The pinch moved from her heart to the backs of her eyes. “You ran around with coasters because you always wanted everyone to think you were the good twin. The smart twin. The responsible twin.” She pointed across the room at her sister. “And you never had to clean up after me.”
“I’m still cleaning up after you.”
“No. You’re not.”
“Then why are you here?”
“Because I needed my sister.” Her hand fell to her stomach as if she’d just been punched, but she didn’t cry. She was a better actress than she’d ever been given credit for. “I was going to move out of your apartment after I got my first paycheck, but I don’t have to wait. I have enough money for first month’s rent plus a deposit.” She looked into her sister’s blue eyes. They were so different, yet so alike in more ways than just their looks, and they knew exactly what to say to hurt each other. “I know the rest of the family thinks I’m a fuckup, but I never knew you felt that way too.”
Bo dropped her arms. “Now you do.”
“Yeah.” Chelsea turned toward the spare bedroom. “Now I do.” She walked down the hall before her emotions over took her ability to control them. She quietly shut the door behind her and sat on the edge of the bed. Bo was the other half of her soul. The one person in the world who could truly hurt her.
C mowidth="helsea stretched out on the bed and stared at the wall. The only time she ever felt like a loser was around her own family. Her mother was a successful promoter in Vegas. Before his death three years ago, her father had been a cardiologist. Her brother was a lawyer in Maryland. Her older sister lived in Florida, and was a CPA who had a handful of clients and raked in millions. Bo worked in the promotional department for a Stanley Cup–winning hockey team. And Chelsea… was an out-of-work actress.
The only time she was unhappy about her life was when she was around her family. She’d love to please her family by being a household name and having the cachet that brought with it. She’d love to land major movie and TV roles. She’d kill to have more in her portfolio than slasher films, bit parts on TV, and television commercials. She certainly wished her résumé wasn’t filled up with so much background work that it was kind of embarrassing. But that didn’t mean she was an unhappy person. She wasn’t. Sure, she’d gotten fed up with her life in Hollywood. She’d needed a break. Maybe her decision to leave was a little rash, but she was going to go back, and when she did, she’d be better than ever. Her body would be more in proportion. No more backaches. No more shoulder pain. No more slutty bimbo roles.
The door behind her opened, and she felt the weight of her sister on the bed. “I don’t want you to move out.”
Chelsea wiped the tears from her face. “I think it would be best.”
“No.” Bo spooned her like they were kids again and wrapped an arm around her shoulder. “I like having you here, and I want you to stay as long as you want. I’m sorry I said those things. I don’t think you’re a fuckup. I think you’re impulsive and I worry so much about you.”
Chelsea turned and looked into her sister’s blue eyes. “I know, but you shouldn’t. I’ve been taking care of myself for a long time. It might not be in the profession that you or Mom likes, but I’ve never starved.” Except for the few weeks in the beginning when she’d lived in her car, but her family didn’t know that.
“I’m sorry I got mad and said those things to you. I just want you to stay. I’ve missed you.”
“I’ve missed you and I’m sorry too.” Her sister was the yin to her yang. The dark to her light. One could not exist without the other. “I love you, Boo.”
“Love you too, Chels. Sorry I said that about your clothes. I know what you wear is important to you.” Bo gave her a little squeeze, and she could hear the smile in her sister’s voice. “They’re not all that discordant.”
“Thanks. And your clothes aren’t all that boring.” Chelsea laughed. “At least we’ve never had to fight about clothes, like some sisters.”
“True. Or boys.”
Dating had always been tricky. For some reason, if either she or Bo turned a guy down, he’d ask out the other twin. But the sisters never fought over boys because they were attracted to opposite sorts of men. So it had never been a problem. “That’s because you’ve always dated geeky mama’s boys, and I’ve always dated smooth-talking losers. We should both start dating out of our type.”
Bo held up one hand in front of Chelsea and they high-fived. “I don’t want to think about you leaving. So let’s not talk about it for at least three months.”
