Soldier Boy Read online

  That’s me, living it large.

  ‘Oh, Penny, dear,’ she calls as I reach the garden gate. ‘There was a delivery driver call at your door yesterday.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘I think they had the wrong address because she was looking for a Mrs Monroe. Maybe she put a card through the door?’

  ‘I’ll check. Thanks for letting me know,’ I say, closing the gate behind me.

  Who needs CCTV when you’ve a Mrs H. I make a mental not to mention it to Ben. Monroe, Mrs or not, the parcel has to be for him.

  ~*~

  Tonight’s night shift circus includes one c-section, a veritable tidal wave of amniotic fluid, and being summoned to the accident and emergency department for the delightful task of removing a plastic egg the size of a Kinder Surprise from the inside a twenty-five-year-old woman’s vagina. Mine is not to reason it happens to be there in the first place or even why her boyfriend thought it would be helpful to bring along barbeque tongs.

  The longer I do this job, the more I wonder how long it’ll be before idiocy renders the planet extinct. Some days, I love my job, and some days, I wished I worked in Starbucks. I hear their benefits are pretty good.

  I’m on my way back to the ward when Melody texts.

  I think you should sign up for Tinder.

  Sometimes, I wished I could swipe left on your messages and erase your words.

  Pfft, comes her response. I’m signing you up on Saturday. No excuse, mkay?

  Got to go.

  Me, too. I’m heading to Tim’s butthole.

  Use lube, I respond. . . . because he is a total tight-ass. I wouldn’t want her to get stuck. Also, please don’t use your head. I don’t want to see you in A&E.

  OMG! Autocorrect failure!! I’m heading to Tim’s BOLTHOLE!!

  Sure, you were. GTG.

  Yes, she responds. I can hear the vaginas signing the call of your people. See you Saturday.

  Thankfully, my evening improves from there when a couple I’d met in a recent antenatal clinic arrive to the delivery suite. The Fitzgibbons are in their early forties, quite late to parenthood, but after a slew of fertility treatment that arrived at nothing, they told me they’d given up only to find themselves cautiously optimistic and terrified when Mrs Fitzgibbon had fallen pregnant naturally the following year. I’m honoured to have been involved in delivering their daughter a few minutes after three this morning. It was my hope that Karen, the senior midwife on duty tonight, would’ve seen them through the experience—a midwife delivery is usually one without complications—but after five hours, the babe began to show signs of distress, so it was time to get the vacuum out. Literally. That’s exactly what a ventouse delivery is. Domestic appliances aside, as their daughter was placed on Mom’s chest, there wasn’t a dry eye in the room. And that included me, though for a mixture of reasons.

  It’s moments like this that make the hours worthwhile, but I can’t help but feel a little hollow as I watch the scene in the delivery room. Bringing new life into the world is amazing. On a daily basis, I get to see the workings of love firsthand. Partners and families and friends receiving tiny bundles with open hearts. Men watching their partners suffer through labour, their helplessness and distress not quite going away until a new babe is passed into their arms. Their adoration and pride, the way they look at their loved one as though they are revered. A queen among women, rather than a tear-tracked, sweat-stained mess.

  I imagined Liam and I would go through this very experience. That he would be the one holding my hand as I grunted like a pig and hurled insults that would make a sailor blush. Actually, I more saw him holding my hand during an elective caesarean, but that’s another story.

  And now? Well, that’s not going to happen and as much as I’ve come to terms with the fact that we’re through, I’m still processing what it means for the future.

  But back to my amazing job. It really is amazing. When I’m not being puked on. Or shat on. But that’s a tale for another (never) day.

  Chapter 7

  PENNY

  What I’d written in my note was right because over the next couple of days, I barely saw Ben. It’s not like having a lodger at all. Maybe more like having a friendly ghost? Like I’m aware of his presence in the house without the apparition manifesting. Other than a bed that has clearly been slept in. Yeah, so I snooped a little bit. I was curious! Maybe a friendly elf would be a better description, though not the Harry Potter kind. He’s much sexier than Dobby. And if he’s the elf, that would make me the shoemaker. You know the story—the shoemaker goes to bed, leaving out tools and materials, and the elves arrive during the night to make shoes. Instead of footwear, Ben appears to have taken it upon himself to finish some of the jobs abandoned since Liam left. My half-installed kitchen looks more like a kitchen, and the lawn has been mowed.

