Cass didn’t know
why she bothered. It wasn’t like she didn’t have enough to do so she had to
fuss over a man who refused to take care of himself.
From his
grimaces, it was obvious Randy needed a doctor, not the alcohol-drenched
washrag she held. But, no, he was too stubborn to seek a professional.
She had a right
mind to drop the cloth on his face, pick up her bag, and go home. Yet the
purple and black bruises on his face, along with the crusted blood on his lip
and above his eye, brought out the caretaker in her. She couldn’t leave him in
his condition, no matter how much he tried to push her away.
This scene came to me in a dream. It was the first one I wrote for my debut novel Sweet Jazz.
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