Hard Fought (A Stepbrother Warriors Novel)

by Loren, Celia

  It never occurred to me to wonder why no one was picking him up from the airport. "I didn't even know until a couple days ago that I was being given the all clear to go home, so I figured I'd just let it be a surprise," he answers, looking a bit bashful.

  "But I don't understand," Anne says, glancing at me and the car.

  "Alexa saw me at baggage claim and offered me a ride. She didn't realize who I was."

  "That was kind of you," Anne says, wiping her cheeks and walking over to give me a hug. "Were you on the same flight?"

  "Looks like it," I confirm.

  "How funny!" she remarks innocently. I smile ruefully, but I've already decided that I like her. Whether or not I can picture her with my father is a different story. "Well, let's get your bags inside. I'll get it, hon," she tells Carter as he leans down for one of his duffels.

  "Mom—"

  "Carter," she says firmly, and he relents. I smile and grab the handle of one of my bags. "We can go around the side, Roger. My room's in the boat house."

  As we turn to walk around, I spot a young woman silhouetted against the front door. She looks frozen for a moment, and then runs toward Carter. He laughs and drops his crutches as she nearly tackles him.

  "I can't believe you didn't tell us!" she shrieks as she dangles from his neck. "You would do something like that!"

  "Bree, I've only got one good leg here!" Carter protests, and she lets herself drop back down to the ground. She spots me and turns. Her gregariousness with her brother disappears, and she smiles shyly at me.

  "I'm Lex," I say leaving my suitcase to shake her hand.

  "Bree," she says. As I get closer, I can see that she's strikingly beautiful, with high cheekbones and long, thick blonde hair pulled up on top of her head. She wears boyish, baggy clothes, making her petite frame look even smaller. Even though I'm only five foot seven, I tower over her.

  "Does Jack have a game this week?" I turn to ask Anne, with siblings on my mind.

  "Yeah," Bree answers for her mother. She clears her throat. "I mean, I think so."

  Anne nods. "I'll never get used to the NFL having football games on Thanksgiving, and I've had plenty of time to adjust." I'm not sure what she means, but I smile anyway. "So! Why don't you two get settled, and then we can reconvene in the living room! I know it's getting late, but I want a full report of the trip. And your father should be home soon," she adds, turning to me.

  "Great," I reply with a smile. "See you in a bit." I take the handle of my suitcase again and Roger follows me, using the small stone path that hugs close to the side of the house and stretches all the way to the boat house. He helps me lug my suitcases up to the second floor, and I push the door open to my bedroom. "Thanks, Roger. Will I be seeing you around again?"

  "Yes, ma'am. I'm working here full-time now."

  "Oh. Well, good then," I say, a bit surprised. He turns and walks back down the steps. I watch him go, wondering if there are any more changes around here I don't know about. Maybe my father hired him to drive Anne and her daughter around? Who knows...his motivations have always been difficult for me to understand.

  I turn back toward my bedroom, pulling in my suitcases off the landing. It smells a bit musty in here, though I can tell someone's cleaned the dust off everything and left a window open. I sigh, trying to remember the last time I was here. It must have been the summer after my sophomore year, because I headed to France just after the start of my junior year.

  I leave my bags by the sitting area, deciding I'd rather have a shower than unpack right now. I flick the lights on in the bathroom and strip off my clothes as the water warms up. I forgot how immediately sticky the Florida air can make me feel, even in November. Though I also didn't get a chance to clean up after having sex in the airplane bathroom, so that might not be helping matters.

  I shiver even as I step under the hot water, remembering the way he touched me. He was so commanding, but still gentle. I run my fingers over the back of my neck where he kissed me, and can almost smell him in the air. My eyes fly open. I cannot let myself get all hot and bothered by him. I'm about to go hang out with his mom and his sister, for fuck's sake.

  Chapter Six

  My old bottles of shampoo and body wash are still in the corner of the shower, like I never left. I rinse myself off and hop out, digging through a suitcase to find a pair of shorts and a tank top. I slip on a pair of flip-flops that I never wore while I was in Europe, and head back down the steps, cutting across the lawn and around the pool to the doors at the back of the kitchen.

