Breaking: Fall or Break, Book 2

by Barbara Elsborg

  With some difficulty, he rolled the guy onto the board then had to stop to catch his breath. Now what? Wait for the sea to float him up the beach? It wasn’t a bad plan but Conrad’s fingers were white with cold, his teeth chattering. He’d have to stay in the water to steady the board and he wasn’t steady himself. Plus it would take too long.

  It even felt like too much effort to travel the ten yards or so to where he saw his coat lying, but he still crawled to get it before it was soaked by the sea. He draped it over the guy, then sitting with his back to his house, he grabbed the fin on the board and pulled. He was almost shocked when it slid a short distance along the wet sand. All that hauling himself upright must have increased his upper body strength, though hadn’t the Egyptians used wet sand to shift heavy stones when they were building the pyramids?

  He shuffled back and repeated the same maneuver while the dog barked encouragement and ran from side to side. At one point, it jumped on the board and Conrad glared. “Really? As if he’s not heavy enough?”

  The dog jumped off again and Conrad continued. When it began to hurt too much to pull, he tried pushing. He could feel the tide racing in behind him, hear the crash and slither of waves. He gritted his teeth and kept going. Once he’d reached dry sand, he could risk leaving him and going to call an ambulance.

  In an attempt to distract himself from the pain biting at his body he stared at the guy’s face as he lugged him up the beach. He looked a little like an older version of Malachi. Same scruffy dark hair and dark stubble. Good-looking. There was something about him that made Conrad think he might not be English. Blood smudged the board around the man’s head but at least it wasn’t pumping out. There was no visible injury so Conrad guessed he’d smacked his skull on the board and become untethered.

  When he felt dry sand beneath him, Conrad collapsed back with a groan. “Shit, shit.” He wanted nothing more than to just lie there but he couldn’t. He checked the guy’s breathing again and made sure he was in the recovery position before he set off. When the dog tried to follow, he waved him back.

  “Stay with your master. I’m going for help.”

  Conrad crawled as far as the gatepost, pulled himself up and, taking a deep breath, shuffled back up the path to the house as fast as he could. He stumbled into the kitchen, grabbed his phone and tapped in 9-9-9.

  After he’d given the operator the details, he sagged with relief. Part of him felt he ought to go back to the guy, the other part of him wanted to stand under a hot shower for at least three hours. Concern the surfer might stop breathing before the paramedics arrived drove Conrad out of the house. He hadn’t gone to all that trouble for the guy to die on him. This time he took his phone.

  He was desperate to move faster but his legs refused to cooperate. Halfway down the path he realized he ought to have at least put on another coat but he couldn’t face going back. The dog came running up as he stepped onto the beach. The guy didn’t appear to have moved.

  Conrad sank to his knees shivering as he reached the surfboard. He unclenched his jaw in relief when he registered the guy was still alive. He tucked a wayward hand back under the coat and the surfer opened his eyes. Dark blue. Oh God. Not the right time, cock. But it had definitely perked up. How about that?

  “You’re going to be okay,” Conrad said. “You’re safe now. Help’s coming.”

  “No,” the man grunted.

  “You need medical attention.”

  “Fuck it. No.” He struggled to sit up.

  Conrad was torn between annoyance his help was being flung back in his face and worry the guy didn’t know what he was saying or doing. But the surfer lost consciousness again and moments later, Conrad heard the sirens of the emergency services. He hadn’t heard them when they’d come for him. He’d been unconscious moments after he hit the road and lost two weeks of his life in a drug-induced coma. The doctors had been amazed he’d remembered anything. Part of the reason he suspected the police hadn’t believed him.

  The dog snuggled up between them and Conrad found himself stroking his fur. He’d grown up with dogs but they weren’t treated as pets. When one of his father’s golden retrievers had puppies that clearly weren’t what was expected, Conrad had sneaked one to his room after he’d been told not to. The gamekeeper had killed them all in front of him. A hard lesson for a seven-year-old.

  This dog wore a collar and tag. Conrad twisted the tag. On one side it said, Deefor, and on the other Archer Hart and a telephone number.

