Holding On Page 4

  As for my dad, he never calls, unless it's about my football career.

  At noon, the doorbell rings.

  "Come in," I yell from the couch. Getting in the wheelchair to answer the door is too much work.

  The bell rings again, followed by knocking.

  "Come in," I say, louder this time.

  The door slowly opens and an older woman peeks her head in. "Did you say to come in?"

  "Yeah. It takes me forever to get to the door with the chair."

  She glances at it. "Oh. Yes. Of course." She comes in, but remains by the door. "I usually look around first before I bring in my supplies. Do you mind?"

  "Go ahead."

  I watch as she surveys the living room. She's probably in her fifties, and short, maybe five foot, with a stocky build. Her hair is mostly gray, with tight curls, like she perms it. She has a uniform on; a light blue, cotton dress with white buttons down the middle.

  "Laminate?" she asks, pointing to the wood floors.

  "Yeah. It's in the kitchen too."

  She nods. I notice she won't directly look at me, like she's uncomfortable with the fact that a guy my age has to use a wheelchair.

  "It's not permanent," I tell her.

  She had her back to me but turns around and says, "What was that?"

  "The chair." I point to it. "It's not permanent. I broke my leg. I'm only using the chair until my leg is stronger. Then I'll be on crutches."

  She nods again but says nothing. She still seems uncomfortable. And a little nervous. If it's not the chair making her this way, then what it is? I have to ask.

  "Do you know who I am?"

  "Yes." She smiles slightly. "My husband has seen all your games. He has season tickets."

  "And you didn't know I was the one you'd be cleaning for," I confirm because she seemed surprised to see me when she opened the door.

  "No, but I'm certainly happy to help. I'm sure it's hard to get around with your leg."

  "I'm used to it now. I can get in and out of the chair with no problem, but cleaning would be hard. Actually, even without my leg like this, I'm still not good at cleaning."

  "I understand. I have two grown sons and their apartments are a mess." She smiles. "I should finish looking around, then get to work."

  She goes down the hall to the bedrooms, then returns and goes in the kitchen. She walks fast and purposeful, like she takes her job very seriously. I watch as she heads out to the driveway. She comes back with an arsenal of cleaning supplies; a vacuum, mop, buckets, rags, and several spray bottles.

  Three hours later she's finished, leaving not a speck of dust behind. She's a hard worker, and very thorough. I wonder how much my mom is paying her. Whatever it is, I bet it's not enough. The maid we had growing up was never this good but she got paid a lot because it was L.A. and the cleaning company knew we were rich. I know for a fact they base their rates on your zip code, and we live in 90210, otherwise known as Beverly Hills.

  After she's packed up her supplies and taken them to the car, she comes back inside. "If you find that you need our services more than once a week, just call." She hands me a business card. "We can arrange to have someone out here within a day's notice."

  "What's your name?" I ask. "In case I want to request you when I call?"

  "Lois," she says, like she's repeating it for the second time, or maybe the third from the odd look she's giving me. Shit, she must've told me earlier and I wasn't paying attention.

  "Will you be the one coming here every week?"

  "Most likely, yes. They try to assign us to the same houses each week, for efficiencies sake. Plus the homeowners prefer consistency. They don't want different people coming in their house every week."

  That was my main concern and why I refused to hire a service before now. I didn't want a different cleaning lady coming in every week. The more strangers I allow in my house, the more I risk word getting out about my recovery. People gossiping about me. Making bets on if I'll play again. But Lois doesn't seem like someone who'd betray my privacy. Still, I feel the need to make that clear.

  "You won't tell anyone, right?" I ask as she stands by the door.

  "About the wheelchair?" she asks.

  "About anything you see while you're here. I don't want people knowing about me or talking about me. My privacy is important."

  "Of course. I'll keep quiet. I'm not one to gossip."

  I nod. "Then I'll see you next week."

  When she's gone I find a baseball game on TV but I'm not really paying attention. I'm tired of watching TV. Tired of sitting in this house. Tired of eating take-out.

