by Layne, Lyssa
Except for the fact that Ray Matthews was an idiot for driving drunk, she was just as guilty for not making him give her the keys or at the very least, getting out of the car. Perhaps it was as simple as not forgiving him for letting her down when he ran out on her afterward. She turned over and flopped onto her back and banged her fisted hands on either side of her on the mattress. A slight noise made her look at the door to her room. Her heart skipped a beat at the familiar voice attached to a welcome sight.
“Hi,” Brad’s voice faltered as he peeked into Christine's room filled with hesitation. From the look on her face and the wrinkle on her brow, he was sure her mind had to be reliving something unpleasant. Then she spotted him, smiled sweetly, and his heart took off like a race horse from the starting gate.
She gestured for him to enter.
“Uhm—ah.” His gaze quickly darted from the missing limb, to her face. He tried not to stare but his eyes keep returning to her leg?
“Hi.” She clasped her hands and gave him a sedate smile.
“Hello yourself.” Brad handed her the bouquet of baby pink roses. “How are you feeling?”
Christine lovingly cradled the flowers. She took a deep breath of the floral fragrance and whatever had been bothering her disappeared as if the flowers dispelled whatever ghosts haunted her.
“I'm fine. Thank you, they’re lovely.” she said, looking pleased by his simple kindness.
Maybe they were her favorites. He'd like to think so. “It’s the least I could do after—” Brad realized his mistake the second the words were out of his mouth when her smile disappear, she raised her chin, and her face turned red. “After what, Brad.”
Brad saw her jaw tighten. The muscles in her cheeks twitched.
Her eyes narrowed.
Damn, he did exactly what he had hoped to avoid. “After last night.”
Chris struggled to hold onto her calm, but seeing her white knuckles and both fists trying to pulverize the hapless hospital sheet were a dead giveaway.
“Meaning?”
He might as well face it, they were going to have this conversation right now, from the looks of things. His only hope was to make her understand and she’d forgive him. Brad sucked in a deep breath and with his last shred of nerve he plunged in.
“You have to know the bullet was probably meant for me. I’m responsible for what happened to you.” He looked away, then back, forcing himself to hold her gaze. “Look Chris, I know there’s nothing I can say to make up for last night.” Brad began to pace, one hand tucked in his pocket while he flung the other in every directions like an angry Italian. “I don’t know who the shooter was, but I promise I’ll do everything in my power to push the guys to find him. There just aren’t any words that I can say to tell you how sorry I am for what happened.”
“Oh?”
“You aren't going to make this easy for me, are you?” He shrugged then dragged a hand through his hair.
“I'm not trying to be difficult, Brad, but you seem to be overreacting just a bit. I'm fine.”
He skidded to a stop and clamped his mouth shut to keep from resembling a fish out of water. He shook his head, incredulous that she would think he was simply overreacting. She'd lost a leg, for Christ's sake. What was wrong with her? Was it the medications? Pain stuff made people do and say crazy things.
“I have eyes. I can see that you're not fine.” The more he talked, the faster he spoke. God, he was turning into a babbling fool. He hated babbling fools. “I mean if you hadn’t been with me, you wouldn’t have been shot. You wouldn’t be in the hospital now all crippled up.” Brad stopped in his tracks pointing at her leg. He looked straight into Christine’s eyes and implored, “Jesus Chris, I’m so sorry. I know you'll never forgive me. Hell, I wouldn't forgive me!” Okay. Now he was sweating. Shit! Can this get any worse?
Crippled? Christine lay there dumbfounded. She was sure her slack jawed expression made her look like a lunatic, but she didn’t care. She was angry, damned angry. Crippled up? Who was this guy? If anyone was a cripple, it was him.
Taking a last breath of the flowers still nestled in her arms, she took the bouquet by the stems and hurled his gift of guilt back at him.
“How dare you!”
Even though Brad stepped back the flowers hit him square in the face. She felt a bit sorry for him when she realized the florist didn’t have the foresight to remove the thorns. Brad’s face now sported two angry looking scratches.
“Chris—”
Her head started pounding. What little pain had lessened from her concussion, returned in full force.
“Don’t you Chris me,” she snapped. “For your information, I'm not the cripple here, Mr. Maxwell!” She tried to control her breathing, because her anger only made her dizzy. “You're off the hook, I lost my leg four years ago in a car accident.”
He thought she was cri—to hell with what he thought of her. Blinking back the tears that threatened to escape, she muttered before she turned away rolling onto her side, “I'm not handicapped in any way. I live a full life and depend on no one. Now take your guilt-free butt out of here and leave me alone.”
Brad didn’t know what to say. While he was ecstatic that he hadn’t been the cause of Christine's lost leg, he was apparently guilty of much worse. Making her believe he thought of her as helpless and that he pitied her. And it was written on her face which was much worse than if he'd actually caused the loss of the limb.
“Chris, I—” In spite of it all, he couldn't help the relief that hit him like a shot of whiskey to his gut. Not his fault.
She waved him away, “Just leave me alone.”
Irritated, Brad snorted his indignation. “Now wait just a damned minute, Honey. You can't blame me for jumping to conclusions. I've been living with guilt for so damned long, I probably wouldn't sleep without it.
