by Mina Carter
Getting the right size was more of a problem. He knew some men bought a larger size for the proposal, then had the ring resized, but he didn’t want to do that. When he put that ring on Frankie’s finger, he intended for it to stay there. At least until she removed it for their wedding day, ready for a gold band.
“No, no. I’m good, thank you.”
She put her bag on the floor and the light from the streetlamps reflected off the rings on her right hand. She wore silver stacker rings that were all the rage at the moment. Had several sets of them for different fingers. He hid his smile as she provided the answer to his dilemma. She slept like the dead, so all he had to do was find a ring that fit and take that along to the jewelers. Piece of cake.
“For food, anyway.”
The suggestive tone in her voice got his attention straight away, even as he felt her small hand creep over his thigh and brush against his groin. His cock, ever ready and willing for a bit of action, was solid within a heartbeat, the raging hard-on pressing against his pants as she giggled.
“My, my. Is that a gun in your pocket, Mr. Gray, or are you just pleased to see me?” She cupped him, delicate fingers caressing him through the fabric. He swore as he forced himself to concentrate on the road ahead as more blood surged to join the party. He was so screwed if she undid his zipper.
“Oh, yes. You’re very pleased to see me,” she murmured, starting a slow stroke designed to steal every brain cell he had.
“You have no idea, sweetheart.”
Hands tight on the wheel, he couldn’t look at her, couldn’t risk looking down into his lap either. The sight of her little hands moving over him would tip him over the edge, and there was no way he was coming in his pants like some kid with his first woman. The fact that he’d thought of her when he’d had his first woman all those years ago was completely coincidental. No, he’d hold on, even if it killed him.
“Shift over a little bit, babe,” he murmured as the lights ahead changed. Slickly he moved down the gears, the powerful car responsive to his every movement. Almost as responsive as the woman with her hand in his lap. Traffic roared, crossing the intersection ahead of them as he moved his foot onto the brake, pressed down to slow for the red light.
There was nothing there.
“Fuck!”
Shoving her hand from his lap, Gray pumped the brakes. Nothing. The junction loomed large as he dropped the car into a lower gear, trying to use the engine to stop them. Gears crunched, the engine whining dangerously as Frankie gasped.
“What’s happening?”
“No brakes, can’t stop,” was all he managed as they sped toward the junction.
Too fast. Too much traffic.
Fear punched a hole in his gut, reaching in and grabbing hold of his spine in icy fingers. They had to stop. The junction ahead was the main ring road intersection. They’d never make it through the traffic without causing a fatal pileup. With them at the bottom.
Slamming his hazard lights on, Gray did the only thing he could. He needed to lose speed. Fast. With no wall and no other way of stopping he pulled the hand brake and clipped the curb, trying to run off the speed of the car along the high edge of the concrete.
Shitshitshit…the single word sped through his head on a high-speed loop as sparks flew from the passenger side of the vehicle. The car screamed, the concrete gouging fatal wounds. It would be totaled, but he didn’t care. As long as she walked away unhurt, he’d trash every car in the city.
Frankie screamed as the junction loomed ahead. Not enough room. They weren’t going to make it. With nothing left to try, he sent a quick prayer upward and yanked the hand brake on full.
The world spun in a kaleidoscope of light and sound. Screams mingled with the sound of screeching brakes as he was blinded by headlights. A sharp thump rang through the car, metal screeching as they flipped. Once, twice, three times. His stomach hit his throat as something slammed into his chest like a sledgehammer, darkness following in its wake.
* * *
He swam up through pain, groaning as lights stabbed into his eyes, driving into his brain like red-hot pokers. The sound of traffic and squealing brakes deafened him, a woman’s scream somewhere in the background dragging him back to consciousness ruthlessly.
Gasping for breath, he opened his eyes. The world was upside down, the shattered windscreen below him, tarmac stained with black underneath it. Something dripped, thick and wet as the engine made an ominous click-click-click.
Fuck. It was still running. He reached out to turn it off, the small movement jarring his leg and side. Agony danced over his body wearing studs made of fire, stealing his breath and bringing tears to his eyes. Something was wrong, very wrong, with his leg.
Clamping his teeth together so hard he thought they’d break off, he breathed through it. Football, he thought as a silly picture from the Internet the lads had been passing around the changing rooms filled his head, ninety minutes of players pretending to be injured. Rugby, eighty minutes of every player avoiding the eye of the ref and pretending not to be. Shoving the pain away, he ignored it. Pretend the ref was here. Not injured if he ignored it.
Turning his head, he searched frantically for Frankie. She was in a small heap next to him, out of her seat belt and so still his heart stopped.
“No…nononono!”
Pain forgotten, he snatched at his seat belt, releasing it and falling the short distance to the glass below. Fear and adrenaline surged through his system as he flipped, reaching out to touch the woman he loved. She couldn’t be dead. He hadn’t told her that he loved her.
“God, Frankie, don’t leave me,” he begged, crawling to her. “You can’t leave me. I didn’t get to tell you…we’re gonna get married. I want to marry you.”
