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  Juked

  Copyright © 2015 by M.E. Carter

  All rights reserved.

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the author of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  This book is dedicated to the millions of custodial grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins, friends, etc, who take on the responsibility of a child, asking nothing in return. I’m right there in the thick of it with you. From one guardian to another… you’re amazing.

  Title Page

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  This can’t be happening I think as I run through the hospital parking lot. Not my baby sister. Not Sarah.

  I race through the sliding doors and up to the counter, interrupting someone talking to the nurse at the check-in desk.

  “I’m looking for my sister, Sarah. Sarah Watson. Someone called me and said she’d been in an accident. I’m her sister, Quincy.”

  I can feel how wide my eyes are and how rapidly I’m breathing, but I can’t calm down. I haven’t spoken to Sarah in seven months. Seven months since we’d gotten in a fight about her dropping out of college.

  She’d wanted to take some classes and get a job as an administrative assistant. I told her she was crazy to throw away the college education Dad had wanted her to have and all of the credits she had already earned. She was only twenty then, so I’d tried to strong-arm her. I used guilt. Dad had left that money to her in his will for her to get a college degree, not go to some vocational program. She had plenty of time to get into the work force later. I’d hung up on her as I raced out the door that day. In typical Watson woman fashion, neither one of us bothered to call the other one back.

  Now here I am, frantically trying to get to her after a major accident on I-10.

  “Excuse me just a minute,” the nurse says to the person I had shoved out of the way. Turning to me with kind eyes and a calming voice, she says, “Take a deep breath, and I’ll help you find her. Who called you?”

  “Um, I don’t know his name,” I say, trying hard to think but not able to get my brain to stop spinning. “He was a police officer. He said she was in an accident and was being brought here.”

  “When was this?”

  “Just a few minutes ago.” I look down at my phone. “Oh. I… I guess it was a little over an hour ago.”

  She smiles at me. “Okay. What is her name again? And can you describe her?”

  I spend the next couple of minutes answering questions about Sarah while the nurse types the information into her computer: five-foot, four inches tall, dirty blonde hair, blue eyes, twenty years old.

  “Are you her next of kin?”

  I nod with tears in my eyes. “Our dad died a few years ago. I’m all she has left.”

  She smiles at me with the same look of pity I’ve seen a million times at having lost Dad. Usually it irritates me, but not right now. Right now I need to know Sarah is all right.

  “Miss Watson. I’m going to take you to a family waiting room and let the treating physician know you’re here”

  I nod silently and follow her to a little room around the corner of the main waiting room. It looks dirty compared to the sterile white everywhere else. Beige chairs, beige walls, beige Berber carpet that should have been replaced years ago, worn from where worried people have paced.

  “I’ll let the doctor know you’re here,” she says and closes the door behind her.

  I sit. And wait. Maybe it’s a few seconds, maybe it’s a few hours. I’m not sure. When you’re waiting to find out the fate of your only loved one, time seems to break all its own rules.

  A sharp knock at the door breaks my train of thought. Or my lack of train of thought. I’m not sure which it is actually.

  The doctor walks in, and I stand. At least I’m assuming he’s the doctor, since he’s wearing blue scrubs. He’s tall, blond. Your stereotypical frat boy turned medical professional. He introduces himself as Dr. Ballard and gets right down to business.

  “Your sister was in a massive car accident. I don’t know what happened—you’ll have to ask the police for details—but she suffered severe trauma. Her skull was fractured, and she had substantial internal injuries. The EMTs on the scene administered CPR and were able to keep her alive until she got here, and we took over.”

  I suck in a breath and my heart drops. I know where this is going, and there’s nothing I can do to stop it. I thought waiting to find out what happened was bad, but I change my mind. I’d rather wait. I can wait. Please just leave, and I’ll wait.

  He continues. “She was given three transfusions to replace the blood she lost, and we attempted to stabilize her enough to get her to surgery. Unfortunately, her injuries were so severe, there was nothing we could do. I’m sorry, Miss Watson. She didn’t make it.”

  I collapse into the chair, stifling a scream with my hand. The tears streak down my face uncontrollably.

  My sister.

  My baby sister.

  The only family I have left is… dead, and the last thing I said to her was that she was being stupid and careless.

  The guilt eats away at me as I try to process what the doctor has said.

  Sarah is gone. My beautiful, bright-eyed baby sister, whose dream was to travel and immerse herself in cultures around the world, is… gone.

  He clears his throat and only then do I realize the doctor is still in the room. “The good news is your nephew is perfectly fine. He has a few bruises from the car seat straps, but otherwise, you can take him home tonight.”