“Forget it. Just leave and give me time to wrap my mind around all that's happened. I deserve that much.”
He let out an exasperated burst of air and pointed a finger at her. “Fine, but I'll be back. This conversation isn't over.” He held a hand up, palm out to stop her retort. Respecting her wishes, he turned and left the room. He paced the hallway, trying to think of something to appease the beast he'd created, fast.
There had to be something he could do to fix it. Pulling his size twelve’s out of his big mouth was going to be no easy feat, but he was determined to do something.
Spying an intern in a uniform gave him an idea. He snapped his fingers then headed for the nurse’s station to put his plan into action.
His sweet Christine proved she had a temper. He didn't want to think about what she'd do if his plan didn't work.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Christine cried for a good thirty minutes. The allotted time Jared gave her permission to hold a pity-party.
Jared. God, how I miss him! If only he were here now. What would he say? He'd find a way to make it better. If only.
Disappointment filled her heart.
Jerked from her mental meanderings, a new shift nurse entered the room, pushing a wheelchair with a pair of crutches lying across the arm rests.
“Looks like they’re springing you, young lady.”
A short, round nurse smiled to her as if life were a bed of perfect tulips waiting to be clipped. The name on her name badge read Mandy. She could easily pass for Mrs. Claus. It was almost irritating to see anyone that happy, when she was absolutely miserable.
“Hand me the crutches, I’ll adjust them then call a taxi before I get dressed.”
The nurse handed Christine the crutches, and she promptly whipped the wing nuts off the sides, to make the necessary adjustments. She only had to drop them two notches, extending them to accommodate her five-foot, six-inch frame.
As Christine hobbled to the closet, the nurse offered, “How about you worry about dressing yourself and I’ll see about your ride?”
“Thanks. That would be great.” She removed her dress from the hanger and slung
it over her shoulder, then made her way back to the bed. Pressing the right buttons on the bed, she lowered it until she could easily reach the floor while dressing.
Once her strapless bra and slip were in place, she fingered the bullet-hole in her dress. She could easily fit her index finger through the hole. She shivered as her hand touched the run in the raw-silk material. Damn, her favorite dress was ruined. Shaken by the realization that it could have been so much worse, she collapsed on the bed.
As she pulled on the dress she decided to burn it as soon as she got home. Yes, she'd burn it because after this fiasco Brad wouldn't want to see her again. Christine waited for the nurse to come back with the signed release papers.
After waiting five minutes, she began to get antsy and made her way over to the window that overlooked the city. To the east she could see the smog hanging over downtown Los Angeles. Her view of the pollution made her feel like she was caught in a carbon monoxide prison with no escape. Her saving grace came in the fact that even though Jared wasn’t with her, he'd be back soon. In the meantime, she had plenty of wonderful memories to fall back on until she saw him again. After all, he wasn’t her best friend for nothing.
Determined to get on with her life, she turned away from the window and hobbled over to sit on the only chair in her room. She was done with the bed, no longer a patient. No longer willing to be victim either.
Once seated, she rested the aluminum crutches against the wall.
When the nurse showed up ten minutes later piping, “Your ride is here,” she pointed to the wheelchair. “Ready to go?”
Christine grabbed her crutches and eased herself into the wheelchair as the nurse gently spun her around and pushed her out of the room.
They stopped by the nurses’ station where Christine signed the release papers and went over the follow-up instructions on her concussion. She assured the nurse she'd have someone stay with her who would wake her every two hours during the night. She only hoped her assistant would be willing to help her out. Between her blurry vision and the headache she didn't have much going for her. The elevator ride down left her nauseous and wondering if it was mistake to leave the hospital so soon.
No, time to move on.
Ready to leave the hospital behind, Christine was surprised at the temperature difference when the sliding glass doors whooshed open. The cool temperature of the hospital stayed behind in the lobby. The stifling heat of Southern California in August met her with a sweltering salute. Perspiration immediately appeared, covering her body, as well as a thin sheen on her brow and upper lip. When her head started to swim she realized the joke she had been ready to deliver about the concussion would trap her at the hospital. She was anxious to get home and into her air-conditioned apartment.
The nurse pushed her to the edge of the curb just as a car pulled into the circle. She did a quick double take at the car then turned to the nurse and said, “I don't know what kind of a game you two are playing, but I'm not going home with him.”
Her last words were barely out of her mouth when Brad stepped from the car, giving her a big lop-sided grin. He quickly rounded the car and came to a stop in front of her.
“Look Chris I know I made a complete ass out of myself in there, and you have every right to spit in my face and tell me to get lost. But think of it this way, we're neighbors, well—sort of, so it's no big deal for me to help you out. I mean, it's not like I have a job to go to. Besides, this way you can get out of here right now, otherwise they won't let you go until they speak to whoever is taking care of you.”
“Don't worry. I'm sure my assistant will be more than happy to come stay with me for a couple days. After all, I wouldn't want you to suffer any further pangs of guilt over my crippled state.” Christine felt a combination of satisfaction and guilt for her stinging remark, until Brad's shoulders slumped.
