Legally Yours (Spitfire Book 1)

by Nicole French

  His face was swollen and purple, with an ugly cut across one eye and bandages over his nose that would have made him unrecognizable if it hadn’t been for the characteristically floppy hair hanging limply over his distorted features. His left hand was dressed heavily in gauze and splints, while the rest of him lay prostrate, propped up on various pillows for maximum comfort.

  “We’re keeping him sedated and have given him enough medication to manage the pain,” Dr. Carraway informed me.

  “Will he be okay?” I asked quietly. “Just give it to me straight, please. I drove a long way to be here tonight.”

  Dr. Carraway looked at me frankly. “Well, essentially your dad got the shit beat out of him, if you’ll excuse my French.”

  I exhaled and smiled grimly. I was relieved to have a doctor who was willing to be honest.

  “Did—did he say how it happened?” I asked, unable to pull my horrified gaze away from Dad’s maimed form.

  The doctor shook her head. “No. I suspect he’s scared of whoever did it. He had six broken ribs, a fractured nose, a fairly serious liver laceration, and his hand was essentially crushed. Three second, third, and fourth metacarpals with multiple fractures, and two phalanges as well. I’ve seen injuries like these before, and they require a bit more…equipment…than just a few punches to the gut.”

  Immediately all I imagined Dad bloodied and frail on the ground while some faceless goon went at him with a bat. My throat felt like it was going to close in. Dr. Carraway put a kind hand on my shoulder, although I could tell she wasn’t the kind of person who generally offered much in the way of comfort. That was okay. Her job was to take care of my dad, not me.

  I swallowed down my nausea and continued to listen to his prognosis. The emergency surgery to repair his liver was successful, she said, but he would need another to repair the bones in his hand as soon as he could handle it. She expected that would be in another two or three days, as soon as the biggest dangers from the liver repair had passed. As long as everything went all right, he would be out of the ICU tomorrow, but he’d have to stay in the hospital for observation until the second surgery.

  “It’s not as bad as he looks,” she said kindly. “The hand is really the worst part now, and it’s not life-threatening.”

  That wasn’t saying much. She didn’t know how important his hands were to him.

  “When will he wake up?” I asked.

  She shrugged. “Probably not until tomorrow morning, I’d hope. We’ve got staff here 24-7 to monitor him, but it’s best that he sleeps. You could go home and take care of your grandmother. She seemed like she needs a steady hand.”

  I grimaced. Undoubtedly Bubbe had been giving the hospital staff a major headache while Dad was in surgery.

  “All right,” I said. I reached out to touch Dad’s unmarred hand lightly. He stirred and moaned a little; I drew away immediately, and followed Dr. Carraway back into the hall, where we could talk without disturbing the sleeping patients.

  “What about his hand?” I asked. “Will he…will he regain full function?”

  Dr. Carraway pressed her lips together sympathetically. “Your grandmother mentioned that he plays piano. To be honest, that’s a question for the hand surgeon, Dr. Bennett, who will be here tomorrow morning. He’s great—I know he specializes in some of the newer techniques for metacarpal repair. But I wouldn’t expect a miracle.”

  ~

  I stepped out of the hospital with my phone, ready to call Brandon to let him know I was on my way home. But suddenly all I could see was the shadowy face of my father’s attacker, and I knew what I had to do. I flipped through did a quick search and pressed dial.

  “Nick?” I asked as the phone was answered on the first ring. “It’s Skylar. Yeah, I’m at the hospital now. Is he there tonight?”

  Nick answered me quickly, but I ignored the rest of his admonitions.

  “All right,” I replied. “I get it. Just tell him…I’ll be there on Monday night. Tell him I’ll have what he wants.”

  I pressed the off switch, and stepped out into the street to hail a cab. My stomach had flipped about four times and my hands were shaking. Even so, for the first time all night I felt a sense that I could fix things, even a little.

  ~

  Chapter 31

  The next morning, I woke up to the smell of pancakes. I opened my eyes and squinted in the bright sunlight shining through the cracks of the blinds in my attic room. A dust-speckled ray of light speared the dark interior of my room, landing directly on my face. I sat up, turned on my beside lamp, and shoved my glasses over my nose.

