He stood tall and erect with his shoulders back and his chest out, gulping down water. Judging by the workouts, he was healed, and in record time.
But something was wrong.
Calista understood the need to put his world in order, the world narrowing down to his body. She understood the need to get one’s self back into their original form was primal, especially when surviving a near-death encounter.
But Julius pushed himself too hard. Definitely male ego was involved. Sunny was the biggest of their group at six foot six. The dude was all jock, a wrestler with no neck to speak of and tree trunks for arms and a barrel chest. Rhodes came in second at six-five. Julian was a close third at six four and a half, and Edwards was six feet even.
Julius worked out religiously and the progress showed in the definition of his arms, the deltoids, bi and triceps, the pectorals defining his chest, and the deepening cut of his abdominals. But every now and then, his breath caught, and he winced. And every time, he brushed it off, glanced around to see if anyone noticed, then continued.
The man had bullets pierce his body. He should be in pain, but he steadfastly ignored it. Typical male behavior, yet Calista caught his winces and sharp inhales when he couldn’t help it. She knew it was more than random pain and random occurrences.
Again, something was wrong.
“Good work out. Take a break and we’ll spar in ten.” Edwards patted everyone on the back. In another life, he would’ve made a great high school coach or a trainer. The man ran marathons when free from a client. A five-mile jaunt was nothing to him while everyone else was happy to have made it to the cool down stage without dying. The man was close to fifty and put all of them to shame.
Everyone noticed Julius’ wheezing. With the heat and humidity already high, today wasn’t a good day to push himself. No one dared tell him that.
“Hydrate,” Edwards shouted as if we hadn’t known that already. He’d taken it upon himself to be their un-appointed trainer. No one minded and the man did have an affinity for it. Calista followed everyone to the kitchen for water. Edwards did the honors, filling glasses from a Brita pitcher and passing them around. She sipped hers slowly, letting her heart rate return to normal and the cool water quench her thirst. A checklist scrolled in her mind. They had a flight to Vegas scheduled for later today. A stockholder meeting slated for tomorrow. Wondering what time Julius wanted to head to the airport, she turned to ask and noticed the lone glass on the counter. Julius was missing.
He was just behind her wheezing. Where did he go? With his glass of water in her hand, she traveled through the estate, searching each room as she went.
She should’ve called out when she reached his bedroom. The fact that she didn’t, that she crossed that line and entered without permission, would be addressed later. Right now, her gut flip‐flopped as she stood in the middle of his bedroom, a bedroom similar to hers except for the dark paneling and masculine touches.
Calista didn’t sense danger, yet something ominous had her jaw gritting. A muttered curse and something hitting the floor had her pivoting to the open bathroom door. Sideways, she eased onto the doorjamb and had a perfect view of Julius, leaning heavily against the marble counter, sweat dripping off his face as he struggled to remain standing.
Calista rushed into the room. “Why didn’t you say you needed help!” She snatched the bottle out of his hands, twisted it open and popped a pill out. She shoved the glass of water in his hand, and demanded, “Take it now.”
“No.” He slapped her hand away. The pill bounced against the mirror and landed in the sink.
“You’re in pain! Take the pill.”
“I said no,” he shouted, then doubled over and groaned as he dropped onto the closed toilet seat.
“Why?” she demanded. “Why would you want to be in pain?”
Calista dropped down in front of him, taking a closer study of her employer. His entire body, not just his arm, practically vibrated.
“It’s not what you think,” he croaked.
Confused, she shook her head. “What do you think I’m thinking?”
“That I’m an addict,” he gritted between clenched teeth. “Well, I am.”
She reared back as if slapped. “What?” she asked when she really needed to ask herself how she missed something so huge. He was a fucking addict.
“Calista…”
Ignoring him, she angled the bottle to read the label. Vicodin. Take one per day as needed. A thirty-day supply filled a week ago in New York. Meckler or Newsome must’ve brought it to the villa.
