Caught Up In You: Edgeplay: The complete serial

by McCormick, Jenna

  * * *

  We spend the rest of the day snuggled together on the couch watching old movies on cable. I rest my head in his lap and he strokes my hair. “Don’t you have work to do?” I ask him at one point.

  “It can wait,” he replies.

  I smile softly, flattered that he’d rather hang out with me even if we’re not having screaming sex. Unfortunately, I can’t think of any safe topic to share with him.

  “You were going to be a nurse?” Connor asks, sifting his hands through my hair.

  I freeze as the contentment I just experienced slips away. Of course he heard me talking with the ER doctor yesterday. “Yeah, I was going to be, but I had to drop out of the program.”

  The next logical question falls from his lips. “Why?”

  “It’s complicated,” I say, then roll my eyes at how ridiculous that sounds. It’s the same old tired excuse everyone uses when they don’t want to discuss a topic.

  Connor doesn’t respond, just keeps combing my hair with his fingers, massaging my scalp lightly. He’s waiting me out, I realize, waiting for me to open up and share bits of myself with him. He’s looking after me so tenderly and I want to be honest with him.

  I struggle to sit up and he steadies me with one hand, always so attentive to my needs, so watchful. I both love and resent his scrutiny. “Who’s asking, my boss or my boyfriend?”

  His lips twitch. “Am I your boyfriend?”

  Heat scalds my cheeks and I look away, mortified, just like that time in sixth grade when I told Johnny Wilson I liked him. He’d laughed in my face. I hope this conversation yields more positive results. “Only if you want to be.”

  “I’ve never had a real girlfriend before. I’ve had phony ones of course, and women I slept with. But not an actual girlfriend.”

  I try to wave it off, along with the ache in my chest. “It’s not important, not really, just a stupid label.”

  He slides closer on the couch, invading my personal space in the way only he can do, not crowding me, simply sharing my space, reassuring me with his solid presence. His index finger hooks around my chin, forcing me to meet his gaze. “It would be my honor to be your boyfriend.”

  My insides melt and I move closer to seal my lips over his. He allows me to take the lead, but the heat that is always there between us sparks to life. When we finally part, both of us are breathing hard and I see tightly contained desire on his face.

  “You need to rest,” Connor murmurs. I can’t tell if he’s reminding me or himself of this fact.

  “Right.” My libido is fully recovered and while I may not be up to full speed, I could use another couple of his therapeutic orgasms. Strictly for medicinal purposes, of course. “So, what were we talking about?”

  “How you wanted to be a nurse and why you dropped out of the program.”

  “Technically, it’s two different stories. Are you sure you want to hear all my baggage?”

  “That’s a boyfriend’s right.” I see a glint of pride in his eyes. My heart pounds as I think, I’m Connor Edge’s first real girlfriend. I want to crow it from the rooftops. Then I think about the baggage I’m about to unload and sober up.

  “My mother was a wild woman in her youth. She hated being poor, hated that her parents worked here at the Rosemont. She liked to go out and stir up trouble. Trolling every bar in the county, stuff like that.”

  Connor nods. I find I can’t look him in the eye while saying this. The shame burns me to the quick.

  “One night she had a little too much to drink. She was at the wrong bar at the wrong time. A couple of guys talked her into taking a drive with them. They were also drunk. They drove her out to the middle of nowhere and took turns raping her. She doesn’t remember the details, all we have is the police report that states she was found naked and bleeding along the side of the road.”

  I hear him suck in a quick breath, but need to finish, get this information out there.

  “I was born nine months later. She left me in the hospital, just disappeared.”

  “Baily—” Connor stops and I chance a look at him through my eyelashes. His lips are parted, eyebrows drawn down as if in pain.

  “I was underweight, sickly. A few of the nurses took turns holding me, even beyond their shifts. There have been studies done on babies born with low birth weight that show those who are held more often are more likely to thrive. My grandfather had just lost his wife and daughter. He came to see me but if not for the nurses, I probably would have died.”

