by Sayer Adams
He pulled her up and slid until he was sitting up with his back propped against the headboard. Settling her on his lap, he brushed the hair out of her face and kissed her gently.
“No fair,” she mumbled and turned her face back into his neck.
“What’s no fair?” he asked.
He moved his hand casually over her breast, letting his fingers linger over her nipple. It hardened almost instantly and a soft moan came from Chelsea.
“It’s not fair that you can just move me around wherever you want. Like I’m a rag doll or something,” she said.
Her voice was sleepy, sated and Nate smiled. He had not been behind that particular idea of hers. It had seemed too brutal, too harsh, but it did seem to be what she needed. She was relaxed now, and he hadn’t seen that panicked look since. Was that all it would take, animalistic fucking? Probably not, which was too bad. He could promise her a lifetime of that.
“Sorry, babe. Until you pig out on éclairs and get too big for me to lift, I’m going to move you around. It’s a guy thing.”
“Bastard,” she said.
She looked up finally and gave him a smile.
“Okay, what’s this we’re talking about? What made you fly around the world?” she asked.
“I have something that might help you, long term,” he said carefully.
He had no idea how she was going to react and that scared the hell out of him. Reluctantly, he stopped caressing her and just held her tight.
“What do you mean, help me long term?” Chelsea said.
“Chelsea, we both know why you push yourself so hard. You work yourself nearly to death. And you know why. So do I. Maybe you wish now that you hadn’t told me, but you did. And that means it’s now my problem too.”
Her face took on an obstinate look, but he held up his hand and said firmly, “Don’t try to argue, it’s another guy thing. You want a boyfriend who cares about you, you have to deal with us trying to fix your problem.”
She rolled her eyes but didn’t say anything so he continued.
“You try to outrun the pain and the memories, but it doesn’t work. All it does is make you collapse in exhaustion. Is it working this time Chelsea?”
She nodded her head.
“Yes, Nate it is. I’m fine,” she said, anger flaring in her green eyes.
“Bullshit,” he said.
She struggled to get off his lap, but he held her tight. You never wanted to hear the thing you need to hear the most, he reminded himself.
“Fuck you,” she said, still struggling.
“Okay, if it’s working out just fine for you, why are you planning another month? Why aren’t you just stopping when you originally planned? If you’re not running, Chelsea, if you just really like your work, why is it that you can’t stop? It’s compulsive, Chelsea, and it’s not working.”
Nate was amazed how calm his voice was. He was churning with anger and frustration inside, but they weren’t threatening to overwhelm him. Was he changing, or was it just because it was her he was trying to help?
He could see her struggling, see all her walls going up to protect herself from what deep down she knew was the truth. She had to know it wasn’t working anymore, as angry as she was with him. Or was she scared and acting angry? Nate pushed the implications of that particular idea away and focused on Chelsea. He tried to make his voice gentler, but it did little to help her reaction.
“How would you know?” she said bitterly.
“Because I know all about self destructive behavior, Chelsea.”
“I’m not self destructive,” she said indignantly.
She glared up at him, her hands still struggling to free herself from him.
“Yes, you are, sweetheart. Just because you’re not sitting in a bar drinking yourself silly doesn’t mean you’re not self destructive. Trust me. I’m an expert. And you are driving yourself into the ground doing this. It needs to stop or it’s going to kill you.”
“It is working,” she said softly, the fight going out of her.
He sighed and wrapped his arms tighter around her, tucking her head under his chin.
“No, babe, it’s not. I can see the panic cross your face now, just like I could in Seattle. It’s still haunting you, and it’s going to until you die if you don’t face it. And you’re going to die a hell of a lot sooner than I want you too if you keep this up.”
Her small body shuddered in his arms and he felt like crying himself. Jesus, what a mess.
“How am I supposed to face it Nate? I’m doing the best I can. I just, I don’t know what else to do.”
