DOTTY (The Naughty Ones Book 3)

by Kristina Weaver

  “Oh, Gemma!” She flung the magazine aside and flew at me, covering my cheeks with kisses, her hands grabbing at my arms. I had some abrasions on my hands, but besides that, everything else seemed to be in working order as long as it wasn’t wrapped in gauze or plaster. It registered that things should hurt, but they didn’t. I figured it had a lot to do with the fact that I felt I was wrapped up in a cloud. The pain medication was doing wonders.

  “What happened?” I asked.

  “You charged into traffic like a lunatic and got hit by a taxi!” my mother exclaimed. “It’s a miracle you’re alive at all.”

  I frowned, wracking my brain. “I wasn’t hit. I was pushed.”

  “That was Peter,” she said impatiently. “He pushed you.”

  “He pushed me into the path of the taxi?” I was confused again. “Is he in jail?”

  “No, of course he isn’t, and he didn’t push you in to the path of the taxi,” my mother said, rolling her eyes. “That was the miracle. He saw you leaving, saw that you weren’t paying attention, and pushed you away just in time to make sure your injuries weren’t any worse than they are now. If he hadn’t acted as quickly as he did, the taxi would’ve hit you head on, and not the glancing blow. It was going so fast, Gemma. You didn’t wait for the light to change.”

  That was because I’d been trying to escape. I hadn’t wanted to be there anymore. I was at war with myself, fighting my own attraction to him, repulsion ruling as he leered at me all night, alcohol fueling his attempt at making a pass at me. It was his fault I’d fled, his fault I’d gotten hit by the damn taxi in the first place.

  “I was in a hurry,” I muttered.

  “Stubborn girl.” My mother had apparently gotten over her joy at seeing me sentient and was ready to start fussing at me. “I asked you if everything was all right between you and Peter, and you said yes.”

  “I told you we were adults,” I corrected her. “I was only half right.”

  She sighed. “Gemma, don’t you realize that he’s hopelessly in love with you? Devoted to you? Frank says he’s just been pining away. Broke his arm in that incident, too, you know.”

  “No, I don’t know.” My stomach twisted, inexplicably. “Is he all right?”

  “Better than you,” my mother said sharply. “Though I’m sure you’ll be out in a few days. You had a nasty concussion from hitting your head on the pavement.”

  “I’m ruining your honeymoon, aren’t I?” I asked suddenly. “You and Frank were supposed to be on a plane to India as soon as the wedding was over. You’ve missed it, haven’t you?”

  “That plane departed three days ago,” she said gently. “I wasn’t about to get on it with my daughter in such a state, and even if I’d wanted to, Frank wouldn’t have let me. We need to stay here until the two of you are sorted out.”

  “Aren’t you tired of me messing everything up?” I demanded. “You were about to start traveling the world, and now you’re stuck in a hospital. You were happily planning your wedding, and then it was called off. You took years of physical abuse in an attempt to fool me into thinking my life was normal. Aren’t you tired of it? Aren’t you tired of me?”

  My voice had risen during my entire diatribe, tears glittering in my eyes and obscuring my vision, but when my mother answered me, her voice was mild, resigned.

  “I told you once, and I’ll tell you again. It’s a thing you can’t possibly understand until you have children of your own. You’ll do crazy things for your children. Things you didn’t realize you were capable of. But in the end, it’s all worth it. You are a piece of me, Gemma. You are a physical part of me that I grew inside of my own body. I would never just leave you in a hospital. I don’t care where that plane was going. Frank and I will have our honeymoon. We have the rest of our lives. But right now, you need me, and that’s the most important thing.”

  I was crying by then, my mother’s arms wrapped around me, crying for my pain, crying for her suffering, crying that I could seem to get over Peter, and nor was I sure I wanted to. What was I supposed to do when everything was upside down?