  It seems, despite our somewhat strange start—the whole bathroom deal—I find Ben isn’t a bad lodger at all. I might have said as much in one of my notes because I’ve decided the best road forward is the friendly, civil one. So, yeah, I’ve taken to leaving him short missives and notes of thanks. It feels like the least I can do, and I’ve come to appreciate the masculine scrawl across the bottom of the paper.

  You’re welcome.

  Aw, sweet.

  Don’t mention it.

  How could I not?

  Do you have any power tools?

  Does a vibrator count? I didn’t answer with that, though. Instead, I directed him to the garden shed.

  Do you know you snore like a freight train?

  Watch it, Benji. I’ll shave your eyebrows off while you sleep. And yes, I did write him that back.

  In my last note of thanks, I’d left my phone number. You know, just in case. It couldn’t have been excitement that I felt as I saw he’d added his to the same note the next day. Indigestion. That’s what it was.

  ~*~

  Another morning, the end of another shift.

  I always try to start my shift at the hospital looking somewhat professional. My hair pulled into a low bun, dark pants, and a blouse. More often than not, I leave looking like someone escaping a psychiatric ward. Scrubs that belong to the hospital, running shoes I leave in my locker, and my bun looking like squirrels have slept in it.

  Night shifts aren’t my favourite mainly because of the theory that less doctors are needed on wards overnight because most patients will be sleeping. Obviously, this isn’t the case for women in labour. Babies are born on their own schedule, and sometimes that schedule is not to my liking. Like last night. Five C-sections, almost one after the other. I felt as though I was working on a production line. That is, until the actual moment of each birth. Sometimes, I hate my job. Occasionally, it makes me cry, whether from tiredness or futility or being confronted by the cruel side of nature because there’s no amount of training available that prepares a person for a role in someone else’s tragedy. But the moment of birth, the moment that slippery, purple little beast takes a first breath? Well, there’s just nothing else on earth quite like it. Even if the moments following are filled with more gore than a horror movie. Afterbirth. Tears. Sutures. Blood.

  Birth is a messy business, and fluids have a tendency to gravitate to me, which is often why I end up looking a fugitive.

  But last night’s gore fest wasn’t the low point of my shift. Nope, that was actually being woken in the parking lot an hour after said shift had ended. Sliding my key into the ignition, I’d taken the steering wheel in my hands when a yawn overtook me and almost dislocated my jaw. I’d leaned forward and rested my head on the steering wheel—just for a minute, I’d told myself—and was woken an hour later by a parking inspector rapping his knuckles on the window. Nice of him to check that I wasn’t actually dead. Not so nice of him to tell me there was nothing he could do about my parking ticket. So I’m now looking at a fine of twenty-five quid for overstaying.

  I should be hungry, I think as I make my way home, but I’m beyond hunger. About eight ho
urs so. As the light on the dash on my tiny Fiat indicates I’m not the only one running on empty, I pull into the nearest service station. This would be where I usually grab something to eat for later when I wake from my work-induced coma. As I fill the tank, I begin to wonder if Ben actually eats because the contents of the refrigerator hasn’t changed since he arrived. All it contains is a dried-up half lemon—the other portion I’d used in the contents of a bottle of gin the weekend Liam left—plus some questionable takeout leftovers, and a few bottles of condiments. Nothing that would sustain a man of his size. Not that it’s my intention to look after him or anything, but still, I could be a little hospitable. It wouldn’t kill me, would it. Especially as he seems to have taken it upon himself to help around the house.

  Tank filled, I stand at the chilled section pondering the dairy selection. Milk. Most houses have milk. And maybe yoghurt? Eggs? Bread? What if he’s lactose intolerant like Liam? Or maybe he’s a super health freak who thinks carbs are the enemy.

  I could decide not to be a wuss and call him. We did exchange numbers, after all. I could ask him about his allergies, rather than fill the cabinets with a mass of random things.

  I pick up a jug of 1%, sliding my phone from the jacket I’ve slung on over my scrubs.