  “Archer.” Conrad tried out his name. The guy didn’t respond. “Deefor?”

  The dog pricked up his ears.

  Deefor. Conrad had been slow to get that. D for dog. He blamed the imminent onset of hypothermia. He’d stopped shivering and he knew that was bad. When he heard the paramedics hail him, he sighed. The police were with them. Conrad was grateful to hand over responsibility.

  Wrapped in a thermal blanket provided by the paramedics, he mumbled what he’d seen and done.

  “Sure you don’t need to go to the hospital with him?” one of the policemen asked.

  “I’ll be fine. I just need a hot shower. Could you do me a favor though? See if my crutches have washed up.”

  “Crutches?”

  Conrad struggled to his knees, then his feet, trying not to yelp. “I’m recovering from an injury.”

  A paramedic gave Conrad’s coat to a cop and as Archer was stretchered off the beach, Conrad felt a pang of envy for his mode of transport.

  “You know him?” asked the cop holding his coat and the surfboard.

  “No. The dog’s tag says Archer Hart.”

  “Come here, boy,” the policeman called.

  Deefor bolted in the opposite direction.

  “Deefor, sit,” Conrad yelled.

  The dog dropped his butt onto the sand and a laugh burst from both Conrad and the policeman.

  The other cop came back with his crutches.

  “Thanks.”

  Conrad set off toward his house, so cold and exhausted, he could barely focus. The cops walked at his side, while the dog bounded along in front.

  “You don’t need to walk with me,” he muttered. “I’m sorry I’m slow.”

  “Take your time. We want to make sure you get back safely.”

  When Conrad stumbled, arms shot out and stopped him falling.

  “I don’t know how you managed to rescue him,” one of the cops said. “It was a brave thing you did.”

  No, it was idiotic. He wasn’t thinking. Though what was the alternative? Letting him drown?

  “Hang on to me.”

  Conrad was too tired to let his pride refuse the offer. While one policeman carried the board and Conrad’s coat and crutches, the other helped him up the beach and down the path to the house. As he pushed open the door, Deefor ran in.

  “Hey,” Conrad said. “You don’t live here.”

  The cop not holding him tried to grab the dog and Deefor shot between them back toward the beach.

  “You get warm. We’ll see to the dog.”

  Conrad closed the door and leaned against it, black spots speckling his vision. He let the emergency blanket fall, toed off his sodden trainers, stripped out of his wet, sandy clothes where he stood and, ignoring the crutches, shuffled to the bathroom.

  A warm shower helped, but it felt like every bone in his body had been rubbed raw with a cheese grater. He dressed again, still feeling chilled, and went back into the kitchen. As he switched on the coffee machine, there was a knock at the back door. The two cops stood there.

  “He runs off every time we get near him,” one said. “We can’t spend any more time chasing him. We’ll call animal services.”

  Conrad staggered as a small dark shape whizzed between his legs. The cops groaned.

  “Looks like he’s decided where he wants to be,” said one of them. “Is tha
t okay? We can sort something out tomorrow.”

  Deefor curled up on the floor next to the radiator and put his head on his paws in a decent attempt at looking pathetic.

  “That’s fine.”

  After the police left, Conrad filled a bowl with water and carefully set it on the floor, pain flaring as he bent over. The dog rose to its feet and took a long drink.

  “I suppose you’re hungry too.”

  He opened the fridge and ran his gaze over the contents. After WE DO 4 U employees had managed to fuck up his grocery shopping on three occasions—when he asked for fillet he didn’t want frying steak and spaghetti could in no way be the same as ramen noodles—Conrad had switched to ordering online from a large supermarket twenty miles away. He’d been going to cook steak and a baked potato for his dinner but he had neither the energy nor the appetite. He chopped the meat into pieces, pushed it onto a plate and put it on the floor.

  The coffee was ready but if he didn’t lie down in the next few seconds, he was going to fall. He used his crutches to get to the bed, levered off his shoes, lay down, pulled the duvet over him, vaguely remembered he’d not drawn the curtains and wondered if he’d drop off to sleep before his head hit the pillow. Was that even poss…?