  Connor pulls me into his arms and holds me. My heart races and I’m not sure what else I can say. The silence stretches out between us, agonizing, painful and fraught with landmines.

  My abandonment issues are not pretty. I’m a loner by choice because it’s so much less painful to keep people at a distance than to wait, poised on a razor’s edge, wondering when they too will grow sick of me and leave.

  If my own mother couldn’t love me as a tiny, helpless baby, why would anyone else bother?

  I wait for a few minutes, letting him absorb what I’ve told him. It’s probably better if he leaves me now than for him to pretend he doesn’t see the undesirable coating that clings to me like a bad smell for days or even weeks before he leaves. I’m already more attached to him than I ever wanted to be. I crave being with him to an unhealthy degree. Not because he’s Connor Edge, the sexiest man on earth, or because he has more money than a third world nation. Because I’m addicted to the way he makes me feel.

  Wanted, desirable.

  For someone like me, he’s habit-forming. Better to go cold turkey now.

  Silently I get up and move into the bedroom, shutting the door between us. If he leaves while I’m in here, I’ll pretend that it never happened, that he didn’t say things to stop my heart.

  No matter if doing so breaks me. I vow he’ll never see it.

  14

  The bedroom door opens and I cease staring at the clock and turn to face Connor.

  “You tired?” he asks, his brows furrowing in concern. “Still have a headache?”

  “No,” I say, unwilling to address the larger issue.

  “Will you be all right if I leave you for a little while? There’s some stuff up at the main house that I need to see to.”

  “Do what you gotta do.” My heart is cracking in two. Here it is, stage one of The Brushoff. It shouldn’t upset me so much. I intended to walk away from him not even twenty four hours ago. But logic and reason are conspicuously absent in the throng of hurt feelings and wounded pride.

  Shoulda kept your mouth shut! Snarkarella croons.

  Coulda, woulda, shoulda, but didn’t.

  He bends down, presses his lips to my forehead. “I’ll be back in a bit to fix you dinner. We’ll talk more then, okay? Try and rest.”

  I remain curled on the bed, head and heart both throbbing from recent injury. I don’t know what else there is to say. It’s obvious to me that Connor’s extracting himself from our relationship. We’ll talk more later is code for I can’t deal with this shit. I’ve been here before, with other men, but never have I been so invested in a relationship as I am in this one.

  It stings that I’ve only set myself up for a bigger fall. There’s no way I can blame Connor for deciding I’m more trouble than I’m worth. No, I’m at fault because I know talking about my abandonment and Mommy issues is a relationship killer. The men I’m with never know what to say, how to respond after I detonate that bomb. Moments of comfortable silence turn awkward and they start looking at me as though my hands have turned into meat hooks and I intend to sink them in at any moment.

  Not one ever thought that maybe I wouldn’t want to be with a man who didn’t want me.

  I roll off the bed and move into the bathroom, soaking a washcloth in cold water. My blue eyes are red-rimmed from crying and my hair is a mess. There is nothing attractive about my ratty sweats or the cavefish paleness of my skin. I can’t blame him, not really.

  The ache is more about the
kernel of hope being crushed. The intensity Connor focused on me actually made me think that I really could bare my soul to him and he would still want me. That he would say something like my mother’s an idiot for not wanting me, or he’s grateful to those nurses for stepping up because they saved me for him. Some sentimental garbage to make me feel desired and cherished, like only he has ever done.

  Instead, I get silence and we’ll talk more later.

  The landline rings just as I exit the bathroom. The portable is in the kitchen but I have a prehistoric corded telephone on my nightstand and reach for it. “Hello?”

  “Baily Sinclair?”

  “Speaking.”

  “It’s Ian Fletcher.” He’s brisk, to the point.

  “Hi Doctor Fletcher, what’s up?” My nerves jump a little.

  “I’m afraid your grandfather has gone missing again.”

  All the breath leaves my lungs. “Oh no.”

  “I’m on my way to Golden Oaks right now. They said they tried to call you but couldn’t get a hold of you.”

