He was right, damn it.
“Maybe,” he said, tucking the cigarette into a case in his hand, “the stakes aren’t high enough? The birds are trapped in their little cages. So what? They have brains no bigger than your fingernails. It’s a good-girl song. There’s nowhere to go with it.”
It stunned me that he’d listened so closely to the lyrics. Because Jude never appeared to listen to anyone. It was part of his too-cool-for-school vibe. I didn’t know what to think about that.
So I argued with him. “It’s a metaphor, okay? The singer is trapped in her lecherous guardian’s home, pining for freedom. And he wants her body. How are those stakes not enough?”
Jude rolled his eyes. “See, it is a good-girl song. The frightened virgin singing to the birdies. Nobody could rock that song. Now, if she wanted her guardian, that’s a song I’d like to hear.”
Whoa. I needed to end this conversation, stat, because I was having trouble holding Jude’s storm-colored gaze. My eyes kept wandering over to check out the smooth curve of his biceps where they emerged from his black T-shirt. I could only see partial tattoos, and I wanted to see the whole picture. “Well.” I cleared my throat. “I don’t think the judges would like your version.”
He just grinned, training those dark gray eyes on me. And I was staring. Again! “Fine. But what does a bad girl sing at this thing? Whatever it is, you should sing that.”
I was still staring when he winked and walked away.
A week later I’d received a “picket fence” score (a line of perfect 1 ratings) singing the very naughty “Defying Gravity” from Wicked. It was a bad-girl song to its very core. I’d taken Jude’s advice, and it had made all the difference.
Under the conference room table, someone kicked my foot.
Yanking myself back into the present, I found every face turned in my direction. Beside me, Denny looked pointedly down at the caseload folder in front of me.
With my face burning, I flipped the cover open. “Sorry,” I stammered. “Last week we closed four cases and got seven new ones for a caseload gain of three. One of those is a re-admit, which falls to Lisa. Two are brand new. One of the new cases is pediatric.”
Our director nodded from the end of the table. “Tell me about the pediatric case.”
Luckily, I knew the details without looking. “Eighteen-month-old girl recently diagnosed with profound hearing loss.”
“How does it take parents so long to figure that out?” Denny wondered aloud.
I’d met this family, and I had a theory. “This is a single mother who lives with her parents. She seems like an awesome mom, honestly.” Even though she was only nineteen, I’d been impressed with her devotion. “She’s young, and this is her first child. So she didn’t have a lot of basis for comparison. Also, she spends so much time with her baby, I think she’s just really used to nonverbal communication. After the baby missed some speech milestones, the pediatrician started asking questions.”
“Sophie, would you like to be the primary?” my director asked.
“I’d love to,” I said quickly. It was a good sign that he’d asked me to take the file. And what a great case! Nobody was dead or dying. There was only a cute, happy toddler who happened to be deaf. My role would be to help the family find therapy and services that they could afford.
He nodded at me. “Very well. Come to me with any snags. And you’ll give us an update at next week’s meeting.”
“Yes, sir.” Even after my years with Jude, my old good-girl habits were still there, shimmering just below the surface. And sometimes they were really fucking useful.
We adjourned, and I went back to my desk determined not to slide back into a Jude-induced panic. But I was still unsettled. I must have been, or else I wouldn’t have made the mistake I made next.
“Sophie, are you really okay?” Denny stood over my desk, concern in his eyes.
I avoided his chocolate gaze. “Yep. Promise.” If I told him who I’d seen this morning, he’d guess where my head was right now. But I didn’t want sympathy, and I most certainly did not want to talk about it. The only way to survive living in a small town with Jude was to keep my own counsel.
“How about you prove it by going bowling with me tomorrow night.”
“Bowling? Are you a good bowler?” I looked up then and saw all the usual signs—nervous eyes and a shy, hopeful smile.
Fuck.
“I’m a terrible bowler,” he said quietly. “But that just makes it more fun.”
Aw. I didn’t want to give him the wrong idea. But we were friends. And it was just bowling. “Sure,” I said, knowing it was a bad idea.
The way his face lit up when I said yes made me feel guilty already. “Awesome. I’ll pick you up at seven.” Then he ran off before I could change my mind. Smart man.
I tossed my empty latte cup in the trash and leaned back in my office chair. Damn you, Jude Nickel. See what you made me do?
Chapter Three
Sophie