Tears streaked down his face as he pressed fingers to her throat. His world stopped when he didn’t find anything. Shit. No. This couldn’t be happening. Taking a breath to control the panic surging through him, he moved his fingers. Tried again.
A pulse. Weak but there.
Everything surged back at once. The sound of cars, people screaming. Sirens getting closer. Ignoring it, he looped an arm around the small woman and started to wriggle backward, out of the smashed driver’s window. Sweat beaded, poured from his body as his injured leg and side protested. He kept going. The smell of gasoline hung heavy in the air, catching at his lungs. If they stayed here, one stray spark would be all it would take.
“Not…happening…” he growled as he made it out the window, dragging her with him. He had no idea what injuries she had, but didn’t care. If they stayed in the car, waiting for the emergency services to come and get them, they were going to die. He knew it as surely as he needed air to breathe.
The growl became a groan of pain as he crawled to his knees. He forced it back to a growl as he gathered her into his arms, the sound becoming a bellow as he stood, damaged body protesting every step of the way. Fixing on a painted line on the tarmac, he started forward.
In his mind, Leighton Gray ran in the most important game in his life. His world morphed, became a surreal juxtaposition of reality and every game he’d ever played. The screams became the roar of the crowd, the sirens the bellowed orders from his captain and the coaches, the lights blinding him became the flash from press photographers. Frankie, a warm, solid weight in his arms, became the ball, to be protected at all costs. Taken to safety, beyond the line.
Ignore the pain, ignore the ref. Keep playing. Keep walking. Gotta score the try.
His feet shuffled against the tarmac as he put distance between them and the crashed cars. Swaying on his feet, he slid past tackles, gaze fixed on the white line ahead of him. The line. Had to reach the line. Ignore the pain and reach the line.
Score the try.
He held his breath, gritted his teeth as the line approached. Used every trick in the book to get the woman he loved to safety. Finally, he reached it, collapsing to his knees as his body gave out and dumped them both on the unforgi
ving surface. A weak cry issued from his lips as he turned at the last minute, cushioning her with his own body.
Bang!
Fire lit the air behind them, and heat blossomed along his side. With nothing left in him, Gray turned his head on the concrete to see the remains of his car go up in flames. Tears leaked from the corners of his eyes, rolling down his face as he held Frankie closer.
“Sir, we got her. Please, you can let her go now.”
Reassuring voices surrounded him as Frankie was lifted away, and he struggled to focus on them. He got a brief glimpse of bright jackets, green uniforms before the darkness prowling at the edges of his vision pounced, and he felt himself slipping. His game was over, but satisfaction filled him.
He’d scored the try.
He’d gotten Frankie to safety.
Nothing else mattered.
Chapter Eleven
“She’s waking up. Nurse…nurse! She’s waking up.”
The sound of her brother’s voice and hurried footsteps broke through the darkness surrounding Frankie. It was all encompassing, like a warm blanket. Comforting. She wanted to stay wrapped in its embrace. Safe. Where nothing could hurt her.
She couldn’t. She knew that. Even now bad things tugged at the edges of her mind, trying to get her attention like a puppy wanting to play. Ignoring it didn’t help. The blanket was slowly pulled away, slipping from between her fingers before she could get a good grip on it.
“Frankie, can you hear me?”
Damon’s voice sounded again, deep and rasping, the way he sounded when he’d shouted himself hoarse, or been crying. Instinct, and the thickness in his words, told her it was the latter. Why had he been crying? What had happened? The questions rolled around in her head, but she couldn’t raise any enthusiasm to pursue them as something warm wrapped around her hand. It took her sluggish brain a few seconds to recognize the pressure as her brother’s fingers pressing against hers.
“Please, angel cake…please wake up.”
The endearment from her childhood, last heard on their mother’s lips, made her smile. Drew her out of the darkness surer than the tow rope they’d often had to tie around the hitch on Damon’s beat-up little car to get it to start.
“That’s it, good girl.”
Her eyelids felt like lead as she forced them open, each millimeter a battle that left her breathless. She winced as light stabbed into her eyes, hot needles trying to burrow through to her brain. Her breath caught sharply as pain after pain followed each other like maniacal dancers doing the conga. Her body hurt, every bone and cell aching with separate and distinct pains that came together in a discordant harmony. Sound intruded, the muted bleeps of medical-type machinery backing up the smell of disinfectant to tell her she had to be in hospital.
The crash. Screams. Blackness.
“Fuck. Oops, language, sorry…but can’t you give her something for the pain?”
“No…”
Frankie shook her head, clutching at Damon’s hand. Memory returned, a delayed reaction like live pause on a satellite TV—life continuing with her a few seconds behind it. She didn’t want painkillers.
She remembered pain. Pain and blood. Remembered coming to with moans spilling from her lips because it hurt so much in a room with blinding white walls and lights so bright they burned her eyes. People in green scrubs decorated with patterns of scarlet. Patterns her brain refused to recognize as blood. There had been so much of it, too much, but all she could think of was a saying her grandmother had been fond of. Red and green should never be seen.
