Unconditional: A Coming of Age Romance Novel (Always)

by Cherie M Hudson

  “Tell us your name!”

  “Give us a smile.”

  I swear to God, it was like they were a pack of ravenous hyenas and I was a…a…shit, a gazelle or some other delicate creature they’d devour.

  I blanched and flinched at every blinding flash. I raised my arm in an attempt to shield my face from their greedy, predatory stares, noticing all too late my hand shaking like mad.

  Fuck. Here we go. Stress-induced tremors. Joy.

  The horde of paparazzi didn’t let up. Not even when I shoved my way free of them. Apparently, I must have said something because suddenly they were demanding to know where in America I was from, still taking photos as they hurried beside me.

  I walked as fast as I could one way, stopped and tried to get my bearings. It was impossible. I had no idea where I was other than somewhere in Paddington. I didn’t even know where Raph’s pickup was in relation to where I was now.

  The paparazzi badgered me still, a collective unit of tenacious irritation. Like some hive mind, they shadowed my every move, shouting questions at me.

  It really was ridiculous. And scary.

  Yeah, I was scared.

  I wasn’t cut out for this type of thing. My body and brain, what with its faulty design, wasn’t genetically equipped to deal with it.

  Biting back a sob, I yanked my phone from my bag and tried to wake it up. Unfortunately, my hand and fingers were shaking so much it took me five fucking tries before I could get my thumb to connect with the correct place on the screen, let alone swipe it smoothly.

  By then, I was walking with my head down, bumping off paparazzi and basically stressing the fuck out.

  I dropped my phone, bit back a curse, bent over to pick it up before someone—most likely me the way I was going—stomped on it.

  Thank freaking God, I straightened without falling over. I don’t know what I would have done if I’d lost balance and fallen to the ground. Cry, no doubt. Which would not only be embarrassing, but would be also be captured by the slathering photographers around me, ending up on the net where the world could witness my humiliation.

  Still refusing to look anywhere else but at my phone, I powered down the sidewalk, surrounded by shouting, questioning paparazzi. They were relentless. They had the smell of blood in their noses, and no matter how much I ignored them, they weren’t going to leave me alone.

  I had to get away somehow.

  Pulling a harsh breath and willing my hand to steady, I woke my cell again and, vision blurred by the tears threatening to overwhelm me, I jabbed the phone icon on the screen.

  A list of all the recent numbers I’d called and received appeared and, head roaring, body shaking and eyes filled with stinging tears, I jammed my stupid trembling thumb down on the top number.

  Brendon Osmond’s number.

  “C’mon, tell us your name,” a man jostling for position on my right cajoled, shoving a camera at my face.

  “What’s your relationship with Jones?”

  “Is he good in bed?”

  “Have you met the king?”

  I pushed my way through the throng of photographers, phone pressed to my ear, praying for Brendon to pick up. Oh God, I really needed him to pick—

  “Plenty, Ohio.” His cheery, happy-go-lucky voice sounded in my ear. “What’s up?”

  “Brendon,” I burst out, squeezing my eyes shut. Christ, I had the shakes worse than when Raph had found me at my door only a few hours ago. In fact, I don’t think I’d ever been this bad, and I was medicated. Holy fuck, was this really what I had to look forward to?

  “Who’s Brendon?” a guy on my left asked, firing his camera. “Does Jones know about him?”

  “Are you American?” another called, obviously new to the party.

  A raw sob tore at my throat and I spun on my heel, frantic to escape them.

  “Maci?” Sharp concern cut Brendon’s voice, and for a second, I had an image of him standing frozen in the gym, a powerful, threatening tower of muscle. “What’s going on?”

  “I don’t…” I began, turning again, going nowhere, flinching every time a camera clicked or a man shouted a question at me. “The paparazzi…”

  As one, the photographers around me let out a whooping cheer, as if ecstatic to be a part of my breakdown. And that’s what it was, a breakdown. I was dangerously close to system shutdown. My brain and my body couldn’t take any more.

  “Maci.” It wasn’t just concern in Brendon’s voice this time, but alarm. “Where are you? What’s going—”

  “Say cheese, love!” a man directly in front of me guffawed, camera lens pointed right at my head.

