The Cruelest Kind of Hate (Riverside Reapers Book 3)

GAGE

I’ve always been afraid of growing old. Well, realistically, I’ll probably die in some freak accident before that seventy-year cutoff, but still. I’m afraid of getting wrinkly and not having my penis work and having to take TUMS after I eat anything mildly spicy. Bottom line, I view growing old as something negative.

But this nursing home is great. Not great. Great, as in, a new outlook on aging that I never would have discovered otherwise. These old people are thriving here. Is it insensitive to refer to them like that? Would they prefer “elderly” people?

Teague runs ahead of us, circling some poor man in a wheelchair like the Tasmanian Devil from Looney Tunes, and he continues to giggle while he pops in and out of my peripheral.

“Little Man, stay close!” I shout, but I’m pretty sure my warning’s already fallen on deaf ears.

Cali clings to my arm as I wheel her mother to her room under the guidance of a nurse in bright yellow scrubs. The whole place is doused in vibrant colors and floor-to-ceiling windows, overlooking a flora-rich cliffside that’s home to the most perfect view of Riverside’s autumnal sunsets.

Cali’s mom was quiet the entire ride over from the hospital, and I didn’t try to make conversation with her because I didn’t know what to say. Cali hasn’t really told me much about her. It’s crazy how similar they look, except her mother’s head of red—I’m assuming—hair has darkened over the years. She’s as beautiful as Cali, and all I can think about is how stunning Cali will be when she grows older.

Speaking of Cali, did I think she’d say yes to my proposal? Not at all. But she did, and it feels like everything’s changed between us. I feel like I’m winning at life right now, like there’s nothing in this world that could bring me down. She’s mine. Even after all the depressing rejections and the “we’re just friends” speeches she gave me, she’s finally mine. I can call her mine in public without her elbowing me in the ribs. I can scream that I’m hers from the rooftop and she won’t threaten to taser me!

When we round a corner and arrive at our destination, a spacious bedroom awaits the four of us, complete with a four-poster bed, a nightstand, a comfy chair in the corner, a flat-screen television, a large dresser, and a triple-paneled window that looks out over the adjoining garden. Red satin curtains hang from the bed as a matching plush bedspread accompanies floral-printed pillows with maroon accents. There’s a single lamp that illuminates the room, empty picture frames waiting for new photos to house, and a blooming orchid on the nightstand. The chair in the corner looks to be a recliner that I’d give anything to throw my aching feet up on.

“This is where Ms. Cadwell will be staying,” the nurse says in a cheery demeanor. “We’ll have her things moved in shortly while you get settled.”

She gives us the room while Cali and I help her mother into bed, Teague stomping his tiny feet in his usual giddy fashion, occasionally commenting on how cool his mom’s new place is and how boring their current apartment is.

When Ms. Cadwell settles into bed, we make way for a few of the nurses to haul in her luggage, and I snag Cali aside to check in with her.

“How are you doing?” I ask, surfing my hands up and down her arms.

She wedges her bottom lip between her teeth, nursing the tender spot there. “This place will be perfect for her,” she answers.

Her gaze flicks to her mother like a skipping stone, and there’s just the slightest bit of moisture warping her eyes.

I turn her chin back to face me, wishing she could use me as some magical conduit that transfers all her unwanted emotions to me. “No tears, remember?”

“No tears,” she parrots back, sporting a brave visage for her brother. I smooth out those creases on her forehead with a kiss, and the invisible pressure around my heart relents, ushering fresh breath into my lungs.

She looks up at me, long lashes flittering against her brow ridge. “Thank you. I don’t know where I’d be without you.”

“Probably exactly where you are now but with a lot less orgasms,” I jest, elbowing her and wiggling my eyebrows, to which she surprisingly refrains from violence and settles for an eye roll.

The clanking of boxes and the crackle of chatter is the only reason I say what I say next, otherwise there might be a double death in Cali’s bloodline if I’m throwing filth around like I’m six beers in and half-naked at a Mardi Gras festival.

