Absolute Power (Southern Justice #1 Read online

  “Bullshit, she is exactly your type—breathing with a heartbeat,” he replied as he caught up to me.

  Carson was more like an older brother, giving me as much shit as I gave him. Calling me out on shit when I needed it.

  “So what happened with the blonde from the sorority?“ His subject changes rivaled mine. Carson knew when to tease and when to back off.

  “She tried to kiss me.”

  Carson’s smile fell from his face; he knew the significance of this. I didn’t kiss…ever. Now there were exceptions: I did kiss my mother’s cheek and Nana’s forehead. But some girl I was about to fuck, nope, not gonna happen.

  “What was the emergency this time?”

  Years ago, I figured out a way to make my cell phone ring by pressing the home button. When a girl was heading in a direction I didn’t want to go, I would hit the button, making certain she noticed my belt buckle made from an old Texas Ranger star. The design was retired long ago, yet my nana managed to find a belt maker who sold them.

  I’d pretend to talk to my supervisor, an emergency situation would be discovered and out the door I would head.

  “Actually, the call was real.”

  Last night a doctor at University Hospital was attacked as he returned from a coffee break.

  “Two punk assed bitches beat the shit out of one the docs over at University ER.” I hated when the scum of this city pussed out and attacked innocent people for a few bucks or the jewelry they wore. Too fucking lazy to get a goddamn job like the rest of us.

  Carson boasted he had the perfect solution for people like this: lead poisoning in the form of a single bullet to the head, cheap and effective. He felt the judicial system was full of suit wearing criminals who stood up for the vagabond thugs we worked so hard to arrest everyday. Allowing them to return to the streets and continue to disrupt the lives of the law-abiding citizens of Charleston.

  “After I finished with Shayla, I went by the station. Captain had the arresting officers grab the surveillance tapes from the hospital security.”

  The bottom of the bridge was now in range, Carson and I would kick up our efforts as we reached the halfway mark.

  “I can’t wait to see the Suits try and defend them against recorded evidence.”

  Carson began to gain on me as we turned around. I glanced at the bottom of the bridge. Traffic was minimal at this early hour, yet some asshole was honking his horn at the car in front of him. Dumbass.

  “Still optimistic, I see.” His derogatory tone was lost on me. This was just how Carson was. Fed up with the system and all of its flaws.

  “Hey, it’s my job to track down the facts, put the puzzle pieces together.” Passing him with ease, I smirked. “That way you can continue to enjoy your morning donut,” I teased as I dug into the run, Carson fast on my heels.

  “No one can make you feel inferior without your consent.”

  ~Eleanor Roosevelt

  Antiseptic and sterility, all sweet aromas to me, greeted me with warm and open arms. There were no harsh words or painful jabs at my character.

  Being inside the hospital, my safe haven, refuge from all the evil I had encountered in my life. My need to nurture and comfort was welcomed and expected here. I would gladly live within these walls if it weren’t frowned upon.

  I lived for taking care of the sick and helpless. Attending to every need, holding the hand of a dying patient or a woman about to give birth. Comforting a frightened child or a grieving parent.

  I craved the feeling of being needed, appreciated. Having the honor of being the first person they saw in the morning or the last as they closed their eyes at night.

  “Hey, Claire,” the thick Irish accent of Dr. O’Leary called out to me. His Celtic dialect was more prevalent when he was tired. Right now, it was almost impossible to understand him; he had been up for nearly thirty hours and was dead on his feet.

  Many of my fellow nurses melted when he spoke to them. That accent stirring up fantasies of the enchanted places they had only read about. Ancient Lords who ruled over lands, taking women as they wished, and then falling in love and living happily ever after.

  His accent was only the foam on the glass of Guinness. His handsome face was hidden behind his adolescent style glasses with a laugh so warm it was contagious—eyes a shade of green that Crayola didn’t have a name for; somewhere between cut grass and sea glass.

  Sean, as he allowed us to call him outside of work, was born and raised in Belfast, Ireland. The youngest of five boys, he always pictured himself as a physician.