“Okay.”
“What are you going to wear to work your first day?”
Chelsea thought of the man who’d insulted her intelligence and her clothes. “I have a Gaultier tunic that I wear with a belt and skinny jeans.” If Mark didn’t like Pucci, he was going to hate her feather-?print Gaultier.
“Take it easy on the poor guy, Chels,” Bo said through a big yawn. “He’s only been out of the rehab hospital for a month. I don’t know if his body can take the shock.”
Light from the sixty-inch television screen bounced and shifted across Mark’s bare chest. His right hand squeezed a stress ball as he watched highlights from last night’s game. He sat on a leather sofa in his master bedroom, a black outline in the darkness. The sports coverage changed from the Stanley Cup highlights to that morning’s interview inside the Key. He watched himself and wondered how he could look so normal, sound so normal. The accident that had broken his bones had ripped out his soul. He was empty inside, and into the void had leaked a black rage. It was something he couldn’t get over. Had never tried to get over. Without his anger he was hollow.
With his free hand, he lifted the remote and pointed at the TV. His thumb slid across the up arrow and he skimmed past reality shows and cable reruns. He paused on a porno on Cinemax. On the screen, two women went at it like cats, cleaning each other with their tongues. They had nice tits, shaved coochies, and stripper heels. Normally, it was the sort of high-class entertainment he would have enjoyed. One of the women stuck her face between the other’s legs, and Mark watched for a few moments… waiting.
Nothing lifted his boxer briefs and he hit the off button, plunging the room into darkness. He tossed the gel-filled ball on the couch beside him and pushed himself off the couch. He hadn’t had a decent erection since before the accident, he thought as he walked across the room to his bed. It was probably the drugs. Or perhaps his dick just didn’t work anymore. Surprising that it didn’t bother him as much as it should.
Given his sex life before, not getting it up should freak him out. He’d always been able to get it up. Day or night, didn’t matter. He’d always been ready to go. It had never taken much to get him in the mood. Now, not even hot lesbian porn interested him.
Mark shoved back the thick covers on his bed and crawled inside. He was just a shell of the man he’d been. So pathetic that he might have reached for the bottle of pills sitting on his nightstand and put an end to it all if that hadn’t been even more pathetic. If that wasn’t the chickenshit way out.
Mark had never taken the chickenshit way out of anything. He hated weakness, which was one of the reasons he hated having those home health care workers around, taking his pulse and checking his medication.
Within a few minutes, his Ambien kicked in and he slipped into a deep, restful sleep and dreamed the only dream he’d ever had for himself. He heard the roar of the crowd clashing with the slapv hwith th of graphite sticks on ice and the shh of razor-sharp blades. The smells of the arena filled his nose, sweat and leather, crisp ice, and the occasional waft of hot dogs and beer. He could taste adrenaline and exhaustion in his mouth as his heart and legs pounded down the ice, puck in the curve of his stick. He could feel the cold breeze brush his cheeks, steal down the neck of his jersey, and cool the sweat on his chest. Thousands of pairs of eyes, locked on him; he felt their anticipation, could see the excitement in the blur of their faces as he skated past.
In his dreams, he was back. He was whole again. He was a man. His movements were fluid and easy and without pain. Some nights he dreamed that he played golf or threw the Frisbee for his old dog, Babe. Babe had been dead for five years, but it didn’t matter. In the dream both of them were filled with life.
But in the harsh light of morning, he always woke to the crushing reality that the life he’d always known was over. Altered. Changed. And he always woke in pain, his muscles stiff and his bones aching.
Morning sun filtered through the crack in the drapery and stretched a pillar of light across the foot of Mark’s king-sized bed. He opened his eyes, and the first wave of pain rolled over him. He glanced at the clock on his nightstand. It was eight-twenty-five A.M. He’d slept a good nine hours, but he didn’t feel rested. His hip throbbed and the muscles in his leg tightened. He slowly raised himself, refusing to moan or groan as he moved to sit on the edge of the bed. He had to move before his muscles spasmed, but he couldn’t move too fast or his muscles would knot. He reached for the bottle of Vicodin on the bedside table and downed a few. Carefully he rose and grabbed an aluminum quad cane by his bed. Most days he felt like a crippled old man, but never more so than in the mornings before he warmed up his muscles.
