Spanked by the Bad Boy

by London Saint James

  “Catch ya on the flip side.”

  Declan barely had time to slide his phone back into its holster when Chris Myer came barreling up the temporary drive in his pickup, excited about something, waving his hand out the open driver’s side window at him.

  Chris parked, jumped out of the truck, and jogged over.

  “DC,” he said, his eyes wide. “I went to grab some takeout for the guys, and I saw Ms. Brooks only a few blocks from here. She’d been in an accident. The EMTs had her strapped to a boarded gurney with a neck brace on, and they were loading her into an ambulance. The little car she was driving looked pretty rough with the front end all smashed up.”

  The blood rushed from Declan’s face about the time something wrenched a good-sized knot in his stomach. “Jett,” he called. “I’m headed out. Cover things around here for me.”

  “Sure,” Jett said, coming over to join them. “What’s up?”

  “Chris saw Ms. Brooks’s car smashed up. She was in some sort of an accident, and I’m going to go to make sure she’s okay.” He turned back to Chris. “Thank you for coming to tell me.”

  Chris nodded. “University Hospital is the closest. My guess, they’ll take her there.”

  Jett put a palm on Declan’s shoulder. “Do what you need to. Things here will be fine.”

  ***

  Dread settled with each heavy footfall as the floor tiles of University Hospital passed beneath Declan’s feet. He’d seen the aftermath of Tiffany’s wreck. The tow truck crew was loading the compact car onto the bed of the trailer during his trip there. From the looks of the vehicle, he knew she was probably hurt. He wanted to smash his fist into the wall, but what good would hitting something do?

  “Damn piece-of-shit car,” he muttered to himself. “If she drove a beefier vehicle, she would’ve probably walked away from the accident instead of being in the hospital.”

  “May I help you?” A round-faced woman wearing glasses asked from behind the nurses’ station when he approached.

  “I’m trying to find Tiffany Brooks. She was in a car accident, and I think she was brought here.”

  She glanced at him over the rim of her glasses. “Are you a relative?”

  He didn’t want to lie, but he was going to do whatever it took to see her.

  “Yes,” he said. “She’s my fiancée.”

  The nurse glanced down at her computer screen for a moment. “She’s still in x-ray,” she said without looking back in his direction. “Around the corner, you’ll find the waiting room.”

  “Thank you,” said Declan, turning on his heel and almost running, chest-to-face, into a middle-aged woman who was gazing up at him. Her inky black hair fell in spiky points around her slender cheeks. “Excuse me, ma’am. I didn’t see you behind me.”

  “Did you say you are engaged to my daughter?” the woman asked in the scratchy voice of a chain smoker.

  “Mrs. Brooks?”

  She waved a dismissive hand. “Heavens, no. I’m Tanya Painter. I made sure I took my name back when I divorced the shit-stain.”

  “Ah. Well, I’m pleased to meet you, Ms. Painter.”

  Blue eyes, reminiscent of Tiffany’s, only icy, scrutinized him from head to toe. “Likewise,” she said. “Although I would have much rather avoided meeting under these circumstances.” She latched onto him. “Come on. The waiting room is this way.” They walked, her arm intertwined in his. At the door of the waiting room, Tiffany’s mother squeezed his bicep. The way she looked at him and her seductive body language made him uncomfortable. “My, my. You are a large fella, aren’t you?”

  He untangled himself from her and held out his hand. “Ladies first,” he said, hoping for her to enter. The gesture might seem gentlemanly, but his main objective was to get the woman off him.

  “Why, thank you.” She winked and touched the tip of her tongue to her top lip before she crossed the threshold. Watching her lift her pointed chin, those shoulders thrown back, hips swaying, Declan knew where Tiffany had learned to sashay. Unwilling to sit beside her for fear she might try to glom onto him again, he took a seat across from her instead. “I suppose I should be upset with my daughter.”

  What a weird thing to say. He frowned. “Why?”

  “She never told me about you, and, clearly, she hasn’t mentioned me, or you would have known I don’t go by the name Brooks.”

  Declan carefully constructed his poker face and considered how to respond.

