Second Shot: A Men With Wood Novel

by C. M. Seabrook

  The elevator in his shitty apartment is out of order. I take the stairs two at a time until I reach the seventh floor.

  I bang on the door. “Sam, open up.”

  No answer.

  Fear strangles me.

  “Open the fucking door.”

  When he doesn’t respond, I step back and slam my heel against the door. The old wood splinters slightly, but doesn’t budge. I kick four more times before the old hinges give in.

  Sam’s lying on the couch, face pale, eyes closed, the needle still stuck in his fucking arm.

  I scramble over the fragmented door, bile burning my throat.

  Grabbing his shoulders, I shake him hard. His eyes stay closed.

  “Come on, asshole. Don’t pull this shit on me.” I hold his face in my hands and yell at him. His skin is cool, the sockets of his eyes so sunken they look black, and his lips are a disturbing shade of purple.

  No. No. No.

  “You’re dying on me, fucker.” I slap him hard. “Wake up.”

  Still, nothing. Where the hell are the paramedics? They should be here by now.

  What do I do?

  Check if he’s breathing. The thought slams into my skull, breaking something inside me. Because I already know the truth.

  He’s gone.

  I place two fingers on his neck, pressing down, praying for even the faintest pulse.

  Nothing.

  “Damn you, Sam,” I cry, trying to remember the basic CPR training I’d received. I press my palm into his chest and press over and over again. One. Two. Three. Four…

  I tilt his chin back, opening his mouth, and breathe.

  “Come on.” I start compressions again.

  I don’t know how much time goes by. Seconds. Minutes. Hours.

  There’s a commotion behind me. People coming out of their apartments, whispering, watching, but no one comes to help.

  “Sir, you can step back now,” someone says, as another person takes over my compressions.

  The room spins. I blink and time speeds up, then slows down, like a horrible movie playing violently in front of me.

  The paramedics work. They’ve got their paddles out, and when they press it against Sam’s bare chest, his body jerks. For a moment, there’s hope.

  I hold on to that moment, even when I see the small shake of the paramedic’s head.

  A roar sounds in my ears, screaming that this isn’t happening. It’s just a nightmare. One I need to wake up from, now.

  “Sir?” Someone is talking to me. The paramedic. A man in his early forties, and there’s sympathy in his eyes when he places his hand on my shoulder. He keeps talking, but I don’t hear his words. The only thing I hear is, “I’m sorry.”

  My back hits the wall and I sink to the floor, my legs giving out on me as I watch them place him on the stretcher.

  I’m numb. Frozen. Can’t breathe. Can’t think. The only thing that jolts me out of my black hole of misery is the small, strangled cry from the door.

  Brynne stands there, looking like she just crawled out of bed, still wearing pajama bottoms and an oversized sweatshirt. She doesn’t see me. Her gaze, wide and desperate, is focused on her brother’s lifeless body.

  She sways like she’s going to pass out.

  I push myself off the floor, ready to grab her, but she’s already staggering over the broken door towards his body.

  “Sam?” She pushes past the paramedics, dropping on his body, and I see her flinch when she touches him. “No.”

  The older of the two paramedics places a hand on her shoulder. “Miss-”

  “Why aren’t you helping him?” Her eyes are wild now. “Help him!”

  “I’m sorry. He’s-”

  “No.” She staggers away from him, swaying again.

  This time, I’m there. I clutch her elbows, holding her steady.

  She looks up at me, and I can tell it’s the first time she’s seen me. “Kane? Tell them to help him.”

  I give a small shake of my head, grief squeezing my chest so hard I feel like my heart is going to explode.

  “He’s gone.”

  She tries to pull away, but I hold her, wrapping my arms around her small frame, and trembling when I feel rather than hear her sob against my chest.

  “He…he called me.” Her hands ball into fists in my shirt. “I was just talking to him. He sounded…wrong.”

  Fuck, Sam. You selfish piece of shit.

  He had to know she’d come. That she’d find him like this.

  I keep my hand on the back of her head, pressing it against my chest, so she doesn’t see when the paramedics place the white sheet over Sam’s face.

  One of the paramedics is talking to me, something about making a statement to the police, something about the drugs.

  “Yeah, sure, whatever,” I mumble, holding Brynne tighter.

  I feel her tense in my arms.

  “You were with him.” It isn’t a question. She pulls back, and when she glances up at me, there’s accusation in her gaze. “This was you.”

  I let my hands drop to my sides when she twists away from me, her eyes darting around the room, taking in the drugs that still litter the coffee table. The syringes and pills. Some black tarry substance, and a bag of weed. Fuck, I don’t even know what half the shit is. But I know it’s bad.

  “Brynne,” I drag my fingers through my hair. “I’m sorry-”

  “Sorry?” She hits my chest, tears streaming down her cheeks. “You think getting high is some sort of game? You killed him. It should be you laying there, not him.”

  One of the paramedics looks over at me with raised brows.

  “Stop it.” I grab her arm and force her to look at me. “Do I look fucking high?”

  She glares at me, and I know that no matter what I say, she’ll see what she wants. Anything to take the blame off Sam for being a fucking coward.

  He could put on a good face, especially for Brynne. When she was around, it was probably the only time I saw him sober.

