Kendalee fingered the cross at her neck and sat down on a row of chairs outside Dr. Drennan’s office. She wondered why she still wore it. Habit, she supposed. A reassurance. Adrian had left her and the family home six months before their son had burned it down. God had quickly followed suit, her faith tested to its limits.
She doubted anything would provide any kind of comfort as long as her only child lay just down the hall, propped up on pillows, and surrounded by cables, wires, drips, and beeping machines. The sight always left her breathless, like a band was tightening around her lungs until every drop of air was squeezed from them. Every time she saw him, she cursed the accelerant he’d bought, cursed the way he’d spilled it on his pants, cursed the way he’d stayed to make sure it ignited, cursed the way the flames had spread faster than he’d been able to outrun, and cursed the way her only child now had life-changing injuries to his legs and feet.
He refused to talk about that afternoon. To tell her, the police, or the psych team why he’d burned their house down. Not that she’d needed a degree to figure out it was because he couldn’t bear to be reminded of the abuse he’d suffered from his uncle in their own home.
The day she’d received the call that had turned their lives upside down, she’d walked into the emergency room knowing that she’d never recover if Daniel died. She’d called Adrian and a priest, and prayed over and over to Saint Jude. When Daniel had transferred to SickKids’s burn unit, she’d repeated the whole process again. Now, for small moments of time, she could catch her breath. She’d also stopped praying, because it hadn’t helped, practically or spiritually.
“There,” Adrian said, bringing her back to the present sharply as he shoved a handful of bills at her. She had no idea if it was enough or not, but she’d make it work.
“Adrian, Kendalee,” Dr. Drennan said as Kendalee put the money in her purse, “come in.”
He gestured into his office, which was decorated with photographs of, and cards from, patients who’d been treated at the burn unit. They were one of the few things that gave Kendalee hope for Daniel’s future, seeing pictures of grown men graduating college, waterskiing, and standing on the top of a mountain she always imagined to be Everest. Living life to the fullest.
“How are you guys doing?” Dr. Drennan asked as the door closed.
Thirty minutes later, they emerged with news she hadn’t wanted to hear.
“One more skin graft, and then the worst of it is over for now,” Adrian said.
Kendalee wished she could agree, but the time she’d spent with the nurses over the last two weeks had taught her that the hard work was only just beginning. “I wish it could be over for him. Between the surgery and the dressing takedowns, it’s . . .” She couldn’t think how to articulate the fear in Daniel’s eyes as he geared up to have all those bandages removed, his wounds cleaned and treated, then rewrapped. She pressed her fingers to her temples, a low-grade headache beginning to form at the thought. “He can barely breathe through the panic he feels waiting to go in there, no matter what the hospital do to keep him calm.” The pain relief could only take him so far. “His depression is getting worse, Adrian. And he’s bitter and angry.”
She let Adrian take her elbow and lead her to a quiet spot in the hallway. “I’m sorry, Kendalee.”
“For what?” she snapped. For cheating? For being an asshole? For . . . damn . . . she didn’t have the energy for this. And the look in Adrian’s eye told her he was being sincere. “Sorry, that was uncalled for.”
“No. You’re right. I’ve done a terrible job at being a good husband and father.”
Master of the fucking understatement. “You have,” she agreed. She remembered the mortification she’d felt as she’d attempted to pay Daniel’s summer camp fees only to have the card to their joint checking account bounce because he’d drained it the day after he’d left. And she could still see the look of horror on Daniel’s face when he’d attempted to tell Adrian about his abuse. “You called your son a liar when he told you about your brother’s behavior. And I have nowhere to live because the insurance policy was in your name. As was the mortgage. I’m homeless while you sleep at your new girlfriend’s every night.”
Adrian at least had the good sense to look contrite, although she wanted to slap the hound dog look off his face. “Things are tight at the company right now, and the insurance is fighting the claim because it was arson. By our own son.” He shook his head, looking as broken as she felt. “If only he hadn’t told the ambulance workers that he did it.”