Warmth snares in my belly. “You keep rolling your eyes and I’ll give you a real reason for them to roll back.”

Still got it.

This time, Cali slaps me on the arm. “We’re not getting it on in the old folks’ home!” she hisses under her breath, offering a polite smile to the clueless caretakers as they begin to box-cut through packing tape.

“You seriously don’t think these guys are getting freaky under the sheets when the lights turn off?”

“Ugh! Oh, God. I don’t want to picture that. Ever.” Cali shudders in disgust, rubbing her eyes with balled fists like it’ll magically erase the image I’ve implanted in her head. “I need to find the nearest spoon and scoop my eyes out with it.”

I cock my head. “Are you saying that you won’t hide the salami with me when I’m old and have a shrunken, three-inch peen?”

She sticks her tongue out at me, and if there weren’t impressionable minds in the room, I’d go ahead and bite it. “You already have a three-inch peen.”

“I’d be offended if I didn’t walk straight into that one.”

“Just keeping you humble.”

“Yep, I’m aware. It’s what I both love and fear about you.”

Teague, who I’m assuming is already tuckered out from bouncing off the walls, tugs on Cali’s shirt with his perpetually sticky hands, doing that weird thing where kids just open mouth cough all the time.

“What are you guys taaalkiiing about?” he pesters.

Cali and I answer him at the same time.

“Taxes,” I say.

“Where to eat lunch,” she says.

He jumps up and down excitedly, nearly throwing her off-kilter with the force of his yanks, hope and the promise of something cheesy glimmering in deep sea eyes. “Ooh! Ooh! Ooh! Can we pleeeaaaseee go to that Mexican restaurant where they deep-fry quesadillas?”

Dear God. I can feel it clogging my arteries as we speak. What happened to kids eating whatever food you accidentally dropped on the ground?

Cali licks the pad of her thumb and tries to tame Teague’s mess of flyaways, slicking some of his hair and pushing it out of his face. “What about something less…deep-fried?” she proposes, draping the ends of his long bangs behind his ear. “Like a regular quesadilla?”

Teague ponders her counteroffer, swishes it around in his mouth, then stubbornly spits it back out with exaggerated revulsion. “But I like when they deep-fry it! It’s so crunchy.”

Cali frowns, and I know that she’s going to continue arguing with Teague to ensure a stomachache-free afternoon, so I decide to throw my hat in the ring because Uncle Gage has great ideas. (I’ve taken the creative liberty of referring to myself as Uncle instead of Coach, since that seems more fitting, you know?)

“You know, Little Man. I’ve heard there’s this Hibachi restaurant downtown that cooks your food in front of you. Lots of fire. And the chefs do all sorts of food tricks while you wait.”

Teague immediately gives me his full attention, eyes doubling in size, so hilariously spellbound by the idea of chefs cooking outside of the kitchen. “That is so cool! I want to go there, Cali! Can we go there instead? Please? Please? Please?”

Cali’s whole body jostles sideways as Teague continues his tugging onslaught, and the corners of her lips flex into a half-relieved and half-exhausted smile. “Sure, Squirt. Why don’t you go over and thank Gage for offering to take us.”

“That’s Uncle Gage,” I clarify.

Cali huffs out a snort, but deep down, I know I’m defrosting that cold, black, shriveled heart in the hollow chamber of her chest. I have a way of growing on people. Like barnacles. I get really deep in there until no amount of prying can uproot me.

“Uncle Gage,” she corrects, humoring me with a hand on her hip.

Teague skips over to me, a too-big smile on his face, but he doesn’t chant my new name.

He stares at me in a strange way, then his eyebrows lower with a squint of his eyes. “Shouldn’t I call you Daddy Gage?” he asks innocently.

Globs of saliva cluster in my trachea, pretty much choking me as I slam my fist against my chest a few times to loosen the impediment, all while Teague watches obliviously and Cali watches in high alert in case she needs to give me the Heimlich or some shit.