  The phone rings twice, the receiver then filled with scrambling and static and a rasping curse.

  ‘’Lo.’ That rasping half word sounds far too sleep-rumpled and sexual for the current state of my jittery mind.

  ‘I . . . I didn’t wake you, did I?’ I turn my wrist and realise I don’t have my watch on, so I pull my phone away from my ear to check the time. It’s gone eight, I realise, but that’s pretty early for someone effectively on vacation.

  As the house is usually empty by the time I return, I find myself wondering where he’s sleeping, and who the lucky girl is. Wow, how things have changed. Prior to this, I’d have pitied the object of Ben’s attentions. I know I felt quite sorry for myself a lot of those years.

  ‘It’s fine,’ he rasps. ‘I was getting out of bed sometime this morning anyway.’

  I grimace, cursing myself. ‘Sorry. I should’ve thought.’

  ‘Nell, it’s fine, really.’ My stomach flips at the huskiness of his voice. Or maybe because I’m now imagining him in bed all messy blond hair and gorgeous. ‘And waking up to your call is better than waking to a shrieking alarm any day.’ My insides tingle with pleasure. His smile is audible down the line, and as though his words are like some kind of magic or alchemy, I find myself doing the same.

  Smiling at the chilled section in the middle of a Tesco’s Express.

  God, I’m such an idiot.

  ‘I’ll be home a bit later . . .’ Hell, this isn’t Liam I’m talking to. I’m sure he’s not the least bit interested in my schedule. Taking a deep breath, I hurry on. ‘And I just wondered if you like milk.’

  ‘Milk?’ he repeats, only far more amused and a lot less idiotic than I’d sounded.

  ‘Yeah, you know, the white stuff that comes in jugs.’

  ‘I think you’ll find it comes from cows.’

  ‘Stop fucking with me,’ I reply, earning myself a frown from the trucker looking type who reaches into the chiller for an iced coffee. ‘Sorry,’ I mouth, earning more of the man’s censure as I suddenly become aware of Ben’s follow-up statement.

  ‘I’d love to fuck with you.’

  My whole body clenches, his words expanding and exploding inside me, taking me by surprise.

  ‘Because it’s your default mode,’ I reply, still flustered and not really paying one hundred percent attention to what’s coming out of my mouth. ‘You’ve been fucking with me my whole life.’ Yes, that has to be it because the alternative is—

  ‘Nell.’ My name sounds like a cross between a smile and a sigh. ‘Not even you’re that oblivious.’

  I clear my throat. ‘So you’re not lactose intolerant or a celiac?’ I sort of squeak.

  ‘See you when you get home, Nell. We can finish playing doctors and nurses then.’ The line goes dead.

  Holy guacamole. Should I buy some? No. I shove the milk back onto the shelf, abandon my basket, and almost forget to pay for my gas before taking myself off to the nearest coffee shop and injecting my body with caffeine and a non-stale pain au chocolate in order to think this through.

  ~*~

  He’s just fucking with me, I tell myself as I pull up at the house. This is his grown-up version of torment. And even if it isn’t, and he does have some base kind of sexual interest in me, it wouldn’t work. Am I supposed to screw him and not tell Mel? Because I couldn’t. She’s my friend, and I couldn’t keep it from her. Even if I wanted to. And I know she guess she wouldn’t be the least bit happy to hear I’d broken my sexual drought with her kid brother.

  Weird. That’s what it would be. Weird, weird, weird.

  But not as weird, or as shocking, to almost walk into the kitchen to find Ben in his bare feet loading the washing machine. While that’s not really weird in and of itself, something compels me to stay silent rather than announce my arrival. Call it some kind of sixth sense, or call it weird, but I find myself rolling my lips inward as he reaches behind his head and grasps the cotton before dragging it over his head. It’s such a masculine movement, one I can’t ever recall having seen in the flesh before. An action like this I would’ve remembered as some kind of visceral muscle memory given the way my body reacts. All the tingles. And speaking of flesh, Ben is cut. Seriously cut. I know his job must require a high level of physical fitness, but his body seems more than a well-honed machine. Seriously, I’m not sure it’s an overstatement to say he appears god-like. The morning sunlight bathes him in a golden glow, kissing the blond streaks in his hair. But it’s not his hair I’m looking at right now. I’m staring at deltoids that would put 80s shoulder pads to shame and obliques I could physically hook with a finger, along with every glorious muscle in between. I’ve looked at a lot of bodies, tended to a lot of bodies, and not just female ones, but I’ve never seen someone as fit as him.