  He studied medicine at the University of South Carolina, specializing in Emergency Medicine. He often told his parents of the city he had fallen in love with.

  He described the charm of the history playing out on nearly every corner. How the summers were brutally hot and sultry. How the fall leaves gave new life to the sun-beaten surroundings. When his family arrived to attend his graduation, they too fell in love.

  His father, Brody, fell into an opportunity to take over ownership of a downtown landmark, an authentic Irish pub. It took some time and a truckload of paperwork, but by the time Sean started his employment here at University Hospital, his father was pouring drinks for the patrons of McGuire’s Irish pub.

  While Dr. O’Leary was as kind he was handsome, he was also a serious man. Many nurses had crumbled under the flare of his occasional loss of temper; his Irish roots showing their fiery glory.

  One of our nurses, Shayla Miller, spoke of how she wondered if his passion in the sack was as powerful as the one he showed in the trauma room. How she would give anything to take him for a test drive.

  Shayla wasn’t the only nurse who lusted after him. Hell, you would have to be completely blind not to notice him. However, I was a realist, men like him never had to beg for female attention. They didn’t have time to deal with a girl with the amount of issues I had.

  No, they always chose the Shayla’s of the world; pretty, skinny and without a moral compass.

  Growing up in rural Kentucky, I could understand pretty much any accent, no matter how thick. So both he and Dr. Povolski, our Russian internist, always sought me out.

  “Yes, Sir?”

  My southern politeness, a trait not taught to me growing up in Kentucky, came about during my years in nursing school. One of my professors, and mentors, was from Alabama. She reminded us we could study every book and pass every test, but until we were able to treat our patients with dignity and grace, we couldn’t begin to call ourselves nurses. This included the proper use of Sir and Ma’am.

  “Have the labs come back on Mr. Peterson?”

  Another thing about Dr. O’Leary, he had this heart stopping scent. On more than one occasion I’d closed my eyes, fantasizing about things I had no business doing. Completely losing myself in the depth of his allure.

  Dr. O’Leary came from money. Evident from the imported shoes he wore to the slip of his tongue one night when he confessed his med school tuition had been paid in cash.

  “I was just about to check,” I replied, pulling myself from his closeness. “I’m curious myself what is causing his symptoms.”

  I typed my password into the system, breathing deeply to catch one last hit of his cologne.

  “Dr. O’Leary,” the tinkling voice of none other than Shayla danced across the nurse’s desk. “I had no idea you were working this morning.”

  I wanted to hate Shayla, with her excessive flirting and man collecting habits. I couldn’t, though; she was too much like my little sister Cheyenne and, ironically, my mother, Ginger, or Gigi as she made us call her.

  “I would have worn the red scrubs you like so much.” Her sultry, low voice and a wink with her fake eyelashes rounded off her meaning. I wondered if there was an online class or secret underground organization that taught girls like Shayla, and my mother and sister, to act in such a grotesque manner.

  I chased the thought out of my head; my mother wouldn’t know the first thing about the Internet. My
sister would have to get off her back long enough to learn something.

  “I’m only here to help out Claire.” He nudged me. “Dr. Gillman was attacked last night. I was here working with him and was able to stay.” Shayla had that moony look in her eyes again, a direct result from the Irish accent. Or maybe she was addicted to his scent as well.

  “I heard about that on the news this morning.” Her hand resting on her ample, yet surgically enhanced, chest. A gift from one of the men she collected. “I may need you to walk me to my car tonight.” Her index finger played with the playboy bunny pendant, which normally rested in her cleavage. Perfect white teeth held bright red lips hostage, her meaning as clear as her tanned complexion.

  The snort, which left my chest without my permission, caused everyone to look in my direction. Shaking my head and shrugging, because I was already caught, a coy smile on my lips appeared as I let the words in my head free. “You’re the last person who needs an escort to their car. Everyone knows you carry a .357 in your purse.”

