half an hour later, she waved to the departing ambulance and assured Bud she’d lock up after he left to join Lynda in the emergency room.
Poor Lynda. Her ankle was either broken or seriously fractured. Anxiety clawed at Summer’s composure. Her new friend was her birthing coach and a major part of the labor and delivery plan she’d meticulously put together.
The frightening possibility of her friend getting sidelined by an injury pushed Summer to the farthest reaches of her ability to stay calm.
No matter how she looked at it, this new development was a disaster.
Uncharacteristic vulgarity swirled inside her, and she looked at the heavens to mutter a pithy, “Fuck you.” Adding the necessary middle finger salute, Summer glowered. She was sick and tired of the universe throwing grenades in her path.
Goddammit.
Enough!
Ohio? For another NIGHTWIND wedding? Really?
Arnie shook his head. No sooner had the newly married Mr. and Mrs. Kingsley Maddison settled into their new home than Jon and Lorelai announced a save the date along with the contact information for several Cincinnati area hotels.
This was a joke, right? He’d just arranged Stan’s retreat from the same city, and now here he was, making plans to go there for a long weekend. Maybe he could stop by and terrorize April while he was in town. It’d serve the dumb twat right if he did.
Marking the calendar of California beaches hanging next to his front door, Arnie circled the dates and sighed.
Halloween in suburbia. Oh goody.
His lip curled with amusement. Overnight, brooding and belligerent former Delta Force hard-ass, Jon Weston, was transformed into a grinning, happy-go-lucky idiot. Apparently, love and an adorable fiancé changed a guy.
Lorelai had a costume party planned for the rehearsal dinner.
No, seriously—that shit was happening.
Not one to miss an opportunity for an orchestrated laugh, Arnie knew immediately what his costume would be. He checked with Izzy first to make sure she could work her prosthetic and costuming magic. Laughingly assuring him his Halloween vision was possible, Arnie knew he’d hit paydirt when she showed him a computer-animated image of him dressed like a mortician sporting Lurch makeup.
In some sick way, the NIGHTWIND crew was its own quirky Addams Family, and once he cracked the lid, it wasn’t long before Neal and Rolf, the agency’s security duo, got on board as Uncle Fester and Pugsley.
He looked toward the front door when a Morse code of knocks made him chuckle out loud.
Two raps, followed by one, then a scratching noise, and finally three booming pounds.
It was Stan and yet another reminder of their sibling bond when they came up with a knocking signal for entry to their tree fort. It was a good boyhood memory from the time before their parents' unholy union devolved into a war of emotional and financial attrition. After that, everything was pretty much shit, morning, noon, and night.
Pulling the apartment door open, he stepped back to make room as his brother swept in carrying two large boxes of Krispy Kremes.
“May way, make way. Warm donuts!”
Warm donuts? Well, shit! There was no better recipe for saving a craptastic day than one with a glazed or crème filled donut from the double K.
“Make coffee, Darnell. I come bearing news.”
Hearing his formal name gave Arnie a start. It was a sign—a portent of something yet to be defined.
“Are you ever going to bother with real furniture, or is this rinky-dink crap your style?” Stan looked around and waved his hand.
“Fuck off.” He arched a brow and snarled, “Furniture implies putting down roots, but with absolutely no goddamn permanence in my life, why bother?”
He wasn’t quite at the “everybody leaves—everything ends” phase of crying into his beer, but was getting ever closer. His mother was gone. So was any suggestion of a happy childhood. One of his balls was gone and so was Summer.