  My mother was right. I was released from the hospital just a couple of days later. Frank insisted — and wouldn’t take no for an answer — that I make myself comfortable in the penthouse he stayed in. Its views of the surrounding city reminded me of the one I used to live in, made me homesick for it, but it was something of a relief to be somewhere different. I was hobbled by crutches — the doctor tried to get me to accept the services of a wheelchair, but I refused. At least the place was comfortable, full of soft chairs I could sit on and ottomans I could prop my leg up on. They’d taken the bandages from my head, and the stitches on the back of it would dissolve by themselves. All I had to do was lie low and wait for my leg to heal. Two whole months in a cast. That eliminated any chances of me pounding the pavement and looking for a job.

  “Don’t worry about a job right now, Gemma,” my mother urged as she and Frank followed a porter who was pushing a rolling cart with all of their various luggage out of the room. My mother had been adamant about the fact that they were coming back to New York City after their stint in India to check up on me, but I had a pretty good feeling that Frank would be able to persuade her to continue their travels.

  “Don’t worry about me,” I told her, waving my hand. “I have everything I need right here. I’ll search for openings on the computer. You focus on having a good time. See the world.”

  “We’ll be back in a month,” my mother said firmly, but Frank shook his head and winked at me.

  “Hold the fort down, Gem,” he said, giving me a brief and brilliant grin that reminded me all too well of his son, and they left.

  At first, it was good to be alone. My mother had been hovering around me ever since I’d gotten out of the hospital, waiting on me hand and foot. I needed to learn how to maneuver with the crutches, and I needed to be able to take care of myself.

  That was the biggest thing I needed to relearn. How to do things on my own.

  Even if it wasn’t the best time — I had a broken leg, after all, and I was staying in a penthouse again — I had to try and embrace independence. Do things for myself. Rely on my own skills to move forward. I was in danger, I recognized, of slipping backward. I could stay in this penthouse indefinitely. Frank had set up a food service to deliver meals to me so I didn’t have to worry about shopping or cooking, and he’d already floated the idea that I would man the penthouse while he was away from it. As easy as it might be to simply accept that as my life, I couldn’t do it. I didn’t want it. I wanted something I could be proud of. I wanted to achieve something instead of just accepting it from someone.

  I was attempting to settle into my routine — bathing myself while avoiding getting the cast wet, eating my meals, doing the exercises my doctor had told me to try, using my crutches, applying to jobs online — when one day, the door rattled open. It was Peter, fumbling with a key card, cursing up a blue streak. His right hand was in a cast, the one he was used to using, and his left hand was apparently not cutting it for him.

  “What are you doing here?” I asked, suspicious even though it was the first time I’d seen him since the wedding.

  “Your mother asked me to check up on you,” he said. “So that’s what I’m doing. Checking. Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine,” I said. “And a phone call or text message would’ve sufficed.”

  “I tried that,” he said, shutting the door behind him. “Seems you have my number blocked.”

  “Ah.” I felt a small stab of guilt, but ignored it. “Well, now you’ve seen me. You can report back to her that all is well.”

  “Is everything well?” he countered. “Aren’t you lonely up here by yourself? Wouldn’t you like some company?”

  “I’m pretty occupied right now, Peter, thanks,” I said, pointing at the computer on my lap. “I’m applying for jobs.”

  “Nonsense,” he said. “You’re in a cast.”

  “And
one day I won’t be. Then I’d like to have a way to earn some money.”

  “You don’t have to do that. You have access to all the money you need.”

  “I don’t want your money.”

  “I’m talking about what your mother will be able to give you now, what my father will insist on giving you, just like he insisted on you staying here,” Peter said, making me flush. “And if you want a job, he’ll find you something.”

  “I’ll find it myself.”

  “You know, a thank you would be nice,” Peter said with sudden anger. “I’ve got this ruddy thing on my arm, ruining my life. This is the hand I wank with, you know, and I can’t. I haven’t been able to since the accident.” He did an exaggerated pantomime with it and winced.

  “I am so sorry that I’ve deprived you of your primary partner,” I said sarcastically. “I have to give myself sponge baths every day, so I guess I feel your pain.”