Kendalee looked toward the corridor that led her to her son’s room. She’d spent enough time away from him today already. “You should go,” she said, quietly.
“I miss him, Kendalee, despite everything that’s happened. He’s my son too.” Adrian’s voice caught at the end of the sentence. “My child.” A child they’d so desperately wanted, one who’d taken three rounds of IVF and countless prayers from her church congregation.
As hurtful and irritating as Adrian’s behavior was, she could hear the hurt and longing beneath. “I know you do. I’ll try speaking to him again.”
Adrian nodded and walked toward the elevator.
As Kendalee approached Daniel’s room, Shannon and one of Daniel’s regular nurses, Chris, stood as if peering inside. Shannon put a finger to her lips in a shushing motion and waved her over. “You have to see this,” she whispered.
At first, all she could see was the making of . . . well, not quite a smile on Daniel’s face. The strawberry blond hair that matched her own flopped in his eyes, but she could still see the deep frown lines were gone, and she was grateful to whatever had taken them away. She peered around a little further, and there, sitting on a chair, was hair. At least that’s what it looked like. Broad shoulders told her it was a man. A very well-built man at that, with tattoos running down each arm. And lots of hair. Longer than hers.
“He’s the guitarist in that band Daniel loves,” Chris added, keeping his voice low.
She was about to take another step back out of sight—scared of interrupting the first thing she’d seen brighten Daniel’s mood since the accident—when the man ran his hand through his hair, pulled it back off his face, and leaned back in the chair.
Dear Lord. He was dangerously good-looking.
There was a very striking resemblance between the shirtless man on Daniel’s posters, whose obscenely healthy body was covered with sweat and who held a guitar in a way that suggested he was about to make out with it, and the man sitting on the chair. Goddamn. Her body and mind had been through enough of a rollercoaster ride the last few weeks without adding into the mix letching at a guy who was likely a decade younger than her.
Especially one who was actually connecting with her son.
* * *
Elliott leaned back in the chair and looked around, noticing the Preload posters that decorated the room and the medical equipment that stood guard on either side of the bed. Then he forced himself to properly take in the kid. Daniel. Mid-blue eyes the color of his favorite denim tracked his every movement. Both legs were wrapped in heavy bandages up past his knees. Burns. Fire. Shit, it was amazing how quickly his head went from on straight to messed up. And after two hours spent with a dying child on the cancer ward—a kid who’d sung their songs with a voice so hoarse he could barely get the words past his vocal cords—he was already emotionally exhausted. It had required every ounce of control to keep from falling apart in front of the kid’s parents, who were doing a way better job of keeping their shit together than he was.
As the adult, he knew he should at least try to lead the conversation until Daniel felt comfortable enough to join in. Especially because he felt the need . . . no, the compulsion to help this kid staring at him through mistrustful eyes.
“Hi . . .” Elliott said as he moved a little closer, aware that the therapist was watching from the doorway. “How are you doing, Daniel?”
“I’m burned on thirty-five percent of my body and
my parents are getting a divorce, so I’m fucking perfect.” He lifted himself up the bed, pressing his fists into the mattress, using his arms to sit up against the pillow.
While Elliott wanted to help him up, he also remembered that the only thing that had mattered to him when he was a teenager was his independence. Oh, and not getting caught for torching the empty store over at the intersection of Jane and Annette in Bloor West Village. He recognized the anger he could feel radiating from the kid—Daniel reminded him of himself when he was young. He wondered if he could help the kid find a path through it.
What the fuck could he possibly say to make anything better, though? He didn’t even want to be there, but he’d felt like a prick when Shannon had explained the kid was his biggest fan and had life-changing injuries.
“That’s shit, Daniel,” he finally said, stating the obvious. “Sorry.” Unsure what else to do, he pulled a silver Sharpie out of his pocket. He tapped it in his palm as he tilted his head in the direction of the poster on the wall. When Daniel nodded, he stood and signed that one and the rest, which gave him something to do with his hands.
“How was the rest of the European leg of the tour?” Daniel asked quietly as Elliott signed the fourth and final poster.
