by Amelia Wilde
He grinned. “Nothing much. Only that she’d castrate me and make kimchi out of my balls if I hurt you.”
I giggled. “Sounds about right. Don’t worry. Like she said, it’s mostly bravado.”
“She cares about you.”
“Well, I care about her too. She’s…been there, you know?” I sighed. “I’m really going to miss her when she’s gone.”
Brandon hugged me to his side. “You’re lucky to have a friend like her. That won’t fade when she’s in Chicago.”
I hoped not. Living at home through college, I hadn’t made a lot of friends at NYU, and the few people I’d kept in touch with from high school weren’t in New York anymore. Jane was the closest friend I had, and her quirky presence would be sorely missed once she left.
I almost asked if we should invite Kieran for drinks sometime too. But aside from the fact that it would be incredibly awkward to hang out with my boss and my boyfriend, I couldn’t really imagine Kieran, with her cutthroat personality and sharp demeanor, throwing back PBR at Cleo’s.
“What happened with you and your friends?” I wondered, deciding on a different direction for the conversation.
I was lucky to have Jane around to talk with, not to mention my dad and Bubbe. Brandon had his big house…and not much else.
He suddenly looked very tired. “Why do you want to know?”
I frowned. Brandon was usually so open with me; he’d already shown me parts of his life that had to be painful, and he’d answered any question I had for him, in person or over the phone. He’d been an open book, but now he looked extremely uncomfortable.
“I’m just curious,” I asked. “You seem to avoid the topic, is all.”
Brandon sighed. “It’s fine. We got into some trouble when I was younger, like a lot of kids do in that neighborhood. There was a fight, the cops got involved, and my friends took the rap for it while I got off. They never really got over it. I’m pretty sure they wouldn’t be interested in hearing from me now, and to be honest, I don’t really have time for a big reunion anyway.”
My heart sank at the dejection in his voice. I was sad not because he had lost his childhood buddies—that happened to most people as they matured—but because he’d also never found adult peers to replace them. It must have been incredibly isolating when he was first starting out, taking jobs next to people at least ten years older than him.
Now Brandon surrounded himself with employees: brought his co-workers into his house to make deals and allowed himself to be cared for by housekeepers and drivers. But he obviously didn’t know how to translate any of those connections into meaningful relationships.
I opened my mouth to say something else, but before I could, Brandon turned me to face him, with both hands firmly on my shoulders. He had tipped the bill of his hat up so his eyes were out of its shadow.
“Stop,” he said.
I frowned again, confused. “What? I didn’t—”
“I know what you’re trying to do, Skylar. And what did I already tell you?”
I swallowed.
Brandon waited.
“You don’t need to be fixed,” I whispered at last. I couldn’t believe it less.
He exhaled, obviously relieved that I remembered. Oh, I remembered all right. I remembered every, single thing that happened after that too.
He took my hands in his. Brandon looked at our entwined fingers and pressed delicately into the lines crisscrossing my palms.
“Look at my life,” he said softly. “I went from being a punk kid on a fast track to prison to a man who wants for nothing. Especially now. Especially now that I have you.” He looked up again, and the raw vulnerability in his eyes made my breath catch in the back of my throat. “Do I have you, Skylar?”
I pulled my hands from his grasp and framed his face, stroking my thumbs over the defined, raspy lines of his cheekbones and delicate, fine lines around his eyes.
“Of course,” I said emphatically. “Of course you do.”
Brandon grunted slightly, then reached over to unclick my seatbelt before hauling me onto his lap. Before I could protest, his lips were on mine, taking what they wanted and suffocating any remaining speech. I could do nothing but respond as my arms went involuntarily around his neck, clinging to the hair that curled under his cap. His arms were a vise around my waist; his fingers clawed at the fabric of my shirt and the waistband of my jeans. We couldn’t get close enough.
Suddenly the car stopped, and with a discreet cough, David stepped out. Red-faced, I scrambled back to my side.
