Her mother set the pasta on the table, artfully decorated with sprigs of fresh parsley. Shannon wondered whether she bothered to do that when she ate alone most nights.
"Carol Hansen is sleeping with the golf pro." She smirked. "Apparently, he's partial to cougars. Her poor husband doesn't even seem bothered by it. I swear she wears something new every day. That gullible fool spends thousands to keep her in Oscar de la Renta and she repays him by sleeping with a thirty year old."
Twirling pasta on her fork, Shannon shrugged. A hot, thirty-year-old sounded pretty damned good right about now.
Chapter 2
Curt frowned, remembering he'd been forced to park in the commuter lot for his class this evening. Normally, he wouldn't mind. But, lately . . . His leg was getting worse. He'd known he was pushing it by working late at the office. He'd become the living embodiment of the Catch-22. Knowing his days were numbered with the fast approaching surgery, Curt had been cramming fourteen hour days to prepare for the several week absence after surgery. With no one running the office, he was forced to perform tasks that consumed hours he could have better utilized in bidding new work and scheduling the contracts Four Seasons was already committed to.
The last thing he should've taken on was teaching the Introduction to Security System Design class at the community college. But, at the time he'd committed to it, his leg had been 'normal' painful. Thoughts of surgery had been shoved to the back of his mind. His plan had been to keep postponing it until he could no longer walk.
"Looks like that day has arrived." Stepping gingerly down the last set of stairs, several students passed him. For a wistful moment, he appreciated the glorious range of motion they all took for granted. Bouncing down those stairs, with knees that worked properly, cushioning the movement. Ligaments steering them in the right direction as they performed athletic feats their owners had no knowledge of. Eighteen and nineteen year olds—their whole lives ahead of them—unable to fathom how a split second . . . a damned moment in an otherwise uneventful day . . . could change everything.
By the spring of the year he turned twenty, the course of his life had already been altered forever. The morning before his accident, he awoke with two great legs. Two incredible knees. Beautiful, perfect, athletic knees that had carried him down the basketball court effortlessly.
The next time he woke, several weeks had passed. Emerging from the coma, he'd learned the severity of his injuries. His leg had been severely damaged by the impact with the vehicle he'd collided with. His girlfriend had—thankfully, been uninjured. But, by the time he woke up, she'd disappeared, unable to bear the knowledge of what he'd done. Curt had been left to face two more surgeries and the year-long recovery his injuries demanded. After that, the trial. More difficult than the jail sentence for what he'd done, was the proceeding itself. Facing the woman's family each day. Knowing he'd destroyed not only his own life, but those of an innocent family. Even after serving his time, Curt had been left to endure an endless sea of days, awakening each morning to the briefest moment of peace . . . until he remembered. He'd taken a life. Every day since, he relived the impact of a single moment.
Grateful to clear the lobby without stumbling and embarrassing himself, Curt pushed through the double doors, heading out into the cool, night air. The summer-scented night soothed him momentarily. Despite what had happened thirteen years earlier, he'd finally—with therapy, been able to envision a future for himself. Therapy and an unrelenting brother.
Travis had never given up on him, bullying him through his recovery, through the endless months of physical therapy. Sticking by him during his prison sentence. But, it was Travis' wife, MaryJo who'd finally provided the perspective that had eluded him for years. Accident. His actions—selfish . . . stupid and careless—had not been deliberate. Acknowledging that had made a huge difference. His remorse could finally serve a purpose.
Grimacing, he began the long hobble to the far side of campus. He'd be sweating by the time he got there. Hell, he was sweating now. Ignoring the nausea roiling his stomach, he blinked to clear his vision. His doctor's fateful words buzzed in his head with each agonizing step. 'Four years, Curt. Not a moment longer'. Why had he believed he could gamble with Dr. Sullivan's prediction? Partly, it was the dread of another surgery. This would be his fifth in the last decade. Maybe it was knowing the recovery would be a nightmare. It would be long. Painful. Debilitating. He would be helpless for several weeks. He would suffer. Four Seasons would suffer. And anyone unlucky enough to be stuck managing his care would suffer, too.