  Shayla came from similar beginnings as I had; poor, small town and a determination to break the cycle.

  That was where our similarities stopped, though. Her father taught her how to hunt and fish, and shoot a gun with sharp shooter accuracy. Her older brother taught her how to fight like a man and skin a buck. Her mother rounded her out with her cooking skills. Where she obtained her whore-like tendencies, I had no clue.

  “Claire, for your information, I don’t always have my gun.” She rolled her eyes to add to her point. “Besides, having a man around can come in handy.” Her eyes trained on Dr. O’Leary.

  Having enough of Shayla’s flirting and not wanting to witness the next step in her attempt to corral yet another victim into her vagina web, I pointed to the printer. “Dr. O’Leary, here are your labs. I’m taking a break since Shayla is here to keep an eye on my patients.”

  Not waiting for her to argue, I stood swiftly, checking my pockets for my money and cell phone. Dr. O’Leary was well aware of the patients’ situations, so he could answer any question she had.

  I walked past the elevators, excusing myself a few times. Visitors waiting on arriving elevators to various floors. How lucky the awaiting patients were to have someone who cared enough to visit them in the hospital. I smiled politely at one particular little girl, her dress a flutter of bright yellow and socks trimmed in lace with a matching hair bow. Her hand grasped tightly in her daddy’s. How wonderful it would have been to know the comfort and security of having a parent protect you, I sighed. How sad was it for a grown woman to envy a tiny little girl?

  I left the Norman Rockwell family behind, turning sharply to my right and pressing my code into the break room security lock. My first holiday I volunteered to work, one of the nurses who was here with me showed me this hidden gem.

  The room wasn’t used by many people, most wanted to visit the cafeteria, check into their social circles. I avoided both. Maybe it was my upbringing, the lack of having even the basics such as food and a stable roof over my head. Maybe it was my lack of interest in the gossip swirling around this place.

  The beauty of this room was the quiet it gave. No televisions or radios, another reason it went unused; only the ER staff was given access. Granted the furnishings were from thirty years ago, but I didn’t care, they were broken in and comfortable. My favorite chair sat in the far corner, a single lamp placed strategically beside it.

  I had been in this room, only a few minutes the first day, when I heard voices through the vent on the wall. Due to the quiet of the room, you could hear the conversations going on at the nurses’ desk in the ER. I could take my break and still know what was happening in the next room.

  Taking my backpack from under my chair, I pulled out my thermos of coffee. I never understood why my coworkers paid so much for a cup of coffee and then complained about how it tasted. I always brought food from home, brewed my own java and saved money in the process.

  When you grew up with nothing, you learned to appreciate everything you had. Taking a sip of my hot coffee, I heard Shayla’s laughter echo above all the other voices in the room, an assurance everything must be okay.

  I could swear, if I didn’t know better, I would say my little sister and Shayla were twins—same mentality, same goals and same lack of self-respect.

  Looking out the window, I appreciated the garden green with shrubs and bright with flowers cared for and nurtured by men with skill and passion. The fountain in the center bubbled with excitement, sharing its tranquil properties with all who would witness. Funny how families were much like gardens—with proper care they could grow and flourish. Forgotten about, they would wither and die.

  Being the oldest of five, it was my job to help take care of the other kids. We lived in this tiny trailer my dad found on the side of the highway. He talked a buddy of his into helping him change the flat tire and then hitch it to a tractor they’d acquired from another friend.

  He found a plot of land on someone else’s property, said they weren’t using it, so we might as well. Seven people lived in the cramped quarters, eight when Cheyenne’s baby daddy at the time was out of jail.

  There was one bathroom, well, that was until my daddy got tired of emptying it every couple of days. Then he went out and found three of those port-a-potty buildings. I dared not remind him they would need cleaning out as well.

  Seemed everything we had, was obtained by my father the same way. That was when he wasn’t a guest at the county jail or Kentucky State Penitentiary.