“Well, that was embarrassing,” I whispered as the side door opened.
Brandon narrowed his eyes at me and shook his head. “I don’t know what it is about you, Red,” he said as he got out.
He took my hand and helped me to the curb. David nodded, but stared fixedly at the sidewalk. After he drove away, I turned to Brandon.
“You’re the incorrigible one, you know that?”
Brandon wrapped an arm around my waist and pulled me tightly against him, forcing me to stand on my toes.
“You just make me do things I wouldn’t normally ever do,” he said as he leaned in for another kiss. “Like scandalizing my driver.”
A brief peck turned into another several minutes of mingling lips and tongues before we broke apart, breathing heavily.
“Come on, Red,” Brandon said, yanking me up the steps. “Let’s go inside where I can make you do some things too.”
30
I was late.
It had been a long week of studying and midterms. After completing my hours at the clinic, I had gone for a swim and ended up falling asleep after my shower when I got home, a towel still wrapped around my wet hair.
Brandon had tickets for a play to celebrate the end of exams and the fact that he could see me for more than a few hours again. Exams had forced me to cut short several dates and cancel our last weekend completely. If his eager texts were any indication, he was very ready to have me to himself again.
We were supposed to meet at the theater at six forty-five, but I’d woken up at five after six. In record time, I had thrown on one of my many black dresses and a pair of ballet flats, pinned my towel-twisted hair up as best as I could manage and dashed out the door to catch the train downtown.
I was just emerging from the Downtown Crossing station with ten minutes left to get to the theater when my phone rang angrily in my purse. Thinking it was Brandon calling to see where I was, I pulled it out.
“I’m almost there, I promise,” I said as I skipped over the cracked downtown sidewalks.
“Skylar? Skylar, are you there?”
Bubbe always had a tendency to scream into her phone, convinced that no one could hear her through the tiny microphone. This time, however, her voice was laced with frenzy.
“I’m here, Bubbe. What’s going on? Is everything okay?”
A car horn blared as I jaywalked across Winter Street. The theater was still three blocks away; I couldn’t be bothered to obey traffic laws if I was going to make it before the curtain rose.
“What’s that?” I asked again as I weaved around other pedestrians and turned toward the theater. I hadn’t been able to hear her over the traffic.
Just over a block away, Brandon’s blond waves were bright like a beacon among a sea of gray and black overcoats. I waved my hand high, but I was too short for him to spot from this far.
“It’s your father,” Bubbe repeated. “He’s in the hospital.”
The words rang out cold and clear, causing me to stumble. My pace kept me moving forward, but I slowed so I could focus.
“What? Why? What happened?”
“Something happened at the track. It’s that woman he’s been seeing. She’s been taking him there again, I think. I don’t exactly know what happened, honey, but he came home the other night with a black eye, you see—”
“And you didn’t think to tell me?” I snapped uncharacteristically at my grandmother. It had been nearly two mont
hs since I’d last been to Brooklyn, but Bubbe hadn’t mentioned anything like this in the several times we’d talked. There had been no more mention of Katie Corleone; I’d assumed she was out of the picture.
Ahead, Brandon caught sight of me and waved, pointing at his watch to indicate the late time, but I ignored him. This was too important. Curtain could wait.
“He said it was nothing!” Bubbe insisted. “What was I supposed to do?”
“Okay, so what happened?” I demanded, willing myself to stay calm.
“Well, he stormed out of the house this evening when I confronted him about it, all up in arms about it. Next thing I know, I’m getting a call from Maimonides Hospital, telling me my son is in the ICU with his liver beat to a pulp, half his body broken, and unconscious. I don’t know what happened, Skylar, and that’s the truth.”
At the words “ICU” and “unconscious,” I stopped moving, unable to feel sensation in my legs. Brandon watched as I grabbed for a mailbox, barely able to catch myself before my knees buckled completely.
“Skylar!” he yelled and ran toward me.
But I couldn’t see him. I couldn’t see anything as the world around me blurred.