So, he'd pushed the surgery from his mind. For not one year, but an idiotic two past the expiration date. As he ignored doctor's orders, pain was something he'd learned to live with. But now—it was weakness, too. His bad leg wouldn't support him. What was left of his knee and the floppy, abused, patched together ligaments were crying uncle. "Fate is gonna bite me in the ass."
Ten minutes later, he was only a quarter of the way to his truck. His knee felt like mush trying to support his weight. One wrong step and he was going down. Spying an unoccupied bench, Curt flopped down to regroup. What the hell was he going to do? Resisting the urge to massage his knee, he was a little afraid of what he'd find.
"Okay—if I can just make it to the truck, I can drive myself home." Fat chance, his brain taunted. Determined, he shoved the thought aside. Once he got home—if he pulled up close, he could hop to the steps leading to the porch. "Hell—you can crawl to them." It would be dark. No one around to see this latest humiliation. Once he reached the steps—he could sit on them to push himself up. That would leave the length of the porch; the step up through the front door and about twelve hobbled paces to the couch.
"I'll wear the brace," he muttered, bargaining with God and the rapidly emptying parking lot. "And the crutches," he emphasized. He should have been doing exactly that for the past several months. Shivering as his sweat-drenched shirt dried in the scented breeze, he inhaled several lungfuls of cool, night air. He could not afford to pass out. "Jeez, Curt—what else can you screw up?" If he'd taken care of himself, he'd be in his truck driving home right now. "Instead of praying the campus police don't find you sitting here on their midnight rounds."
HER NEVER-ENDING NIGHT was entering its final phase as Shannon walked leisurely to her car. A cool breeze lifted the hair from her collar, the pounding headache she'd arrived on campus with, a distant memory. The worst part of her evening was safely in the rearview mirror. As hoped, she'd scored a half pound of pasta from her mother. Garlic-infused payment for the interrogation—sitting in containers on the front seat. "I might eat it again when I get home."
She'd parked in her usual space, comforted by the flood of light spilling from the library. Around her, car doors slammed as a flood of adult learners rushed to leave the idyllic campus, their evening classes ended. Young, old and ages in between. Shannon loved being on a campus again, even if it was only to kill time. Despite all the loans, she'd loved every minute spent earning her nursing degree. Now that she'd had a taste of working in the business world, she hoped at some point to return—maybe take a few business and marketing classes. A nudge toward her dream of one day indulging her passion for rehabbing old, forgotten furniture.
If she hadn't been observing everyone else leaving campus, she likely would have missed the prone figure on the bench. A man. Not casually sitting. Not waiting for a ride. He was more or less sprawled across the park bench. Even from a distance, he appeared to be in pain.
Tugging her cell from her pocket, she crossed the deserted lot. Not one to take unnecessary risks, Shannon knew she could assess his need for help and dial campus police practically at the same time. Glancing around, she acknowledged seven people within shouting distance—in case her instincts proved to be off.
"Sir . . . can I help you?" Drawing closer, she watched him shift hastily upright. "Are you alright?"
"Fine. I'm . . . great. No problem." He waved her off. His mistake was in attempting to stand. As
his leg crumpled beneath him, she experienced a flash of recognition in the agonized grimace on his face before he slumped to the ground.
"Curtis? Is that you? Mr. Forsythe?" Shannon closed the gap between them, dropping to her knees to assist him. "Don't try to move."
"I don't think that will be a problem." His words were released on a harsh groan. Through a haze of pain, his eyes cleared for a moment. "Sh-Shannon? From . . . the interview? Is that you?"
Focused on his leg, she was careful to run her hands lightly over the joint. Though it was hard to conduct an assessment through his clothing, she guessed the ACL had finally given out. His knee appeared to be distended. "Oh, Curt . . . this isn't good. We need to get you home," she announced. "You're going to need crutches until you can get your surgery scheduled."
"Already scheduled," he rasped. "Four weeks. Crutches at home."