  It’s a musculature that explains how that ass fills his jeans. I’m guessing he does a lot of squats because, that ass. And as he balls his T-shirt to shove it into the washing machine, I think someone must be smiling down on me because something tells me I’m about to get a closer glimpse.

  I wonder if he wears boxers or briefs or . . .

  Ho-ly mother of God!

  He whips off his shorts to reveal a preference of neither, and as he bends to scoop them from the floor, I get more than a look at the taut cheeks of his ass, but I also get a flash of the goods. That is—wow—just huge!

  ‘Stop!’ I call out, whipping around to face the hall behind me. ‘Oh my God,’ I mutter, ‘what kind of person gets undressed in the kitchen?’ The grocery bag I was holding has dropped to the floor, the fruit I bought rolling around my feet.

  ‘Do you have a rule against nakedness in the kitchen?’ comes Ben’s unconcerned and smug—yes, smug—sounding answer.

  ‘If you’d worked six months in the emergency department, you know what I’m talking about.’

  ‘Except I’m not frying bacon for bacon butties or boiling water to make a cuppa. I’m not dicing with any kind of burn. I’m doing laundry. And what about you, Nell? What were you doing?’

  There’s a note of something in his tone, something that makes my stomach roil though not through fear or embarrassment.

  He knows.

  And he sounds as though he doesn’t mind . . .

  ‘I brought groceries,’ I answer softly. That sounds like the Penny version of I carried a watermelon. I don’t know about Baby, but I think it might be prudent for someone to put me in the corner. Preferably with a big dunce cone on my head.

  ‘And what else were you doing?’

  ‘I was . . . ’ I swallow deeply, not quite understanding why I feel compelled to answer honestly. Maybe it’s the throaty timbre of his voice that makes the truth so compelling. Or maybe it’s that ass. ‘I
-I was watching you.’

  ‘Turn around, Nell.’

  A tiny thrill washes through me. Is it wrong to feel compelled at his rasping direction? Wrong to be turned on?

  ‘I can’t,’ I whisper. Not because it wouldn’t be right but because of where it might lead. This is Melody’s little brother, my mind intones. Yep, absolutely. Melody’s little brother just hanging out in my kitchen.

  ‘ ’Course you can. We’re both adults. And clearly, you like to watch.’ Heat blooms in my cheeks, and I find myself biting my lip. ‘You do like to watch, don’t you, Nell?’ he coaxes softly. I swallow and shake my head, not trusting myself to speak. ‘What if I told you I like being watched?’ That bloom of heat in my cheeks spreads quite suddenly to every corner of me as my heart begins beating wildly in my chest. ‘Turn around, Nell,’ he taunts softly. ‘Don’t run away.’

  It’s not his childish provocation that prompts me to turn slowly, but the way he uses my name. No one has ever called me Nell before. I’m not even sure I’m keen on the shortening, but I do know that I like how he uses it. Like it’s a secret between us, this endearment. Like I can be someone else to him.

  But still, it seems I can’t quite find the stirrups to help me down from my high horse. ‘You can’t do that, Ben. You can’t stay here and expect me to put up with your teasing, like . . . like we’re kids again.’

  My delivery is half-hearted as I concentrate on keeping my eyes on his and nothing else of his. And while concentration is all well and good, it’s not a foolproof plan. My gaze dips, drawn by the rise and fall of his broad chest. Dear Lord, the front is as gorgeous as the rear view. Deltoids, biceps, pectoral muscles—every single golden one of them I want to touch. I imagine myself trailing my hands down their smooth expanse, over the ridges of his stomach, farther to the downy hair that disappears beneath the chequered kitchen towel he appears to have grabbed. It takes me several moments to determine whether I’m disappointed or relieved when I find he’s covered himself. Either way, I realise my mouth has been open the whole time. Please don’t let me be drooling.