The pain in her voice was horrendous and again Nate cursed the bastard, cursed her own survival instincts that had led her down this road for so long.
“No, sweetheart, but I have an idea,” he said quietly, “Do you trust me?”
He was heartened when she nodded without hesitation.
###
Chelsea lay awake long after Nate had gone to sleep. She stared at him in the dim light coming in through the window. It seemed unreal that he had come all this way to keep her from exhausting herself. And he was staying, staying until she was done, and, as he had put it, ‘keeping her alive.’ It had seemed so overdramatic, but now she wasn’t sure.
The doctors in Australia hadn’t thought she would survive a relapse, which is exactly what she’d been heading for. Maybe Nate was right, maybe she did need him here to keep her calm, to hold her until the panic passed. If that could get her through this trip, it might be worth it.
He’d wanted her to cancel everything and just leave with him tomorrow, but she couldn’t do that so he was rearranging his schedule to fit hers. She had commitments, and even if his plan worked, she liked her work, wanted to continue. Not with the same schedule, but on some level. Her work had become her life, and they may not have been the best thing, but she wouldn’t give it up entirely. She loved it for its own sake, not just the comfort it provided. Correction, used to provide.
So instead, he was staying with her until her original story was done, and then they’d go back to the States together. With all this generosity, Chelsea found it hard to believe that she had ever written him off as a stereotypical bad boy. And as much as it terrified her, she was going to do what Nate suggested. Because the alternative, life without him, was worse. She didn’t want to live without him, and as long as she hadn’t faced her problems, she wasn’t going to be able to have him in any real way.
Chapter 13
Brandon Caldwell slammed his office door. No one in this fucking firm could do anything right. Except him, obviously. He had just had to explain for the fifth time that his lunch breaks were sacred, especially when he was lunching with Trina. Trina was a redheaded idiot who could do the most amazing things on a lunch break, either under a table cloth or in a cab. It was all the same to him, really. He didn’t care where she decided to debase herself.
The problem was that midway through a foot job under the table at La Fin, his goddamn secretary had called to tell him that one of his clients, a rich Beacon Hill biddy, had died. Like he cared. Norma, the aforementioned secretary, had informed him that it was firm policy for him to drop everything and immediately rush to the side of the aggrieved family on such an occasion. Fuck. Which he would have to do, of course, but it could have waited another ten minutes. Hell, another five would have worked, given Trina’s abilities.
So now, because Norma didn’t have the sense god gave a stick, he would be meeting with the Carter family with a huge case of blue balls. He would have to try to appear sympathetic and even slightly mournful himself, when all he would really want to do is go find Trina, turn her around and spend a minute or two getting his rocks off. If this day could get any worse, he couldn’t imagine how.
Stifling his frustration, Brandon stuck his head out his office door, demanded the Carter file from Norma, then slammed back over to his desk. He would have to refresh his memory on Carter and her will before he went to visit the family. He needed some details t
o make it seem like he gave a shit. Not that any of them would. These families were all the same. When one of them died, the rest would stand around in black and dab at dry eyes with linen handkerchiefs. Then he’d read the will and all hell would break loose as the favorite son was passed over for a dog.
Brandon was exceptionally good at dealing with these sorts of situations, having been through them in his own family life in the past. That was how, at 29, he was one of the most important young lawyers in the firm. He knew all the rules to the game and played it exceedingly well. Some of his more bleeding heart professors at Harvard Law had called him cold hearted and unethical, but fuck them. He knew what he wanted and how to get there. Always had.
Norma arrived with the file and had the nerve to look as cool and confident as if she hadn’t just fucked up and pissed off her boss. Damn old woman. Norma was probably closing in on sixty and not the nicest thing to look at. His previous secretary had been much easier on the eyes, a young ambitious thing of 23 with a great ass and a pair of tits that rivaled Trina’s.