  Wait, what?

  “I don’t have a nephew,” I say, certain he’s gotten me mixed up with someone else. Could that mean he has Sarah mixed up with someone else? Is it possible she’s still
alive?

  Hope flairs in my chest until he speaks again, cocking his head at me. “Are you sure? Her purse was retrieved at the scene. His birth certificate was inside. Sarah Watson is your sister, right?”

  I nod, growing more confused by the minute.

  “I take it you didn’t know she had a baby?”

  I shake my head. “We haven’t spoken in over seven months. We. . . we had a fight,” I murmur.

  “Ah,” he says with understanding. “Well then, I guess congratulations are in order. His name is Chance Michael Watson, and he’s a little over two months old.”

  I stare at him blankly. My mind is spinning. Sarah has a two-month-old son? That means she would have been about four months pregnant when I last talked to her. Why didn’t she tell me?

  Suddenly, the last conversation we ever had makes more sense. Sarah didn’t want to drop out of school because she was flaking out. She’d been trying to do the right thing. She was pregnant and probably scared. And she was definitely too scared to tell me. Too scared to tell me because when Mom up and left when she was seven, I had taken over as the mother of the house. She was too scared to tell me because she knew I would have passed judgment and told her how disappointed I was in her.

  So she had a baby without me.

  A knock startles me out of my thoughts. The door opens and a gray-haired woman walks in carrying a tiny bundle in a blanket. She catches my eyes and smiles at me.

  “Hello, Miss Watson,” she says walking toward me while swaying back and forth. “I’m so glad you were able to get here so quickly. Baby Chance is finally asleep, but I know he’ll be more comfortable once he’s with a familiar person.”

  I don’t bother to correct her. Regardless of how I found out, this is still my nephew.

  She places the newborn in my arms. “I’m Victoria. I’m a social worker here at the hospital.” My mind is still foggy from everything that has happened in the last thirty minutes, but I try desperately to focus on what she’s telling me. “I’m sure Dr. Ballard has already told you Chance is just fine.”

  I nod and stare down at the baby. He’s so small. He looks like a tiny version of my dad, like a little old man baby. His eyes are closed tightly, and his mouth is scrunched up like he’s trying really hard to sleep. People have always said they can see the resemblance between Sarah and me. I wonder if the baby will think I’m her.

  “He might be a little fussy until those bruises heal,” she continues, not realizing this is the first time I’m meeting my nephew. “I’ve put some Tylenol in his hospital bag. There are instructions on how much to give him and how often if he needs it. Try to use it sparingly.”

  She’s telling me all this like I’m going to be taking him with me. Do they think I’m taking the baby with me?

  “Since his car seat has been in an accident, it isn’t usable anymore. But we have a new one for you to take. We can have someone help you install it before you leave if you’d like.”

  I finally register what she’s saying. “You’re letting me take him home?”

  She looks at me with a puzzled expression on her face. “You are Quincy Watson, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you’re her only living relative?” I nod. “You were listed on all her hospital paperwork at his birth as the next of kin and her emergency contact. I just assumed you would take custody of him. We’ve already started working on getting all the paperwork processed, and it should be done in the next hour or so. If you don’t want to, there are other arrangements we can make, I suppose….”

  “No!” I exclaim suddenly. “I’m sorry. I’m just a little overwhelmed by all this. I didn’t even know I had a nephew until, well, right before you walked in.”

  “Oh dear,” she says with surprise. “That does complicate things. But we’re not just handing you a baby and sending you on your way. We’re giving you a temporary custody called a ‘kinship placement’ so he doesn’t go into foster care. A social worker will come out to your home in a couple of weeks to see how things are going, and we’ll have to go in front of a judge to make custody permanent. It’s how things go under unfortunate circumstances like these.”

  I nod again. I feel like that’s all I’ve been doing—nodding and staring off into space, and feeling shell-shocked.

  My sister is dead, and now I have to raise her baby. A baby I just met.

  What am I going to do?

  I hate shopping on Saturday nights. But being the lazy ass I am on my off days, I didn’t bother stocking the fridge before leaving on our last road trip. So now I’m out of everything from deodorant to milk.

  At least it’s after midnight. That means fewer people in the store and boxes everywhere as employees stock the shelves. Boxes equal hiding places from unruly soccer fans.

  Not that there are many in this town compared to, say, football fans. But soccer fans are insane. Really insane. Soccer is the only sport where fans bring drums and horns to the stadium and play them through the entire game. The craziness at FIFA speaks for itself.