  A glance down at my old alarm clock informed me that it was nine o’clock. I groaned. It was well past three by the time I’d finally managed to fall asleep last night, my mind addled with various imaginings of Dad’s accident that had managed to make their way into my interrupted dreams.

  Slowly, I pushed my blankets aside and slipped my feet into my worn moccasin slippers. My suitcase was still in the back of Brandon’s car, and everything I still had left at the house were all remnants from high school: the Care Bear-covered pajama pants were a Christmas gag gift, my over-sized Snoopy t-shirt a souvenir from a family trip to Atlantic city. I shoved my head through a ratty green hoodie with a peeling Department of Sanitation logo across the front and stepped carefully down the rickety stairs from my attic room.

  As I walked down the second flight to the main floor, the smell of pancakes was even stronger, and I heard the sound of Bubbe’s laughter wafting up with it. Laughter? The last time I’d spoken with her, she’d been close to hysterical. When I’d crept into the house last night, sometime after one, she’d been asleep in her favorite armchair, the TV blaring with old episodes of This Old House. I’d covered her with a blanket and headed upstairs to spend the rest of the night in my own private purgatory.

  I turned the corner into the linoleum-covered kitchen and found Brandon sitting at the kitchen table, long legs spread comfortably in front of him while he sipped a cup of coffee. He wore his usual jeans and a navy Henley, but still managed to look runway-ready—a far cry from my sweatshirt and ratty pajamas.

  He turned and brightened visibly when he saw me standing in the doorway.

  “Morning, Sleeping Beauty,” he said with a show-stopping smile. “I was just about to sneak upstairs and drag you out of bed. Nice get-up, by the way.”

  He nodded up and down at my ragtag ensemble, and I glanced down before shoving a hand through my uncombed hair.

  “Whatever” I mumbled as I trudged over to where Bubbe stood at the stove and laid my head on her small shoulder. “Morning, Bubs. Is there hot water for tea?”

  “It’ll be ready in a minute, bubbela. I started it when I heard you coming down.”

  She flipped a pancake before smiling at me. From far away, you wouldn’t have known she’d spent the last twenty-four hours worried sick about her son, but up close the bags under her eyes were more pronounced, and her normally impervious helmet of hair had multiple strands out of place. More noticeable was the absence of commentary about my appearance, noisy footsteps, or any other improvements she felt I should make.

  I kissed her on the cheek. “Thanks, Bubbe. You’re the best.”

  I walked back over to the table and took a seat across from Brandon, who was watching me curiously over his cup full of my grandmother’s ridiculously strong coffee.

  “When did you get here?” I asked quietly as he reached over to squeeze my hand. “I thought you were staying at a hotel.”

  “I did. But when I didn’t hear from you last night, I got worried, so I came over first thing. Your grandmother was up and let me in.”

  “He came over like a gentleman to check on your father and offer help,” Bubbe added as she flipped another pancake onto the plate already stacked with them on the counter. A skillet loaded with scrambled eggs sizzled as she stirred them around. “I don’t understand why you didn’t offer to let him stay here. We’re not animals, Skylar. We have a
guest room.”

  She turned around to look knowingly at Brandon, as if the sagging double bed shoved into the corner of a room mostly dedicated to storing Dad’s instruments demonstrated something critical about our wealth. It wouldn’t have taken her long to figure out that Brandon had money. Through the window I could see David’s silhouette in the Mercedes, parked in front of the chain-linked fence; even in his casual attire, Brandon looked like he had walked out of a fashion spread, and the white gold of his watchband glinted, untarnished, in the sunlight. I shook my head. The last thing I needed was for Bubbe to get dollar signs in her eyes. I’d be getting engagement tips every day for the next month.

  “I’ll keep that in mind for next time, Mrs. Crosby. I’m sure your guest room is a lot more comfortable than the stiff beds at the Waldorf,” Brandon said as he hid a smile behind the rim of his coffee cup.

  “Ooh, the Waldorf!”