Steady and slow, he walked across the thick beige carpet and moved into the bathroom. The aluminum cane thumped across the smooth marble floors. For most of his adult life, he’d awakened in some degree of pain. Usually from hard hits he’d received in a game the night before or from related sports injuries. He was used to working through it. Pain had always been a part of his adult life, but nothing on the scale he suffered now. Now he needed more than Motrin to get him through the day.
The radiant heat beneath the stone warmed his bare feet as he stood in front of the toilet and took a leak. He had an appointment with his hand doctor this morning. Normally he hated all the endless doctor’s appointments. Most of his time at the clinic was spent sitting around waiting, and Mark had never been a patient man. But today he hoped to get the good news that he no longer needed to wear the splint on his hand. It might not be much, but it was progress.
He pushed hair from his eyes, then flushed the toilet. He needed to make an appointment to get his hair cut too. He’d had it cut once in the hospital, and it was bugging the hell out of him. The fact that he couldn’t just jump into his car and drive to the barber ticked him off and reminded him how dependent he was on other people.
He shoved his boxer briefs down his legs, past the dark pink scar marring his left thigh and knee. Of all the things that he missed about his old life, driving was near the top of the list. He hated not being able to jump into one of his cars and take off. He’d been in one hospital or another for five months. He’d been home now for a little more than one month, and he felt trapped.
Leaving the cane by the toilet, he placed his good hand on the wall and moved to the walk-in shower. He turned on the water and waited for it to get warm before he stepped inside. After months of hospital sponge baths, he loved standing in the shower on his own two feet.
Except for the injury to his right hand and a fracture to his right tibia, most of the crushing damage had been done to the left side of his body. His ability to drive was one thing the doctors assured him he would get back. He looked forward to the day when he didn’t have to rely on anyone for anything.
The hot water sprayed across his chest, and he stuck his head beneath the powerful stream. He was fairly sure he’d gotten rid of the health care worker with the two-toned hair and the Pucci.
Water slid into the crease of his smile as he remembered her scandalized gasp. The way she’d said “Pucci,” he’d figured it had to be some high-priced designer. She’d said it like his former wife had said, “It’s Chanel.” He didn’t care how much something cost. He knew ugly when he saw it.
He washed his hair and soaped up his body, then reached for the detachable showerhead and turned it to massage. He held it against his hip and left thigh and let the hot water beat the hell out of his muscles. It hurt like a son of a bitch but gave him relief from the sharpest pain. When he was finished, he dried himself and brushed his teeth. A day’s growth of beard darkened his cheeks and jaw. Instead of shaving, he moved into the huge walk-in closet and dressed in a pair of blue nylon jogging pants and a plain white T-shirt. He shoved his feet into black Nike flip-flops because tying shoes was a hassle. Yesterday morning before the news conference, it had taken him forever to button his shirt and tie his shoes. Well, maybe not forever, but things that he used to do by rote now took thought and effort.
He placed the splint on his right hand and tightened the Velcro before he grabbed his black titanium cane from the couch where he’d been sitting last night.
The original homeowners had a servants’ elevator built inside a large closet down the hall. With the aid of his cane, Mark walked out of the bedroom and past the spiral stairs he used to take two at a time. He glanced over the ornate wrought-iron and wood railing as he moved across the landing. Sunlight poured in through the heavily leaded glass in the entry, tossing murky patterns on the marble floor below. He opened the closet door and rode the small elevator down. It opened into the kitchen, and he stepped out. He poured himself a bowl of Wheaties and ate at the kitchen table because he needed something in his stomach or the medication he took would make him nauseous.