Shannon took a mental inventory of the items in her trunk. She needed something to brace the leg until she could get him upright. And into a vehicle. Hell—and to get him home. Wherever the heck that was. "I don't have an immobilizer, but I have a couple knee straps in my trunk," she remembered. The agency had given her a starter pack of supplies for the elderly client she was visiting three days a week. But, cantankerous Mr. Sleighton had refused to use them.
"If you can just help me up, I can make it to my truck."
"On a leg that won't support you?" Lifting her head, she gazed across the nearly empty parking lot. "Where's your truck? I don't see it."
"I had to park in Q lot tonight. I worked late."
Incredulous, she met his gaze. "Q lot? What was your plan? Crawling there?"
The tension in his eyes was replaced with annoyance. "Could you just get me up on the bench? Please? I'll take it from there."
"Not until I get that knee strapped." Disregarding his muttered curse, she squatted beside him, level with his piercing stare. Though he was hurting badly, Curtis appeared to be more concerned about looking helpless.
"I've lived with a bum leg for a long time. I think I can manage."
Normally, Shannon tried to humor her patients, cajoling them into getting on board with their treatment plan. But, it was late, and she was tired. "Look, my car is right there. I'm going to drive it over here. I'm going to strap your knee and then we can discuss whether I drive you to your truck or drive you home. Got it?"
Forsythe scowled up at her. "You hid the bossy part of your personality pretty well this afternoon."
"Duh—I was trying to get a job." Shifting closer to him, she smiled before reaching behind him. "It's one of many flaws," she confessed. "If you hire me, you'll eventually discover them all. For now—put your arm around my neck."
"Is this really necessary?"
"On three, we make one clean move," she explained, ignoring his question. Her face was inches from his. So close, she could smell him. Despite the white lines around his mouth, he had amazingly well-formed lips. Perspiration mingled with the faint remnants of an earthy cologne that would likely induce swooning, had it been fresh. Her sworn enemy smelled as good as he looked.
Why are you helping him? When she could exact revenge now. He was damn near helpless. Alone in a parking lot. Late at night. Sure, he could call campus security for help. But it might take a while. On the flip side, revenge now meant she wouldn't get the job. Though if his expression was any gauge of her chances, she'd probably blown that opportunity, too. "I'm going to hoist you up, then a smooth drop to the bench. You'll have about three inches to close the gap."
"Don't hurt yourself," he muttered as he complied.
If not for the darkness, she could've seen the startling, arctic blue irises of his eyes. "Don't move your leg," she reminded. "Keep it straight. Let me guide you."
It went smoother than she'd expected. Though he was heavy, Curt was able to bear a substantial amount of weight on his left side. He'd become adept over the years at over-compensating for his damaged leg. Sprawled back on the bench, he panted from the effort.
"How's the pain?" Resting for a moment beside him, she scooped her keys from her bag.
"Been worse." His jaw clenched tight, perspiration dotted his forehead.
No way in hell would he be able to drive. He was shocky with pain. Absently, she lifted the tail of her sweatshirt and blotted his face. Rummaging through her bag, she withdrew a water bottle. "Sip this. It will help your muscles recover from the shock."
"I think you'd be underutilized as my office manager," he said, staring at her as he accepted the bottle.
"Why not look at it as gaining two skills for the price of one?" She forced a light tone, surprised by her reaction to his nearness. Okay—so, Curt was hot. Maybe admitting it would make her stomach stop fluttering. How could she be the one uncomfortable, when he was practically at her mercy? "Okay—let me get the car and I'll be right back. Don't even think about moving."
"SWEET JESUS." CURT blinked to clear the cloudiness from his eyes, unwilling to miss a nano-second of Shannon's legs hustling across the parking lot. The swing of her gleaming ponytail under the lamplight. "You were right about her legs." Their amazingness. Though he'd admired them in a skirt, there was no comparison to the leggings they were clad in now.
His knee throbbed mercilessly—the muscles in his leg seizing in reaction to the trauma. Yet, his brain was no longer focused on pain. Moments earlier, he'd been nearly faint with the nauseous, shivery, tunnel vision that prefaced the certainty he was about to pass out.
