My calves ached from running in the sand, but the sooner I could get out of here, away from the bastard, the better. Not far from the steep cliff side stairway that led up to Gloria and Jaime’s glass palace, a sharp pain stabbed my right foot. Yelping a loud “ow,’ I stopped dead in my tracks and winced as the piercing pain radiated up my leg. Balancing on my left leg, I examined the sole of my other foot. Shit. I’d stepped on a piece of glass, and the three-inch shard was lodged deep in my arch. Without over thinking, I squeezed my eyes and yanked it out. Tears spilled down my face as I let out a loud shriek of pain. Clutching the shard, I surveyed the damage. I was left with a deep, jagged gash; blood gushed out as nausea rose to my chest. I was never good with blood. Lowering my foot to the sand, I tippy-toed so as not to get sand in the wound. The location of the cut made that impossible. I tried walking on my heel; that didn’t work either. I pondered my next move as blood soaked the sparkling grains. When I heard Blake calling out to me and getting closer, I picked up my pace. I tried putting my foot down, but the pain was too much. I almost buckled. Lifting my heel back up, I forced myself to keep going. The bleeding got worse, and a lightheaded feeling set in.
“Jen!”
Before I could take another agonizing step, two strong hands gripped my shoulders, holding me back. Blake.
“Let go of me,” I screamed through my tears. To my relief, he released me, and I hobbled away. I groaned with each step. The pain was unbearable.
Blake trailed behind me. “What’s wrong? Why are you limping?”
“I stepped on a piece of glass,” I blurted, not slowing down. My tears were blurring my vision, and the blood loss was taking its toll. I was a walking disaster. Losing stamina, I stumbled. Just before I hit the sand, Blake caught me. His strong arm clamped my waist.
“Let me see your foot.” Reluctantly, I lifted my foot to show him the damage.
“Hold on to my shoulder for a minute.” I moved my hand to his broad shoulder. As I gripped it and suppressed a moan, he crouched down and examined my wound.
“Jesus. That’s really deep.” I peeked at my foot and shuddered. It looked liked some kindergartener had smeared a jar of red finger paint all over it. It was a throbbing, bloody mess.
“You’re going to need to get stitches.”
“The only thing I need is to get away from you,” I snapped back at him.
“I’ll take you home after I take you to an emergency room. That cut’s going to get infected if it’s not treated properly.”
“Leave me alone.” I choked out the words, my physical and emotional strength dwindling. I tried to put pressure on my foot, but it was futile. I gazed woefully at the daunting cliff side stairs ahead of me. How was I going to make it up all those steep, jagged steps? There must have been a hundred of them. Maybe more.
“Climb onto my back,” Blake commanded, still squatting. “Or you’re going to bleed to death right here.”
I was going to die? In my head, I fantasized the headline in The Hollywood Reporter: “Aspiring Porn Producer Found Dead at Famed Malibu Residence.” Subtitle: “Cause of Death Being Investigated.” Blake’s voice hurled me back to reality.
“Just fucking do it!” He sounded frustrated and desperate.
There was no way I was going to make it up those steps. I had no choice. Holding on to him for balance, I hopped behind him and then mounted him, curling my legs around his waist and wrapping my arms around his shoulders. He stood up.
“Hold on,” he ordered as he began to trudge through the sand with me on his back, piggyback style. I tightened my grip around him as if my life depended on it. Because it did. His rippled muscles brushed against my chest, and I could feel his chest rise and fall with every step. Huge drops of blood dotted the sand, leaving a trail behind us as we forged ahead.
I don’t know how he did it—probably thanks to climbing all those steps at the Santa Monica Stairs—but he got us up the impossible cliff side, Step by steep step. He wasn’t even out of breath when we got to the top. He was obviously in top shape from working out so much. He gently deposited me onto of one of the wicker rocking chairs on the deck. I noticed for the first time that I’d gotten blood all over his swim shorts and there were traces of it down the side of his muscular leg as well.