But after the unfortunate harassment issue, the firm had hired Norma, who no man in their right mind would think about groping. Luckily, the senior partners were older gentlemen who weren’t short sighted enough to let the allegations of one expendable secretary endanger the career of one of their brightest stars and biggest billers. That didn’t mean he wasn’t on probation, which pissed him off every damn day.
After fifteen minutes with the Carter file, Brandon felt confident he could make a passable impression on the family. He threw his suit coat back on after inspecting it for lint, then gave his shoes a quick buff with a cloth in his drawer. Appearances were everything with these fucks and he wouldn’t have time to stop and have his shoes shined on the way. He was lucky if he was going to get there before the bucktoothed, drug addicted grandkids started fighting over the silver.
He stepped out of his office and down the hall to the lobby elevator. The receptionist motioned him over as he crossed the room and he rolled his eyes at her, but approached her desk anyway.
“What? I’m busy. I have better things to do than file my nails all day,” he snapped at her.
“Mr. Caldwell, those people over there are here to see you. They said it was important. The guy is Nate Stone, the guy from Blindside,” the girl said breathlessly.
Brandon had no idea what her name was or what she was talking about.
“And why should I care about this?” he asked coldly.
“He’s, like, famous,” the girl said with a look of incredulity plastered on her already vacuous face.
“Ah. Well, I have better things to do with my time. They can make an appointment like everyone else,” he said as he turned from the desk.
On his way to the elevator, Brandon spared a glance for the couple sitting in the waiting area. The man grabbed his attention first. Covered in tattoos, he was a little hard to miss. Nice look, buddy, Brandon thought. The man’s long legs were stretched out in front of him and Brandon bristled. Big men pissed him off. They thought they were far superior to men of average build. He shook his head and looked away, but his gaze caught on the woman sitting next to Mr. Big Shot.
An uncomfortable knot in his stomach formed as recognition slowly washed over him. Brandon swallowed hard and let out a breath. He knew that girl, but what was she doing here? This could not be good. Quickening his step, Brandon turned his head away from them, but not before he saw the woman nudge the Neanderthal and gesture in Brandon’s direction. Shit. The beast stood up and easily closed the gap between them with his long legs.
“We need to talk,” the guy said as his large hand wrapped around Brandon’s upper arm. It looked like his day had just gotten worse.
###
The calm Chelsea had felt all day had nearly evaporated when Brandon had entered the lobby. He hadn’t changed much in eight years. A little older, his expression more grim. His eyes and mouth were lined, and they weren’t laugh lines. His posture was still ramrod straight, his movements stiff and precise. As she watched him walk towards the elevator, her heart had nearly stopped as coldness climbed through her body. The face that woke her in the middle of the night was still ugly.
Caught up in her physical reaction, Brandon had almost gotten to the elevator by the time she was able to nudge Nate. Nate had quickly intercepted the smaller man and stopped him from leaving. For the first time, she noticed a shimmer of fear on Brandon’s face when he glanced in her direction.
Could it be that he recognized her, might even know what she was doing here? Did Brandon even know what he had done was wrong, or if he was so bereft of morals that he thought it was okay. The look of fear told her that he at least knew that what he had done was punishable by law, even if he didn’t feel any real remorse.
Nate so towered over Brandon that Chelsea would have laughed at the sight if anxiety hadn’t invaded every fiber of her being. Brandon was short, had short man syndrome if she remembered correctly. He had to look up to look into Nate’s face, and he did so with a sneer.
Right, Chelsea thought, time to get this over with. She’d wasted enough of her time on this bastard. Chelsea rose and walked to the two men.
“Get your hands off me,” Brandon said as she approached.
Nate disregarded the request and Brandon paled. He did manage to turn his look of fear into a look of disgust, but not quickly enough. Ha. Brandon was absolutely terrified. It was about time.