  “We could help each other out,” he said suggestively. “Form a sort of crippled partnership.”

  “In your dreams.”

  His blue eyes twinkled, but then he got sad. Contentious ribbing turned serious, and I wasn’t ready for it.

  “Can’t we try again, Gemma?” Peter lifted his eyes to meet mine, and I quickly looked away. “What would be so wrong about that?”

  “I don’t think we’re good for each other.”

  “How could you say that? You mean — you meant — everything to me.”

  “And what did you mean to me?” I asked. “You controlled everything. You were my landlord and my banker and my boss and my boyfriend, and those were just too many hats for you to wear.”

  “I wanted to help you. You needed help.”

  “I did, but I also needed to do some things by myself.” I gestured uselessly, not sure how to explain it to him. “Maybe I didn’t want to fall the way I did, or suffer the way I did, but I did want to pick myself back up. It was stupid for me to put all of my trust and hope in you. It was like a free ride, Peter, and I shouldn’t have taken it. I should’ve done some things myself.”

  “Gemma, no one needs to suffer the way that you did,” he said. “You worked so hard. Why shouldn’t you have expected a living wage?”

  “I wanted a living wage. I didn’t want a penthouse, or closets full of clothes and shoes and jewelry and purses. I didn’t have ownership over any of it because I could never take ownership. You were always there. Always so eager for me not to suffer that I suffered anyway. None of it was mine.”

  “It was all yours.” Peter’s eyebrows drew together. “Everything was always yours. The things we said to each other when we were fighting…those were just words.”

  “Yes, but we said them.” My eyes welled up. “You told me I was a charity case. You typed it up and sent it to me.”

  “I was angry. It wasn’t right.”

  “It was valid.” I looked up at the ceiling, unwilling to let the tears fall. “You were an escape from my suffering. You weren’t a solution.”

  “What can I do?” He spread his hands. “Tell me what to do, Gemma, to prove to you that I love you. To prove to you that we should be together.”

  “I just want some space.” I gestured at my cast. “And to heal.”

  “I’ve got eight weeks in this stupid thing,” Peter said, waving his arm around glumly. “What kind of time are you looking at?”

  “The same.”

  He heaved a sigh. “Who’s taking you to your appointment?”

  I shrugged. “I don’t know. Eight weeks is a long time from now. I figured I’d just take a taxi.”

  “In eight weeks,” Peter said, walking to the door, “we have a date.”

  And then he walked out.

  Part of me didn’t believe that he’d be able to exercise the self-control it took to know where I was in the city, to know I was more or less helpless and alone, and to stay away, but he impressed me. I conducted my hermitage in peace and quiet, getting stronger every day, getting more capable, getting more confident that when my exile was over, everything was going to be okay.

  I corresponded with my mother via email, marveling at the pictures she was taking, the sights she was seeing. I smiled at the guilty message, right at the one-month mark, that they were going to continue on through Asia, and would I be all right?

  “Of course I’ll be all right,” I typed back. “I’m thriving and looking forward to getting this cast off soon.”

  I was happy for her, and then happy for me — a job application for an insurance company pinged back, and offered me an interview via video chat, given my physical limitations at the moment. It went well, and then another email came, and another, and I was soon in a position of being able to choose which job I wanted instead of snatching at whichever job I could get.

  It was a strange place to be.

  I had to wonder if maybe my mistake during my first stint in New York City was moving too quickly. The city did function at a blistering pace, and perhaps I hadn’t been ready for it. I should’ve been patient last time, weighing my interests and options, taking the time to do some research before wasting daylight and energy by walking in, often unannounced, with a resume in hand, to cold call people for jobs. With one of my legs encased in plaster, I was forced to slow down, to consider each of my steps. It made me analytical, realistic, and successful all at once.

  And when the second-month mark finally rolled around, I had something more to celebrate than just getting my cast off. I could celebrate a job in a skyscraper at an office that I’d gotten on my own merits — working for an online fashion retailer as part of their social media and marketing team.