Blood quickly puddled on the wood planks. While I silently freaked, Blake grabbed the towel that was draped over the back of the chair and told me to press it against the open wound.
Leaning forward, I crossed my injured leg over my other knee, and did as he asked. Shit. It hurt.
“Wait right here. I’ll be right back,” he said, dashing into the house.
Believe me, I was going nowhere. I was in no condition to walk even if I could. The loss of blood had made me woozy. I felt faint and was thankful to be resting in the comfortable cushioned chair. Remembering I was still holding the fragment of glass in my other hand, I set it on the small round table next to me. At least, no one would step on it again.
Blake was back in no time with a tray of first aid. A box of Gloria’s Secret Band-Aids, a bottle of peroxide, and a clean washcloth. Setting it on the table, he got down on his knees. He removed the bloodstained towel and examined my foot. Blood trickled onto his thighs, but he seemed oblivious.
His brows furrowed. “This is going to sting,” he said softly as he soaked the washcloth with the peroxide. Holding my ankle, he dabbed the moistened cloth on the laceration.
I yelped and almost leapt out of the wicker chair. “What the fuck are you doing? Haven’t you hurt me enough?”
His eyes stayed focused on my foot. “I need to clean this up. Get the sand off.”
I bit down on my bottom lip as he attended to the gash. The expression on his face was intense. After a few more dabs, he tossed the blood-soaked cloth onto the deck and tore opened the Band-Aid box. Frantically, one by one, he ripped open the plastic bandages with his teeth and pasted them over my open cut. They were white with little hot pink hearts in the center. He must have gone through entire box because a mountain of wrappers sat on the deck. There wasn’t a single one left for my broken heart.
His forehead creased as he inspected his handiwork. “Fuck. This isn’t working. You’re bleeding right through all the Band-Aids. Don’t move. I’ll be right back again.”
He quickly returned. This time with another dry white towel in one hand and a leather belt in the other. One of the floral sundresses Gloria had gifted me was draped over his sculpted forearm. Crouching, he hastily folded the towel up into a thick six-inch square and pressed it hard against my bleeding wound.
Another loud gasp of pain escaped my throat. His gaze met my tearing eyes.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
I found it bitterly ironic that he’d just repeated the words he’d said in a different context just a short while ago. I didn’t know what hurt more… the wound to the sole of my foot or the wound to the soul of my heart. One shed blood; the other bled tears.
I watched as he strapped the leather belt around the makeshift bandage and my foot.
“What are you doing?” I asked, my voice nothing more than a hoarse whisper.
“Making a tourniquet to stop the bleeding.”
“Where’d you learn to do that?”
“Boy Scouts.”
I almost snorted, but he handed me the floral sundress before I could utter a sound.
“I thought you might want to put this on. Do you need any help?” His forlorn eyes searched mine.
“No.” After my snippy one-word reply, I slipped the dress over my head and my two arms through the spaghetti straps. I shimmied the skirt of the dress past my thighs. Though the temperature was mild, I began to shiver. The loss of blood was wreaking havoc on my body. I felt cold, broken, and empty. Teeth chattering, I folded my arms across my chest.
“Geez. You’re fucking freezing,” breathed out Blake. Not wasting a second, he grabbed an ocean-blue afghan folded over a close by chaise and wrapped it around
me. The next thing I knew, I was in his arms, cradled like a baby.
“There’s an urgent care center a few miles down on PCH. We’ll be there in no time.”
Wearily, I rested my head against his chest as we headed to his car. I wanted no part of him, yet here I was all his.
Chapter 13
Blake
It took us a short fifteen minutes to get to the urgent care center. The drive had been as painful for me as it was for her. We were steeped in cold silence, fighting our emotions. Jennifer kept her pale face turned away from me, staring out at the ocean on her right. I wondered what was going through her mind. For sure, nothing good. What had started out as a glorious romantic weekend had ended up in disaster.