  Archer woke. On a mountain. The rope slipping. His grip faltered. But the nightmare didn’t fully form and he slept again.

  He woke. In the sea. Floundering in a world of water, saturated to the bone. He inhaled water, swallowed water, breathed water as it pulled him down but he kept fighting.

  He woke. On land. Shivering. Opened his mouth and struggled to draw thick air into aching lungs. His head hurt. His body ached. Someone’s face above his. As Archer’s eyes closed, he told the man to run before he dragged him down too. But he worried nothing had come out of his mouth.

  Each time he came round, he edged further from confusion and nearer reality. Images became clearer, voices more distinct, his breathing easier. Not dead. Not dying. He lay still, eyes shut and listened.

  Concussion. Water inhalation. Dehydration.

  He was alert enough to appreciate the irony of the last two and understand that the first explained his confusion and the pain in his head. What happened? He struggled to remember. On the point of lucidity, he was pulled away again, his body’s need to close down too much to resist.

  Next time, fucking wake up properly.

  He woke feeling thirsty. The clock on the wall said seven. His head ached and he was concerned over what he might have blurted out while unconscious. He managed breakfast, was polite to the nurses and waited for the police. Archer would have much preferred not to have come to their attention, but now he had, he needed to behave in the appropriate way.

  “How are you feeling, Mr. Hart?” asked the older of the two uniformed cops.

  “Groggy.” Apparently he’d had a couple of stitches in his head. “I think the tether broke on the surfboard and it flipped up and knocked me out.”

  “You were lucky you were spotted. The guy who pulled you out is a hero. He went into the sea on crutches. He could easily have drowned. It’s a miracle he managed to save you. He’s a brave man.”

  A pang of disquiet lodged in Archer’s stomach. A man who succeeded where I failed.

  “Where’s my dog?”

  “He’s at Marram Cottage with the guy who rescued you. Is that your car in the lot at Shennan Sands?”

  “Yes.” He was sure they already knew that. They’d have checked the registration and tied it to the name he’d given the company from which he’d hired the board and wetsuit.

  “Where are your keys?”

  “I hid them. Didn’t want to risk losing them in the water.”

  “Is there anyone you’d like us to contact?”

  “No thanks. What about the board and the wetsuit?”

  “We’ll give the company a call. They can collect them from us.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Not wise to go surfing on your own,” said the younger cop.

  “You’re right.” He let his eyes flutter closed. He wasn’t sleepy but he’d given the police as much as they needed.

  When they’d gone, he opened his eyes. Archer picked his target carefully. Male. Not young. A porter not a nurse.

  A few minutes later, he had a promise of a lift back to his car at the end of the porter’s shift. The guy even supplied a jacket to put over his hospital gown and bootees for his feet. Archer signed himself out against medical advice; his stitches would dissolve so there was no need to return. He allowed the porter to wheel him to his car and gave him fifty quid from the glove box when he dropped him off next to his vehicle at Shennan Sands.

  Archer intended to thank the man who’d saved him, pick up Deefor and leave, but when he looked through a bedroom window of Marram Cottage, he changed his mind.

  Chapter Five

  Conrad had a difficult night. After his initial slump into a deep sleep in the afternoon, he’d woken a couple of hours later and been unable to settle. He’d been tempted to knock himself out with a handful of pills but was too exhausted—lazy—aching—to get up, even to draw the curtains. He’d also spent the night fully dressed, which might have saved him a bit of effort this morning except for the fact that he needed to shower. He rolled onto his right side with a wince and a wet tongue swept across his cheek. He snapped his eyes open and recoiled when he saw Deefor lying on the bed next to him.

  “Did I invite you to share my bed? I don’t think so. Get off.”

  Deefor licked him again more enthusiastically.

  “Christ. Must you? You haven’t even cleaned your teeth.”