“Okay, I deserved that, but do you really want to put your assistant out? I mean think about it, our apartments are only a couple blocks apart. It makes perfect sense. Please?” he implored.
The nurse stepped forward, “I'm afraid he's right, dear. I can't release you until I've spoken to the responsible adult who's going to be taking care of you. There are very specific instructions because of your concussion.”
Christine was perturbed, she could learn a few things from this nurse on facial expressions. Stern didn't begin to spell it out.
The nurse pursed her lips, crossed her arms drumming her fingers. “It's up to you. Him or back inside? What's it going to be?”
Disgusted with her choices but all too ready to leave the place, she accepted the only logical option. “Fine, I'll go with him, but only because I’ve had enough of hospitals to last me a lifetime.”
She wanted to wipe the silly satisfied grin from Brad's face.
The nurse wasted no time and immediately gave Brad the instructions she'd already covered with Christine, adding a warning of how imperative it was to make sure she slept no more than two hours at a time, that she needed to be awakened to be sure her mind was properly working and her eyes focused clearly.
Brad promised to bring her back to the ER at the first sign of trouble.
The nurse helped her to a standing position, but it was Brad who maneuvered Christine into the front seat of his car, buckling her in then ran around and climbed into the driver's seat.
Christine had a real battle going on inside her. Part of her liked the idea of having Brad so close. His tempting full lips, his warm breath, sexy green eyes, and smelling deliciously masculine; but her head wanted to the take her crutches and smack him silly for just being a man.
He seemed sincere.
She only hoped she wasn't fooling herself about him or his intentions. Maybe he'd let her down again. She hoped not, because she couldn't take much more disappointment.
Brad pulled away from the curb.
Christine felt as if a huge weight had been lifted from her shoulders. But, two days with Brad? She'd either succumb to his masculinity or she'd wind up killing him.
Nothing ever came easy for her.
CHAPTER NINE
Christine had no idea how she’d survive the close proximity to the only man who’d set her body on fire in way too long.
When Brad pulled up to the curb in front of her apartment building, he turned off the car and inhaled a deep breath. “Well, we're here. Let me have your keys. I'll go unlock the door and come back for you.” Brad held his hand out.
Christine opened her black, beaded handbag and withdrew the key. “Here you go, but I can get out on my own. It's not as if I haven't done this before. I'm an old hand at these things,” she said, pointing to the crutches. There was no way she was going to let him wait on her. Besides, the sooner she proved she could handle herself, the sooner he'd leave her alone.
Brad stepped out of the car.
Christine released the catch on her seat belt and opened the door, swinging her leg toward the curb. With the crutches spaced far enough apart, she used them as leverage to pull herself up. By the time he had the front door open, she had made it half way up the walk, chastising herself for the world’s worst walk of shame—in a bullet ridden dress.
“Wow, look at you. I’m impressed.” With a mock salute, he let her pass.
She felt him close behind her. What was he thinking? That she was going to fall on her ass in front of him? Not on her worst day. Shear stubbornness kept her upright.
Once in her apartment, Christine tossed her bag on the hall table, ignoring Brad as he dropped her keys beside it. “I’ll be out shortly.” She hobbled into her bedroom hoping he wouldn’t follow.
Disappointment sluiced through her when she realized he was giving her space. She cranked up the AC before she struggled out of her gown and fought her way into pajamas, her favorite, well-worn pastel pink chenille robe and comfy fuzzy pink slipper on her right food. Maybe he'd run screaming into the sunset at the sight of her and she'd be free of him. She gimped her way back into the living room, sat dow
n on the sofa and picked up the remote.
Brad stood at the picture window, hands in his pockets. He hadn't looked at her even once.
Christine flipped on the television, and the station switched to the noonday news and of all things it showed a promo for her opening. She prayed they’d only show clips of her photos.
No such luck.
The report started out innocent enough, with the reporter who interviewed her at the gala sweeping through her pictures. Then the newscast went directly into the uncut version of Brad telling the nosy reporter to get lost. She flicked the button to change channels, but the same segments played on all them. And if that wasn’t bad enough, it immediately cut to what looked like old footage of some police captain discussing the previous shooting Brad had been involved in.
She continued to channel surf before Brad came and took the remote from her, moving it back to the local station she assumed to see how it would play out.
He stood next to her without saying a word.
When she looked up at his pale face, she saw a man whose world had been yanked out from under him. The devastation on his face reminded her of how she felt the morning she woke to find her leg gone.
She’d have given anything if Brad hadn’t been in the room with her at that moment. Sure, she was still peeved with him for the guilt trip he’d laid on her; but he didn’t deserve all the negative publicity. No one as caring and gentle as he was could shoot another person, much less a co-worker and friend. There had to be more to the story.
Leaning toward him she took one of his cold, limp hands in hers.
“Brad? Talk to me. Tell me what you’re thinking?”
He spun around, glaring at her. “Why?”
“Back the banana boat up buster! I’m not accusing you of anything. I happen to think it’s a crime for someone as empathetic as you are to be falsely accused. By the way, what’s that reporter got against you? He seems to be the one pushing all the negative press.”