“Bubbe?” I whimpered into the phone.
“Just come, Skylar,” she was saying. “I don’t know what to do. I’m at the hospital now, and they’re bringing him into surgery, for what, I don’t know. We need you here, bubbela. I can’t do this without you.”
Two hands pulled me off the mailbox and into a pair of strong arms. My head tipped back to find a familiar, handsome face furrowed with concern, large blue eyes pools of worry. I breathed a little bit easier. Brandon.
“I’ll be there, Bubbe,” I said. “I’m on my way.”
“Skylar, I can get us there in an hour if we take the plane.”
Brandon had convinced me to return to my apartment to pack a few things before leaving for New York. Nothing about my dad’s condition would be improved by arriving an hour earlier, he’d said, and I assumed I would be there for several days. At least it was spring break. I wouldn’t have to miss class to help with Dad’s initial recovery.
“That’s really not necessary,” I said as I stuffed another pair of jeans into my suitcase.
I looked around my room, which, between my hurry to pack as quickly as possible, looked pretty much like a tornado had gone through my closet and blown everything onto my bed. I tried to think if I had forgotten anything, but came up empty. I clambered onto the bed and sat on my suitcase to zip it shut.
“Skylar,” Brandon said with more than a little irritation. He leaned around me to help press the bag down while I zipped. “Please. I’d like to help.”
“You are helping,” I said absently as I fastened the extra buckles. “I closed this bag a lot faster than if you weren’t here.”
Brandon huffed. “Stop it.”
I slid off the suitcase and started packing my messenger bag. I’d have to miss my regular clinic hours this week, but there was no help for that. I’d do the best I could from Brooklyn.
“It’s a misuse of company resources,” I said as I wrapped up my computer cord. “I’m sorry, but it’s ridiculous. You can’t go flying your girlfriend home at a moment’s notice on a company plane. You and I both know that every spare cent in your company is under a microscope because of the IPO.”
“It’s my fucking plane, Skylar!” Brandon grasped my hands in between his and forced me to face him. “I don’t know what’s going on with your dad, but come on. Let me help however I can.”
“It’s not an emergency,” I bit out, unable to escape the tears that welled at the thought of Dad in surgery. “He’ll be fine until the morning—that’s what the doctors said. I just need to get there before he wakes up. The bus will be fine.”
Brandon pushed out a frustrated breath. “Jesus Christ, you’re stubborn. All right, fine. But we’ll take my car. David can drive.”
“You don’t have to come—” I started to protest, but I couldn’t get another word out before my mouth was covered with a kiss that started out frantic but progressed into something softer, slower, and sadder by the end. When Brandon finished, he stayed close, his forehead touching mine.
“Yeah, I do,” he said quietly. “Let me be there for you, will you?”
Unable to be kept at bay any longer, tears fell freely down my face. Brandon immediately wrapped both arms securely around my waist, holding me up as I collapsed into his chest.
“Shh, shh,” he crooned, brushing my hair softly as I cried. “Let it go, baby. I got you.”
He had me. In a moment like this, a moment where the foundation of my life seemed like it was cracking in half, his strength was everything. It was all I could ask for. It was all I could want.
The Mercedes cruised out of town, flying stealth among the myriad other travelers. Between the built-in TV monitors in the back of the seats and the gorgeous man holding me securely for most of the trip, it was a far cry from the Chinatown firetraps I usually took home. Brandon was content to let me ride in silence, urging me to relax against his chest and stream a movie while he answered emails on his phone. I made it about an hour into the most recent superhero flick before the vibration of the car eventually lulled me to sleep.
“Skylar. Baby, we’re here.”
I sat up in a rush, yanked out of a dream in which I had been prosecuting Tony Stark for reckless endangerment. Brandon nodded toward the bright lights of Maimonides Hospital. I blinked and shoved a hand through my hair before I checked my watch. It was just after ten thirty. David had made good time.
