Small-Town Redemption

by Andrews, Beth

  She shivered at the combination of his nails lightly scraping her skin and the sound of him saying her name slowly, drawing it out as if tasting it on his tongue. Savoring it.

  “I remember everything about that morning,” he continued softly as if talking to himself. Confusing her even more with his quiet words, his thumb now rubbing the slope of her waist. “Standing there in your black, lacy bra, your skin so smooth and pale. Your hair like a sunset, all bright and flaming. I wish I could forget. I want to forget. But I can’t.” His fingers tensed, pressing into skin. He tilted his head back, held her gaze. “I dream of you, Red.”

  Oh. My. God.

  Her breath shuddered out. A flush crept up her body from her toes to her scalp, leaving all sorts of interesting and dangerous tingles in its wake. Only to be doused by a wave of sanity, of cold, calculating reason.

  He couldn’t forget her? He dreamed about her?

  What the hell was she supposed to think about that? How was she supposed to act? Flattered? Grateful? Oh, he was good. Excellent at drawing a woman in, making her believe every word he uttered and begging for more. But she wouldn’t beg. Not any man. Not ever again.

  Did he think she was so lonely, so needy she’d fall all over him because of a few pretty words? The only reason he was even saying any of those things was because he was hurt and, thanks to the pain meds working their way through his bloodstream, not in complete control of himself.

  He didn’t want her. Not really.

  Shoving his hand away, she smirked. And hoped it was as sharp, as condescending, as the ones he always gave her. “Then I guess I was right when I said you’d be kicking your own ass for not taking me up on my offer.”

  He stared at his hand as if wondering why it wasn’t still on her person. “I guess you were.”

  “Well, now you can be stuck in your misery,” she told him as she helped him put his good arm into the sleeve of the sweatshirt, her moves ruthlessly controlled. “While I revel in knowing I was right.”

  He closed his eyes. Sighed. “You’re a cold one, aren’t you, Red?”

  Cold? Her? Please. She was as sweet and good-natured as they came, damn it.

  “What I am,” she said, tugging his shirt down, then tucking her hands behind her back so she wouldn’t smooth his hair, “is smart.” Smart enough to learn her lesson the first time. “You sure you don’t want me to help you to your bed?” She held up a hand. “And before you answer, let me make it clear that is not an invitation to join you.”

  “I’m good here.”

  She wasn’t about to argue with him over where he slept. “Can you lie down on your own?”

  He nodded and eased back, resting his head on the pillow. She helped lift his legs onto the couch. He put both hands on his flat stomach and she balled up another shirt from the laundry, carefully wedged it under his cast between the back of the couch and his side.

  She straightened. Turned.

  His good hand shot out, grabbed her wrist, his eyes closed, his voice low and rough. “Stay with me.”

  She tried to tug free, but it was no use. “I have to go.”

  She was tired, closing in on exhausted, and that exhaustion was playing tricks on her mind. Had her thinking maybe Kane wasn’t an arrogant ass. That there was more to him than his good looks and bad attitude, both of which drew women to him like suicidal moths to a bonfire.

  He really was dangerous. And she was a girl used to playing it safe.

  “You’ll be okay,” she assured him. Still, he held on tight, reminding her of how he’d clung to her while he’d gotten his stitches. She crouched next to his side, gentled her tone. “I’m going to get you a blanket. I’ll be right back.”

  “Promise,” he murmured, his eyes staring into hers as if knowing she prided herself on never breaking her word. “Promise you’ll stay.”

  He needed her. She wasn’t sure whether to sigh, scream or run like hell. Knew there was only one thing for her to do. Stay.

  “I promise.”

  His fingers loosened enough for her to slip free of his grip. His breathing relaxed.

  Now she was stuck.

  Staying meant she was in very real danger of losing her sanity, her peace of mind. Shaking her head, she hurried to the bedroom. She’d get a blanket, tuck him in all nice and snug, then curl up on the chair. Hopefully, he’d only be out an hour or two. Once he woke up, he’d realize he was fine on his own and let her go on her merry way.