  I shot a look to Brandon as Bubbe hummed with approval. She walked over with the plate of pancakes and a large bowl of eggs. I hopped up from my chair when the kettle on the stove began to whistle.

  “Any word on Dad this morning?” I asked as I poured the water into my mug and started the process of doctoring my tea.

  Bubbe took her seat at the table and began serving everyone monstrous portions, starting with Brandon. “They said he’s awake and should be ready to get out of that place tomorrow. Are you going to visit him today?”

  I nodded as I took my seat at the table. Brandon slid a warm hand over my knee in greeting, but didn’t stop shoveling eggs into his mouth. Bubbe watched him with satisfaction; the guy could really eat.

  “Yes, I am,” I said to her. “He still hasn’t seen me. Plus, I also want to find out what the prognosis is for his hand.”

  “Oy, his poor hand,” Bubbe said as she clasped her own palm to her cheek. “Your poor father—I don’t know what he’ll do if it doesn’t heal right, if he can’t play anymore. Music his one real joy, you see,” she informed Brandon, who nodded, mouth full.

  “I think the bigger question is when he can get himself into some kind of therapy,” I replied dryly. Truthfully, the thought of Dad unable to play anymore cut me so deep I couldn’t yet bear to consider the idea. Not to mention I was more concerned with his immediate circumstances.

  “Therapy? For what?” Bubbe asked, eyes suddenly darting back to Brandon.

  I sighed. I had a feeling she would fight this; Bubbe was not the type who would ever want to believe her beloved son needed psychiatric help. She’d practically ignored it the first time around, when I’d been there to make sure he attended his sessions. This time, however, I’d need her on board in my absence.

  “Bubbe, Dad’s sick,” I said gently, laying a hand on her small, wrinkled one. “He needs help.”

  “Skylar, we have company,” she said, looking back at Brandon with a nervous smile.

  Brandon glanced between us and swallowed his last bite of eggs. Then he stood up. “I’m going to go bring a plate out to David,” he said with a kind look to me. He filled up his plate again and ducked out of the room before Bubbe could protest or even offer extra cutlery.

  I turned back to my grandmother, who was now uncharacteristically quiet, focusing instead on folding and refolding her napkin.

  “This stuff with Dad and Grandad,” I said as lightly as I could, “it’s not their fault. It’s an addiction, Bubbe, and we can help Dad before he gets himself killed from it.”

  A long tear fell down her otherwise stalwart face. She swiped it away with a manicured finger. Several of her nails were uncharacteristically chipped, and a few even looked like they had been bitten down completely. She must have had as terrible a night as I had—maybe worse.

  I took the hand in mine and squeezed, and she finally looked up.

  “I don’t…I can’t…what will people think?” she asked. Her voice was so weak, I wanted to pull her to me and tell her it didn’t matter, that Dad would be fine no matter what. But the truth was, we didn’t know how he would be. Even after everything was healed, we didn’t know how deep he was in, or what kind of psychological damage the possible loss of his hand—his livelihood—would be.

  “I don’t know, Bubbe,” I said. “But I think it will be better than if he’s dead, don’t you?”

  I knew she was thinking of Grandad, and it was maybe a dirty trick for me to even suggest the same fate for her son. But we couldn’t afford to be ostriches with our heads in the sand. Dad needed help, and we needed to be strong enough to make sure he got it.

  She sat there for a moment longer, wiping away a few more errant tears with one hand, gripping mine with the other. Then, at last, she dropped my hand and folded both of hers in her lap. She looked straight at me, her dark brown eyes clear and focused.

  “You say these doctors, this therapy, it will help him? Better than last time?”

  I cocked my head in sympathy. “It’s better than nothing, right?”

  She considered my words for a moment. Then she nodded. “All right, then. You say he needs to go? I’ll make sure he goes. That’s that.”

  I moved to pat her on the shoulder, but she waved my hand away, instead picking up her fork and taking a bite of her breakfast with finality. That was thing about Bubbe—once her decisions were made, there was no more room for talking. Just doing.

  ~

  After breakfast, Brandon snuck upstairs to help me get dressed while Bubbe watched her morning programs. He had to duck to enter the small doorway to my room, but once inside he took a comfortable seat on my unmade bed and looked around curiously.