  As a forward and the team captain, when I do get recognized on the street, I tend to get mauled. Hence the need to hide behind boxes.

  Plus I’m having some trouble with my corner shot so I’m in a cranky-ass mood. God help the fan who tries to talk to me about it.

  As I’m grabbing a thirty-pack of Ozarka water on sale, I hear a screaming baby. Who the hell would have a kid out this late?

  In the condom aisle, I grab my trusty brand. I usually go through a box when we’re on the road.

  Yes, soccer fans are crazy, but the perks of the job are nice.

  I’ve been playing with the Texas Mutiny for six years now. Almost since leaving college. I love it. Not only do I get to play the sport I love for a living, I do it in the great city of Houston. There’s always something happening, from festivals to concerts. Sure it gets hot in the summer. Really hot. But it beats the hell out of blizzards in the winter.

  As I round the corner, I walk right past the baby aisle. That damn kid is still screaming. I glance over as I pass by, eyeing the person who would be dumb enough to bring their kid to Walmart after midnight.

  A tall blonde is staring at the different cans of formula, tears streaking down her face as she bounces the screaming baby up and down. Her hair is thrown up in some sort of messy bun, but she’s dressed business casual.

  Something tells me she needs help. I just don’t know what kind.

  I back up my shopping cart and amble toward the woman.

  “Are you okay?” I ask as I approach. “You look a little overwhelmed.”

  She glances up and away quickly as she tries to hide the fact she’s wiping her tears on the baby blanket while the kid keeps yelling. He can’t be more than a couple months old, and I recognize that cry. He’s hungry.

  “Um, yes. No,” she says, shaking her head, not seeming to be able to make up her mind. So I do what my mama always taught me to do. I offer to help.

  “Forget your money at home? I’m more than happy to buy you a can.”

  “No,” she says quickly, then bites her lip while she visibly tries to regroup. “I can afford it. I just don’t know what kind he needs and there are so many.”

  Fresh tears slide down her cheeks. I take a closer look at her. She is carrying a purse but no diaper bag, no bottle, no diapers.

  “What kind has he had before?”

  “I don’t know. Um… they didn’t tell me.”

  “Who didn’t tell you?” I know I’m prying, but before I help her, I need to make sure I’m not getting involved in aiding a kidnapper or something. Houston is a big city. There are a lot of crazies out there.

  “The social worker at the hospital.” I nod, feeling better about my involvement, but really curious as to what the story is now. “My sister… she was in a car accident, and she….” She bites her lip and holds back more tears. “Anyway, this is my nephew, and I have to take him home, and I don’t know what kind of formula he needs.” A sob esca
pes her.

  I walk a short way down the aisle, take a quick look at the options, and snatch a bottle with a size 1 nipple, breaking it out of the package. Walking back to my cart for some water, I take a can of formula marketed for sensitive tummies. Opening the Ozarka, I make him a bottle.

  “What are you doing?” she asks, looking around, obviously afraid of getting caught. “I haven’t paid for any of that.”

  “But you’re going to, right?” She nods. “You’re at Walmart. No one cares. The security guard will make sure one of us pays for it on our way out.” She watches me like she’s trying to memorize how I’m doing it. “The thing about babies is they don’t know when they are about to get hungry, so when the hunger pangs hit, not only are they hungry, they get frantic. May I?” I reach to take the baby from her.

  She eyes me for a minute then hands him over to me. I situate him in the crook of my arm and rub his lip with the tip of the bottle. That stops his cries almost immediately. He opens his mouth wide, latches on, and sucks like his life depends on it, which I guess it kind of does.

  “How do you know you’re giving him the right kind?” she asks.

  “It’s mostly trial and error,” I explain as I sway to music that isn’t there. “Especially if you don’t know if he has reflux or sensitivities. Since you weren’t sure, I opted to start with one designed for upset tummies. He seems to like it okay.”

  She looks at the shelves without saying a word, like she’s thinking. I suspect it isn’t just formula she knows nothing about. “What kind of diapers should I get?”

  I smile at her, feeling good I could put some of the random knowledge I’ve gained from having so many nieces and nephews to use. “For the most part, diapers are all the same until they’re mobile. How much does he weigh?”

  She digs around in her purse. “I have the hospital discharge papers right here!” She pulls them out and reads through them. “Okay. It says he’s eleven pounds, thirteen ounces.”

  “I would get size two. He’s still a little small for them, but my sister always says she’d rather have them in diapers too big than have a stack they grew out of. Says it’s like staring at a pile of money she’s not allowed to spend.”