  “I lost my cell,” I say as I lunge for my dresser and a pair of socks. The phone falls off the nightstand with a clatter and I tilt my head at an awkward angle. “Why didn’t they call here? How long has he been missing?” The pitch of my voice rises higher on each syllable.

  “I don’t have any answers for you. The local police department has been brought in to help with the search.”

  “I’ll be there as soon as I can.” I hang up the phone and bolt for the kitchen. Snagging my truck keys off the key ring, I hesitate for a moment and wonder if I should take the time to call Connor. He said not to leave the estate, but this is an emergency. Not wanting to lose time arguing with him, I head for the front.

  My automotive knowledge could fit in a shot glass, but I still get on my hands and knees, checking for anything suspicious, like a brick of C4. The truck’s dripping oil, but that’s nothing unusual.

  I hop in, start the engine, then bolt out and stand inside the house while the truck idles with rumbles like distant thunder. Good enough. Doctor Fletcher already told me the police have been called in; I can’t be much more protected than that. I scramble up, buckle my seatbelt and make for the automated back gate. Very few people actually know it’s there, hidden as it is amidst a copse of pines. The road isn’t paved or even coated with gravel and the section of fence looks just like any other. Bumping along, I kick up dust behind me, make a sharp left and disappear onto the small path. I remote it open, urge my truck through and then close behind me before taking the back way to the retirement home.

  The parking lot at Golden Oaks is filled with cars, police and fire trucks by the time I arrive. Not bothering with a space, I pull right up onto the scraggly front lawn and hit the ground running.

  The first face I recognize is Ian Fletcher’s and if his sharp gestures are anything to go by, he is rip-roaring mad as he lights into a woman wearing salmon scrubs. I hear the words, careless and thoughtless and push through the crowd to where he’s standing.

  “Doctor Fletcher.” I stumble to his side, slightly out of breath. “Any news?”

  He steadies me, his features transforming from wrathful to concerned. “It’s alright Baily, we’re just getting organized. There’s a K-9 unit on its way. We’ll find him.”

  “How long has he been missing?” a uniformed state trooper asks the woman Dr. Fletcher was lecturing.

  Her eyes dart around nervously. “The last time anyone saw him was at breakfast.”

  Breakfast is served at eight a.m. and it’s now after three. Seven frigging hours, Pops has been MIA. I gape at her. “Why the hell wasn’t I notified sooner?”

  She cringes under my furious tone. “I’m sorry, Ms. Sinclair. We thought he’d gone back to his room to lie down, so we didn’t notice he was missing immediately. We tried calling your cell phone but kept getting your voicemail. No one could find Mr. Sinclair’s file that had your home phone in it.

  And because I was wallowing in anxiety over Connor’s and my relationship, I didn’t think to call my voicemail. I feel dizzy and lean more fully against Doctor Fletcher.

  “We’ll find him, Baily,” Fletcher repeats. “Let’s go get something with his scent on it for the dogs.”

  He leads me away from the frenetic gathering out front. He dons medical gloves and trundles through the hamper. “Get a zippered plastic bag from the kitchen. We don’t want to confuse the dogs by contaminating the scent.”

  I scuttle across the room to the kitchen and hold the bag open as he pulls a white undershirt out of the bin. “You sound as though you’ve done this before.”

  “Unfortunately. Alzheimer’s patients are notorious for wandering off.” He seals the bag, then peels the gloves off. “You get used to the procedure after a while.”

  “Seven hours,” I whisper.

  “Don’t think about it.” He puts an arm around my shoulder and guides me into the now empty dining room. “Sit down, you look pale.”

  “I don’t want to sit down. I need to go look for Pops.”

  A hand rests on my shoulder. “I understand, but the more organized we are about this, the better our chances are of finding him.”

  He’s right, I know he is, but that doesn’t affect the restlessness or my drive to do something. “Okay.”

  He nods once to me and smiles. He has a very nice smile, reassuring and friendly. “Good. Then let’s go light a fire under our volunteers.”