  I want to get out of here, but I'm not going out in this damn wheelchair. There's no way I'm letting people see me like this. When I'm able to use the crutches, then maybe I'll go out, but until then I'm stuck here.

  My phone rings. I see who it is and answer it. "Hey, Jackson, what's up?"

  "I was thinking of coming there next weekend. There's a band playing at the Loophole. Thought I'd stop by and pick you up, get you out of the house. Maybe check out some fireworks."

  A week from Saturday is the Fourth of July. I totally forgot about that until he mentioned the fireworks. When you never leave the house, you lose track of time.

  "I'm still in the chair," I tell him.

  "Yeah? So? Everyone in town knows your leg is broken. It's not a secret."

  "But they don't know I'm still in the chair, and I don't want them to. It's none of their damn business."

  "Nobody's going to say anything. The campus is cleared out for the summer. The only people left are the townies, and they won't bother you."

  "They sure as hell will. They'll be asking how my leg's doing. If I'll be playing again. Shit I don't want to talk about. And if I don't answer them, they'll make up stories about me and it'll get back to the press and they'll start calling me again."

  After the accident, the sports media called nonstop, trying to get me to tell them if I planned to play again. I wouldn't answer their calls so they called my coach and my doctors, who told them nothing, and then they hounded my parents. My dad put out a statement saying my leg needed time to heal but that my football career definitely wasn't over. Of course he didn't tell me about the statement until it was already out, which pissed me off. But at least the phone calls stopped.

  "Then we'll do something else. We'll play video games or watch a movie. And I'm sure you could use some groceries. What do you say?"

  I don't want him doing that for me. Jackson rarely gets a weekend off and now that he has one, he shouldn't be wasting it with me, a guy who refuses to go out.

  "That weekend's not good. I've got stuff to do."

  "Like what?"

  "Just random shit. Pay bills. Do laundry. Clean the place up."

  "That's not going to take all weekend."

  He's not giving up. I need a better excuse.

  "I just don't feel like going out, okay? I'm tired and I haven't been feeling well. I might be getting sick. I need to sleep."

  "You need to get laid. That's what you need."

  "And you think girls want to be with a guy who can't even walk?"

  "When it's Ethan Baxter, hell yeah."

  "I don't think so. Besides, I'm not doing it with a damn cast on my leg."

  "Forget the cast. There's ways around that. You need to get laid. I can hear the sexual frustration in your voice." He chuckles.

  "That was annoyance with my dumbass friend who won't stop giving me advice."

  "Hey, I'm just looking out for you, man. You keep that thing out of commission much longer and it may not work."

  "Trust me. It works just fine."

  "More than I needed to know. Moving on. What the hell you been up to?"

  "Same old shit. Watching TV. Playing video games. Lifting weights."

  "How was the visit with the parents?"

  "My dad ignored me, except when he ordered me to hurry up and heal so I can get back in the gym, as if I have control over how f
ast my leg heals. And my mom yelled at me for keeping the house dirty."

  "So it wasn't good."

  "It's typical for them."

  "How long were they there?"

  "Less than a day."

  "No shit? Why'd they leave?"

  "Had to get back to work. Or L.A. Or both. They can't hang out in a small town. It drives them crazy."

  "They were there to see you, not the town."

  "Yeah, well, they'd had enough of me after a day, half of which they spent working."

  "Shit, man, I'm sorry. You deserve better than that."

  "It's not a big deal. That's just how they are."

  "Anything else going on?"

  "Not really. Had the house cleaned today. Some lady came over and spent three hours on it. The damn thing's spotless. I've never seen anyone work so hard."

  "Is she coming back again?"

  "Yeah. My mom hired her to come once a week."

  I actually really liked Lois. Maybe that's odd to say about your cleaning lady but I thought she was nice. I liked having her around, which is a shock, because since moving in this house, I haven't wanted anyone to come over. But after Lois got over her initial nervousness, she had a calming presence. She reminded me of one of those moms who bakes cookies and waits for you at the school bus. I never had that kind of mom.