  I reach for the handle and almost step forward into the glass when it doesn't open. Since when are these doors kept locked? I spot a new keypad on the side of the door and peer into the bright kitchen. No one's there. I sigh, and start knocking, wondering if I should just walk around to the front and ring the bell. I spot a flicker of movement by the hallway and cup my hands over my eyes. I knock louder.

  Carter appears at the other end of the kitchen, looking around in confusion. It's strange to see him here, in my house. I almost pull away, but I do want to get inside. I knock again and his head snaps in my direction. He walks closer on his crutches and I wave as he peers toward me, knowing I'm against a dark background and he might not be able to see me. He finally recognizes me when he's a few feet away and opens up the door. I smile as I see he also took a shower, and have to stop myself from admiring the way his shoulders look in his plain white t-shirt.

  "Is this all one house?" he asks abruptly.

  "What do you mean?"

  "It's enormous."

  "Oh, yeah. I guess I'm sort of used to it."

  "You stay in the backyard?"

  "In the boat house."

  He laughs sharply, taking me aback. "A boat house," he repeats, shaking his head.

  I clear my throat, feeling awkward. "Do you want any water or anything?"

  "Water would be good."

  I move toward the cabinet, hoping the glasses are still in the same place. They are. I take two out and fill them at the refrigerator. "I guess I should tell you where everything is," I realize. "So those are the glasses, plates over there, pots under the counter, pantry is around the corner. Help yourself to anything, if no one has said that yet. There's a game room and a theatre downstairs, and a wine room. Also a gym, when you..." I trail off, not wanting to pry about his injury.

  "Thanks," he says as I hand him the water. "And where's the living room?"

  "Well, there are a few, to be honest," I reply, feeling self-conscious. "My guess is your mom meant one over this way," I tell him, leading him back down the hallway into the foyer, and crossing over to the other wing of the house. "What room are you staying in?"

  "A bedroom. On the end, past Bree's."

  "Big oil painting of a stork over the bed?"

  "That's the one."

  "Jack and I always called that the bird room. Jack's my brother. He's a football player."

  "Right," he nods, as I peer into an empty room. We hear laughter from down the hallway, and cross over to what I've always thought of as the den. It's cozy, with a leather couch and a big TV over the mantle.

  "There you are!" Anne says from the couch, where she and Bree are sitting. "Good bourbon on the bar cart if you want some," she adds.

  "I'm not—" both Carter and I start at the same time. He nods at me to go ahead. "...Drinking right now," I finish.

  "Bree!" Carter exclaims as he walks over to an armchair. I walk around to the other side of the couch to see what's put the frown on his face and smile when I see the beer on the coffee table in front of his little sister.

  "Carter, it's OK," Anne says. "She can drink a little when she's home. I'd rather her get used to it some before she's twenty-one."

  "Just one, though," Carter grumbles as he settles into his chair.

  "Carter," Bree sighs, rolling her eyes.

  "Is Jack protective of you like this?" Anne asks as I pull a chair over to the other corner of the coffee table.

  "
He was a little in high school, after I had my, um, growth spurt," I say with a smile, unsure of how to reference the summer my breasts went from an A to a C cup. "But we're so close in age, not even two years apart. So I think it's different. What's your age difference?"

  "Twelve years," Bree answers. "I was a mistake."

  "A surprise!" Anne exclaims, and Bree giggles, clearly enjoying teasing her mother a little. "So, Alexa, is it strange to see us here, making ourselves comfortable in your house?"

  She clearly means it lightly, but all three of them glance at me, and I shift in my seat. They all have the same bright green eyes, and they're all focused on me. "Honestly, I don't really see this as my house anymore. I haven't been home in a couple years."

  "Well, I hope you'll tell me if you have anything you'd really like to eat on Thanksgiving," she says with a kind smile, and my heart pulls a little in my chest. My dad's never made much of the holidays before.

  I hear footsteps in the hallway and glance toward the door just as my father appears there, as if on cue. I stand as he walks in. He looks a little older, and a little shorter than I remember, but his eyes are just as steely.