###
Nate felt like a bouncer. Except bouncers weren’t usually thrumming with barely restrained anger and they didn’t keep people from leaving. Brandon had been quick to lead Nate and Chelsea back to his private office and Nate was damn well going to make sure the guy didn’t leave until Chelsea was ready to let him go. If she wanted to beat the crap out of the guy, he’d let her. Hell, he’d hold Brandon down for her. He was just that kind of romantic guy.
The office looked like a movie set of a lawyer’s office, full of dark wood and overstuffed leather. It was pretentious and stuffy as hell. Nate hated it and he hated the man it belonged to. Brandon was the sort of mean spirited little twerp that had always wound him up. He was all entitlement and no morals. Just watching the guy twitch was fun. As soon as he had seen Chelsea, he had gotten squirmy, eyes darting every which way. Caged rat.
Whenever Brandon glanced towards the door and a possible exit, Nate clenched his fists or scowled at him and the other man quickly looked away. Melodramatic, but so effective. It never ceased to amuse Nate how people like Brandon became squeamish when faced with people like him. The longer Chelsea waited, the more Brandon squirmed.
Nate was willing to wait as long as it took. He needed to let this play out the way Chelsea needed it to. Ever since he’d woken up this morning, a seed of fear had been growing in his gut. If this didn’t work, he was out of ideas, and apparently, so was she. This had to rid her of her compulsive need to be always on the move. End of story.
Chelsea was walking slowly around the spacious office, casually trailing her fingers over books and photos of Brandon engaged in various wealthy pursuits; yachting, tennis, polo. Nate didn’t know if she was waiting intentionally to make Brandon as uncomfortable as possible, or if she was trying to organize her thoughts. Either way, the result was spectacular. Beads of sweat were appearing on Caldwell’s forehead and he kept fiddling with his tie in a nervous gesture. His fear was barely concealing his rage at having been confronted with something he obviously thought was far in the past.
Which, Nate knew with sick certainty, was the only reason this guy had a problem with what had happened. Chances were, Chelsea wasn’t the only girl he’d hit or tried to rape. Nate hoped to hell he’d never been successful in that. The fucker felt no compunction about his actions, he was just worried about getting caught. Nate had lived on the streets long enough to meet all kinds of scum, but Brandon was an especially terrifying breed. He had the money to cover up any number of misdeeds and no conscience.
“I haven�
�t decided whether or not I’m going to press charges,” Chelsea said abruptly as she turned towards Brandon.
She was standing at the window, the light behind her creating a rapturous halo effect with the small hairs that had escaped her ponytail. Nate was amazed and relieved that she seemed so calm. This couldn’t be easy for her, but she was handling it with grace. He loved her, he respected her, he’d kill for her. That about summed it up.
“Press charges for what?” Brandon asked with a show of equal parts ignorance and bravado. Prick.
“You know damn well what,” Chelsea said, both her tone and her features sharpening. “You damaged me. What you did was horribly wrong. Horribly. I’m sorry I didn’t just drag you to the police station the first time you laid your hands on me. Don’t you dare pretend not to know what you did, you lying asshole.”
Chelsea took a few steps towards him and Nate could feel her anger radiating off her. Apparently, Brandon could too. He stumbled back a few paces, shrinking into himself until he was even smaller.
“Maybe I will press charges. You’re still a slimy little man. There’s no way I was the last person you beat up on, and I’m guessing there’s some other poor girl out there who didn’t get a chance to kick you in your tiny little nuts.”
Chelsea was so close to Brandon now that he was leaning back to try to avoid being eye to eye with her. Chelsea wasn’t yelling, but her anger was evident in every word.
Brandon dug deep into his inner sliminess and pulled himself back up and started inching towards Chelsea. Nate watched the prick closely. He didn’t think the guy was stupid enough to physically attack Chelsea with him in the room, but you could never be too sure about guys like that.
“Oh please. You can’t go to court on something like that. I’m a lawyer, Chelsea, these things don’t go to trial. They get dismissed. There’s no way a judge is going to let an eight year old alleged crime go to a trial. It’s a waste of time.”