His Needs

Chapter 1 Angela Mastriano was a formidable woman, taller than average, with broad shoulders and heavy bones. Yet in spite of that, she carried herself with elegance and grace. Something about her made me think statuesque, and it fit. She was still beautiful, despite her more than sixty years, and the only hints of her age were the crow’s feet at her eyes and the deep laugh lines around her mouth. There wasn’t even much gray to speak of in her long, dark brown locks. Her warm smile softened her fathomless brown eyes, and she was always ready with a hug and a kind word. As long as you weren’t in trouble, that is. Her tongue was sharp, and a scolding by her left you feeling guilty and miserable. She’d taken in a scruffy, unkempt ten-year-old boy—the best friend of her second eldest son—and made him one of her own. In the twenty-five years since we met, she’d been the closest thing I had to a real mother. I’d dozed off because the drugs were just that good, and to wake and find her sitting at my bedside was both comforting and disconcerting. I expected Joe, but I wasn’t exactly surprised to see her instead. I knew she was there because she was worried, but I also knew I was in deep trouble. She sat knitting a baby blanket, and her hands moved quickly, making stitch after precise stitch. But her gaze remained fixed on me, and it did not waver. I saw the displeasure there. The hurt and worry and fear. I swallowed hard, wanting to crawl under a rock. I hated that I’d put that look in her eyes. “A week before Thanksgiving, Travis.” Her voice low and even but full of irritation. I fought the urge to squirm, but only because I knew it would hurt. I was going to strangle Joe for telling her I was in the emergency room in the first place. My best friend could have saved that information until after I’d gotten released. “It’s not my fault,” I defended. I sounded raspy and I tried to clear my throat. Angela clucked her tongue and put her knitting down to reach for the bedside table. She came back with a cup, and spooned up an ice chip to feed me. It took a second for my morphine-addled brain to remember that I couldn’t have liquids until they were sure I wouldn’t need surgery. I sucked on the chip and nearly sighed in relief. I never knew how good that would taste or feel. Angela’s eyes narrowed, but she returned to her seat and once again picked up her knitting. She kept her glare fixed on me, and I knew better than to try to defend myself further. For anyone else, getting hit by a passing car during a routine traffic stop for speeding would have garnered sympathy. But for the woman who claimed mothering privileges over me, it didn’t matter that I was thirty-five years old and a decorated state trooper. She only saw that one of her children was hurt, and that always made her grumpy. “How does something like this happen?” she muttered, her gaze dropping to the fabric in her lap. She could knit even faster when she was watching what she was doing, and I always found myself fascinated by the way her hands moved. It was even better now that I was kind of high. “The asshole didn’t watch where he was going,” I responded, even though her question had been mostly rhetorical. I didn’t have to check my language with this woman. She might be my pseudomother, but she never chastised for word choice unless it was disparaging or derogatory. Curse words were just fine in the Mastriano house when there weren’t little ears to hear. “At least the guy I had pulled over called 911 and gave me first aid until the ambulance arrived.” She harrumphed as if that was little consolation. I supposed it was. I’d been patrolling that stretch of road because it was a notorious spot for speeders. It was long, straight, and fairly isolated. From now until the middle of January, there would always be one of us keeping an eye on that spot. The holidays brought out the reckless and drunk drivers, and we did our best to keep people safe. Part of that was making sure we enforced the speed limit. The little Camry had been going sixty-five in a forty, and I turned on my lights to pull him over. The man had been nervous, apologetic, and cooperative. I was just heading back to his car to return his license and registration, as well as give him a ticket, when I heard a roar seconds before getting clipped. I hadn’t lost consciousness, but things were a bit blurry after that. The motorist giving me assistance, being loaded into the ambulance and brought to Upstate University Medical Center—it was all kind of fuzzy. I’d spoken with my captain, who had assured me the dashboard camera from my cruiser had caught the whole thing, and other troopers were already on their way to arrest the negligent speeding driver. It was after that I’d dozed off, finally being left alone for a little while, and with the good drugs coursing through my IV. Only to wake to find Angela’s worried and disapproving stare. I could have done without the latter, but the kid in me was glad she was there to protect and comfort me. “Do they at least know