“You don’t know that.” He kept his gaze on the second half of his sandwich. “A few years ago I had...I had a...problem. With drugs and alcohol.”
If you called being drunk and high more often than sober a problem.
“Oh,” she said softly, not giving him any hint as to what she thought of his confession.
She sat on the table, her knees brushing his. He didn’t look at her. Couldn’t. Told himself it was because he didn’t want to see her judgment of him, but he wondered, worried, if there was more to it than that. As if he cared what she thought about him.
“There are resources available locally.” She laid her fingertips on the back of his right hand below his cast. He stared at that, the sight of her long pale fingers with the neatly shaped nails on his hand. Was mesmerized by it. “Alcoholics Anonymous for one. I can get you the infor—”
“I’m not much of a joiner.” Because he liked the compassion in her tone, the feel of her skin against his way too much, he smirked. Pulled away from her touch. “I’m clean now. I just want to be careful.”
Didn’t want to take any chances when it came to his sobriety. Not when he’d fought so long and hard to achieve it. He had people depending on him to stay strong.
She nodded, her fingers curling on her thigh. “I don’t think you need to worry about becoming dependent on the pain pills, especially after only a few doses. But if it’ll ease your mind, I can look into getting you a new prescription. There are other medications you can take, ones that people with a history of...of...”
He leaned back, exhausted and more than ready for this entire shitty experience to be over. “You can say it, Red. Drug abuse. I was an addict.”
His past, the mistakes he’d made, the person he’d been, didn’t embarrass him.
It shamed him.
But it should give her a clear picture of what he’d been. Prove to her once and for all he wasn’t worthy of her time, her concern.
Her mouth turned down slightly at the corners. Funny how that move, too, brought out the hint of her dimple. “Medications that people with a history of addiction can safely take.”
She stressed the word addiction as if to prove she wasn’t scared of it. Or him.
Once again she held out her palm, showing him the pill. He stared at it. Hated that he wanted it so badly, wanted nothing more than to slide into the oblivion only drugs and sleep could provide.
His fingernails dug into his palm, a bone-deep fear keeping him from reaching for the small pill.
“Kane,” Red said, all compassion and patience, “have you had counseling?”
One side of his mouth kicked up. “From the time I was ten until I turned eighteen.”
Her eyes widened, her mouth parted. “Actually, I meant if you’ve had it specifically for your experiences in the military.”
“We’re all given a mental health review when we’re discharged.”
She scooted even closer, her knee pressing against his. “But it’s been a few years since you were discharged. Maybe talking to someone now will help you deal with your memories.”
Women. They all thought talking solved any problem. Some things were better left unsaid. “I’m good.”
“Obviously you’re not.” Her tone was soft, the hand she laid on his knee warm. His thigh muscles tensed. “There’s nothing to be ashamed of. Many soldiers turn to drugs and alcohol to deal with the effects of PTSD.”
“I didn’t start using because of PTSD or because of my time in the Rangers.” It was one of the things he was most proud of, that he’d managed to stay clean after his discharge.
“But you had an episode. When you got your stitches,” she added, as if he needed reminding of how he’d lost control.
“I didn’t have an episode.” Whatever the hell that meant. “I just don’t like hospitals.”
Too bad he hadn’t realized exactly how much he hated them until he’d been stuck there.
“Are you sure?” she asked. “Because Dr. Louk has worked with veterans and he said you displayed symptoms—”
“For Christ’s sake,” he grumbled, “do you ever let anything go?”
She bristled. Slid her hand from his leg and crossed her arms. “Not when it’s important.”
“This isn’t.” He wasn’t important. Not enough for her to worry about. But he’d hurt her feelings; it was clear by the pout in her bottom lip, the lowering of her eyebrows.
Damn it, he was the injured party here—literally. So why should he feel bad about not wanting to share every tiny piece of himself with her? He’d already humiliated himself in front of her in the E.R. Had just admitted his greatest secret to her. He didn’t owe her anything else.
Wouldn’t owe her anything else if she hadn’t held his hand while he’d gotten his stitches. If she hadn’t insisted on bringing him home and then made him a sandwich. If she hadn’t accepted his admission about being an ex-junkie without batting an eye.
Damn her.
“What happened back at the E.R...” he began, but then had to stop and search for the right words. Confession might be good for the soul, but it was hell on the pride. “The reason I...acted that way...wasn’t from a flashback or memory of the war. I was in a car accident when I was twenty, a bad one, and I guess being in the hospital brought it all back.”
Some of the rigidness left her shoulders. Her mouth relaxed. “You don’t have to tell me about it if you don’t want to.”
“I know. Which is why I’m not going to.” He had a right to keep certain things to himself. “There’s a bottle of pain reliever in the cabinet above the microwave. I’ll take a couple of those.”
She got the bottle from the kitchen, shook two into her palm. “I wish you would have said something about your past in the E.R. We would have made sure to give you a non-narcotic.”
“I don’t like sharing my history with people.”
“Yet you told me.”
“Yes. I told you.” He held out his hand.
She stared at it, then lifted her gaze to his face trying, he knew, to see his thoughts. Judging if she could trust him or not.