Then she’d turned her head and her nightmare had become reality. Leighton lay off to the left, on the table next to her. But there were no people around him. The machines around him were dark and his blond hair was stained with blood.
Terrible screams of grief and agony welled up, throbbed on the air, startling her. Who else was in here? Who else had lost the most important thing in their lives?
“Shit, someone get her under!” The medical staff around her stopped and she realized the awful sound was coming from her. They surged around her, the prick of a needle in her hand warning her a few seconds before the numbing darkness enveloped her again.
She came back to the present with a gasp, grabbing hard onto Damon’s hand.
“Leighton… I-is he—” She couldn’t even bring herself to say it, afraid the very act of speaking the words would make the terrible dream a reality. She had to believe it was a dream, nothing more, or her hold on the panic welling up inside her would crack and it would drag her into the abyss below.
Damon paused, his features still and wary. Just for a moment before he plastered a careful smile on his face. Frankie’s heart stopped. Leighton was dead and Damon was trying to figure out how to break it to her.
Pain ripped through her as her eyelids swept down. In a fraction of a second she saw what their life would have been like, the life she wanted to live—by his side. Their wedding, Leighton handsome in his suit through to having children, a large house filled with love and laughter, then fast-forward to grandkids and growing old together. A lifetime encapsulated within the blink of an eye and leaving her with a longing so profound she knew she’d never be the same again.
A trembling sigh escaped her lips as tears prickled at the back of her eyes. She hadn’t told him that she loved him. Too concerned with protecting herself, he’d died without knowing how she felt. Without knowing how much she loved him.
“He’s okay. Frankie, he’s okay. I promise.”
“Oh, thank God.” Relief slammed into her at Damon’s soft words, so hard that it actually felt like a physical blow. It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered. He was alive; Leighton was alive. But not okay. The odd note in her brother’s voice registered as she struggled to sit up, narrowing her eyes. “You aren’t telling me something…what happened? I remember the car… Is he okay?”
“You were involved in a car accident, Frankie. Leigh was badly injured…he nearly bled out. They have him in surgery now.”
Stress etched deep lines into Damon’s face as he looked down at their hands for a moment, then back up to look directly into her eyes. He’d never been able to hide anything from her, even now that they were adults.
“Franks, they said the damage might be too great. He might never walk properly again…”
Tears filled her eyes as a wave of love and protectiveness washed over her. If he couldn’t walk, he wouldn’t be able to play. And not being able to play again would kill him.
“But it doesn’t matter. You’re both alive and that’s all that counts.” Tears to match hers filled Damon’s eyes as he held onto her hand more tightly. “He got you out, Frankie. Pulled you both clear before the car exploded. We nearly lost you both. Whatever he needs, it’ll be there. I’ll make sure of it, I promise.”
She nodded, her heart aching. He’d pulled her free, even though he was injured. He’d saved her life and nearly lost his doing it.
“I love him,” she said suddenly, and struggled to sit up. There were needles in her arm, the stinging pull warning her against moving too much. Nausea rose up just at the sight of them. She hated needles. Beseechingly, she looked at Damon. “I love him and I didn’t get to tell him. I need to be there when he comes out. When he wakes up.”
Damon nodded, patting her hand before standing up, determination written on his face as he caught the attention of a passing nurse.
“You will. Leave it to me. I’ll make sure it happens.”
* * *
Damon was as good as his word. A few hours later he’d managed to get her moved to the room Leighton was recovering in, wheelchair, drip, and all. He hadn’t managed it with the charm that Leighton could muster, but she didn’t care. All she cared about was being here when Leighton woke.
The room was quiet, a private one off the main ward, filled with the muted bleeps of the medical equipment and the sound of soft breathing from the man lying on the bed. With gentle fingers, she stroked his hair back from his
face. She was glad they hadn’t cut it. Otherwise she was sure he’d have been like Samson, shorn of all his strength along with his hair.
Cuts and scrapes surrounded his eye and trailed down his cheek, and there was a cut by the corner of his lip. Stitched and taped, it was deep enough to leave a scar. She didn’t care. His skin was covered in them, each one a permanent reminder of the violence and brutality of his chosen career. All she cared about was that he was here. He was still with her.
Pulling her fingers gently through the long blond locks, she patted it smooth and reached for his hand. The IV in the back of hers pulled but she ignored it to lace her fingers through his. He looked so peaceful lying there. Like a hero sleeping, his big body powerful even with the medical gown and tent over his leg.
Her gaze flirted with it, the construct protecting and keeping even the lightest weight off the damaged limb within. The doctors said the surgery had gone well, better than expected. Her lips curved gently at their astonishment at what he’d done.
“With the damage, we literally don’t know how he managed to walk, much less carry you clear, Ms. Cross. To all intents and purposes his leg was nonfunctional,” the surgeon had explained, his dark eyes open and honest as he’d sat down to explain exactly what had happened.
He’d looked tired, the deep lines etched into his face and the chance comments of the nurses who’d been looking after Leighton when she’d arrived testament to how hard he’d worked to mend the man she loved. Hours in surgery, trying to fix the damage. Far longer than was normal.