  When the knock came on the penthouse door, I threw it open, beaming.

  “Well, I’m chuffed to get the cast off today, too, but you seem extra excited,” Peter observed, dressed casually in jeans and an overcoat that barely fit over his plastered arm. Beads of water on his coat told me that it had finally started snowing. The gray clouds had been threatening it all day.

  “I have a new job,” I informed him. “I’m starting on Monday.”

  “Well, bully for you,” he said. “You’d better have a coat in here. It’s freezing outside.”

  I would’ve been hurt that he was being so dismissive of my excitement, but I was too thrilled to care. I hopped to the closet and borrowed one of the winter coats hanging in there.

  I prattled on and on during the car ride to the hospital, regaling Peter with all of the specifics of my job, of the company, of what I’d be doing exactly.

  “I’ve heard of them,” he said carefully when I asked what he thought. “They seem to be legitimate.”

  “Of course they’re legitimate,” I said. “I’ve done my research. It’s all I’ve been able to do while being cooped up with this stupid cast. Ugh. I’m convinced that I could’ve gotten it off a week ago — two weeks, even.”

  “The doctor knows what he’s talking about.” Peter stared out the window.

  “What’s wrong with you?” I asked. “What’ve you been up to these past two months?”

  “Just thinking a lot, and working,” he said. “And trying to scratch my blasted arm underneath this plaster. It itches fiercely.”

  “Same here. I got a letter opener down part of it once…” I trailed off, my face flushing heavily. Peter and I had utilized a letter opener in his office one afternoon, the sharpness and inherent danger in our play heightening our senses, making it that much sexier. I’d been a fool to forget that, a fool to bring it up, and I tried to cover my tracks. “So, what’s new at work? Anything exciting?”

  He looked at me, his blue eyes clear and bright. “Nothing’s been exciting at work since you left.”

  I sighed. “You could hire someone else, you know.”

  “I don’t want anyone else.”

  “You could go out on dates,” I said impatiently. “We’re not together anymore. You deserve to be happy, to look for someone who can make you happy.”

  “I don’t want
anyone else,” he repeated, and then he kissed me.

  It was wholly unexpected. I’d been so focused on getting hired over the last few weeks that it had banished all longing for Peter. But with a simple touch of our lips, everything was reignited. I realized just how badly I’d missed him.

  I pulled away and touched my mouth. “Let’s focus on getting these casts off.”

  “Gemma.” His voice was low and hoarse, and it sent a shiver through me.

  “Don’t you want your right arm back?”

  “Not as badly as I want you right now.”

  “You’re going to have to wait.”

  “How much longer? Eight more weeks? The rest of our lives?”

  But I only smiled at him and accepted the driver’s help in getting out of the car. It was a strange thing to realize how much I wanted him physically, the depth of my caring for him, and, yes, the love. I’d loved him all this time. Loved him now, even more, even as he pouted and followed me into the hospital.

  My feelings for him were just as strong, and just as magnetic as they had been before. But I’d gained valuable perspective while being forced to focus on myself, tucked away in Frank’s penthouse, a cast on my leg effectively disabling me and keeping me from running away from myself. I loved Peter, and I craved him, but it didn’t rob me of my reason. I knew that I could pursue my own dreams even if he was in them as well.

  The cast coming off of my leg made me feel like a butterfly emerging from its cocoon. I felt renewed, as if I had undergone some important transformation, and now I was going to be able to have everything that I’d ever dreamed of.

  “You look cheerful,” Peter observed as I hobbled out, still using a crutch for support.

  “I am,” I said. “I’m a butterfly.” I laughed as Peter shook my head at me. “Why are you so glum? You got your best friend back. How does it feel?”

  Peter gripped his hand and swung his arm around. “Like it doesn’t quite belong to me anymore. I don’t know. I guess I just have to get used to it again.”

  “Ooh, romantic,” I teased. “It’ll be like a stranger in your bed.”