  "Dad," I greet him.

  "Alexa. Glad to see you made it home safely," he says, giving me a kiss on the cheek. "And you must be Carter," he adds, turning to shake his hand. Carter stands, not bothering to reach for his crutches.

  "Sir," he says, and I see that they're almost the same height, though Carter might have a half inch on him.

  "Dr. Sauveterre says you're healing excellently," he remarks. I look at him in surprise. My father's been talking to Carter's physicians?

  "Yes, sir," Carter says shortly. My father crosses over to the couch and sits next to Anne. I watch him put his arm around her, resting it comfortably around her shoulders. It's strange to see him with someone. I never even saw him date after my mom, but I guess he could have while I was away at boarding school or college.

  "And you get your cast off tomorrow, correct?" my dad asks.

  "You do?" Anne asks. "I wish I had known! I'm meeting with the wedding planner to go through the catering options."

  "Maybe I could switch shifts," Bree offers.

  "It's fine," Carter assures them.

  "Someone should be there with you. You've gone through so much of this by yourself," Anne says with obvious pain on her face.

  "I can go," I offer impulsively, wanting to allay her concern.

  "Oh, that's so sweet," Anne says, "but you don't have to."

  "She's not busy," my father counters, and I bristle. From someone else I wouldn't have taken that comment as an insult, but I know how he means it.

  "I'll be fine by myself," Carter interjects.

  "Please? It will make me feel better," Anne says pleadingly. Carter pauses, then nods. "Then it's settled," Anne says with a glowing smile.

  Chapter Seven

  My old Audi sedan in still sitting in the garage under a tarp. I pull it off and fold it up, placing it on one of the metal shelving units along the walls. The tank still has some gas in it, so I pull out and stop at the front door. Moments later, Carter limps out. I resist the urge to hop out and help him to the car. He was already reluctant last night to have anyone take him to the doctor, so I'm sure he wouldn't appreciate me treating him like he's completely incapacitated.

  He opens the back door first and lays his crutches down along the seat. He hops toward the front passenger door and eases himself in. His scent fills the car and I swallow nervously. Maybe this was a bad idea.

  "OK," he says shortly, and moves his seat back farther so he can stretch out his leg.

  "Um, OK," I say back, and start down the driveway. He's silent as we drive to the hospital, and I drum my thumbs against the steering wheel. I park underground, and we take the elevator up to the third floor after Carter checks the slip of paper where he's written the doctor's suite number. He pauses outside of the elevator, and I look around him to the plaque he's considering on the wall.

  "The Ray Stratton Memorial Wing?"

  "You'll find his name all over this town," I reply with a wry smile. "I think it's like a rich man's way of pissing on his territory."

  "Some might say he's being charitable."

  "Some might," I allow, and gesture down the hallway toward the office, indicating I don't really want to discuss my father any further. Carter shrugs and I follow him down. I reach in front of him to open the door, and take the paper work from the receptionist as he sits down in the waiting area.

  I watch the TV mounted in the corner as Carter fills out his medical history. We're called immediately after I hand it back, though there are other people in the waiting room who were here before us. I smell the Stratton name's influence.

  The nurse takes us back to a room with big windows that let in streaming sunlight. She hands Carter a gown and excuses herself. I sit in a chair and am surprised to see Carter looking at me expectantly.

  "You're staying?" he asks with a frown.

  "Oh...I just...I assumed. You want me to leave?"

  He pauses. "No, I guess it's fine," he finally says, but he keeps looking at me.

  "What?"

  "I have to change."

  I can't help but giggle. "Carter, we—"

  "I know."

  "Fine," I sigh, and shut my eyes. I hear him moving around, and the sound of paper crinkling.

  "Done," he says, and I open my eyes to see him sitting on the bed. The doctor breezes in, a cheerful-looking man in his mid-sixties with thinning red hair.

  "You must be Carter Driscoll," he says, shaking Carter's hand. "And...Mrs. Driscoll?" he asks, turning to me.

  "No! No. I'm his step-sister, basically. Alexa Stratton."