“You all right, Red?” Brandon asked as his strong fingers loosened the kinks in my neck from sleeping on his lap.
I leaned gratefully into his touch. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m good.”
David opened the door, and we exited the car. Brandon turned to his driver.
“Can you pick us up some dinner? I’ll let you know what room we’re in.” Brandon looked back to me. “What sounds good?”
I shrugged. I couldn’t have cared less about eating. I just wanted to see my dad.
Brandon muttered something else to David, who nodded and left. Brandon guided me toward the hospital entrance. I hadn’t been able to contact Bubbe since she had turned off her cell phone—or forgotten to charge it, most likely—so I had no clue about my dad’s current state. I was terrified of what I might find out.
We were directed to the ICU, where I had to wait outside for the on-call doctor. Brandon went to get me some tea, then returned to sit with me on the cold leather bench.
“Skylar?” he asked as he slid his arm around my back.
I took a sip of the tea. It was terrible: cheap garbage that tasted more like tap water than anything else.
“Skylar,” Brandon tried again, finally getting me to look up at him. “I have to ask. Who did this to your dad?”
I swallowed. I knew I was going to have to answer this question eventually; I was surprised he’d been patient enough to wait four hours. Brandon had overheard the one conversation I’d had with Bubbe on the way down and had undoubtedly gathered that Dad’s injuries weren’t just by accident.
I sighed. This wasn’t the kind of thing a man like Brandon Sterling wanted to be involved with—a family trapped by a gambling addiction and small-time mobsters. This was my fault. I’d selfishly ignored what was going on with my dad for the last two months. If I didn’t know anything, there was nothing to tell. And if I didn’t tell him anything, Brandon wouldn’t feel obligated to get involved. All he needed was for Victor Messina to figure out my connection to him, and the two-bit thug would be asking for a lot more than whatever my father owed.
But now Dad was paying an immense price for my self-imposed ignorance. Now I couldn’t lie.
“My dad’s…in trouble,” I said slowly after taking another sip of tea. “He likes the track too much. He was able to stay away for the last few years, but it looks like he fell off the wagon. Really hard.”
Brando
n grimaced knowingly. “Ah. So, he owes some heavies, and they fucked him up for it.”
I nodded. “Looks that way. I don’t think I should tell you much more.” Unable to meet his eyes, I drank more tea.
Brandon frowned. “No, you should tell me everything.”
“No,” I insisted vehemently. “You know what I mean. You really shouldn’t know anymore.”
His eyes widened as the underlying meaning of my words hit home. He twisted his mouth around for a moment as if weighing the pros and cons of pressing the matter. Then he brightened.
“Give me a dollar,” he said. “You could hire me, and then we’ll have attorney-client privilege, and I can’t be subpoenaed if it ever comes to that.”
I smiled wryly. “Pretty sure defending me would qualify as attorney misconduct, Mr. Sterling.”
“Please. No one in Massachusetts has ever been disbarred for sleeping with clients. If that were the case, there would be no more public defenders in the tristate area.”
I snorted. “Whatever. I don’t want you anywhere near this,” I insisted. “The last thing you need in your life is a scandal.”
Brandon started arguing, but was interrupted by the squeak of rubber soles on tile. We both stood up.
“I mean it,” I told him, then turned to greet the doctor.
“Ms. Crosby?” she asked with a kind smile. “I’m Dr. Carraway.”
I nodded. “Hi, nice to meet you. This is my—”
“Boyfriend,” Brandon cut in. “Brandon Sterling.”
I rolled my eyes at his alpha-behavior, even if I did like him introducing himself that way. I was still getting used to it. The doctor raised her eyebrows. Great, all we needed was my dad’s doctor to be a Forbes magazine fangirl.
Luckily, I didn’t have to worry.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Sterling, but visiting hours are over. Only immediate family is allowed in the ICU right now. You’ll have to wait here or in the lobby,” said Dr. Carraway firmly. As Brandon started to argue, the doctor held up a hand and shook her head. “No exceptions.”