  "So what about next weekend?" Jackson asks. "What can I do to change your mind?"

  "Sorry, bro, but I'm gonna have to pass."

  "Fine, but I'm coming some other weekend."

  "Sounds good. We'll talk later, okay?"

  "Yeah. See ya."

  Later that night, I regret telling Jackson not to come. I seriously need some social interaction and yet I can't seem to make myself do it. Since the accident, I haven't felt like doing much of anything, even hanging out with friends. A few have come to town this summer but I made excuses for why I couldn't see them, like I did with Jackson today.

  Maybe I'm depressed, or still mourning the loss of Jason, who was one of my closest friends. Who the fuck knows what's wrong with me? But I'm not talking with some shrink to figure out why. Whatever's wrong with me, I'm sure I'll get over it. It just takes time.

  When Saturday comes, I spend the morning lifting weights, working my upper body. The rest of the day I watch TV, falling asleep on the couch and missing dinner.

  On Sunday, I wheel myself out to the backyard. It's bright and sunny and I've heard sunshine can make people feel better. But as soon as I shut my eyes to block the harsh rays, I see images flashing in my head. Kasey's body flying out of my hands. The splatters of blood. The twisted metal.

  "No!" My eyes pop open and I see my arms reaching for Kasey. I quickly put my arms back at my sides and glance around to make sure no one saw me. Nobody did. The back yard is surrounded by an eight-foot-high privacy fence.

  When will this end? When will I stop having the memories? What if it never stops? What if the images haunt me for the rest of my life?

  I wheel myself back inside to the living room and watch TV. It's the only thing that keeps my mind off the accident, and my leg, and the uncertainty of my future.

  How did this happen? If it weren't for that night...if I'd just taken Jason's keys...they'd all still be here.

  Jason had planned to stay in town for the summer. He was going to be my roommate. We were going to spend our days at the gym and our nights going out. It was gonna be a freakin' awesome summer. And in the fall, we'd be back on the team. Our last season of college ball before going pro.

  But it's all changed now. I live alone. I don't go to the gym. I don't go out. And as for my football career? Who the hell knows?

  One night. One poor decision. And my whole fucking life changed.

  Chapter Five

  Ethan

  By Thursday, I'm actually looking forward to having Lois stop by to clean. It's pathetic, I know, but sometimes this house is so damn quiet it drives me crazy. I need some noise. Some activity.

  The doorbell rings right at noon and this time, instead of yelling for her to come in, I wheel myself over there.

  "Hey, Lois," I say as I open the door. But it's not Lois. It's someone else. Someone much younger.

  And hotter.

  What the hell? Is this a joke? Did Jackson send over a stripper dressed as a maid?

  "Lois is off today," the girl says.

  Her eyes look me over, glancing just briefly at my wheelchair before returning to my face. She has gorgeous eyes. A deep rich brown with flecks of caramel around the iris. Her long dark hair is pulled back in a ponytail, a few wavy strands framing her face.

  "Is that okay?" she asks.

  I force myself to stop staring at her, suddenly feeling angry. Why is she here? Where's Lois?

  Whoever this girl is, she's probably my age, or close to it. She might even go to Laytham. She'll tell everyone she knows that I'm still in this wheelchair and soon the whole town will know.

  "Get out," I tell her.

  "What?" Her eyes widen. "But I was told to—"

  "I don't give a shit what you were told. I made it clear I don't want a different person every week. I want Lois and only Lois."

  "She had to leave. Her mom had a stroke. Lois had to go to Texas to help her."

  Fuming mad, I whip my chair around and wheel myself back to the couch. "Then the cleaning will just have to wait until she gets back."

  "That could be weeks. Or months. Her mom needs help until she's able to be on her own. Lois took a leave of absence."

  Shit. I finally meet someone I can stand to have in the house and she leaves. Fuck.