I parked my car in the first spot available outside the cookie cutter cement structure. There were only a few other cars, all parked in reserved spaces—obviously for the doctors, nurses, and paramedics who worked here. It appeared we were the only ones here with a New Year’s Day emergency. I hopped out of the car and rounded it to help Jen out of her seat and carry her into the center.
“What can I do for you?” asked a plump redheaded receptionist. Smoothing her Minnie Mouse print nurse’s smock, she eyed Jennifer. “Food poisoning? There’s been a lot of that going around. People must be eating some bad fish.”
“No. My girlfr—” I stopped myself just in time. “She stepped on a piece of glass; I think she needs stitches.”
The receptionist lowered her eyes to Jennifer’s foot. “We get a lot of that too. Damn those bums who litter our beaches.”
It was unlikely that a bum—or anyone for that matter—had been trespassing on the Zanders’ private beachfront property. Most likely, the glass had gotten there during the construction of their house. It wasn’t, however, worth explaining to this pigheaded woman.
“She needs to fill out some forms. I assume she has insurance.”
“Yes.” Jennifer nodded.
The receptionist pulled out a clipboard with some forms and a pen attached to it. She stood up and handed it to Jennifer. “Take a seat somewhere, and when you’re done filling out the paperwork, I’ll call someone to wheel you back to see the doctor on duty.”
Jennifer quirked a faint smile. I got us settled into two armchairs. She kept her foot up on the coffee table in front of us as she filled out the forms.
“Done,” said Jennifer. Obviously, the lazy receptionist bitch wasn’t going to leave her throne, so I took the liberty of handing them over to her. She perused them quickly and then called for a wheelchair. An attendant arrived right away, pushing one. I helped Jennifer stand up and situate herself in the chair.
“Do you want me to come with you?” I asked.
“I want you to leave.” Her voice was as cold as dry ice.
My heart ached as she was wheeled away. There was no way I was leaving her here by herself, whether she liked it or not. I sunk back into my chair and pulled out my iPhone to check my emails and texts. But there was something I needed to do first. Delete the video. With an indignant press of my finger, I made it disappear.
Fuck this phone! Fuck Operation Dickwick! How could I have been so stupid to have not erased the video? Stupid, stupid me. Maybe what made me fucking stupid in the first place was taking it. Sending it to her under a false identity was a shit-ass thing to do. I wasn’t just fucking stupid. I was a fucking stupid asshole! I’d fucked up big time. I’d succeeded in prying her away from Dickwick, but now I was the dick with a price to pay. I knew she’d never want to see me again, and I had no clue how we were going to work together. Was she going to say goodbye to her job as well?
While Jennifer was being treated, I beat up on myself. I had no solution to the damage I’d caused. Sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you wasn’t going to cut it. Not with someone like Jennifer. I was going to be her forever bastard.
Forty-five long minutes and twenty stitches later, Jennifer re-emerged from the emergency room. Her foot was mummified in bandages, and she was on crutches. I stood up as she hobbled my way. Her face was still pale and pained.
“I’ll take you home,” I said quietly, longing to take her into my arms, crutches and all.
“No need. I had a nurse call Lip Service. A car should be here any minute.”
I was taken aback. “Are you sure? Seriously, it’s not out of my way.”
“There’s no discussion.” Her voice was still frosty.
“At least let me pay for it,” I pleaded.
“No need,” she repeated. “I put it on my credit card.”
A heavyset foreign-looking man entered through the automatic doors.
“Ms. McCoy?” he asked, searching Jennifer’s forlorn eyes. Obviously, he was the Lip Service dude.
Jennifer nodded and followed him out, struggling on her crutches. My eyes never left her, the crutches and bandage a reminder of all the pain I had caused her. Goddamn it. For the first time in my life, I hated myself.
Chapter 14
Jennifer
Thank goodness, I had a Lip Service account—an online alternative taxi service that was quickly becoming one of the best ways to get around in LA if you didn’t have a car or were unable to drive one. My credit card was on file. I made it home.