  I let out a yelp, flung my hand up to protect my face, spun around once more and threw myself into a wobbly sprint. Head down.

  Which is why I didn’t see the street sign pole before I slammed into it, forehead first.

  There was a sickening crack, a burst of white, searing pain, braying laughter, Brendon’s voice calling my name.

  And then nothing.

  Nothing but blackness.

  I really don’t know how long I was out. All I know is I came to in the hospital.

  Yep, the hospital. One of the paparazzi had the decency to pick up my phone when I collapsed, tell Brendon where I was and then call an ambulance.

  Apparently—and I’m only going on what I was told by a nurse after I regained consciousness in the ER—all but one of the paparazzi bolted after I hit the ground. The one who didn’t run stayed with me until the ambulance arrived. By that time Brendon had arrived as well. The nurse told me the paramedics told her Brendon had come damn near close to punching the photographer before the paramedics stopped him.

  Even then, what he said he’d do to the paparazzo—did you know that’s the singular noun for paparazzi? Me neither until the conversation between myself and the nurse took place—had the nurse declaring he was both heroic and scary.

  Apparently, and again, this is all hearsay from the nurse, when it took too long for a doctor to see me, Brendon walked up to one, grabbed him by the wrist, twisted the man’s arm behind his back and marched him over to where I was lying unconscious on an ER stretcher.

  My chatty nurse tells me all the women who witnessed it swooned. I don’t know how true it all is. When I asked Brendon about it as I was being discharged—over four hours after finally regaining consciousness—all he did was laugh.

  And yet I couldn’t help but notice the way my attending ER doc flinched whenever Brendon looked his way.

  Hmmm.

  Anyways, getting knocked out is a bit of a deal when you’ve got Parkinson’s. Alarm bells go off in medical-type peoples’ heads. I had to endure X-rays and CAT scans and MRIs before they allowed me to leave. I had to give them a list of the medication I was on. When I confessed to missing some, I don’t know who gave me the more disapproving look—the doc or Brendon.

  It wasn’t until we were in Brendon’s car—a rather flashy two-door hatch painted Kermit green—driving away from the hospital, that he decided a lecture was in order.

  “Missing your meds, Plenty?” he said, disappointment in his voice as he studied the road. “Really?”

  I shrugged. “I’m okay now. Honest.”

  I wasn’t really. My head was hurting still, hot embarrassment licked through my veins and for some reason I was feeling guilty. The last emotion confused me. I couldn’t figure it out. Why was I feeling guilty? What had I done wrong?

  “I don’t believe that,” he answered. “I know you hate talking about your condition, but you can’t ignore you’ve—”

  “I’m not ignoring it,” I cut him off, watching the streets of Sydney as we drove through them. “I just missed a few days here and there over the last two weeks. And you’ve seen me every goddamn morning. Have I looked like I was deteriorating? Maybe I’ve been so shaky of late because you’ve been pushing me too hard in the gym.”

  It was a petty, unkind thing to say. And wrong. He hadn’t been pushing me too hard in our sessi
ons, the complete opposite in fact. But that guilty sensation churning in the pit of my stomach had increased to a ball of unsettled tension.

  He flicked me a sideways look, a question in his eyes.

  “What?” I asked, surly.

  He didn’t say anything for a moment, his expression puzzled. Finally, he asked, “Why did Jones leave you to fend for yourself?”

  And there it was—the reason for my guilt.

  At the mention of Raph’s name, a fresh knot of hot confusion twisted in my belly. Sitting here, in Brendon’s car, after being rescued by him, I felt guilty for going out for breakfast with Raph.

  A lump formed in my throat, tight and heavy. “He didn’t mean to,” I answered, aware the response sounded lame. “His bodyguard pulled him away and shoved him in the car and we got separated.”

  Brendon flicked me another sideways look, his grip on the steering wheel shifting a little. “And he didn’t make his bodyguard come back for you?”

  I drew a deep breath, chewed on my bottom lip and shook my head.

  Brendon let out a soft sound that sounded like huh.

  “I think he tried,” I said, feeling like I needed to defend Raph’s actions.