  Ms. Painter smiled in a stilted way that reminded him of a debutant putting on her best company smile. “No worries, handsome. Tiffany and I aren’t the type of mother-daughter team who share much, if anything,” she said. He nodded, glad she was doing all the talking, and he didn’t need to bother. “When I received the call she’d been brought here, I was surprised. Not only by the fact she’d been in an accident, mind you, but to know I’m her emergency contact.”

  He noticed she never used the word worried.

  She crossed her ankles and placed her oversized purse on her lap. “Tiffany has never really forgiven me for leaving her with her stepfather.” She dug through her purse. “Tif was just a baby when I met Royce. He adopted her.” She pulled out an electronic cigarette, put it to her tangerine-colored lips, and took a drag. “He did cut a handsome figure in his uniform back in the day.” She had a faraway gaze before returning her attention to Declan. “Royce worked for the Denver PD when we first met. Then he up and quit. He took on some private detective jobs, you know, spying on cheating spouses and such. By the time I left, he pretty much hated me. I admit I wasn’t mother of the year when I was with Royce, but I couldn’t take care of Tif and take care of myself, too.”

  There was a pregnant pause, and then her voice lowered when she said, “I’d been on the pills. Nothing off the street or anything. My addiction was all legal prescription pain medication, but they really did a job on me, and I had to straighten myself out.” She pierced him with her ice-blue eyes. “Although I would never have left her with him if I had known.”

  Even though Ms. Painter spoke of the past, and he knew a lot of kids grew up in dysfunctional, crap families, the idea of Tiffany suffering plucked a protective chord inside him that reverberated through his being.

  “Known what?” he asked, placing his right ankle on his left knee.

  “How bad things were going to get.”

  Declan thumped his left heel on the floor. He wasn’t the kind of man who did well with waiting. He was anxious to know if Tiffany was okay, but also concerned with the ominous turn the conversation with her mother had taken.

  “She hasn’t said much about him to me,” he said, feeling a bit guilty for fishing. Obviously, she hadn’t said anything about her father, her mother, or anything about her life to him, but Ms. Painter didn’t need to know that little fact.

  “I’m not surprised.” She took another drag on her fancy replica cigarette. “I don’t think she has seen or spoken to Royce since he was sent up.”

  A bad feeling slithered inside his head, attached to his spine, and tightened.

  “Sent up, as in prison?”

  She made a rather nervous sounding laugh. “There I go, saying things I’m sure Tiffany wouldn’t want me to.” She put on her company smile again. “Now don’t you go a-tellin’ on me, handsome.”

  “I won’t,” he said.

  Declan wouldn’t dare let Tiffany in on his prying into her personal family business although he hoped, in time, she would tell him about her life, the good, the bad, and what he now suspected would be the ugly.

  “Good.” She gave a jaunty shake of her head and pulled the cig from her mouth in a Bette Davis, diva type of way. Then she rested her hand on her knee, the electronic device held betwixt two fingers. “I’m trying to quit the real deal, but I’ve gotta tell you, while these are all the rage, there’s nothing better than an old fashion Marlboro fresh from the package.”

  Chapter Seven

  Tiffany’s head pounded, reminding her of the drum sectio
n of a marching band. Where the seatbelt had yanked on her collarbone and chest, her body throbbed, joining in the ensemble of pain in her neck, back, knee, and wrist.

  “I want you to stay overnight for observation,” the doctor said. “Your neck and back x-rays look good, but I’m concerned about your blood pressure. It’s still too high, and we need to get it down.” He wrote something on the paper clipped to the clipboard he held in his hands. “We’ve already addressed the hairline fracture on your wrist with the brace, but I do suggest seeing your primary care physician for follow-up when you can.” He smiled at her. “You are a lucky woman. Most victims of car accidents as bad as yours was don’t fare so well.”

  She nodded. How in the heck could she have been so completely stupid and careless?

  When she heard the sound of “Shave and a Haircut” tapped out in knuckle raps, she glared at the closed door. Only one person knocked in such a manner. No. No. No. Tamping down the panic and corralling the elephants stomping in her stomach, she took a breath. The dumb knock had to be an odd coincidence.