  She thought about his reaction to being in the hospital, his admission to being an addict, how he’d seemed so ashamed and lost. So...damaged.

  Okay, so he obviously needed someone. But that didn’t mean she had to volunteer. She wasn’t looking to be anyone’s crutch.

  Besides, some people were beyond help. Kane Bartasavich being at the top of that particular list.

  Her resolve firmly in hand, she slapped on the light to his bedroom.

  And wasn’t sure who was more shocked. Her.

  Or the gorgeous blonde in Kane’s bed.

  * * *

  ESTELLE JACKKNIFED INTO a sitting position, her fingers brushing a thin blanket and not the fluffy down of her white comforter. Her heart pounded, her pulse mimicking it at the corner of her jaw. Blinking at the horrible, painfully bright light, she glanced around, frantic to see ugly beige walls and some sort of ancient brown carpet.

  Where were the clean lines of her room, the white tree she’d painted on the black wall, the black-and-white photos of her friends and narrow planks of the wood floor? Where was her stuff, her clothes and jewelry, the self-portraits she’d done; stark, penciled sketches showing herself at five, eight, eleven and fourteen? Where was the photo of her parents, the only one of them together, taken at her dance recital four years ago?

  “Uh...good morning,” a female voice said. “And who might you be?”

  For a moment, in that no-man’s-land between wakefulness and sleep, Estelle thought Meryl stood in the doorway. Except her mother had never sounded so wary.

  Plus, she didn’t often ask who Estelle was.

  Frowning, Estelle pressed the heels of her hands against her eyes. Reality kicked in as it often did, hard and swift, followed quickly by clarity. She lowered her arms, focused on the tall, thin redhead across the room. Of course that wasn’t her beautiful blonde mother, with her perfectly applied makeup, expensive clothes and toned, perpetually tanned body standing there.

  Her mother was far, far away. Was probably at this moment lying on the Saint Tropez beach, her string bikini showcasing her recently upgraded breasts, and the results of a no carb, no sugar, no flour, no fun diet and the two hours spent sweating with her personal trainer six days a week.

  Her mother hadn’t come for her. She probably didn’t even know Estelle was gone.

  She was in Kane’s run-down apartment. In his bedroom.

  “Are you going to answer me?” that same voice asked. “Or do I need to call the police?”

  Estelle blinked, realized her mouth was open—which was so unattractive. She snapped her lips shut. “The police? Why on earth would you do that?”

  The redheaded amazon in the doorway looked at her as if she was a brainless idiot just because she was blonde, built and beautiful. People always underestimated her, just because she was as lovely as her mother.

  But her brains? Those she got from her dad.

  “I should call the police,” the redhead said slowly, “because you broke in here.”

  “Hardly. I used my key.”

  “Okay, well how about I call them because you could be a stalker or a psychopath.”

  A psychopath? Harsh. “That’s not very nice,” she said as she struggled to kick the covers off. She stood and held her hands out as if to indicate her very sane, very perfectly normal self. “Do I look like a psych
opath? And for the record, I have never stalked anyone. No matter what Michael Langworthy said.”

  “Tell me the truth,” the redhead said quietly, as if they were in church. Or trying to gossip in study hall. “Are you...are you sleeping with Kane?”

  Estelle reared back, her face scrunched up. “Eww. Eww! No. God.” She shuddered. Maybe she should be worried this chick was the psycho. “Eww. I just threw up in my mouth.”

  The redhead pressed her fingers against her temples as if she had a headache. A lot of people did that when Estelle spoke with them. “Then why are you in his bed at 7:00 a.m. looking so...” She indicated Estelle’s bare legs, waved vaguely at her head. “Disheveled?”

  Estelle tucked her hair behind her ears, knowing it was the best she could do without a brush or a hair band. “Uh, I’m disheveled because you woke me up.”

  Duh.

  “Okay. Well, good. That’s good. And it means I wasn’t completely wrong to start thinking Kane isn’t a total ass.”