  * * *

  “Pops!” I call for about the millionth time. Truthfully, I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve said his name. Enough that my voice is hoarse and I’m croaking more than shouting. Off to my left I see one of the men with the K-9 unit and his furry partner trying to pick up any sign of my grandfather’s scent. To the right is Doctor Fletcher and the fourth member of our group, a volunteer whose name I didn’t catch.

  We have fanned out from the parking area at Golden Oaks, covering as much territory on foot as possible. The local police have set up checkpoints along the main road and each team is equipped with a two way radio. I hold my breath every time I hear it crackle to life, hoping to hear that he’s been recovered, fearing that someone will find him unconscious or worse.

  Almost eight hours with no food or water. He must be exhausted. I worry about dehydration, about him stumbling down another hill, this time breaking a hip or cracking his skull open. No matter how hard I try to fight my fear it washes over me in great waves, the undertow of catastrophic thinking dragging me back down into madness.

  I trip over something—possibly my own feet— and go sprawling onto the ground. I swear and smack the leaf-strewn earth hard.

  “Baily!” Doctor Fletcher rushes to help me up. “You need to take a break.”

  “I’m fine,” I snarl, and immediately regret it. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to take your head off.”

  “Perfectly understandable given the circumstances.” His easy going demeanor smooths my ruffled feathers. “At least have a drink.”

  I retrieve the water bottle from my backpack and stare at it. “This is going to sound nuts, but I don’t want to, because he can’t.”

  The doctor strokes my arm. “I understand. But risking your health will only slow us down, keep us from finding him sooner.”

  “You’re right.” Now is not the time for my guilt or recriminations. I take a drink and let him pull me to my feet. “Thanks, Doc.”

  “Call me Ian.” He offers me that reassuring smile again. It might be my imagination, but I see something more there, something that my fevered brain translates to an invitation.

  No way can I deal with that now.

  I move off a little closer to the K-9 unit and resume my search.

  Time passes and it dawns on me that we are heading almost directly east. Toward the Rosemont Estate.

  “Doctor Fletcher!” I call out. “Do Alzheimer’s patients typically go to familiar places?”

  The doctor jogs up to my side. “It depends. Why do you
ask?”

  “We’re heading directly toward the Rosemont. Do you think he intends to go there?”

  “It’s possible. From what you’ve told me he’s spent his entire life on the estate. It would make sense he would gravitate to it.”

  I turn to the officer with the radio. “Have someone contact Connor Edge at the Rosemont Estate. We think Pops might be heading that way.”

  “Will do.” The man speaks briefly into his radio. Connor is not going to be thrilled when he finds out that I left my cottage. He’ll have to understand though. Pops is my only family. He had a grandfather once. Once he knows what happened, he’ll forgive me.

  I wouldn’t be so sure about that, Snarkarella warns.

  We press on, crossing another major road and a small stream. The shortage of rain ensures it’s no more than a trickle, but the sight of it reassures me. If he did come this way, he could have gotten a drink.

  Suddenly, the German Shepard yips and tugs at his leash and his handler releases him. “He’s caught the scent.”

  “Pops!” I call out, my voice cracking. Doctor Fletcher and I chase after the dog. The sound of voices carries to us from up ahead.

  There’s a steep slope and my thighs are burning by the time I crest it. If my grandfather made it all the way up here, he’s in better shape than I am.

  The fence around the Rosemont is within sight and the gate that I left through stands open around a swarm of black clad men. I scan for the snowcapped head of my grandfather but don’t see him.

  The K-9 handler curses and re-clips the dog’s leash. “Too many fresh scents.”

  A hand lands on my shoulder and I shriek as I whirl around.

  “What’s all this ruckus, Rose?” Pops asks.

  Tears fill my eyes and I hug him tightly to me. “I was so worried.” He smells of sweat and something fouler, but I don’t care as I hold him tightly to me. He’s alive, and intact, at least physically.

  “Stubborn old goat hoofed it five miles at least.” I hear one of the men mutter.