“Amazing and exhausting,” Elliott said, putting the lid on his pen and returning it to his pocket. He grabbed the chair and pulled it closer to the bed. “When we tour Canada this winter, you’ll have to come see us. It’s a crazy show.” He sat down and crossed one knee over the other.
“Doubt my mom will be able to afford tickets, and I’m not sure where I’ll be at,” Daniel said, nodding his chin in the direction of his legs.
Elliott followed his gaze. Poor kid. He could only imagine what lay underneath all the bandages and gauze. “I’ll get your details and send you some passes so you and a few of your friends can swing by backstage.”
Daniel’s eyes went wide. “Really?” he asked. “You’d do that?”
Elliott shrugged because it wasn’t a big deal. Ryan, their manager, took care of all that. All Elliott had to do was show up and be a little chattier than he seemed capable of being right now. “Sure. You just need to get yourself well enough to be able to come. Do you mind me asking what happened?”
Tears welled up in Daniel’s eyes. He sniffed loudly. “I set fire to my parents’ house.”
Brushing an invisible piece of lint off the knee of his trousers, Elliott attempted to kick-start his breathing, his lungs seeming to have stopped functioning. “Why did you do that?” he asked. It was a dangerous question, the answer to which could be one of Elliott’s million triggers. Compulsion was hard to control, and the need to burn something was always right on his limit. If he didn’t get up to his cottage soon, he was going to do something ridiculously stupid. Something that could put the band in jeopardy. Again.
Silence filled the room, pressing down on his chest. Elliott breathed through it as best he could. He was so far out of his fucking depth that he couldn’t begin to figure out which of the tools he’d been given during all the years of his treatment to call on first.
“I . . . it was . . . I . . . fuck.” Daniel thumped his fist into the thin hospital sheets.
“You don’t need to tell me. It’s okay, kid. I’ve been there.”
Daniel eyed him suspiciously. “You know what it’s like to be . . . you know . . . by your uncle?” he asked. The pain in his voice and his inability to use the words cut Elliott in two.
“Not my uncle, no,” Elliott replied, stepping deeper into a conversation he simply couldn’t have. Not with a kid. Not with someone who was so like him when he was younger. Angry, passionate, and desperate. But a nagging voice told him to soldier on. To deal with whatever Daniel said next.
“But someone else?” Daniel sounded almost . . . hopeful, and Elliott remembered what it felt like to try to find someone who was like him, someone who would show his mom that he wasn’t the freak she thought he was.
He uncrossed his legs, leaned toward Daniel, and reached for the kid’s hand. “Yes. It was—”
“Are you okay, Daniel?” a woman asked as she entered the room, lines of concern creasing her forehead. Even worried, she looked fucking glorious, like one of those silent movie stars with high cheekbones and full lips, only instead of black and white, she was all technicolor with masses of strawberry blonde hair that matched the boy’s. She tenderly placed her hand on the boy’s cheek, and for a moment the boy leaned in to her before pulling away angrily, the progress Elliott had made now lost.
His breath stuck in his throat as he watched the interaction between the woman and the boy. He could feel the love between them, even if it was currently blanketed with crap from their current situation. Shocked by the strength of feelings it invoked, he rubbed his hand along his jaw and coughed to clear his throat.
“Mom, please. You’re embarrassing the shit out of me,” Daniel groaned.
At Daniel’s words, the woman smiled and ruffled his hair. Elliott didn’t understand why his complaining could make her so . . . happy.
“I’m sorry, sweetheart,” she said, and turned to face Elliott, piercing him with gorgeous green eyes, ringed with hazel. “You’re really in the band?” She glanced over to the metal posters on the wall. “Preload?” Her tone said metal wasn’t her thing, and he tried not to grin. It wasn’t everyone’s cup of tea, but for a moment, he’d kind of hoped it’d be hers.
“Guilty as charged,” he said and leaned his head toward one of the posters.
Her eyes widened as they went from the picture of him at his hot, sweaty, shirtless best to the real him standing right there. “Oh, right. Yes,” she blurted.
