“Mr. Brand is in a meeting right now. Does Madison need me to interrupt him?” Her tone is distractingly cheerful, so much that my brain takes a moment to catch up, to focus on the insanity that just left her lips.
“Mr. Brand?” My words come out unintentionally harsh. “Stewart Brand?”
“Yes. Is there a problem?”
My head comes up with a jerk. I hear her voice in my ear, the words fading into unintelligible forms. I drop the phone, spots appearing before my eyes, and I try to breathe, try to focus on what is before me and what is important. Madd. Lying a few walls away. Dying.
But my brain won’t release itself, won’t step away from the bomb that was just dropped in my lap. Stewart. My older brother. Fucking Madd. Touching her skin, holding her body, kissing her mouth. My brother. He is the one who has the other half of her heart. He is the one who I share her with. He is the one who dictated a second boyfriend. He is the one too busy to fully occupy her bed, her time.
Stewart.
My brother.
The one who beat up Noah Richardson when I was eleven because Noah wouldn’t stop bullying me. The one who coached me through asking Nicki Farrahs out when I was too chicken. The one who explained sex and going down on a girl and who bought me my first box of condoms. The one who punched me in the face and blames me for causing our little sister’s death. The one who told me never to step within a mile of him ever again. The one who wouldn’t return my calls for five years, until I finally gave up and stepped away from the tattered remains of our family.
Stewart is Him. Stewart is LOVER.
The phone rings, and I glance down to his moniker displayed on the screen. Before I can second-guess the action, I scoop it up and hand it to the ER receptionist. “Please explain to them about Madison Decater,” I request softly.
The woman shoots me a questioning look and then glances at the phone and flips it open. “Venice Regional ER,” she says with efficiency into the phone.
I walk back to the chair and watch her face, watch her lips as they mouth words I can only guess. I wonder who is on the other end, if it is Stewart or the cheerful female. And I wonder what I will do when he walks through these doors.
Will she still be alive when he does?
38
STEWART
We are in the middle of a deposition, when Ashley steps in. I look up in warning, then see her face and hold up my hand, pausing the attorney mid-question. The transcriber looks up in surprise at the silence.
Ashley moves quickly to my side and leans forward, her lips close to my ear. “It’s Madison. There’s been an accident.”
I close my eyes, unprepared for the words. Not again. Not after Jennifer. I stand and meet the attorney’s gaze. “I have personal business to attend to. We’ll need to reschedule.”
“Personal business?” the bald man stammers. “Mr. Brand, it took a month to coordinate this.”
I ignore him and follow Ashley out of the room, pulling the door to and turning to her. “Tell me.”
My assistant, a cheerful sunflower with a spine of steel, is shaken. It is a look I have never seen on her, and the tremble in her voice terrifies me. “A man called from her phone. He wanted you, but hung up when I told him you were busy. It seemed odd, so I called back to get his name, a message, something. A woman answered, someone from the hospital. She said that Madison was in a surfing accident and is in a medically-induced coma. She said any close family and friends should come now.” Tears well in her eyes, and she steps forward, touching my arm. “I’m so sorry, Stewart.”
I brush off her contact. “Where’s my phone?”
She passes it to me, and I try to sort through a logical thought process. “Get me a driver.”
“Done. There’s one in front. He has the hospital’s address, and I’ve given the hospital your information.”
I nod. “Also give them my American Express and have them charge me any medical expenses. I don’t want any treatment or options unexplored due to cost. Make sure they understand that.”
She nods, and a single tear drags down her cheek. She knows Madison well, has lunched with her countless times, chats with her in the reception area when my meetings run over. I manage an awkward hug and then head for the elevator.
We make the half-hour drive in fifteen minutes, my frustration at not having my car disappearing as soon as the driver makes the first hairpin turn at forty-five miles per hour. I cradle my head in my hands, visions of Madison assaulting me from all directions.
Her head on my pillow, a drugged smile on her lips when I kiss her goodbye in the morning.
The image of her in my t-shirt, cooking barefoot, nothing underneath but skin.
The small but firm push of her hands on my chest, her ability to weaken my resolve with one saucy smile.
I should have set aside my work, should have canceled meetings, planned vacations, made half the money and had twice the time with her. I should have taken her to dinner each night, been there for each birthday and holiday, met her mother, kissed her over breakfast, and told her how I felt. If she is gone, if I don’t have a chance to say goodbye, she’ll never know how I feel. How I cherish her.
I’m an idiot.
The car pulls up to the glass lobby, and I open the door, steeling myself.
She will be okay. She will live. I can make changes to our life. Marry her. Rebuild everything the way it should be, with her front and center.
I could fix this. I just needed another chance.
39
PAUL
Inhale.
Exhale.
Inhale.
Exhale.
I focus her breaths and examine the display beside her bed, the numbers foreign to me.
I run my fingers over the top of her hand—its cool surface scaring the hell out of me. I massage her fingers, the digits limp and unresponsive.
“There is brain activity.”
I turn to see a young male nurse, outfitted in green scrubs.
