Kick start, p.1
Kick Start, page 1
Kick Start
The Southern Oaks Book One
Kallyn Jones
Kick Start
Copyright 2021 by Kallyn Jones.
My Creative Jones Press
All rights reserved.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Possible resemblances to actual events, places, or people, living or dead, is coincidental.
* * *
No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, without prior written permission.
* * *
ISBN: 978-1-7377097-0-1 (ebook)
ISBN: 978-1-7377097-1-8 (paperback)
* * *
Editor: Taming the Ink
Proofread: D.A. Sarac/the Editing Pen
Cover Design: the Jones Design Studio
Created with Vellum
Author’s Note
Kick McKenna, the heroine in this story, is an autoimmune patient like me. Her experience neither represents the entirety of mine nor is it meant to represent anyone else’s journey. As the saying goes, when you meet one autoimmune person, you’ve met one autoimmune person. Too often in this community, that which is one person’s healing balm will cause another to flare, even when they share the same diagnosis. Our human bodies are fascinating, for sure.
The regimen that Kick uses to help her back to health is meant to be unique to her experience. The truth is, for the sake of the story, I went easy on her. If you are someone who shares similar health issues to her and manages them by different means, the story doesn’t seek to judge or criticize in any way. Whatever gets you through the day is a blessing.
For the Autoimmune Warrior.
The one who works your buns off, even though it may not look like it. The one who finds yourself flat on your back for days and/or weeks on end, through no fault of your own. You are seen. May your setbacks stay minor and every victory, no matter how small, be huge.
Contents
1. Hard Out Here
2. Wicked Game
3. Settle Down
4. Simple Man
5. Crossroads
6. It’s Easy to Fall in Love (with a Guy Like You)
7. Cold Little Heart
8. No Scrubs
9. It’s My Life
10. These Dreams
11. Anything Goes
12. Dream On
13. Almost Like Being in Love
14. Suddenly I See
15. So Nice
16. Just What I Need
17. Love for Sale
18. Take on Me
19. You Do Something to Me
20. Secret
21. Hold on Loosely
22. Tainted Love
23. Say it Right
24. Riviera Paradise
25. Control
26. Send Me on My Way
27. I’ve Been Loving You Too Long
28. Separate Ways (Worlds Apart)
29. Thieves in the Temple
30. Falling for You
31. Thank You
32. Lovely Day
33. Holding Back the Years
34. Thriller
35. Once in a Lifetime
36. Integrity Blues
37. Dancing in the Dark
Wondering What to Do Now?
Follow Kallyn
Another Author’s Note
Acknowledgments
About the Author
1
Hard Out Here
Kick
“You’ve got to be fecking kidding,” I muttered, staring at my doctor’s sharp jawline on the video screen as she quietly spoke to her assistant.
Morning sun streaming through the window warmed my left shoulder, promising a perfect September day. With the oppressive humidity finally gone, my customers were more likely to sit outside on the patio than inside. It made the ’80s girl in me want to belt out “Walking on Sunshine.” I made a mental note to play an eighties mix later.
I wished I could be outside, enjoying an iced Americano and a quick break. Instead, I was stuck in my office, dealing with my body’s shortcomings. Despite major victories in my decades-long battle with autoimmunity, this new flare was a doozie.
I absorbed the news from my test results as I waited for the doctor and eagerly let myself be distracted by a photo of me with my kids. We stood together, all smiles, at my coffeehouse’s ribbon-cutting. I hadn’t seen those proud smiles in months, and I missed them. These three were the reason I’d worked my butt off to get better. Bad news or not, I wouldn’t give up on them now.
“Sorry for the interruption, Kick,” Dr. Chaddha said, her face returning to the video chat window on my laptop.
“No worries,” I answered, hoping a soft smile could hide my anxiety. We were running five minutes behind with about fifteen minutes of appointment left.
“So,” she continued, “did you receive the new dietary guidelines we sent through the portal?”
I flipped through the pages I’d printed off. “Yup. You really think restricting stuff like artichokes is necessary? I thought prebiotics were important for my microbiome.”
Dr. Chaddha lifted her copy of one of my many recent tests. “Given this lab panel, yes. A low-FODMAP plan will let your gut heal. Trust me.” She dropped the papers. “After six weeks, we can address it again, depending on how closely you follow the regimen.”
“What do you mean, how closely?” I sighed, tucking a wayward curl behind my ear.
“Well, did you see caffeine and chocolate on the list?” She pressed.
“Yes,” I muttered. Or whined. A little.
“I meant to have my assistant put decaf on there too.”
My brow creased. Was she kidding? “What? Why?” I’d prepared myself to stay engaged and positive through our tele-appointment. Truth be told, I expected some heavy-handed advice. Bringing an autoimmune condition into submission was ridiculously hard. I’d done it already. But the good doctor stepped on my pride with this directive.
