Nash
I FINISH SCREWING the new security screen door into the door frame at Denali’s. I haven’t had a fight scheduled for a few days so I’ve been spending my time fixing things at the cottage. Making sure her place is adequately protected was my first order of business, but I’ve also repainted her kitchen cabinets and installed a drip watering system for the flowerbeds. I even made friends with Mrs. Davenfield, Denali’s nosy landlady, by installing drip in her flowerbeds, too.
Tinkering around like this makes me think maybe I could find a new career-something tamer than fighting or war. Handyman stuff suits me. It’s solitary work, but useful. It requires physical strength, which I have, and an ability to problem-solve. Turns out, when my lion isn’t clawing to get free, my clear-headedness returns to me.
All this time I was terrified to let my lion out, to shift into lion form. I thought he’d go on a rampage and kill because that’s what happened the other times he came out.
Maybe he’s just been going crazy because I was suppressing him. That and staying away from my marked mate.
My phone rings and I pull it out and glance at the caller. It’s Denali.
“Hey baby. What’s going on?”
“Nash, the preschool just called. Nolan’s throwing up. I’m totally tied up with my client-I’m in the middle of giving her a bath and I can’t leave. Can you go get him?”
I try to muffle my choke of surprise. “Uh, yeah. Will they let me get him?”
“I just sent over my signed permission. You’ll have to show ID, but yeah. I told them his father was getting him.”
I swallow hard.
His father.
Right.
That’s me.
Well, shit.
I’ve been sent on high-stake missions for my country. I’ve survived torture at the hands of my government. I can totally handle a puking preschooler.
Right?
I get in my car and fumble with the keys. I can do this. I can totally do this. I repeat the mantra the entire ride to the preschool. Then I have to give myself a pep talk to get out of the car.
The doors to the preschool are locked so I have to use a buzzer to be let in. The director comes out to meet me. She definitely gives me the stink eye and a thorough up and down sweep of her eyes. I guess absentee dads don’t rate so high here.
I should’ve been prepared for that.
She leads me to the butterfly room where I find Nolan, lying on a mat in the corner while the other children play. He definitely looks green around the gills.
“Hey, buddy,” I say softly.
He climbs to his feet. “Where’s momma?”
“She’s working. I’m going to take you home.”
Nolan starts crying. “I want my momma.”
Damn. I have no idea what to do now. Do I pick him up and get the hell out? Try to talk him into coming nicely?
“I know you don’t feel good, buddy. I’m going to take care of you. Come here, little man.” I’m relieved when he lets me pick him up without a fuss.
His teacher gives me the same suspicious regard as the director, but she helps me out by gathering Nolan’s things and showing me how and where to sign him out.
I’m worse than Schwarzenegger in Kindergarten Cop the way I bumble around trying to hold Nolan’s lunch and soiled clothing bag and Nolan while I open doors and find my way out.
When we get to my car, I make the stupidest mistake of opening the front side passenger door for him. Instead of climbing in, he stares into the backseat and then wails, “Where’s my car seat?”
Shit! Car seat… I should know these things. Why didn’t Denali say something? And then I remember she’d said something about coming to her work, but I thought she meant I should do that if I couldn’t handle it on my own. She was probably telling me to go there first to get the car seat.
Nolan’s totally melting down now, hanging from the door handle and bawling.
I don’t blame the kid. He’s sick and he wants his mom. I’m definitely a far cry from momma. But I’m not about to take him back into the school because I don’t have a car seat. I have gotten people through far more dangerous situations than driving a couple miles without a car seat. We’ll make it home.
“I’m really sorry, buddy. I don’t have the car seat, but I’m going to buckle you up tight in the back seat and I’ll have you home in no time, okay?”
No response because he’s crying too hard.
This totally sucks.
I open the back door and lift him in, carefully arranging the seat belt around his waist and behind his back so it doesn’t choke him. “I’ll get you right home, little man.”
He throws up all over the back seat just as we arrive at Denali’s. I don’t really care about anything but the fact that the poor little guy is suffering, though. I pull him out and carry him in, taking him straight to the bathroom to get cleaned up.
I fill the bathtub and strip off his pukey clothes. He calms down in the warm water, although his listlessness worries me even more than the crying. I use a washcloth to clean off his face and offer him his toothbrush to clean the bad taste from his mouth.
I dial Denali while he sits in the tub and stares at the wall. Dark circles loop under his eyes.
“How’s he doing?” Denali answers.
“He’s pretty sick. Should I give him anything?”
“You mean like medicine? Does he have a fever?”
I touch his head with the back of my hand. “I don’t think so.”