  “Come in,” she said. Oh, my God. She quickly tried to wiggle her shoulders up in the horrible, half-reclined hospital bed. “Declan. What are you doing here?”

  He grinned. Her heart went into overdrive, beating wildly. Her reaction was silly. She was annoyed by the power he had over her.

  “How are you doing?” he asked, but before she could give a response, her gaze went to the person coming in behind him, and her heart sank to her feet.

  “Mom?”

  “Tif,” said her mother. “You naughty girl. Why didn’t you tell me about this sexy fiancé of yours?”

  She went slack jawed. Her gazed bounced from her mother to Declan.

  The doctor held out a proffered hand to her…fiancé? They shook. “I’m Doctor McFadden.”

  “Declan Cage.”

  “Is Tiffany going to be okay?” her mother asked, turning her attention to the doctor.

  “I’m going to keep your daughter here overnight.”

  Tiffany untucked her hand from her side, displaying the stiff brace she sported. “They need to get my blood pressure down,” she said.

  “Yes,” the doctor said. “However, I foresee a speedy recovery.”

  “That’s good news,” Declan said. Her mother nodded an agreement.

  “It will be a few minutes before they have a room ready and can transfer her upstairs,” said Dr. McFadden. He turned his hazel gaze to Tiffany. “Do you have any questions for me, Ms. Brooks?”

  “No,” she said in a quiet tone.

  “All right. I’ll leave you with your family,” he said, patting her shoulder. “Try to relax.”

  “Okay,” Tiffany said, watching him breeze out of the ER room.

  “So,” said her mother, “when’s the big day?”

  Declan came to the right side of her bed while her mom remained at the foot.

  “Um,” she uttered, feeling the automated blood pressure cuff tighten around her upper arm.

  “We haven’t decided on all the details yet,” he said. “Have we, sugar?” He looked at her with piercing eyes.

  What in the heck?

  “Err…no. Not yet,” she said, playing along.

  He was quiet. And he wasn’t moving. Suddenly, she became aware of all her imperfections.

  She palmed her forehead with her good hand. More than likely, there were puffy bags under her eyes from the crying she’d done after the accident. At first, she’d wept tears of relieved joy because not only had she survived, but the man in the SUV she rear-ended was perfectly fine. Then the tears changed, flowing up from a deep well of self-deprecation and contempt. Even after she promised never again to transform into a wanton floozy, she had. Then she’d been so distracted with thoughts of Declan and the scandalous event, so lost in the details of her actions, that she hit another vehicle and ended up taking a ride in the back of an ambulance.

  She lowered her head and removed the hand, which blocked her face. “I must look horrible.”

  “No,” he said in a husky tone. She glanced up at him from beneath her lashes. “You don’t, Tiffany. You’re beautiful.”

  She blinked. The craziness of her past life had found its way through the cracks, and her ancient history stabbed at her memory.

  Royce had been drinking, but when Tiffany hadn’t heard him stirring about, the eleven-year-old child worried something happened to him. She’d considered her options. She could try not to worry, go back to bed, and tuck herself deep beneath her sheets, or she could leave the safety of her room and check on him.

  Since her mother bailed on them, she was all Royce Brooks had. And, to her horror, he was all she had, too. Her mom had no family to speak of, and Tiffany never knew her biological father. And Royce? Well, Royce’s family wasn’t around either. His father lived in a care facility, and his mother died long before Tiffany’s arrival, so the possibility of living somewhere else, anywhere else, was only a dream. There’d be no grandparents or anyone else coming to her rescue.

  Gingerly, Tiffany put her ear to her bedroom wall. Her stepdad had stopped blaring his music more than an hour ago. Maybe he’d passed out on the floor. Seemed a viable outcome since she’d found him, more than once, sprawled across the den floor, resembling a corpse.

  She paced the length of her bedroom, little hands wringing, and battled with herself. If he’d passed out, she wasn’t big enough or strong enough to get him up from the floor, but she could tuck a pillow under his head and cover him with a quilt, leaving him in the best way she could to sleep off the devil drink.

