Tastes Like Candy

Twenty-One

Twenty-One

Michelle

Typing one-handed, and with her weak hand at that, was one of the most frustrating experiences to date. And she was living with Candyman, so that was saying something.

With clumsy mouse moves, she pulled up the Odell's file and scrolled through the new numbers. There were notes out to the side, demo lists and the beginnings of improvements.

It might as well have been written in Mandarin.

Michelle rubbed at her eyes, pinched at the bridge of her nose, smiled a little when she recalled her father doing the same thing as he stared at his own computer.

"I don't think I've seen you smile in days," Jenny said from the doorway, and Michelle dropped her hand.

"Hi."

"Hi." She came and took the chair across from Michelle, baby-free for once. "You're not at work?"

"I had the early shift, remember? I just got back."

"Oh. Right. I lost track of time, I guess."

Jenny, in her embroidered work shirt, and doubtless some fabulous pair of cowboy boots, the heels of which Michelle had heard clipping across the floorboards, shot her a sympathetic look and propped her chin on her fist. "You're working on the Odell's stuff?"

She nodded.

"Um, why?"

Michelle blinked. "Because it needs doing."

Jenny smiled, patiently. "Yeah, but you've got one arm in a sling and you've been sleeping, what, two hours a night? Worrying about my brother?"

Michelle sighed. Not-so-patiently. "I've lost time, during all this." She gestured to her bum arm. "The building needs to be renovated, and the longer it takes, the more expensive it will be."

"And you're going to make that your personal problem?"

Michelle leaned back in her chair. "What are you trying to say?"

"That you've been through hell. And you ought to take a breather."

"I don't take breathers."

Looking amused now, Jenny said, "Not ever?"

"I..." She sounded like a robot, and she knew it. She let out a deep breath. "That's usually Raven's job – my aunt Raven – dragging me away from whatever wall I'm throwing myself against, making me get manicures." She held up her unpolished, short nails to demonstrate the lack of nail salons in her life. "Taking me to lunch. Shopping. Lying on her bed and flipping through fashion magazines which I care nothing about." She smiled a little, saddened by the memories, by the quick rush of warmth they brought her.

Then she shook herself. "I don't like to sit around and stew in my own stress. So I work. Sling or no sling."

"What are you stressed about right now?"

"The cartel wanting to kill us. Odell's costing too much."

"Candy?" Jenny suggested.

"Yes. Him, too."

"He's never been a very good patient."

"Men never are."

"He's much better as a nurse."

She could almost imagine that.

"It's bothering him too," Jenny said. "What happened to you. It's driving him nuts."