Calista opened the bottle. He could’ve stopped her, snatched the bottle out of her hand, and shoved her away, out of the room, the house. He didn’t. She spilled the contents across the countertop and corralled them into a pile. One by one she counted out the pills until they totaled thirty, including the one in the sink. He hadn’t taken any. She spun and faced him. He hadn’t moved from his seat.
Hunched over, elbows planted on his knees, he eyed her, passive in his study as if he were too exhausted to move. “I’ve been clean eight years.”
The relief was swift, followed by guilt. She had automatically thought the worst. It was easy to jump to that conclusion when it shouldn’t have been. She was ashamed at how close she was to walking out and never returning. Because she cared. She cared that he was an addict and couldn’t watch him destroy his life, couldn’t be that woman who made excuses rather than deal with the truth.
“I used to think you were stoic. But everything you’re thinking is on your face.”
Scorn and disgust weren’t easy to hide, especially when she wasn’t even trying when he admitted to being an addict. That changed with him being a recovering addict. Something to be proud of. She snatched a face towel off the rack, wet the end and brought it to his sweaty face. “What were you addicted to?”
“Cocaine.”
Rich man’s drug. She folded her arms, hugging herself. “How many relapses?”
“None. Tempted a few times, but I’ve never been one to repeat mistakes.”
She nodded, slowly accepting Julius’ words after accessing their validity. He wasn’t the first client she’d discovered with an addiction. He was the first client she’d fallen in love with.
Oh fuck!
“I had the prescription filled one week ago.” He climbed to his feet and splashed water on his face from the porcelain basin.
“W-Why?” she stuttered. “When you know you’re susceptible? Putting yourself in harm’s way is idiotic!” she yelled, losing the little objectivity she had.
He lurched upright, his face contorted into an angry mask. “I didn’t ask to be shot. Wrong place. Wrong time. Now I have one kidney and part of a lung and shit hurts! And I sound like a whiny bitch!” In a flash of anger, he punched the wall, leaving his knuckles bloody.
While he shook off the pain, she stormed into the bedroom, grabbed a bottle of whiskey off the bar, and stormed back into the bathroom. She grabbed his hand and upended the open bottle.
He winced and yanked his hand away. “That’s not how you drink a vintage bottle of Macallan!” Then snatched the liquor away from her and placed it on the other counter.
Like she gave a damn about some whiskey. Calista folded her arms again and glared at him. Suddenly, she understood, and God, she didn’t envy him. “Is it that bad, the pain?” Bad enough for him to relapse?
He dragged his whiskey-soaked hand over his face, leaving blood smudged on his forehead. “When I was in the hospital, no.”
“But since you’ve been home and off whatever they gave you—”
“It was getting better, but now…”
“What?” she snapped. He paused and she lost her shit. “Spit it out already because I need to know what the hell is going on with you. How to help you or how far I should run.”
Julius met her unflinching glare with one of his own and pointed to the bathroom door. “You want to leave?”
“That’s not what I said.” Sh
e looked away in favor of studying the white, oblong pills on the countertop.
Suddenly, Julius was in her space, crowding her. Unsure, she sidestepped him and was surprised when he scooped up the pills in his whiskey hand, lifted the lid of the toilet and dumped them in. Together, they listened as the pills flushed away.
“I’m glad you threw them away, but you’re still in pain. You can’t live like this. We need to get you back to your doctor. Maybe back in the hospital.”
He sighed. Towering over her, he was an intimidating man. “Too tired to argue. I’ll make the call.”
Arms still folded, she nodded once and stepped aside for him to sweep past her. She stayed in the doorway while he snatched his phone off his platform bed. He couldn’t accuse her of eavesdropping when he knew she was there, listening to every word he said to his doctor, a doctor who’d only made one house call since Julius had been discharged.
She wouldn’t blame the physician when Julius was the impossible patient. The man had a private jet at his disposal and could be on the other side of the world instead of at his doctor’s appointment, even if that doctor made house calls specifically for you.