  "Ah, of course. Please tell your father I say hello. And I'm Dr. Lyngstad," he says, turning back to Carter and pulling a rolling chair over to the bed. "I've just been reviewing your chart," he says, lapsing into silence as he runs his eyes down it. "You're quite lucky to have been in the care of Dr. Sauveterre in Paris. I took a fascinating seminar that he gave at a conference in the Netherlands. Not that I intend to switch to neurosurgery, of course, but I wanted the chance to see a living legend."

  My eyes flick over to Carter, whose expression hasn't changed. I remember he said something on the plane about not being awake when Anne and Bree visited him in the hospital, but I suppose I hadn't processed yet how serious his injuries must have been. He might have a cast on his leg, but it sounds like he was in a coma and had some kind of neurological work done.

  "Well, let's get this cast off, shall we?" he says, slapping Carter's chart shut and standing up. He reaches into the cabinets next to the bed and pulls out what look like a pair of large gardening shears. "Now be prepared for the smell," he adds to me mischievously. "This leg hasn't seen the light of day for a while!

  Carter pulls his gown over the top of his cast, and Dr. Lyngstad steps next to him and inserts the shears at the top of the cast, which reaches several inches over his knee and extends all the way down almost to his toes. Carter grimaces as the doctor bears down and the cast begins to split down the middle. After every few cuts, the doctor readjusts, cleaning away bits of plaster, until the cast falls onto the floor.

  I get my first look at Carter's leg, and tears spring to my eyes. I duck my head, embarrassed. My emotions have always laid close to the surface, but he doesn't need to see me blubbering right now. It's obvious that the injury to his leg wasn't just a break. The skin from the middle of his calf up to the top of his kneecap is red and rippled, clearly only recently recovered from serious burns. For some reason, this visible proof of his injuries and how he must have suffered is hitting me hard.

  "I warned you about the smell!" Dr. Lyngstad says merrily.

  I clear my throat to get rid of the lump there. "I think I have some perfume in my purse," I say with a smile, raising my head.

  "We'll have to do with plain old water first," the doctor says, wetting a paper towel and gently brushing it over Carter
's leg. "This skin is still delicate." I watch Carter's face as his leg is cleaned. His expression is impassive as ever, and I wonder what he's thinking. Do the burns look better or worse than he expected? "Skin looks like it's healing nicely," the doctor says as he tosses the towel, "though you should see a specialist to make sure. I'm sure a dermatologist could help you with some cosmetic options, too, if you care about that. Now, I'm going to ask you to shift toward the end of the bed here, and raise your leg to touch my hand."

  They go through a series of exercises together as the doctor tests his strength and range of motion. "Good. I'd like you to start physical therapy immediately. You need to counteract the stiffness right away so that you regain full mobility." He turns to a prescription pad and starts writing. "If you have time today, you can head straight over to our facility here, it's just down the hall. But all in all, you're healing well!" he finishes, patting Carter on the back.

  Carter doesn't even smile at the news. "Thanks so much, Dr. Lyngstad. We really appreciate it," I jump in. Maybe it's not my place, but I'm confused by Carter's behavior.

  After the doctor leaves, I close my eyes again as Carter gets dressed. "How does it feel to put weight on it?" I ask as he walks to the door.

  "Like it's weak," he grumbles. I follow him back out to the hallway and stop as he turns toward the elevators.

  "Why don't we go to do the physical therapy now?" I suggest. "Are you busy or—"

  "It doesn't matter."

  "What doesn't matter?" But he's already headed down the hallway the other direction. I sigh in exasperation and head after him. We ride back down to the garage in silence. After I unlock the car with the remote, he heads straight for the passenger door and closes it behind him. I stare at him for a moment, and then knock on the window. He jumps a little, as though he forgot I was there. I open the door and hand him the keys. "You wanna drive?"

  "Oh," he says, looking at the keys in surprise.

  "Look, I obviously don't know what you've been through, but it's pretty clear you don't care about getting better all that much. Which is sad. Especially for your mother and sister. But since you can walk, you can drive, so that means I'm not your driver anymore." I raise my eyebrows at him expectantly, and am relieved when he smiles and grabs the keys.