  “I’m sure he did.”

  There was no censure in his voice, or contempt. So why was I feeling even more guilty?

  “Thank you for coming to get me,” I said, pinching my left thumb with my right thumb and index finger. My hands were trembling again. A lot. They shouldn’t be. The doctor at the hospital had topped up my meds with a shot. Which meant I was shaking for a wholly different reason.

  I suspect the shock of the situation was finally setting in.

  “No worries.” Brendon threw me a smile. It wasn’t as relaxed and open as usual, but it still sent a warm sense of happiness through me. “Although I think the paparazzo who waited with you did so more for the opportunity of taking photos of me rescuing you than any concern about your health. He kept asking who I was and what my relationship was to you.”

  He paused for a second, giving me another one of those ambiguous glances. “He kept calling you Raphael Jones’s girlfriend.”

  Heat prickled my cheeks, but before I could say anything—like what, I hear you ask? No freaking clue—he chuckled. “I told him I was your personal manicurist and if he took another bloody photo of you or me, I was going to shove a nail file up his arse.”

  I burst out laughing.

  “Manicurist?” I ran a look over Brendon, noting his workout attire. Loose black shorts, loose black tank top that did nothing to conceal the sculpted strength in his body.

  He shrugged, his own grin curling his lips. “It worked. He didn’t take any more photos. In fact, I think he may have broken the land-speed record while running away. I do, however, suspect Jones isn’t going to be too happy with whatever spin the gossip sites are going to put on the images he took before he bolted. Especially given anyone with half a brain will work out I’m not your manicurist.”

  “Because of your muscles?” The question popped out before I could stop it. Fresh heat flooded my cheeks.

  Brendon shook his head. “Because of the state of your nails.”

  I looked down at my hands and my bitten-down, paint-chipped nails.

  “Maybe you’re really bad at your job and I hire you out of pity?” I offered, the unsettling flutter in my belly returning. Now I was feeling guilty about sitting in the car with Brendon. What the fuck was wrong with me?

  “Is that it?” he asked. “Makes sense.”

  Fifteen minutes later, we pulled into a parking lot outside a building I didn’t recognize. “Here we are,” he said, killing the engine.

  I studied the building, confused. It looked like a small apartment complex, surrounded by lush trees. “Here we are where?”

  He grinned. “Home.”

  “Whose?”

  “Mine. C’mon, I’m taking care of you until Heather finishes class.”

  “Here?” I blurted out. Oh boy, why was I suddenly so…so…nervous?

  Brendon gave me a mock frown. “Would you rather I take you to Jones’s room?”

  With a grunt, I swung open my door and scrambled out of the car, determined to prove to Brendon he was being a jackass. On reflection, it was a silly thing to do. A wave of wishy-washy dizziness swept over me and I staggered a little to the left.

  Brendon caught me before I got too off-balance. I should have been angry. To be honest, I had no freaking clue how I felt.

  The day had been the most confusing of my short life.

  “All right, Plenty, Ohio,” he murmured, sliding an arm around my back and gently supporting me with a firm hand. “Let’s get you inside so I can lecture you some more about your meds.”

  I tried to shrug him off. I failed.

  “Yeah, yeah,” he chuckled. “I know. You don’t need help. You’re good. You’re awesome. You’re fine. Now shut up and let me take care of you for a bit, will you? You may be Raphael Jones’s girlfriend, but I’m your knight in shining armor and I’m the one here looking after you now, got it?” He gave me a playful smirk. “Well, knight in sweaty gym gear, but you get my drift.”

  “I’m not Raph’s girlfriend,” I muttered, my throat tight for some bizarre reason.

  Brendon’s hand beneath my armpit drew me a little closer to his hard body. “Good,” he said with a tone I had no hope of deciphering.

  Neither of us said another word until we were in Brendon’s apartment. The second we crossed the threshold, I burst out laughing.

  “What?” he asked, depositing me on a sofa half-covered in health magazines, dumbbells and textbooks.