“He wants me at the hospital for an MRI,” he said after ending the call.
She pushed off the wall. “I’ll be ready in fifteen.” She didn’t wait for his reply.
The journey to his doctor’s office in Manhattan was a silent one. He walked into his doctor’s office, she wanted to follow but even a bodyguard couldn’t breach doctor/patient privacy unless welcomed by the patient. Julius didn’t extend the invitation, which was understandable. She wasn’t his wife. Right now, she was barely a friend. A friend who cared more than she should, if that were possible.
It was just her and Julius at the hospital for this private session. The others were left behind. Some things were too personal to share. That’s what she’d told Julius. He didn’t need to know Scotts shadowed them in Julius’ Porsche several cars back. In the gilded town of Montauk, the sports car may as well be a Toyota. Ensconced in the waiting room, magazine in her lap, unseen, she flipped through the pages, her nerves on edge. The what-ifs started.
What if something is truly wrong? What if he’s not merely exhausted? Could she handle that? Should she? Sexual attraction and one sexual encounter that didn’t lead to penetration didn’t make a relationship. And did she want a relationship? A few weeks ago the answer to that question was a definitive no. She liked the single life. Laverne would say Calista was delusional. No one liked being single. The truth was, while she had time for sex, she didn’t have time for a partner. The randomness of her life, the commitment she had to her mother’s care, left no room for romance. Then Julius took two bullets and bled his way into her life.
It didn’t take much to feel the blood on her hands and hear wet air wheezing through his slack mouth. She thought he was beautiful when she glimpsed him in the club. Not quite her type. He was leaner than she liked. She went for the brawny, roughhewn men who were low on talk and big on action. Not interested in longevity, she didn’t need them to stick around.
Her phone rang. The phone number from the assisted living facility stared at her from the screen. Fear raced down her spine. Phone calls from the facility were never good news. “Hello?” she said hesitantly.
“Ms. Coleman, it’s Director Abline, do you have a few minutes?”
The director didn’t sound concerned or upset, didn’t sound as if she were trying to soften the news. “Of course, Mrs. Abline. Is everything alright with my mother?”
“She’s doing well. Rest assured, that’s not why I called today.” Relief was swift, sweet, and short-lived. “While there is no restriction in your mother’s chart, she’s had a visitor a few days in a row. I would’ve informed you sooner, but I’ve been on vacation for a week. I just caught up on all the activities of the patients.”
“What do you mean she’s had a visitor?” All her friends were dead or in nursing homes in worse condition than her mother. “Who?”
“The gentleman who signed the registry is named Harvey Bryn.”
Calista’s knees jellied. Good thing she was already sitting. “H-how long has this been going on?”
“He visited three days last week and once this week. According to your mother’s nurse, he stays roughly four hours. Arrives before lunch and leaves before dinner. Your mother seems to enjoy his company.”
Flustered, she muttered, “Wow.”
“Excuse me. Did you say something, Ms. Coleman?”
“No. No. I’m…I’m.” Speechless.
“Oh, he’s just arrived and is exiting his town car with the help of his driver. He’s in a motorized wheelchair.”
Yeah, she already knew that. “You said he stays for about four hours?”
“That’s right.”
“I’m leaving now. Don’t tell him I’m on my way unless he leaves early.”
“Is everything okay, Ms. Coleman? I hope we did nothing wrong in allowing the visitation.” Worry filled the director’s voice. She was covering her ass, but Calista didn’t fault her.
“No. Everything is fine. I’ll be there as quickly as I can.” She ended the call.
“That sonofabitch!”
Chapter 20
In Julius’ Mercedes S 560, Calista made it in thirty. She called Scotts to come in and cover Julius and texted Julius with an excuse, then took the car with a promise to return. Time critical, it was the best she could do.
Storming into the main building of the assisted living center, she didn’t bother to check in. Why should she when the riffraff was already inside.
“Cali, she’s in the courtyard, by the willow tree,” Dacia shouted as Calista stomped past.