But that’s not what this was about. This was about him letting her know he trusted her.
In this, at least.
Finally, Charlotte laid the pills in his palm, the tips of her fingers trailing against his skin. He swallowed the medicine with a long drink of water.
“Now,” she said, wrapping her fingers around his left arm and tugging, “we can get you into bed.”
He didn’t move. “You offered to get me into bed once before.” He settled his head back against the couch and shut his eyes. Going to bed sounded great. Except the part about actually getting up and walking all the way to his bedroom. “Remember?”
“Hard to forget when you keep reminding me. But you’re in no shape to do me or any other woman any good in bed right now.”
She sounded so certain. Amused. She was right. He was in no shape to take a woman to bed. But it pinched his ego just the same.
He opened his eyes to find her leaning over him, close enough for him to count those freckles adorning her nose and upper cheeks. Their gazes locked. The air between them stilled. Heated. And damn himself for wanting to close the distance between them. For wanting to capture that smart-ass mouth of hers with his.
He didn’t so much as blink, barely breathed, afraid if he moved even the slightest bit, he’d do just that. “Want to bet?”
CHAPTER SIX
KANE’S WORDS WASHED over her, his voice low and husky. Sexy. She couldn’t think. Her body was warm, her thoughts hazy. His words buzzed in her head, indecipherable. Incomprehensible.
Want to bet?
Her brain clicked into gear again and she jerked back, as if he’d decided to show her how wrong her assumption of his prowe
ss was. Luckily, he hadn’t moved.
Unfortunately, he hadn’t moved.
She was still close to him, too close, her knees pressed against his, one hand still holding his arm, the other sinking into the cushion by his hip.
His gaze dropped lazily to her mouth. “Or maybe you want to see for yourself?”
See for her―
Realization dawned. Her palms grew damp. Her scalp prickled. Oh, dear God.
She leaped to her feet and practically hurdled the table, her knee catching the pointed corner with a dull thud. She inhaled sharply, tears springing to her eyes. Turning, she pretended to rearrange his empty plate with the water glass. His gaze burned a hole in the spot between her shoulder blades.
She shut her eyes and took a moment to catch her breath, to calm her racing heart.
Holy spit, even banged up, bruised and mildly concussed, sex appeal rolled off the man as if he were producing the stuff to sell wholesale. Oh, she’d dodged a bullet when he’d turned her down all those months ago. More like she’d dodged a big, bad, lethal cannonball that had the potential to rip her world apart. Sleeping with Kane Bartasavich would have been one of those mistakes in life you never forgot.
Or got over.
“Not interested in taking that bet?” he asked in a husky tone, a hint of an accent, Southern, maybe, slipping into his voice.
Giving him the not-in-a-million-years-or-even-if-you-had-a-million-dollars look she’d seen Jocelyn use both at work and when they’d gone out clubbing, Charlotte straightened. “I’m not much of a gambler. I prefer a sure thing over some nebulous big payoff. Besides,” she couldn’t help but point out, “you’re not interested in me. Remember?”
“Maybe I’ve changed my mind.”
Did his voice have to be so deep? So compelling with that previously unnoticed twang? Did he have to be so damned seductive in that wrong for her, but oh so tempting way?
For a moment, one brief, delicious second, she imagined what it would be like if he were being truthful and sincere. What it would be like to be wanted by a man like him.
No doubt it would be flattering. Thrilling.
And out-and-out terrifying.
“Nothing’s changed,” she told him, needing to believe it herself, if only for her own peace of mind. “You’re tired and, if I had to guess, feeling a little loopy from the pain meds. Don’t worry, after a few hours of sleep, you’ll go back to thinking I’m completely unattractive.”
“I never said you were unattractive,” he mumbled, his words slurring, his eyes drifting closed.
Giving her an opportunity to make a face at him. No, he hadn’t said that. There was no need, not when he’d made his feelings for her perfectly clear. It wasn’t like he needed to whap her upside the head with a bat to let her know she did nothing for him.
His shoulders relaxed, his expression softening as he sank into the couch cushions. Well, guess he was comfy. And really, she’d already gone above and beyond the call of duty as it were. He’d been fed and given his medication. There wasn’t much else she could do for him. She should go home, get some sleep herself...after she cleaned up his kitchen.
Call it a character flaw, but she couldn’t, in good conscience, leave the man dirty dishes to deal with. She’d have nightmares of her mother finding out and scalding her ears with one of her lectures on the right thing to do and the horrors of waking up to find plates with dried-on food stacked in the sink.
A few minutes later, she was washing the plate and glass he’d used, along with the few dirty items left in the sink. When she was done, she wiped off the counters. After laying the dishcloth on the sink, she wiped her wet fingers on her pants, then picked up the prescription bottle she’d left on the table. She opened it. Two pills were left. Justin had given Kane only enough to get him through until he could fill his prescription at the pharmacy—which didn’t open until noon on Sundays.
She nibbled her lower lip, stared at the bottle.
I was an addict.