He smiles. “Something came across the monitors a few minutes ago. It’s a good sign.”
“So, she’ll be okay?”
His grin falters. “No. I didn’t mean that. But with her condition… we didn’t expect any brain activity. We’re still a long way from stability.”
I nod and turn back to her. Squeeze her hand again. No life. No response. I lean over and place a soft kiss on a bit of exposed skin on her cheek—tubes and masks preventing any real connection.
There’s a commotion in the hall, and from the raised voices and the squeak of shoes on the floor, I know that Stewart is here. Without thinking, my hand tightens possessively on hers.
40
OVER THE FALLS: [phrase]
Getting pitched headfirst and slammed by the lip of a crashing wave.
STEWART
The woman before me is infuriating. She blinks at me with steel-gray eyes and purses her thin lips. “Only close friends and immediate family may go in. She’s in ICU and already has one visitor.”
“I’m her boyfriend. Stewart Brand. My assistant should have called, you spoke with her earlier.”
“Her boyfriend is already in there. So, unless we have a love triangle going on, I need to speak with him first. He’s the one who brought her in, and he’s the one who has her identification.”
I grind my teeth at the title, never regretting a single decision more in my entire life than when I hear her reedy voice give ownership of Madison to another man. “I don’t need to explain the dichotomy of our relationship with you. Call Security if you wish, but I will be the one paying for her care and I—despite what you have been told—am her boyfriend. Her fiancé once she pulls through.”
“If she pulls through.” The woman’s words are firm but gentle, the statement reminding me that Madison’s health is more important than the cockfight I’m creating in my mind.
“I’ll find her myself. Here’s my card if you feel the need to get authorities involved.” I flip a business car
d out between my fingers and set it on her desk. A nurse moves through the ICU doors and I push through the opening, and stride down the hall. I’m unsurprised when she follows, a clatter of shoes, sputtering as I glance in and out of rooms, ignoring the tug of her on my arm. I pass a room then stop, stepping back and glancing at the chart hanging on the door.
Madison Decater. Room F.
This is it.
I step inside and pull the door closed on the woman, the voices instantly muffled. There is a man beside her bed, his back to me. I ignore him, my attention focused on her, his figure muting in my peripheral vision, my horror growing as I see the frail figure who is my heart.
She lies in a hospital bed, her face covered with a breathing mask, tubes and cords running from portable stands to her body, face, and hands. The mechanical breathing of the machine is like a beast, wheezing out sounds that are nothing like her sweet sighs of sleep.
“My baby,” I whisper. “Oh my God, my sweet, sweet girl.” Tears spill. Tears I didn’t even know my body could still create. I haven’t cried since Jennifer, not even at Mother’s funeral. But this, seeing her before me, struggling to breathe, artificially hanging onto life… it is as if I am seeing my life dissolve right before my eyes with no way of rescuing it. Her life, her fire… it’s gone. It’s gone, and I’m faced with the sudden reality that it may never come back. My mistakes will be etched in stone, unable to be wiped clean and rewritten. I sink to my knees beside her bed and pick up her hand, and it flops unnaturally. I pull it to my cheek, cradling the limp wrist, my breath gasping as I press soft kisses onto her palm.
I’ve known I love her. I’ve known that she is the light in my life and keeps my world from being too dark, too consumed with work. But I haven’t known, haven’t realized until now how my love for her works, how it is more than affection, how it is the only part of me that has life. She is the only feeling that exists in my body, the only feeling that isn’t tied to greed or competition or ego. She is my light, and I haven’t realized it until now, when it is so close to being extinguished.
I lay my head on her chest, and gently grip her to me. “I need you, baby. I love you so much.”
There is a small cough, and I remember the other man in the room. The other man in her life. A man who, at this point in time, needs to take his leave, to step out of her life and allow me to take my rightful place. I gently release her and straighten, taking one long look at her before turning to face her other man.
Seeing Paul’s face pulls the final nail from the coffin that is my sanity. He stands tall, taller than I remember, his chest strong, eyes fierce, blazing with the same passion I feel behind mine. I have seen his photo, Dana’s letters occasionally containing a news article or magazine clipping. But a photo wasn’t needed to know who he would grow into. I have memorized every line of his face since he was a child. Admired his athletic build, his skill in the water, his easy smile and infectious laugh. He was always our golden child, the one who talked his way out of trouble, rescued stray animals, and waltzed through life with an ease—just like Madison. The thought hits me hard, the similarities terrifying in their possibilities.
I freeze, examine the look in his eyes and try to piece the possibilities together, try to understand exactly what his presence means and pray to God it’s not what it appears to be. “Why are you here?”
“The same reason you are.” He nods toward the bed, toward the woman who I’ve spent the last two years thinking of as my own. I knew there was another man. Hell, I’m the reason she settled down with one. I didn’t want her going home with strangers. I wanted to know she had a steady relationship, someone who’d watch out and care for her. I hadn’t taken the time to consider that person having feelings for her, mentally claiming ownership of her. I’ve always pushed that reality to the side, work taking center stage, everything else flowing, the well-oiled machine silent enough to skip close examination. Realizing that he is her other man… Paul falls in love with baby kittens. I don’t have to look in his eyes to know he’s head over heels for her. Jesus Christ, I’ve fucked to the thought of her with him!