“Thanks.” Calista had thirty minutes to calm her nerves, which only gave her initial shock time to wear off and fury to gain a foothold. The lowlife coward! Instead of addressing her, he goes after her mother. Her dementia addled mother! She didn’t care how rich he was, she’d kill him with her bare hands if a single hair on her mother’s head was out of place.
How much time would she get for killing a feeble, wheelchair bound old man? That was the reality facing her. But in her mind, he would always be the towering iceberg of a figure, casting a shadow over her entire life.
He would always be the man who had introduced his housekeeper and their six-year-old daughter to his eighteen-year-old, pregnant new wife.
Her mother had gathered her tattered pride, what possessions they had, took Calista’s hand, and left the only place she’d worked, the only place her daughter had known, and restarted their lives.
Calista’s sharp gaze pinpointed her mother seated on the circular bench beneath the largest willow tree on the property, and at an angle, a wheelchair was in front of her. Calista couldn’t see the person. Rage simmering, she closed in on the couple, aware of her mother’s private duty nurse a few feet away, along with another nurse and a thick neck in a suit seated a discreet distance at another table.
Thick neck saw her approaching and rose. He was a big bastard, but it wouldn’t matter one damn bit. One finger pointed his way, told him to stay in his place and not to fuck with her. The idiot didn’t listen. He came at her, moving with the speed of a linebacker. He blocked her path and shoved his hand in the center of her chest, as if that would stop her. She grabbed his hand, bent it back. The move caught him off guard. Didn’t expect a woman five inches shorter and half his width to go on the offensive. His misconception was Calista’s advantage.
A swift kick to his knee pitched thick neck off balance. He went down but reached into his jacket for a gun. She bent his wrist back until a satisfying snap resulted in a loud howl. A broken wrist wouldn’t stop a professional and it didn’t stop him. A kick to his chin scrambled his marbles. He landed on the ground with a thud, but the gun kept moving in her direction.
One foot on his throat, the heel of her other foot ground into his remaining wrist. How would he manage with two broken wrists? He was about to find
out.
“Enough,” someone shouted.
It was enough when she decided. She leaned over thick neck and snatched the gun out of his slack palm. Only when she had the clip in her pocket and the chamber cleared, did she drop the gun onto his forehead and kept moving to her true target.
Harvey Bryn swung his chair around to face her. Calista ignored him and knelt beside her mother. “Hey, Mom.” No answer. She wouldn’t even look at her. “Mom?” Calista smoothed her mother’s thinning gray hair behind her ears and cupped her cheeks. Her skin soft and sparely lined. Time had been kind to her skin, but not to her brain. “It’s Calico, Mom.”
Nothing. Which wasn’t a surprise and hurt like a bitch, especially as her mother sat on the bench, a smile on her lipstick red lips, her eyes glazed with happiness Calista couldn’t remember ever seeing. Happiness not due to her daughter’s presence. Not what Calista expected from the woman who despised the man in front of her. Was this how her mother truly felt all these years? Twenty-four years of pretend hate because admitting to still love the man who hurt you was abhorrent. Secretly loving him while pretending otherwise.
“Calico, sweetheart, I didn’t know you were coming today.” Her mother’s unexpected voice was clear and vibrant. “Did you come to see your father?”
Stomach churning, “Yes. I certainly did,” Calista spat.
“Hello, Calico.” Harvey’s gravelly voice washed over her, leaving raw skin in its wake, instead of the warmth she barely remembered.
Now, she rose and gave him her attention, then dropped to her haunches because this discussion needed to be done eye to eye. “My name is Calista. You don’t have the privilege of using my nickname. That’s reserved for my parents, of which I have one.”
He nodded and she’d swear she heard the bones in his neck grind together. An oxygen mask dangled under his chin, lending another layer to his fragile state, as if the old man in a wheelchair wasn’t enough. He was bald with liver spots playing connect the dots all over his skin.
Plain Jane and the Billionaire (Plain Jane Series) Page 14