  I turn the chair back around and see the girl still standing at the door. She's wearing the same blue and white maid uniform that Lois had on, but it looks a hell of a lot better on whoever this girl is. The fabric drapes over her soft curves, and she's taller than Lois so the dress ends well above her knees, showing off her lean, tan legs.

  "So um, should I start?" she asks hesitantly.

  "Who are you?" I demand.

  "Becca. I work for the cleaning company."

  "For how long?"

  "Six months. "

  "So you have no experience," I say as if stating a fact.

  "I have six months of experience."

  "That's not enough. I want Lois back."

  The girl bites down hard on her lip. I've obviously made her mad but I don't care. I'm the customer and I should get what I asked for.

  "You seriously want me to leave?" She looks around at the living room. "Because it looks like this place could use a good cleaning."

  "Did I ask for your opinion?"

  She looks hurt for just a moment, but then takes a breath, lifts her shoulders back, and turns to the door. "Fine. I'll leave. Have a nice day, Mr. Baxter."

  Dammit. What am I doing? Why am I being so rude to this girl?

  "Hey." I stop her as she's leaving.

  "What?" she asks, not looking back.

  "Sorry. I just um...I don't have anything against you. I just expected Lois. That's all."

  "I'll tell them to halt all services until she gets back." She goes out to the driveway.

  "No. Wait." I roll my chair to the door.

  She turns back around. "What?"

  "I need you to stay. You were right. The place needs to be cleaned and it looks like you're my only option."

  She looks ready to punch me. Shit.

  "I didn't mean it like that. I meant—"

  "Yeah, I got it." She storms off.

  "Hey! Where are you going?" I call after her.

  "To get my supplies," she yells back.

  I watch her walk out to the driveway and take a mop and a broom from a red minivan. Is that what she drives? A minivan? Is she a mom? Or is that from the cleaning company?

  "Is that yours?" I ask, pointing to the minivan as she walks past me into the house.

  "Yeah. Why?"

  "I just don't know many people our age who drive minivans."

  She sets her mop do
wn. "Where do you want me to start?"

  "The living room?" I say it like a question because I don't know the right answer. Is there a protocol for cleaning houses? The maid we had when I was growing up just cleaned. She didn't ask questions. And Lois didn't ask where to start.

  As if reading my mind, she says, "I asked because some people have a preference. For instance, if you're watching TV in here, I don't want to disturb you by running the vacuum."

  "Oh. Don't worry about the noise. I could use a little noise."

  She looks at me funny. I guess that does sound kind of odd. Rather than try to explain, I keep quiet and let her do her job.

  She gets out a rag and some furniture polish and starts dusting the bookshelf on the side of the room. While her back is turned to me, I quickly lift myself from the chair and sit on the couch. Grabbing the remote, I flip through the channels, stopping on a baseball game. But I'm not watching it. My eyes keep going to the girl and that hot little ass of hers. The back of her dress lifts as she reaches to dust the top shelf and I feel my cock twitch. Shit.

  I quickly glance back at the TV. She's the maid. I shouldn't be looking at her that way. And yet, my gaze wanders to her again as she bends down to dust the lower shelves. The move makes her dress rise and tighten around her ass and I feel another twitch in my shorts.

  She turns toward me and I snatch a sports magazine from the coffee table and hold it over my crotch, pretending to read it.

  She continues to dust and I can't help but sneak glances at her as she makes her way around the room. She's the perfect blend of hot and cute. Hot body. Cute face. She's not wearing makeup but her skin in flawless, tinted from the sun.

  "The floors are laminate, right?" she asks.

  "Yeah." I look up from the magazine I'm still pretending to read.

  She disappears outside again and returns with a bucket and cleaning solution.

  "This is for the tile in the bathrooms," she says. "I'll use a spray mop for in here. We have a special solution for laminate floors."

  "Yeah, that's fine."

  She laughs to herself. "Sorry. I don't know why I told you all that."

  I shrug. "Shows you care about your job."

  "Not really." She picks up the spray mop and begins mopping the floor. "I shouldn't say that. The job is fine. It's just not what I thought I'd be doing."