“I sell only fair-trade, organic beans. And they’re third-party tested for mold.” I felt my face dropping into a stubborn frown. “The water is reverse-osmosis filtered. I don’t see the problem here, other than the ones inherent in caffeine. Also, I’ve already been limiting it.”
“Nice to hear.” Dr. Chaddha scribbled on her tablet. “I want to make sure you’re not reacting to the product itself.”
“You understand my business is called the Perked Cup, right?” I said, hearing the sharp edge in my tone. How the hell does a barista abstain from her own product? How was I supposed to recommend a new flavor I couldn’t test? I didn’t think the good doctor would approve of the swish-and-spit routine either.
“This leads to my next point.” A nervous smile crept across her face as if she were bracing herself.
Holy hell, now what? I couldn’t imagine the news getting any worse. I gripped the edge of my chair, not sure I wanted to hear it.
“You’ve had a hard year with your dad passing. Plus your business responsibilities. And family.”
As if I needed reminding. “Everyone has their issues, Dr. C. Everyone has bad years too.”
“Not everyone has autoimmune diseases,” Dr. Chaddha continued firmly. “If you want to avoid undoing all your past progress, I suggest you take three months off while you work my program.”
If I had been drinking that Americano, I’d have done a spit take. As it was, the normal kaleidoscope of test-result butterflies in my stomach beat their wings into a frenzy. I was sure they were working up a tornado in there. I didn’t lead a take-three-months-for-yourself kind of life.
I’d heard about other patients doing this, but the ones I knew of were either kidless or retired. Maybe I could do it in a year once my youngest graduated high school. But the kids weren’t the only people who needed me. My employees did too. With the summer over and most part-timers off to college, we were already understaffed. Then there was Dad’s cigar shop.
Dr. Chaddha’s dark eyes narrowed. “Perspective is the key, Kick. Remember, you’re lucky to be alive. You’ve been blessed to come this far. Don’t stop now.”
My belly laugh after her comment sounded a tad hysterical to my own ears. Staying alive had already cost me a fecking fortune. Dr. C’s current set of recommendations had me staring down another path ending in a mountain of bills. Yet I should stop working for three months? Hire others to fill the gap? I bit my cheek to keep from snapping.
“Sorry to interrupt, Kick, but I need you in bathroom number one.” My morning manager’s strained voice over the intercom made me jump in my chair.
“What happened now?” I pressed the button and asked, ignoring my doctor’s frown. Didn’t she realize the interruption kept me from crossing full steam into Rudelandia and chewing her out? Was I solving world peace? No. I sold coffee to my neighbors. At best, it encouraged them and gave them a boost in their daily grind.
The tension in the discombobulated voice amped up. “Something big that it requires us both.”
Right. Deana wouldn’t bother me with a minor issue. Ever the eternal optimist, her anxious tone turned my internal tornado into an EF4. “Be right out,” I told her.
I turned back to my webcam. “Listen, Dr. Chaddha, I need to fix whatever is happening here. I’ll take your advice into consideration though.”
“Mrs. McKenna, you haven’t set up your IV schedule. Plus Audra needs to do your life coaching session. Give you her recipes.”
JaysusMaryandJoseph. My arms phantom-ached at the thought of new bruises and collapsed veins. Time off was one thing, but I swear I had PTSD from the last round of intravenous therapy. “I’ll think on the IVs, and Audra can upload the files to my portal.”
“Will you at least consider cutting back your hours? It’s critical to relieve stress somewhere. And if you can’t make our meditation sessions here, at least do it at home.” Exasperation hovered in Dr. Chaddha’s normally steady inflection.
A tightness settled in my chest while the tornado switched to full-blown nausea. I nodded at the monitor. “Thank you for your time, Doctor. I’ll be in touch soon. Promise.”
We cut the tele-session, and my shoulders slumped. How the hell had I ended up feeling back at square one? And there lay my doctor’s point. Autoimmune patients sought management, not cures.
Even before this appointment, I monitored everything I ate, drank, how I worked out, slept, et cetera. It was all-consuming, though the real challenge lay in keeping it from being soul-consuming. Then there were years like this one when as soon as I thought my ducks were finally in a nice, neat row, life whacked me head-on and the little feckers waddled off again.
The rhythm of my footfalls in the hallway out to the dining room gave me some headspace to reflect. This flare was more evidence of my failure “to do health.” Moreover, I feared my body would continue to betray me, no matter how many hoops I jumped through to keep it in line.
Kill the pity party and find Deana.
I took the last few feet of tile to mourn the progress I’d lost in my recovery. Inhaled deep and shook it off. I might struggle, but hell if I’d let my thyroid run me over. Taking a cleansing breath, I turned the corner toward the serving counter and remembered Dee had told me to meet her in the bathroom.
Deana Douglas, the source of the earlier voice, paced the restroom hallway. An Out of Service sign stuck to the first door.