  I cast a long inspection around his home, lips twitching. An exercise bike sat in the middle of the living area next to an elliptical trainer. Beside that was a rowing machine. Attached to the far wall by a metal hook, above the television, was a set of resistance bands. On the floor in front of the television was another set of dumbbells. Hanging on a hook on the opposite wall was a mountain bike that, to my untrained eye, looked like it cost more than my car back home.

  On the counter in the kitchen sat various containers and tubs, all with labels like Protein-Max, Recovery Plus and Nature Bulk.

  “I’m not really sure,” I said, getting comfortable on what little space there was on the sofa not occupied by health equipment and magazines, “but I think you might like to work out at home, yes?”

  He chuckled. “Shut up, Plenty, Ohio.”

  Striding into the kitchen, he grabbed one of the containers and a banana before opening the fridge—stuffed full of fruit, vegetables and an obscene number of eggs—to withdraw a carton of milk and a tub of blueberries.

  I watched him, curious. “What are you doing?”

  “Making you a smoothie,” he answered as he removed the lid from the blender sitting amongst the containers on the counter. “You missed lunch and your body’s energy levels need to be replenished.” He tossed me a quick smile. “Don’t worry, I make a mean smoothie.”

  Five minutes later, he crossed back to where I was sitting and handed me a tall glass filled to the brim with frothy blue liquid. “Get this into you.”

  I took it.

  “Heather’s on the way,” he said, moving back into the kitchen. “I’ve got to get back to the gym, but I’m not leaving you alone. Concussions are nasty things at the best of times, but worse when you’re on medication.”

  “I’m okay,” I said, gripping my glass.

  He shook his head, an uncharacteristic seriousness falling over his face as he regarded me from behind the counter. “Don’t care. I know you’re trying to hide it, but I can tell your hand is shaking more than normal. A part of me wants to blame it on missing your meds, but another part of me wants to beat the shit out of Jones for leaving you like he did.”

  Those butterflies that kept fluttering around in my belly burst into wild flight again. “He didn’t—”

  “No, Maci,” Brendon cut me off. “He did. Doesn’t he realize
stress is one of the last things someone with Parkinson’s should be exposed to?”

  “He doesn’t know I have Parkinson’s,” I said. “No one here does except you.”

  He frowned. “You mean you’ve been in Australia for a fortnight and not told anyone?”

  I shook my head, stomach churning.

  “Not even Heather?”

  Again, I shook my head.

  “Because you don’t want anyone to know?”

  “Because I don’t need anyone to know,” I corrected. “It doesn’t change who I am, and all that will happen is people will treat me differently.”

  “Look after you, you mean? Not take off and leave you to fend for yourself against a horde of paparazzi?”

  “You don’t understand,” I said, angry. Confused. I glared down at the smoothie in my hand, the smoothie he’d made for me.

  Dropping onto the sofa beside me, he let out a soft chuckle. “You really are a monumentally moody pain in the arse, Plenty, Ohio. You know that, right?”

  I raise my head and gave him a sullen frown.

  “And if you are Jones’s girlfriend,” he went on, “or want to be Jones’s girlfriend, or are thinking about becoming Jones’s girlfriend, then I’m really, really sorry in advance for doing this.”

  Before I could ask what he was talking about, he kissed me.

  It was nothing like the kisses Raph had given me. Raph’s kisses were demanding, possessive. Those kisses reached into the very pit of what made me a woman and grabbed it with an inescapable grip. This kiss wasn’t like that, but damn, it sure as hell stole any hope I had of uttering a word.

  Brendon’s lips, warm and firm, brushed over mine once with a feathery, almost hesitant touch before, with a little moan, he parted his lips and stroked his tongue over mine. Which of course was there waiting for him.

  I whimpered. Apparently, I do that when being kissed by a hot Australian guy after just being harassed by paparazzi, knocking myself unconscious and then being released from the hospital with a possible concussion. The sound vibrated at the back of my throat, sounding for all the world like a confused invitation. Which it was.

  Brendon, smart fellow that he is, picked up on the invitation and deepened the kiss. Whoa. His tongue stroked over mine, he combed his fingers through the hair at the back of my head and balled his hand into a fist. It was the kind of kiss you see in the movies. The kind that makes the girls watching the film get all breathless and the guys sitting beside them squirm. That kind of kiss.