“What on earth happened to you?” asked Libby, her eyes wide, as I stood at the front door on my crutches. It was just a little after five. It was a good thing she was home because I’d left my bag with my wallet and keys at the beach house. She continued to rant.
“And why haven’t I heard from you? When did you get back from Boise?”
In retrospect, I should have let Libby know what was happening. I hadn’t spoken or texted her during the break. I took a deep breath.
“I have a lot to tell you,” I muttered as I hobbled into the living room. I hadn’t yet gotten the hang of getting around on crutches, and they moreover made my armpits ache. Fortunately, the kindly doctor who had stitched up my foot said I would only need to be on them for a week. By then, the pain would subside and there would be little chance for infection, as long as I kept the gash well covered.
I collapsed onto the couch, leaning my crutches against the armrest. I propped my bandaged foot on the coffee table, remembering the doctor wanted me to keep it elevated as much as possible for the next twenty-four hours. I reached for one of the decorative pillows gracing the couch, but Libby got to it before me.
“Here, let me help you,” she said, placing the pillow under my heel. I couldn’t ask for a better best friend than Libby.
“Anything else I can do?”
“A glass of wine would be great.” I rarely drank before six o’clock, but today warranted an exception. My head was pounding with sorrow and regret.
“You got it.” My bestie scurried out of the room and returned quickly with two glasses of white wine, one for her, one for me.
After handing me a glass, Libby sunk into her favorite armchair. “Now tell me everything.”
So much had gone down in the last week, I didn’t know where to begin. After a sip of the chilled wine, I tearfully blurted out, “Blake Burns and I fell in love, and now it’s over.”
Libby’s eyes practically popped out of their sockets and her jaw dropped to the floor. I’d never seen her so stunned. “Are you fucking kidding me?”
I shook my head.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I don’t know, Lib. I’m sorry. It all just happened so fast.”
She glanced down at my bandaged foot. “Rough sex?”
I shook my head again. “No, rough weekend.”
“Well, you’d better start explaining.”
With a heavy sigh, I took a long sip of my wine and started from the beginning. How Blake Burns was the man I’d kissed and fallen for when I’d play that game of Truth or Dare, blindfolded, on the night of my engagement party.
Libby gulped her wine and fluttered her eyes with shock. “Holy Fuck! How did you find out?”
I told her about the kiss under the mi
stletoe at the office party and then how we’d fucked our brains out in his fuck pad.
“Holy Shit!” She guzzled her wine. “I may have to open another bottle. Keep talking.”
I told her about everything that had happened back home—his surprise visit, his declaration of love, our first night together in my bedroom, and even our enchanted fuck in the snow. Rivulets of tears poured down my face as I recounted and relived all these magical moments.
Libby was all ears. “Wow! I hate to admit it, but he sounds amazing. I don’t get it. What happened?”
Skimming over the Springer stuff, I launched into our New Year’s weekend in Malibu. I could no longer hold back. I burst into hysterical sobs. “Libby, he did something terrible.”
She eyed my bandaged foot and her eyes widened. “He hurt you?”
I nodded. “He hurt me. But not physically.” I took a break to brush away my tears. “Libby, I found out he was the one who took and sent that video of Bradley and Candace.” I tearfully told her how.
Libby gasped. “No way. I mean, I never liked Bradley, but that’s totally creepy. What a fucking lowlife bastard!”
“I know. I couldn’t believe it. I split as fast I could but stepped on a piece of glass.” I adjusted my bandaged foot on the pillow. “Twenty horrible stitches.”
“You poor thing,” consoled Libby as she reached to dab my tears with a paper cocktail napkin. “I can’t believe this has all happened.”
“Lib, you’ve got to promise not to tell anyone at work about Blake and me.”
“I promise.” My big-mouthed friend glanced down again at my foot. “Does your foot hurt?”
“Right now, it’s numb. The doctor gave me some painkillers. I probably shouldn’t be drinking, but fuck it.”
THAT MAN: Holiday Box Set Books 1-5 Page 32