For as long as he could remember he’d eaten the Breakfast of Champions. Probably because it’s what his father could afford to feed him. Sometimes he couldn’t remember what he did last week, but he could recall sitting at his gran’s old kitchen table, a white sugar bowl in the center of the yellow tablecloth, eating Wheaties before school. He remembered perfectly the morning in 1980 when his grandmother had set the orange box on the table and he’d stared at the Olympic hockey team on the front. His heart had stopped. His throat closed as he’d looked at Dave Silk, Neil Broten, and the guys. He’d been eight and they’d been his heroes. His grandmother had told him he could grow up and be anything he wanted. He’d believed her. There hadn’t been a lot he’d believed in, but he believed het he be his grandmother Bressler. She never lied to him. Still didn’t. Not even when it would be easier. When he’d woken from his coma a month after the accident, hers was the first face he’d seen. She’d stood next to his father by the foot of his bed and she’d told him about the accident. She’d listed all his injuries for him, starting with his skull fracture and ending with the break in his big toe. What she hadn’t mentioned was that he’d never play hockey again, but she hadn’t had to. He’d known by the list of his injuries and the look in his father’s eyes.
Of the two adults in his life, his grandmother had always been the strong one. The one to make things better, but that day in the hospital, she’d looked exhausted and worn thin. After she’d listed all his injuries, she’d told him that he could still be anything he wanted. But unlike that morning thirty years ago, he no longer believed her. He’d never play hockey again, and they both knew that was the only thing he wanted.
He rinsed his bowl as the heavy chimes of the front doorbell sounded. He hadn’t called for a driver yet, and could think of only one other person who’d show up at such an early hour.
He reached for his cane and walked out of the kitchen and through the hall. Before he reached the front of the house, he could see a kaleidoscope of color through the muted glass. He balanced on his feet and pulled open the door with his good hand. The health care worker stood on his porch wearing her big sunglasses and yellow and red hair. Her piece-of-shit Honda was parked in the driveway behind her. “You’re back.”
She grinned. “Good morning, Mr. Bressler.”
She looked like she was covered in painted feathers. Like a peacock. A peacock with large breasts. How had he missed those? Maybe the pain he’d been in. Most likely the ugly orange jacket.
“You like the shirt?”
He raised his gaze to hers. “You wore it just to irritate me.”
Her grin widened. “N
ow why would I want to irritate you?”
* * *
Chelsea pushed her sunglasses to the top of her head and looked way up at the man standing in the entryway’s natural light. His damp hair was brushed back. It curled around his ears and along the neckline of his bright white shirt. He scowled at her from beneath dark brows; the annoyance shining in his brown eyes made his feelings for her clear. He hadn’t shaved, and a dark shadow covered his cheeks and strong prominent jaw. He looked big and bad and dominant. All dark and foreboding, and she might have been a little intimidated if he hadn’t had the longest lashes she’d ever seen on a man. Those lashes were so out of place on his chiseled masculine face that she smiled.
“Are you going to invite me inside?” she asked.
“Are you going to go away if I don’t?”
“No.”
He gave her a hard look for several long seconds before hemp „ turned and walked across the stone flooring. As she’d noticed yesterday, he moved slower than men of his age. His cane was a smooth extension of his left hand. What she hadn’t noticed was that he used the cane on his left side, the wrong side. She might not have noticed at all if not for the big brouhaha about Gregory House using his cane on the wrong side in the television medical drama House. The writers of House had made a mistake, but she supposed Mark Bressler used the wrong side because he wore some sort of splint made of aluminum and blue Velcro on his right hand.
“There’s nothing for you to do today,” he said over his shoulder. “Go home.”
“I have your schedule.” She closed the front door behind her, and the three-inch heels of her sandals echoed on the marble floor as she followed him into a large office filled with hockey memorabilia. “You have an appointment with your orthopedic doctor this morning at ten-thirty and an interview with Sports Illustrated at one o’clock at the Spitfire.”
Nothing but Trouble hs-5 Page 3