  Estelle rolled her eyes. “Of course he’s not a total ass. Don’t get me wrong, he has his moments. Like last year when all I wanted for Christmas was to go to Cancún with my friends and he was like, completely unreasonable just because Terrance had one underage citation and—”

  “Why would Kane care if you went to Cancún?”

  “I know, right? He didn’t care when I went to Paris, which is like, even farther away. But that was okay because it was a school trip. And there was the time Granddad wanted to buy me a horse—”

  “No, no. I mean why, specifically, would Kane care, or have a say in where you go or what you do?”

  Estelle frowned, her feelings hurt. She didn’t expect Kane to blab about her to everyone he met, but you’d think he could tell the women he slept with she existed.

  “He has a say,” Estelle told her, “because he’s my dad.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  THE REDHEAD DIDN’T look so good. All the color—and there hadn’t been much to begin with—drained from her face, making her freckles stand out even more. Her eyes were unblinking, and she was breathing funny, like an invisible noose was tightening around her neck.

  “Are you okay?” Estelle asked, approaching her slowly. Great, if she broke her dad’s latest...whatever...he’d never let her move in with him. “Can I get you something? Some water?”

  Finally, the redhead blinked. “Kane’s your dad?”

  Hadn’t she just said that? You’d think her dad could pick someone a little brighter. And closer to his own age. “Yes. I’m Estelle Monroe,” she said, her mama’s lessons on manners firmly ingrained. She sent the redhead a small, polite smile and held out her hand.

  “Monroe?” the redhead asked, giving Estelle’s hand a firm shake. “Not Bartasavich?”

  Estelle kept right on smiling. “That’s right. And you are?”

  “Charlotte Ellison.”

  “Have you and my dad been...seeing...each other long?”

  Seeing...sleeping with. Same thing when it came to her dad. He didn’t do relationships, not even casual ones. He barely had a relationship with her and she was pretty certain she was his favorite person in the whole world.

  Charlotte was cute, like one of those fairies in the picture books Meryl used to read to Estelle when she was little. She hadn’t known her dad liked cute.

  To each their own.

  “We’re not... Oh, that’s right,” Charlotte murmured, looking worried. “You don’t know. About the accident.”

  “Accident?” Estelle asked sharply. “What accident?”

  “Your father was in a motorcycle accident last night. He’s okay,” Charlotte added quickly, probably because for a moment there, Estelle felt ready to pass out.

  Crossing her arms, she dug her nails into her biceps. It hurt. This was real. Not a nightmare. But Charlotte had said Kane was okay. She took in Charlotte’s scrubs. “Are you his doctor?”

  “I’m a nurse. I took care of Kane at the E.R. tonight.”

  “Is that where he is?” Estelle asked, already searching the room for her jeans. Spying them on the floor next to her backpack, she swept them up and tugged them on. “Can you take me there?”

  “He was discharged. He’s home now.”

  “He’s home?” Then he couldn’t be that hurt. Please, please, God, don’t let him be that hurt. “He’s here?”

  “Whoa.” Charlotte grabbed Estelle’s forearm, stopping her before she made it to the hallway. “Slow down.”

  Estelle stiffened. “Let go of me,” she said through numb lips, her voice strangled and weak when she’d meant to sound strong. Brave.

  Like she should have been brave with Adam.

  Charlotte held both hands up in an exaggerated motion, as if to show she was harmless. “I just didn’t want you running out there, making a lot of noise. He’s sleeping.”

  That made sense. What didn’t make sense was Charlotte being here in the first place. A horrible, tragic thought occurred to her. “His injuries are severe, aren’t they? They’re so bad there was nothing else you could do for him at the hospital so you sent him to die in his dumpy apartment surrounded by his crappy things.”

  “Wow, that was quiet the leap in logic,” Charlotte said, her lips twitching. “I brought him home because he couldn’t drive himself, but he was discharged with a clean bill of health. Well, clean with the exceptions of a broken arm, cracked ribs, stitches and mild concussion.”