But now, his mind was busy—peeling stretchy, black material down the beautiful legs scissoring away from him. Imagining them wrapped around him. When she'd lifted her sweatshirt to wipe his forehead, he'd caught a tantalizing glimpse of a pale, curved stomach and the tease of a sweet, floral scent he wanted to know better. When she'd slung her arm around his waist, he'd been pressed against a soft, curvy body that had set his on fire.
Blinded by her oncoming headlights, Curt's thoughts were jarred back to the present. God, he seriously did not want to move. The pain had settled into a dull strum, his traumatized muscles already stiffening in protest. Another move would start the excruciating sequence going again. Blowing out a breath, he forced himself to relax.
Rounding her car, Shannon stopped at the trunk. Curious, he watched for a minute before forcing himself to look away. “Perfect. She’s got a great ass, too.” She delved into the trunk, tossing things from one side to the other.
"I'll be right there. Just looking for the-"
Her mumbled words were lost inside the trunk. Curt shook his head. Sex was something he shouldn't be thinking about right now. If all had gone according to plan, he'd specifically blocked out several evenings leading up to his surgery. It would have been easy enough to pick someone up, take her home and exercise the lust from his system. Because after the surgery, it would likely be months before he had sex again. And he hadn't had any lately. Work had been insane for months. Fourteen hour days didn't allow much time to invest in meeting women. Hell, he should have been overdosing on women the past few months. Storing up for the hibernation. But, he hadn't realized the meter was running. Hadn't counted on his knee giving out early—turning his sexual dry spell into what would likely become a months-long, scorched-earth drought. "You're cursed."
Shannon returned, pink-cheeked and pleasantly disheveled from her venture into the trunk. "Okay, I've got a couple knee straps. I'm going to place one right above your knee and another one below it." She frowned. "Not ideal, but it's better than nothing."
"I won't be able to roll up these jeans."
"We could-"
"You're not cutting them." Despite his dread of the next few minutes, he managed a smile. Shannon's expressions were pretty easy to read. "They're only like . . . five years old."
"Only five?" Her grin suggested he was either cheap or in serious need of a wardrobe upgrade. "So, I guess we're going with over the jeans."
Kneeling before him, she worked the first strap up his leg. Her hands were gentle, but c
learly capable as she slid the first strap into place—a thin rubber barrier that would hopefully keep his wayward, atrophied ligaments in place long enough to get him home. There, his giant, hideous brace awaited him, ready to imprison his leg for the next several months. Along with the hated, but necessary crutches. Would there ever be a time he walked without a limp? Without pain? Without the fear of something moving the wrong way at the wrong time?
The only good thing in his life right now was Shannon's hand on his thigh . . . and he was in too much pain to enjoy it. When she finished the second strap, she raised her gaze to his, the smile in her eyes unexpected.
"Ready to make a try for the car?"
An hour earlier, the question would've been ludicrous. Now, he braced himself. She'd pulled her compact car to within three feet of their current location. Yet, he knew moving was gonna hurt like a bitch. Bending to get into her vehicle would be worse. Then—bending to climb out. Finagling himself into his truck. Out again at home. A shiver of dread rolled over him. "Yeah. Let's get this over with."
Five minutes later, eyes shut, Curt leaned back, battling his brain’s message to pass out. The interior of her car smelled fantastic. Or—it would've been fantastic . . . if his stomach wasn't heaving with the effort it had taken to land his mangled body there. "Do I smell garlic?"
"Sorry." Shannon offered an apologetic smile as she rolled down the windows. "Leftovers from my mother. I stopped there for dinner tonight. Are you feeling queasy?"
He nodded, gulping in fresh air. Now that they were finally moving, the cool breeze would help. By mutual consent—or more like him basically giving in to her persistence, they'd agreed she should just drive him home. He’d retrieve his truck tomorrow. At the moment, he couldn't summon the energy to give a damn. Despite their careful, coordinated movement, he'd wrenched his knee getting into her car. Pain that had settled into a monotonous, dull throb, had reactivated, leaving him drenched in sweat and battling his stomach's violent desire to puke out her window. His brain locked down with dread, he leaned back against the headrest. You still have to make it into the house.
Out of the Ashes Page 3