“Uh, Gage isn’t your dad, Squirt,” Cali amends quickly, whacking her hand against my back to help me eject Teague’s goddamn audacity out of my wheezing body.

“I know that, but he acts like my dad.”

Both Cali and I kind of just stare at Teague, not knowing what to say next, and still not knowing how to remedy the chokes and splutters. Eventually—humiliatingly—one of the caretakers brings me a glass of water to ameliorate the irritation in my windpipe, and I thank them before greedily gulping down the entire drink.

“Come on, Cali. Try it! Call him Daddy Gage!” Teague giggles, blissfully spinning around himself.

“Teague, I’m not going to call Gage that.”

I set my glass down, leaning on the nearest flat surface for my signature cool-guy pose, my lips jerked into a disarming grin. “Yeah, Cali. Call me Daddy.”

“I should’ve let you choke,” she whispers threateningly to me.

I open my mouth to hit her with another Gage-specialized innuendo, but she doesn’t let me get a word in—which is probably for the best.

Although my brain’s definitely not used to the idea, I can’t believe I was so afraid of Teague looking up to me. No, I’m not the kid’s dad, but I’m the only male role model in his life. That’s a title I don’t take lightly. It’s a privilege to know a kid as extraordinary as Teague, and even more of a privilege to be a part of his family.

“Come on, T. Say goodbye to Mom. We need to let her get some rest.”

The caretakers hurry out of the room to allow us some privacy, and I stand by the doorway—just out of earshot—while Cali strokes her mother’s dark hair, whispering something to her with Teague smushed to the side of her leg.

I respectfully avert my eyes to the glistening, clean floor beneath me, so polished that I can just faintly see my reflection in the pristine surface. It only takes a few minutes for Cali to come out of the room with Teague tailing behind her, and to my utter joy, there are no tears in her eyes.

“You hungry?” Cali asks, giving my arm a soft squeeze.

My heart sprints under her touch, and still, after all this time, I’m unable to vanquish those Cali-specific nerves that love to worm into the most inconvenient of places.

“I could eat,” I reply, afraid that if I elaborate, she’ll tie my tongue too.

Teague’s already five strides ahead of us, and Cali rushes to catch up with him before he causes a three-way car crash. I’m right behind them when a hoarse voice deluges my ears.

Cali’s mother’s bony hand hangs over the side of her bed, clawing for the warmth of another living, breathing human, and her rheumy eyes pin me down, unblinking as she waits for me to connect our palms.

I’ve never talked to Cali’s mother before. I only met her today when we picked her up from the hospital. I slip back into the room without alerting Cali or her brother to my current whereabouts. When I rest my hand in hers, careful not to squeeze too tightly, she musters all her energy to give me a watery smile, emaciated fingers littered with varicose veins clinging to me. She’s as cold as a walk-in freezer, and I feel my stomach violently collapse inwards, reeling the rest of my organs in with it.

“You’re good for her,” she breathes, tears already flecking her sallow cheeks, bloodshot eyes burdened with an equal measure of physical and emotional pain. Her voice is brittle, fluctuating unpredictably, and there’s a smoker-like rasp that ties off the ends of her words.

“I’m in love with your daughter, Ms. Cadwell,” I whisper, dropping to my knees beside her so she doesn’t have to crane her neck to look up at me. My joints orchestrate a cracking crescendo, but the soreness pales in comparison to the ticking time bomb of my heart. “She’s my whole world.”

“I can see the love in your eyes,” she confirms, surprising me when she consolidates enough strength to crush my hand in hers. “Please make me a promise.”

Goose bumps respond to her weight-carrying words. “Anything.”

“I know my time is limited, but I need to know that she’ll be okay when I’m gone. Promise me you’ll take care of her,” she begs, more tears trickling past the curve of her jawline, disappearing and reappearing in an infinite cycle.

Moisture condenses in my eyes, and I figuratively tuck her words against my chest for safekeeping, love filling every nook of my body. “I will. I promise.”