I groaned. “Did someone flood the toilet again? You could’ve just called the plu—”
Dee grabbed my arm and tugged. “Get in here.”
I jumped, expecting to get wet feet, but the floor looked dry.
She pointed at the sink. “In there.”
A large ziplock with smaller bags lay in the porcelain bowl. “Is that—”
Deana nodded vigorously. “We used to call them dime bags.”
“I remember,” I breathed, wondering if today’s kids still called them that. “Did you look inside? Were they in the sink?”
“Yes. And no—they were taped to the side of the vanity. If I hadn’t changed the garbage, I might’ve missed them.” Deana fanned her face. “I think we need to call the police.”
I bent over, sniffing, making sure they contained cannabis, but the little bags didn’t give themselves up without opening them. Since I didn’t have on gloves like Deana, I let it go. “Did you notice who used the bathroom this morning? Also, shouldn’t we just throw this away?”
“Kick”—Deana heaved a motherly sigh—“someone tried to use our café… your café as a drug drop. We can’t ignore it.”
“Shit.”
Dee was right. She was also late.
“Don’t you have to get out of here too?” I asked.
Dee scrunched her button nose, reminding me of her doppelgänger, Gladys Knight, bracing to hit a big note. When she had walked into my café, responding to my ad for a barista, I immediately thought of the megastar from our hometown, Detroit. Dee possessed the same class, sparkling smile, and hint of an edge. It’s what initially bonded us—that and shared memories of growing up in Motown.
Deana untied her apron and folded it, tucking it under her arm. “You sounded off when I buzzed. I texted Genesis, and she’s saving me a seat.” Her granddaughter Geneva was about to play the Hungry Caterpillar in the first-grade fall play, and Dee was stepping out for an hour.
I waved her on. “Go ahead. Take pics of little Geneva for me please. I’ll call this in.”
“But—”
“Go before you get stuck answering questions and miss the whole play.” To distract her, I added, “Maybe we can hang some of your recent work in the dining room again.”
Dee chuckled. “I see what you’re doing. Yeah, we can do that, especially with the senior portrait season underway.” She turned for the door. “You’re telling me about your appointment when I get back.”
“Not going anywhere,” I murmured. Yet.
* * *
As a Bob Marley song later reminded me that everything would be all right, I swiped at a curl stuck to my sweaty cheek and pulled my elbows together to stretch my middle back. Then I donned a pair of gloves and looked around my café. Keeping it in order brought peace, especially during a crazy day like this one.
A senior officer from the Oakville PD had come and gone after questioning the staff and me forward and backward. There were only two other part-timers currently on the schedule. Officer Miller had shown me his sincere disapproval of my lack of security. Upgrading the system had been at the top of my list at the beginning of the year. He also complained about my letting Deana go to the play. I promised to have her give a statement at the station.
A quiet hum finally settled over the café as I swayed to “Three Little Birds.” I opened the display case and moved the leftover breakfast pastries to make room for lunch items. Next was the bar top—a raw-edged hickory counter that looked more like a piece of art—the centerpiece of the space. It made me smile when it shone and was something I could quickly set to rights.
I let my hand rhythmically glide over its smooth surface while I lengthened shallow breaths, letting my thoughts go. Since giving my statement, I’d racked my brain to remember every customer we’d served.
Inhale for four. Hold for four. Exhale for five… Again.
As the streaks of cleaner evaporated, I caught the dark hint of my reflection in the glossy finish. The silhouette of my big curls shadowed the warm browns in the wood. They were extra exuberant on washdays like this one and reminded me of the Irish dancing competitions I’d been dragged to as a kid. For years I’d fought to tame the curls with dryers, irons, and goo. We’d called a truce when I embraced their wild nature and found better products. Presently I didn’t have the heart to corral them in a scrunchie. Maybe later.
The distraction eased my mind and caused me to miss the woman sliding onto a stool at the end of the counter until she spoke, startling me.
“I heard you talked to your so-called doctor,” my mother commented, setting my heart pounding.
She’d been in a good mood when she arrived with her neighbor. Perhaps she sincerely wanted to know about my appointment. I’d almost rather talk about that than who had tried to use my bathroom as a drug drop. The logic there escaped me, but maybe expecting a drug dealer to use logic was my first mistake. It ended up not being a large amount of cannabis anyway, thank goodness.
I stopped wiping and gave it a shot. “Dr. Chaddha confirmed the flare. She gave me a plan though.” I scanned the dining room, hoping the subject would drop. I didn’t see her friend. “Did Shirley leave?”
“Yes.” My mother, Bobby Allen, lifted her cup to her lips, wearing a judgmental expression. One of her favorite forms of torture, it kept me always guessing, although it didn’t necessarily equal an impending temper. “Did you lock your office door? My suitcases are in there, remember?”
“I don’t lock it during business hours. But the back door is secure, and your cases are tucked under my desk. They’ll be safe until Rachel’s ready to drive you to the airport.”