  Everyone dealt with his imprisonment in different ways. For Gigi, she would have a new friend in town. She would dress herself in tight clothes and too much makeup, leaving me to care for the younger ones; returning days later, money in her pocket, and in the early years, a baby in her belly. It made me question if the man who I called daddy, really was the one to stake claim on me.

  My oldest brother, Jack, a result of one of Gigi’s friends, had wanted to join the military. Problem was, he couldn’t keep himself away from trouble. He was always trying to make a quick buck, legal or not. He was caught alongside Dad, about a year ago, with enough moonshine to put them both away for a few years. The event made the news here in Charleston.

  Benny, my youngest brother, did whatever the older boys did. I wouldn’t be surprised if he was still running the moonshine while they were away. He, at least, showed some promise, he was a fast runner, quiet as a church mouse, and had the ability to build practically anything. If he could outrun the Sheriff and his dogs, he just might become something.

  Cheyenne was a year younger than me—a sad product of her environment. She watched and learned from our mother, seeking love and attention from men who served their own desires at the expense of her body. She used sex as a way to feel, well…something.

  Her first baby daddy, Raymond, or Ray-Ray as he was known in town, gave her my first nephew. Gigi encouraged her to give him up for adoption, told her she wasn’t able to care for such things. In reality, Gigi didn’t want any of her men friends to know she was old enough to be a grandmother.

  Second sperm donor was Simon, or Izzy as his friends called him. Not only did he give her a baby, he gave her a nasty case of crabs, which took forever to get rid of. It was then I had Benny construct a shed for me. It wasn’t much, but it was away from the cesspool growing in the trailer. Again, Gigi told her to give up the baby, which she did, of course.

  Then there was Colton, or Possum as he told us to call him. He lasted a month, left with Benny’s pocketknife and a case of moonshine. Gave Cheyenne a baby girl and a black eye. She stood up to Gigi this time, bringing my niece home from the hospital. She gave the doctors a fake name so she wouldn’t get a bill; another survival skill we were taught by our daddy.

  I could have gone in any number of directions. Whored myself out, ran illegal moonshine or sold fruit on the highway exit. It was a cold and rainy Sunday morning, which gave me all the inspiration I needed. Cheyenne had asked me to watch t
he baby as she wanted to meet up with a guy she met earlier in the week. She was ecstatic he had a job and a truck; two qualities she found to be lacking in this area.

  I was just waking up to check on Misty Dawn, Cheyenne just loved the name, thought it was regal. She was still sleeping away, when I heard the faint sound of someone crying.

  I found Cheyenne curled up in a ball, naked from the waist down, dried blood caking her backside. She was shivering from being wet from the recent rain. She refused to let me call the law, said he hadn’t touched her pussy, so she wasn’t worried about being pregnant. I cleaned her up and help her get dressed. She made me swear I wouldn’t tell a soul what I saw that day.

  I kept my word to my sister, but a fire was lit inside me. Cheyenne didn’t want my help, but others out there would. I turned to fighting hard to finish my education and took on a part-time job at the gas station to save money for tuition.

  My family didn’t share my enthusiasm, chastising me for being too good to hang around the trailer all day. Daddy wanted me to run his shine up north, said no one would suspect an innocent girl like me of wrongdoing.

  Gigi brought home a young man, Shane, no nickname, just Shane. He was several years older than me, worked at the lumber mill in town. Daddy liked him instantly, as he brought with him names of men who would pay top dollar for his moonshine.

  Shane became a recurring fixture in the trailer, although he never moved in, he never missed a day stopping by. Gigi began calling him my boyfriend and he didn’t correct her. We went to a couple movies, but he preferred hanging around the family instead. I didn’t mind him being around, he told me he loved me about a month after we started hanging out. I gave him my virginity and I was pretty sure I took his as well.

  Sex with Shane was nothing like the way Gigi and Cheyenne described it. Most of the time, I counted the stars in the sky as he grunted and panted above me. He was always tender and told me how much he loved me. I felt nothing, not a shiver or spark as many described, just…nothing.