  “You’re like Cinderella,” he commented. “Living in the attic.”

  I looked around at the exposed rafters and shrugged. “I moved up here when I was a teenager. Privacy.”

  “I can imagine needing that with your grandmother in the house,” Brandon agreed.

  He kicked his shoes off and sat back on the bed, watching me with appreciation as I stripped off my pajamas and yanked a pair of jeans and t-shirt from my duffel. Just as I was starting to tug the jeans over my legs, my arm was seized and I found myself pulled onto the bed atop Brandon’s large, warm body.

  “Come here,” he said softly as he wrapped me close in his arms and tucked my head into the soft knit fabric over his chest. With his touch, I felt the tension in my body lessen a bit as I breathed in his clean, comforting scent. One of his hands splayed against the small of my naked back while the other drifting up to brush stray hairs out of my face. After a moment, he tipped my head up so he could see me clearly.

  “How are you doing?” he asked softly. “I was worried about you last night.”

  I gulped. “I’m sorry. I just…I should have let you know I was on my way. I felt so overwhelmed; I forgot until I got home.” I had ended up sending a quick text before I’d gone to sleep, but I’d collapsed under my covers before receiving his reply.

  He didn’t say anything, just kissed me softly on the forehead and continued to stroke my hair. His movements were gentle, clearly without any kind of ulterior motive despite the fact that I was laying in his arms in next to nothing. And it should have been exactly what I wanted after the previous harrowing night. But instead, the mild restlessness that had been present since I woke up was blooming into something more potent. The rhythmic swell of his chest seemed less comforting and more tempting, as was the intoxicating combination of his shampoo and personal scent. Suddenly, I absolutely no desire just to be held any longer.

  My hands, as if of their own accord, found the hem of his shirt and slid beneath it to find the flat expanse of his belly. I outlined trim lines of his abdominal muscles, humming with pleasure while I pressed my face into his neck, eager to inhale even more of him. When my mouth opened against the delicate skin over his pulse, he inhaled, the hand at my back suddenly tense.

  “Skylar,” he rumbled. His vocal cords vibrated deliciously against my lips.

  “What?” I mumbled against his stubble. My tongue snaked out to pl
ay lightly against his skin, and he shivered.

  “You…erg…you don’t need to do this…ah!” he jumped slightly as my lips sucked more definitely at his jaw. “I just mean…that’s not what I came here for.”

  I pressed one hand into the mattress next to his face and pushed up so I could look over him.

  “Babe?” I asked. I traced one finger down his chest and toyed with the three buttons that closed the collar of his Henley.

  Brandon watched me, his eyes wide and unsure. “Yeah?”

  “I don’t want to be sad right now,” I stated as I unfastened the top button and moved on to the second. “Right now, I just want to be with you. So can we just mess around and pretend for a few minutes like I don’t have a shit day ahead of me?”

  I finished with the third button and pulled his collar open so I could slide my hand under the waffled fabric to feel the expanse of his chest. The hand at my back tightened just a bit more, and pressed me into his side. I leaned in to kiss him gently on either side of his mouth, and he lay stock-still beneath my touch, somehow paralyzed in the moment.

  “Please?” I asked, my mouth hovering just slightly over his. “Can you help me?”

  The word seemed to bring him out of whatever philosophical argument he’d been having with himself. His other hand threaded its fingers roughly through my messy locks and pulled me down, showing me just how thoroughly he could help me with a vigorous kiss.

  “I feel like I’m just a kid again, sneaking into the neighbor girl’s bedroom so we could neck,” he said a few moments later before kissing me again.

  I splayed over his body, eager to feel as much of him as possible beneath me. “Did you do that with a lot of neighbor girls?” I could just imagine Brandon, tall and handsome, if a little gawky, flashing his pearly whites at a girl for an invitation into her bedroom. “Take this off.” I yanked at the hem of his Henley, and he obliged, allow me to pull it over his head so I could look at the smooth, sculpted expanse of his torso.

  “Maybe a few,” he said as he pulled me close again for another thorough kiss. “What about you? Any boys climb in through the attic window?”