who did it?” “Yes, Mom,” I answered quickly, using the title she always insisted on, just to soothe her. She softened a bit and leaned to clasp my hand, careful of the IV. I’d been part of the Mastriano family since Joe befriended me in fifth grade. But it was still odd to call her “Mom,” because it felt like I was pretending. I couldn’t call her Angela to her face, and Mrs. Mastriano seemed too formal. Usually I did my best not to call her anything at all. Sometimes, though, it was needed, and I defaulted to the one she preferred, even though it didn’t sit right on my tongue. She might be comfortable calling me her son, but I’d never quite gotten to that level myself. Angela wasn’t actually my mother, but she’d given me a place to escape to when life at home had been too much. “Good.” There was a hint of malicious intent in her eye and I couldn’t help but grin. She was the sweetest woman on the planet, until someone messed with anyone she considered family. Then it was no holds barred, all bets were off. I loved that about her because I was the same way. The doctor chose that moment to walk into the little cubicle. I hadn’t seen her in hours, ever since she checked me over and sent me for tests. But she was back now and smiling, so I thought that might be good. “How are you feeling, Officer Kinslow?” Her voice was soft and pleasant. It took me a few seconds to remember she had previously introduced herself as Dr. Ritter. I blamed the morphine. “Okay,” I answered honestly. Everything hurt, but I could handle it. “When can I get out of here?” Angela clucked at me again, and Dr. Ritter gave a soft laugh. “Soon. If your guest will step out, we can discuss your care and your test results.” I could feel the tension rise as Angela crossed her arms over her ample chest. “I’m not going anywhere.” Dr. Ritter offered a placating smile. “Ma’am, if you would—” “No.” Her glare was almost defiant. “I’m his mother. I should be here.” The doctor looked startled. “Oh. I thought—” This time I was the one to interrupt. “It’s fine. She can stay.” I didn’t want to have to make any explanations. It was clear from her darker complexion and my much fairer skin, blond hair, and blue eyes, we were not related by blood. While that could have been explained away, Joe was listed as my next of kin and emergency contact, and he was the only one. And I knew my captain had spoken with the medical staff. It was clear I didn’t have any family, at least not those related by blood. The doctor took another few seconds to process the information and my request, but she finally smiled again, turned toward the small computer on a stand, and started clicking through my chart. “All right, then. Well, Officer Kinslow, the truth is you were very lucky. No broken bones, not even a concussion. All your imaging came back clear. You’re going to be very sore for a while. Very, very sore. You have some pretty serious bruising and a few small lacerations, but none that needed stitches. And the road rash on your left shoulder and hip will need meticulous care as it heals. But in a month or so, you’ll be back to normal.” God, that was good to hear. I blew out a breath and then nodded. “So I can go home?” “Not so fast,” Dr. Ritter chided gently. “We want to keep you overnight, just to monitor you for internal bleeding. But we won’t admit you as long as everything remains clear, and you can go home in the morning.” I would have argued, tried to convince the doctor I could be released now, but Angela cleared her throat and gave me a warning glance. “Thank you, doctor,” I said instead. “And what about work?” Angela asked. Dr. Ritter turned toward her. “He’ll have to follow up with his PCP, but it’s going to take him a long while to heal. He’ll be on medical leave for at least four or five weeks.” “Six.” Angela didn’t hesitate. The doctor blinked. “Pardon me?” “He needs to be out at least six weeks.” Her tone brooked no disagreement. “I’m going to have him home for the holidays this year instead of running off to work the crap shifts. I won’t have him missing out, not when he’s not fit.” “Hey now,” I protested. “That depends on Officer Kinslow, how he heals, and his primary care physician,” Dr. Ritter explained gently. She turned to me. “You’ll get released back to work only when your body is ready and not before. I’m sure the troopers won’t take any chances.” She graced us both with a smile. “All right, then. Do you have any questions?” I couldn’t think of any so I shook my head. Angela glared but then thanked the doctor. After leaving instructions to press the call button if I needed anything, and to try and get some rest, the doctor left. I watched her go, feeling weird. I didn’t know what I would do with myself with a week off, let alone four or five. Or six, if Angela had her way. But I was tired and hurting, and the drugs coursing through my system pushed that all back. Angela stood and combed her fingers through my hair before leaning forward to kiss my forehead. “Rest now, Travis,” she murmured soothingly. My eyes drifted shut.