  Each listed injury was like a punch in the stomach. Her poor dad. “If you’re trying to reassure me, you’re doing a really terrible job.”

  “He’s going to be fine. Honestly.”

  “Can I see him? I’ll be quiet.”

  “Sure. I’m going to get a blanket for him, but you can go on out. I’ll warn you, though,” she said over her shoulder as she crossed to the bed, “he’s pretty banged up and not looking his best.”

  A moment later, Estelle stared down at her dad. Didn’t look his best? That was like saying Channing Tatum was a little bit good-looking. Her throat tightened, her nose stung. But her dad would hate her crying over him like he was in a casket or something, so she bit her lower lip hard. Fought back the tears.

  His face was sickly pale, an ugly bruise forming on his right eye. The skin above his eyebrow was red from the row of black stitches. His right arm was in a cast, the fingers sticking out from it puffy.

  Charlotte joined her and laid the blanket that had been on the bed over Kane. He didn’t stir, not even when she touched her fingertips to the back of his right hand where the plaster ended.

  “He looks like he’s in a coma or something,” Estelle whispered.

  “That’s the miracle of today’s pharmaceuticals. The pain pill he took causes drowsiness, plus he’s been through quite a lot. He needs his rest.”

  Nibbling on her thumbnail, she nodded. “That makes sense.” She fought a yawn, and lost. “Since he’s so out of it, I guess I’ll go back to bed, too. What time does your shift end?”

  “Shift? At the hospital? It ended an hour ago when I brought your dad home.”

  “No, I mean, your shift here.” When Charlotte looked at her in total confusion—another expression Estelle was used to getting—Estelle added, “Aren’t you my dad’s private nurse?”

  * * *

  “NO,” CHARLOTTE SAID on a short laugh. “I’m not your dad’s private anything. He’s more than capable of taking care of himself.”

  Stay with me.

  She pressed her lips together until they turned numb. He hadn’t meant that. It was the drugs talking.

  Still, she’d promised...

  “But someone is coming over, right?” Estelle asked. “To, like, help him if he needs it, to take care of the cooking and cleaning and stuff?”

  “Kane could definitely hire
someone to assist him with everyday tasks if he feels that’s necessary. Though he won’t be able to until Monday.”

  It was a good idea. One Char should have thought of and brought up to Kane herself. And she would have.

  If he didn’t constantly frustrate, annoy and, yes, surprise her.

  “Now that you’re here,” she continued, “I guess he won’t have to.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Char almost laughed again, but swallowed it back when she realized the girl was serious. Serious and seriously clueless. “I mean you can wash the dishes, do the laundry and light housework—”

  Estelle giggled. “I don’t think so. After all, I’m a Bartasavich.”

  “I thought you said your last name was Monroe?”

  Estelle waved that away with one perfectly manicured hand, her short nails painted a dark blue. “Bartasaviches don’t wash dishes or scrub floors.”

  Well, well, well. Seemed Kane’s daughter here was a princess of the highest caliber.

  If she really was Kane’s daughter.

  Char had been so shocked when Estelle had claimed that title, she hadn’t questioned it. She couldn’t help but do so now. What proof did she have, anyway, other than the teenager’s word?

  Charlotte studied her, trying to find Kane in Estelle’s fine features. No luck.

  But even with her long golden hair a tangled mess and dark makeup smudged under her brown eyes, Estelle had the type of angelic beauty that eluded most mere mortals.

  Just like Kane.

  Except Char would bet money Estelle was more devil than angel.

  Just like Kane.

  But that didn’t mean they were related.

  “Does Kane know you’re here?” Charlotte asked.

  Estelle rolled her eyes. But she also shifted and twisted a lock of hair around her finger. “Of course.”

  “Really?” And Char sounded exactly like her own mother when Irene hadn’t believed a word coming out of a teenage Charlotte’s mouth. “Then why didn’t he mention it? Not once while he was in the E.R. or when we got back here did he say anything about you being in town.”