  The dog took that as an invitation to keep going and after struggling to fend him off, Conrad pressed his face into his pillow to escape the wet tongue, torn between annoyance and laughter. Every time he lifted his head, Deefor snuck in another lick, his hot breath hitting Conrad’s ear, his paws digging into his shoulders.

  “Get off.”

  Deefor rubbed his body on Conrad’s neck.

  “Are you bloody scent marking me?”

  He turned and pinned Deefor down, tickling his stomach and growling while the dog still tried to lick him. Conrad laughed. The first genuine burst of pleasure he’d felt for a long time. The most active he’d been in bed for a long time thanks to a dog. Remember not to say that to anyone. It really won’t sound good.

  Deefor tugged at his sleeve.

  “Okay. I’ll get up if you get off.”

  The dog jumped down and Conrad flung away the covers. He slid onto his back to do his exercises. Deefor whined.

  “I can’t move until I’ve done this. You’ll have to wait. “

  When he groaned in pain, the dog stopped whining and stared at him. Conrad found himself chuckling again. He grabbed the hoist, pulled himself up and swung his legs over the side of the bed. Deefor ran to the open bedroom door.

  “Not yet.”

  After he’d finished the sitting up exercises, Conrad took a deep breath, rose to his feet and took his first step. His knee buckled and he almost went down. Fuck. He should know better than to expect some miracle every time he got up, but he did. No miracle with his cock either.

  He made it to the bathroom without using the crutches and felt a surge of satisfaction. Maybe he should dispense with them. He’d managed yesterday after a fashion. He showered, dressed and headed for the kitchen. He’d leave the treadmill and the bike until the afternoon. The exertions of yesterday had taken their toll and his entire body ached this morning.

  Deefor sat in front of the fridge. Conrad got the message and gave the dog the remains of the packet of ham. Sheer luck he’d not thrown it away. He had no idea whether dogs were allowed to eat processed meat, probably not, but it had gone before Conrad refilled the water bowl. He looked at the wet sandy clothes on the floor and sighed. Since he’d sacked the people w
ho picked up after him, he’d have to deal with the clothes himself, but not yet. Deefor ran to the back door and jumped up.

  “Okay, okay.”

  When he opened the door to let him out, he saw the guy he’d pulled from the sea sprawled across the step. Conrad blinked in astonishment, assuming for a moment he must be hallucinating, but after a longer blink the guy was still there and not moving.

  “Shit.”

  Deefor peed on a rock, bounded back to the house, jumped over his owner and trotted inside.

  “So much for being man’s best friend,” Conrad said. “Doesn’t he even get a lick?”

  Clinging on to the doorframe, he crouched down and his stomach lurched in a way he’d not experienced for some time. Would that be since yesterday, dickhead? While he’d been with Malachi he’d never been tempted by another guy. He might have admired a tight arse, bright eyes or cheeky grin but Malachi had been all he’d needed.

  The guy was around Conrad’s age, and about his height. Fuckable. The thought was accompanied by a significant thickening in his groin, and he gave a quiet moan. Of course, this was the perfect time to get the hard-on he’d been longing for, over a dead body lying on his doorstep. No doubt a heterosexual dead body.

  Well, not dead but unconscious, which was only slightly better. What the hell was the guy doing here? Oh right, he’d come for his dog. But the back door? Though Conrad wouldn’t have heard a knock at the front while he’d been in the shower. He brushed the guy’s cheek with his fingers, shocked by how cold he felt.

  After attempts to rouse him failed—he wasn’t going to kiss Sleeping Beauty, though the thought had crossed his mind, but he didn’t want to get thumped in the face for his trouble—Conrad managed to get his arms under the man’s shoulders and heave him inside. The rain started just as he pulled him over the threshold.

  But once he’d dragged him into the kitchen, he couldn’t go any farther without resting. He shoved the door closed and collapsed on his back at the guy’s side, his heart pounding hard enough to hurt. When he’d hoped for life to be less boring, looking after an attractive albeit unconscious man and his demanding dog hadn’t been what he had in mind. He knew he ought to phone for an ambulance. The guy probably needed to be back in the hospital. He wondered why they’d let him out.