  With her nightgown tickling her ankles, she tiptoed down the darkened hall and held her breath, not wanting to give herself away in case Royce was still awake. If he were, after boozing, he’d be ornery.

  Tiffany stopped inside the open door. It was quiet, all but for the tick, tick, tick of the clock hanging above the mantel and the rapid tattoo of her heart beating against her throat when she saw him sitting in his leather chair, his unshaven face darkened with stubble. He swirled the whisky around in his glass, gazing at the amber liquid intently before he glanced up at her—eyes black as sin.

  Frozen in the doorway, too afraid to take in the air her lungs needed, she met—not for the first time—the monster hiding inside the man.

  “You are beautiful,” he said to her, his voice low and menacing, not slurred. She’d expected slurred. “Just like your mother.” She knew better than to take what he said as a fatherly endearment or compliment since the last time he called her beautiful, she’d paid him for the tribute in blood. He set the glass on the wide arm of his chair. The fine hairs on the back of her neck stood on end when he rose to his full height, unbuckled his belt, and ripped the leather from the loops of his pants, hearing the ominous snap. “And that’s a problem for me.”

  She absentmindedly swiped the index finger from her left hand across the small scar under her left eyebrow. Out of all the perceivable flaws she’d acquired over the years, she hated this mark the most. It was the first of many blots to scar not only her flesh, but her soul.

  “Sugar?” Declan’s voice intruded, and she realized she’d been lost in thoughts better left buried within the rubble of her past.

  After licking her dry lips, she whispered, “I’m sorry.”

  “Are you in pain?”

  She was, but not the kind of pain he meant.

  “Some.”

  “Do you need me to call the nurse?” She shook her head. “Are you sure?”

  “I’m sure.” She tried to give him a bright smile. “I guess I’m a little preoccupied. I can’t believe I wrecked my car.”

  Tiffany’s mother patted her blanket-covered foot. “The important thing is you’ll be fine.”

  “But it was my fault,” she said.

  “We all make mistakes, and accidents happen,” her mom said in the offhand way she had of sweeping everything of consequence under the rug.

  “I wasn’t paying attention, and that was
plain stupid.” She glanced up at Declan. “Why are you here? You never said.”

  “How rude,” her mother chastised. “Why wouldn’t your fiancé be here with you?”

  She ignored her mom, keeping her attention on Declan’s face.

  “When I heard about your fender bender, I had to make sure you were okay,” he said.

  “Of course you did,” Tanya Painter said in a sort of gravelly coo.

  Tiffany’s gaze shot from Declan to her mother and from her mother to Declan. “How did you know?”

  “Chris saw the aftermath on Cypress Street and came to tell me.” Declan gently swiped a piece of hair from her cheek before the pad of his thumb stroked her temple. Gone was the sexy scowl he usually wore. “I should probably come clean.”

  What did he mean?

  She dropped her gaze to her lap and anxiously smoothed a pesky wrinkle from the section of the blanket covering her thigh. “Clean?”

  “The news you were involved in an accident scared the shit out of me,” he said.

  Tiffany swallowed, not sure what to think about his disclosure or the way his confession made her feel.

  ***

  “Wake up, sugar.”

  Tiffany’s eyelids fluttered open at the sound of Declan’s voice. It took her a second to focus. She blinked, and the room, the hospital room, she realized, came into view with all the mint-green walls closing in around her. The accident hadn’t been a bad dream.

  “Hey,” Declan said. “How are you feeling this morning?”

  She shrugged. “Sore.”

  “Maybe a hot shower would help some of the aches and pains.”

  “Maybe.”

  He pushed a tray of food she didn’t even know had arrived to one side on the adjustable bed table. “I must admit a hospital room, limp bacon, and scrambled eggs plopped on a sectioned tray from the cafeteria isn’t how I pictured our first breakfast together.”

  That seemed rather a strange statement, maybe because she wouldn’t have figured he thought of them sharing breakfast together. Still half-groggy, the word breakfast clacked around until she really heard it. She glanced at the window, the clock on the wall, then back at him, his stubble-covered jaw and wrinkled clothes.