My legs lose all strength and my knees threaten to buckle. I stagger a few steps to the side and collapse into the closest chair, closing my eyes. There is a vibration in my pocket—my phone—and I reach in and hold the button on the side, depressing it until it vibrates and is off. “How long?” The words come out a whisper, and I clear my throat.
“The doctor should be back in about an hour with some results. We will know more then.” I crack open my eyes to see him sit in a chair opposite me, leaning forward, his elbows on his knees, his eyes looking at her and then at me.
“No.” My voice is stronger, though it still cracks as I speak. “How long have you been fucking her?” I open my eyes and look into his.
41
PAUL
My brother has changed so much. At twenty years old he was already serious, dedicated to school when I was partying, his brow furrowed over grades and projections, current events, and our family’s finances. Worry, worry, worry at a point in his life when he should have been partying and fucking. Enjoying life. But he’s even worse now. He’s fully evolved into a rock hard frame of intensity. When he opens his eyes and stares at me, it is like being in the path of a train, frozen to the spot, unable to move even though the ground is trembling underfoot.
“A year and a half … maybe two. We met in Santa Monica.”
“So this… this is a coincidence?” Stewart’s voice is hard and unbelieving, and it’s through his petulant tone that I fully believe that this is solely happenstance.
I’ve worked through the scenario before he arrived, turning over the realization of his identity in my head and trying to figure out the pieces and what my part is in this twisted game.
I’ve decided there are three possibilities.
First. He sent Madd to me—some fucked up situation that reeked of anything but the levelheaded Stewart I once knew.
Second. Madd sought out two brothers, for reasons known only to her, a deceitful game that would only end in disaster. Also, completely opposite of the woman I love.
Third. It was all a coincidence. A fucked up, someone-upstairs-is-screwing-with-you, coincidence.
“It’s either coincidence, or she somehow orchestrated this situation.” I glance toward her bed. “And I don’t think she would do that.”
He drops his head back against the wall. “No. She wouldn’t. Plus, I’m the one who pushed her to take a boyfriend.”
“Why?” How could any man send Madison out into the world and not be concerned with the possibility of losing her? It’s a question I’ve always contained, not wanting to rock the boat with Madd and a little scared at what the answer might be.
He sighs, keeping his gaze at the ceiling. “I assume you know how she is, with sex. From the beginning, I couldn’t give her the time she needed. For sex or for a relationship. She deserved a full-time boyfriend and she knew it, refused to be exclusive with me. And…” He shrugged. “I couldn’t stop thinking about her. I wanted her as a constant in my life, but I also wanted her to be safe, and happy, and loved. And… fuck. Satisfied. I didn’t want her out fucking around. And I didn’t want her out of my life.” He pushes off the wall with his shoulder and sits up in the chair, meeting my gaze. “I thought if she had a man, someone to spend her days and nights with—someone who understood that I was there, that I had a place in her life—it would keep her happy and give me a spot in her life. Give our relationship some security.”
I frown. “Without you… I could have had a normal relationship with her. I could have made her happy.” My voice strengthens, anger coursing through me. “I could have been everything she needed.”
Stewart laughs, and the sound only pisses me off more. “You’re a kid. You float through life in some imaginary world where you do what you love and are lucky enough to live off of it. But what are you going to do when you can’t surf anymore? How are you going to provide
for her? At some point you’ll have to join the real world. And the real world changes people. The real world takes your cheery little smile and turns you in a dark cloud of reality. It drowns you in bills and expectations and adds pound after pound of reality on your shoulders until you’re struggling under the weight of it all.”
“So that gives you a permission slip to fuck with her life? Use her and then send her off when your cell phone rings?” I shake my head. “Fuck that. She’s better than that. You were greedy and wanted to have her and work and I don’t have to guess the order in which they stacked.”
His features tighten, scowl deepening, and I want to punch him, like he did to me the night that Jennifer died. Ten years of resentment and anger boil, and my fists clench, my temper warring with my mind.
He snarls, uncoiling upright in the chair. “Paul, you’re a fuck to her. Probably a good one. And you’re fun. You’ve done a good job of keeping her company. But you can’t be her everything. You’re barely your own everything. And you’ll fail her. Just like you failed Jennifer. Fuck—you were probably with her when this happened. Were you?”
He stands and moves close, his eyes dark, his jaw tight. “Were you there when she drowned? How many women who I love are you going to hurt with that casual attitude that lets everything important slip through the cracks?”
There’s a level when your heart breaks past the point of repair, shattering into pieces that cannot be glued back together. His words are knives, the truth behind them lacing the blades with poison. At some point, I surge forward, my chest bumping his. But, halfway through his final words, when the truth and guilt burn into my soul, I weaken—and in the end, I drop to my knees, wincing when the final point hits its mark and bruises my soul.
Undertow Page 11
