Captiva Captive Read Online Free PDF Page B

the cash.  How much of your income goes to pay for Anthony’s medical expenses?”
        “Although you didn’t bring it up, I appreciate the cheap rent here. I know you could get five times as much from anyone else.” She was embarrassed. “And it doesn’t matter what income I share with my brother.  You know that Tony needs me.” She walked over to the window, noticing a metallic flash that disappeared as quickly as it came.  Blythe rubbed her eyes, blaming it on exhaustion while realizing it was way past bedtime.  She was expected in the doctor’s office at eight in the morning, and the time neared three already.
        “It does matter, Blythe.” He said steadily.
        “I need some sleep.” Dropping this conversation was the best thing she could do for their friendship.
        “You sure do.  But first, step into the bathroom with me.”
        She stared at him. “The bathroom?”
        He gathered her hand into his and pulled her through the barely there hallway.  A mustard yellow eyesore awaited them on the other side.  “Hop in, both of us can’t fit,” he said because he was well past six feet, weighing in at a good two sixty – all muscle, and her bathroom was the size of an animal cracker box.
        Blythe didn't do anything with the apartment except mediocre scrubbing. Sure, the bathroom was clean if you could overlook the mold growing around a couple of shower tiles. Everyone had that.  But that awful paint color…. They needed sunglasses, and it was pitch black outside.  Instead of taking the money, time, and energy – all three things that Blythe didn’t have – to repaint, she bought a twelve dollar shower curtain depicting the Beatles’ infamous Yellow Submarine and decided to embrace the day-glow theme.  Her friend, Dakota, found a replica of the old movie poster while yard sailing and tacked it over the toilet. Voila. All that was missing was an unconscious, naked rocker in the bathtub and a few groundout joints floating around inside the wobbly commode. 
        “Look around, sweetheart.”
        She did.  “I’m tired.”
        “Really tired?  Bone tired?  Do you feel like you could crawl in that little bed of yours and sleep for months?”
        That’s when she saw her hair.  Black strings matted the drain.  Some draped the counter, while most littered the floor.  Ryan leaned around the threshold and opened the tiny drawer under her sink, the one holding her rubber bands and hairbrush.  She was sure she cleaned it out yesterday, but still.  His long tapered fingers clinched around the bristles and brought a clump the size of a small rodent to her face.  “What’s going on?”
        “I don’t have cancer.”
        “I didn’t say that you did.  But you have something.” He threw her hairball in the trash, carefully put her brush away and then braced both hands on the doorway, blocking her in.  Yes, Ryan was domineering.  Yes, she was used to it.  His high-handedness always worsened when he was angry or upset. 
        “Stress.  Let me by.” She refused to look in the mirror and admire her pallor, brittle hair, or the lines working themselves around her mouth and eyes. 
        “I don’t doubt that you have loads of stress, but that’s not it.”  He stayed right where he was.
        “Anemia, Ryan.  I have anemia.  My cancer markers are fine.  Platelets are up, but due to the anemia and nothing more.”
        Those spectacular eyes narrowed, before he marched into the kitchen, nearly slipping in the suds, and opened her refrigerator.  “There’s no food in here.” He slammed the door furiously.
        “Cut it out,” she pleaded. 
        “You cut it out!” He brought a mop and a bucket out of a nearby broom closet, and went to work on the remaining suds.  “You’re going to the doctor tomorrow.  With.  Me.”
        “I already have an appointment at eight in the morning. He looked up