It explained quite a bit. Why he was so hard. So cynical. What had he survived? Had he grown up on the streets, struggling to get by, and turned to drugs and alcohol to forget his horrible circumstances? Was he neglected? Abused? Or had he started using while he was in the service, a way to forget the things he’d seen? The things he’d had to do while protecting his country, his fellow soldiers?
What demons was he fighting?
She squeezed the bottle so hard she was surprised she didn’t dent it. No, she didn’t think a few pills were going to push Kane back into addiction, but he’d been worried about it. Worried enough he’d opened up to her, admitting something that obviously bothered him.
He’d trusted her when she said he’d be okay.
She put the cap back on the bottle, then slipped it into the pocket of her tunic and called the E.R. Justin was off duty so she spoke with Dr. Fitton about getting a new prescription faxed in. Char would call the pharmacy later and ask them to deliver it so Kane wouldn’t have to worry about going out.
She brushed her hands together then, because she totally deserved it, gave herself a nice little pat on the back for a job well done.
When she returned to the living room, she found Kane sound asleep, still sitting up on the couch, his head back, his mouth open.
Sleep didn’t soften his appearance much, though he didn’t come across quite as imposing as when those cool green eyes of his were opened and focused on her. She stepped closer, weighing her options. He was home and he was fine, his belly fed, his pain meds in him. She could go, leave him to rest, even if that rest meant he’d wake with a stiff neck.
Or she could wake him, help him to his bedroom, pull off his boots, remove the scratchy, too-tight scrub top and tuck him safely into bed.
She imagined it, as clearly as if she’d done it dozens of times before. She’d slide his shirt up, her knuckles grazing the flat planes of his stomach while he watched her out of hooded eyes, that damn smirk of his playing on his mouth. Then he’d say something, something inflammatory or just plain antagonistic, something guaranteed to tick her off.
Since neither leaving nor helping him into bed suited her, she’d go with a happy medium. A compromise, one that would enable her to help him and keep her pride. Win, win.
She leaned over him. Paused. Okay, so maybe he did look softer in sleep, his expression relaxed, the bruising stark against the paleness of his skin. His hair was mussed, a lock of it falling over his forehead. She smoothed it back, marveled at how it could be so soft, his skin so warm when he was so cold. So hard. Maybe that was why she gently combed her fingers through his hair, once...twice. Or maybe she’d simply lost her mind and, along with it, her good sense. Because when she glanced at his face, she found him watching her.
She held her breath, waited for his smart comment, the sharp bite of his tongue. And almost swallowed her own when he did finally speak.
“You didn’t leave.” His voice was heavy with fatigue. With wonder and, if she wasn’t mistaken, gratitude.
“No.” She slowly pulled her hand away. Tried to smile in a purely professional manner as if she hadn’t been caught fondling his hair while he slept, like some perverted nurse in a horror film. “I didn’t leave. I thought I’d help you get more comfortable first.”
Yes, that was it. She was concerned only with his comfort, which was why she was sighing and mooning over his hair—his disheveled, badly-in-need-of-a-cut hair, for God’s sake.
“Here,” she added, wrapping her arm around his shoulder and pulling him forward. “Let’s get you stretched out a bit, then you can go nighty-night and I can go home.”
She grabbed a square pillow from the ugly chair and set it against the couch’s armrest. Kneeling in front of him, she untied his boots and tugged them off, well aware of his eyes on her. She liked it better, liked him better, w
hen he was asleep. She set the boots aside and straightened. She wanted to leave him that way, she really, really did, but his shirt was too small and not very warm.
Crap.
“Can you stand?” she asked.
“Don’t wanna,” he murmured.
Poor guy must be exhausted. “Okay,” she said, eyeing him like a general studying a battle plan. “We’ll do this with you sitting.”
She took off his sling then reached around him and gently slid the hem of his shirt up. He was remarkably compliant, lifting his good arm without a word, letting her pull the shirt over his head and then down the arm with the cast.
Yep, those tattoos were still there, along with some bruising on his right side and an ugly scrape above his hip.
“Your turn,” he said with a crooked, not-quite-with-it grin.
“Yeah, that’s not going to happen.” She dropped the shirt to the floor, then riffled through the laundry basket by the table.
She found a worn sweatshirt, the cuffs frayed, the material thin and soft from repeated washings. She hesitantly brought it to her nose. Sniffed. Clean. Great. She pulled it over his head.
“You took your shirt off the last time you were here,” he said when his face was visible again.
“True. But all of my clothes are staying on this visit.”
He looked comically disappointed. “I liked your last visit better.”
“You must.” She helped his arms into the sleeves. “You keep talking about it.”
“It was a memorable experience.” He slid his finger up her arm, eliciting goose bumps and a weird sense of longing inside her. “I’ll never forget how you looked standing in my kitchen in your jeans and bra.”
She wanted to slap his hand away, had to remind herself he was injured and under the influence of pain meds. But still, he had a lot of nerve saying that. Hadn’t he humiliated her enough that morning? “Please. You can barely remember my name, let alone what I look like.”
“I remember your name.” He settled his hand on her hip, slipped the very tips of his fingers under the hems of her tunic and the T-shirt beneath. “Charlotte.”
Small-Town Redemption Page 9