Yeah, he looked good naked and knew it, but something about Kendalee seeing it, and blushing, said every hour he spent in the gym was worth it.
“This is totally embarrassing,” Daniel mumbled, and cradled his head in his hands.
Damn. She was staring at him, and he liked it. Liked the way those eyes of hers held his as she bit her lip. And maybe he was hearing things, but he could have sworn the air crackled between them.
She shook her head, a move that sent her strawberry blonde ponytail swaying, and took a deep breath. “Well, thank you for swinging by to see Daniel. He loves your music. I’m Kendalee,” she said, taking a step closer to him and offering him her hand.
He gripped it tightly. Her hand was warm and soft under his calloused fingers and he couldn’t resist rubbing his thumb along the crease between her thumb and index finger. Her fingers were slender and long and . . . shit . . . a wedding band. Then he remembered. Daniel had said they were getting a divorce.
It was wrong to be relieved by that. Right?
Kendalee. It was unusual. Unique, like she was. Like the way the two dainty stones of the cartilage piercing in her ear sparkled in contrast to the conservative hair style and boring uniform that did little to hide her sweet curves. She was likely a little older than he was, but that didn’t bother him at all. Hot was hot, not age dependent. “I’m Elliott. And I totally understand. I was just telling Daniel that if he works on his rehab, I’ll send him some tickets and backstage passes to the Toronto shows at the ACC in the winter.”
They both looked over to Daniel, who had dropped his hands.
“That’s the closest I’ve seen you get to a smile in weeks, Daniel Joseph Walker,” Kendalee said teasingly. “It looks good on you, kid.”
Daniel looked at her briefly, then at her hand gripping Elliott’s. She dropped it quicker than if it had scalded her, and he missed her warmth immediately. “Sorry,” she said, visibly embarrassed. Elliott grinned. “Please. Take a seat. Continue. Whatever.”
It was probably wrong to flirt with a sick kid’s mom in her son’s room, but he’d never been much for rules or appearances. And the Hippocratic Oath didn’t apply him. Or at least he didn’t think it did.
“Can I get a picture with you before you leave?” Daniel asked. “My friends will never believe this fucking shit.”
“Daniel, please,” Kendalee said. “We’ve talked about this. Swearing isn’t appropriate.” She rolled her eyes in his direction as Daniel looked down at the bed covers and picked at a loose thread. Elliott smiled quickly before Daniel lifted his head.
“In the big scheme of things, Mom, not sure my dropping the odd f-bomb here and there is really the worst thing.”
“You’re right, it’s not,” she conceded. “But sometime soon, you aren’t going to be in here, and the worst will be past, and I don’t want this to have become a habit. And it’s disrespectful to curse around me.”
“Fuck, Mom, seriously. What are you going to do if—”
“She’s right, Daniel,” Elliott said, wanting to help him understand. “If you know the band, you probably know I grew up in a group home, right?” he continued, unsurprised by the flicker of shock that momentarily passed over Kendalee’s face. “Ellen ran the home, still does. If I swore at her, I’d never hear the end of it.”
It was a little white lie. Now he was older, he did swear at her on occasion, and Ellen would swear back if required.
It had been a frying pan that had put him on the road toward Ellen. After his stepfather had grabbed the hot pan off the stove, complete with bacon and fat, and beat him with it, he’d needed a hospital stay for his burns. The nurse there had noticed all the other scars, which had led to a series of seven sets of foster parents, one burned-down fence, and one torched shed on an allotment that nobody had given a shit about until he had reduced it to ashes. And then, finally, to Ellen.
“But it’s less about what your mom is going to do to you if you don’t stop,” Elliott continued. “It’s more about learning to be respectful. And you can bet your ass that if I had a mom who cared for me as much as yours does, I sure as sh—I mean, I certainly wouldn’t swear at her.” Elliott turned to look at her. “Sorry,” he said. “Not used to talking to kids.” For once he was embarrassed, something that didn’t happen often.
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