While Vincent wondered what she meant, she gave him an explanation that laid herself bare. “I live with some foster brothers and sisters in a new house,” she explained. “When I got cancer, my other fosters couldn’t take care of me anymore, so I got moved.”
Vincent’s heart nearly broke.
This poor little thing was undergoing some of the roughest shit imaginable, while simultaneously being thrust into a new living situation to accommodate the grown-ups who were supposed to have been advocating for her.
Vince began getting hot under the collar, which didn’t diminish in the least as he looked around. “So… Who’s here with you today? Your new foster parents?”
Inez shrugged, her hands running over her blob fish. “The social worker lady picks me up every week and brings me here. My new foster parents have so many kids, they can’t take time to be at the hospital.”
Vincent tried hard to cut the fosters some slack since they were doing a good thing by opening their doors to needy kids, but the agency professional who was paid to do shit like this? Not so much.
“Where is she now? Your social worker lady?” Vincent asked, trying to keep the anger out of his voice. He was steamed, wondering what kind of unfeeling bitch could just leave this child here to deal with things on her own while she…what? Went for coffee?
Inez answered pragmatically. “She drops me off, then the nurses call her when I’m done so she can come get me,” Inez told him matter-of-factly.
“So, there’s no one here with you? Ever?” Vincent almost didn’t recognize his own voice; it was so choked with emotion.
“No, but the nurses are really nice,” Inez continued. “They give me juice and cookies.”
Juice and cookies.
Those words were said as if that was all little Inez ever expected to receive from the world.
His heart bled.
Surely, there was something he could do.
He might be a single man who would never be considered as an appropriate foster father… Or would he? That was something Vince was going to look into. But, that aside, surely no one would stop his clown persona from coming in to “entertain” Inez whileshe underwent her chemo treatments. Hewantedto be there for her.
First things first, however. He needed to find out Inez’s infusion schedule.
And… if it happened to coincide with some of the shifts from his mystery woman in scrubs, all the better.
CHAPTER TWO
Lace sat down in the “comfortable” chair the hospital provided, and the bustling nurse, space-suited up once more, came over and re-hooked her port to the meds that had made her sick, but dammit, she needed to get the fuck over her pity party. Just because they’d found she was allergic to the anti-nausea additives that they normally mixed into her chemo-cocktail, and had discontinued those which had her puking a lot, didn’t mean she needed to be a cry-baby about it. The chemo-poisons she was receiving, Lace reminded herself, were prolonging her life and hopefully killing all the cancer that had invaded her body. It sucked tossing her cookies all the time, but the alternative was unthinkable.
This time, unlike others where her body had warned her of the upcoming event—pun intended—her nausea had come on so fast, she hadn’t had a chance to make a run for it. Instead, she’d spewed all over the comfortable sweats she’d worn.
Hence, the scrubs. Her own soiled clothing was now tied up tightly in a bag out at the front desk, waiting for her to collect it when she left.
Ifshe had the energy to do anything more than drag her ass out the door.
Today was really kicking her behind. All she wanted to do was sleep. And Lace wasn’t one for wallowing in down-time. Just because she had today off, didn’t mean she was free for more than this brief, once-a week trek to the hospital.Nope.It was back to work tomorrow, only to rinse and repeat the same shit for the next four months.
The only bright spot on today’s cluster-fuck-ed-ness, had been one hazel-eyed clown who’d bumped into her in the hallway. She glanced down at the pretty paper flower she still clutched.
What a goof.
Abiggoof, for sure, as inextra-large, but what a wonderful distraction. She was still imagining what kind of body the man rocked underneath all those polka-dots. Lace had a feeling it might be something good because of the way the guy carried himself with such ease and confidence.
She imagined what he’d look like without the wig, the face paint, and the huge red nose, but her brain was a frazzled mess, and she couldn’t quite manage to separate the man from the costume. Which was okay. She’d probably never see him again.
Lace placed the flower on her lap, and looked over at her side table, exhaustedly. The book she’d been reading sat there, a few chapters in, but the murder mystery wasn’t quite doing it for her today. Death and killing weren’t on her feel-good agenda. A sweet romance novel might do the trick. A lot of the women sitting around receiving their treatments were giving that genre a whirl, and…
Shit.
Why did romance novels have her mind traveling back to the clown?