  I’d warned him repeatedly not to keep messing with this shit. Even told Coach about it. Begged them both to get him some help.

  When he didn’t, I pulled away.

  Yeah, I was a shitty fucking friend. But I couldn’t watch as he destroyed himself.

  Maybe if I’d been around more. If I’d pushed him into rehab. Maybe I wouldn’t be standing here watching as the emergency crew carry his lifeless body out the door.

  Eyes red, face swollen, Brynne glares at me with all the hatred I feel for myself. I know what she’s doing, using anger as a shield to protect herself from the grief that could drown her if she let it.

  I could defend myself. Scream back. Tell her I’d hadn’t been part of the crazy shit Sam was always involved in. That it was him, not me, that bought the cocaine the night she’d seen us. That I’d never touched the stuff – ever.

  But I don’t.

  Because I know whatever I say, she’ll never believe me.

  She needs to make me the villain, because in her eyes Sam could never do anything wrong. Not even when he was higher than a kite, and pawning her things for drug money.

  If I didn’t give a shit about her, maybe I’d fight her on it. Make her see that I’m not the bastard she thinks I am.

  But the warped thing about this whole mess is I do care. Too damn much.

  Chapter 10

  Present

  Brynne

  This is a bad idea.

  Those words roll through my head as I ride the elevator up to Kane’s penthouse.

  The last time I’d come here, I’d been drunk on cheap wine, and allowed my body to rule my actions. Now I’m going back, and all I can think about is his offer. Move in with me.

  “Bad idea,” I mutter, glancing down at Noah, who’s fast asleep in the stroller.

  I want to hold on to the hate that used to protect my heart, but when I look at Noah, it’s hard to remember anything but that night. Not just his touch, but the way his eyes seared my soul.
The way he made me feel like he was a part of me. That he was my future, and not a demon from my past.

  I hated him.

  I loved him.

  Stupid emotions that warred constantly against each other.

  My stomach twists and my palms sweat as I get off the elevator and stand in front of his door.

  It’s not just me I have to think about anymore.

  Kane was right. Noah deserves a father. And if he’s really serious about being part of Noah’s life, then I have to give him the opportunity. One chance. I’ll give him that.

  I knock.

  “It’s unlocked,” comes the deep, muffled reply.

  I open the door, wheeling the stroller into the large foyer that currently looks like Babies-R-Us exploded in it. Opened and unopened boxes are piled halfway to the ceiling.

  “Kane?”

  “In here,” he calls out.

  I follow his voice to the living room, where he’s kneeling, shirtless over a series of large plastic pieces that I’m assuming will be a toddler-sized playset, with a mini-slide and climbing wall built in.

  “What is all this?”

  He gives me a crooked smile that cuts deep dimples into one cheek. And there go the butterflies again.

  “I wanted to be prepared for when you-” He rubs the back of his neck. “When he sleeps here. So, I went online and purchased a few things.”

  I glance at the boxes scattered everywhere. “Did you order the whole catalogue?”

  He grins and puts down the screwdriver in his hand, then stands and walks towards me. My heart flutters as he approaches, but like he promised, he doesn’t touch me. Instead, he bends down over the stroller to look at Noah.

  “He just fell asleep. Don’t wake him unless you want to be the one getting up with him in the middle of the night.”

  “Already told you I did.” He straightens, then shoves his hands in his pockets. “He’s still not sleeping through the night?”

  He says it like he actually knows something about babies, which irritates me.

  “Most nights he’ll sleep eight hours. But if he doesn’t have his full afternoon nap, then he’ll fall asleep again after dinner, which means-”

  “He’ll wake up in the middle of the night. Got it.” He winks.

  I roll my eyes at him, then nod at the plastic playset he’d been working on. “You do know that it’ll be at least a couple of years before he can use most of this stuff? And where are you going to put it? You don’t have a yard.”

  “I’ve got someone coming to pick up the pool table tomorrow. I’m going to turn the game room into a playroom.”

  “You love that pool table.”

  He shrugs, making the muscles in his chest and shoulders bunch. “Kid’s got to have a place to play.”

  I frown. “You don’t have to do all this.”

  He holds my gaze, and I swear I can see the wheels spinning behind his eyes.

  “What?” I ask, hoping there aren’t any more surprises lurking around the corner.

  “Is he okay there for a second?”

  I glance down at Noah, and nod.

  “Good. I want to show you something.”

  Stomach flip flopping, I follow him down the hall, wishing he’d put a damn shirt on.

  “If you’re taking me to your bedroom, I told you, it’s totally not happening.”

  He stops, giving me a mischievous grin that says he doesn’t believe me for one second, but when he opens the door we’re standing in front of, my mouth drops open.

  The entire room has been converted into a nursery. Crib. Change table. Stuffed animals. Even a damn diaper genie.

  “The walls still need to be painted. Haven’t really used this room, so it’s pretty bare.”

  “It’s perfect.” Uneasiness settles in my chest, and I don’t know why. Maybe because I know I’ll never be able to give all these things to Noah.

  “There’s more. Come on.” He takes my hand and pulls me to the next room. “I had it made up for a guest room, but I don’t have a lot of guests. It’s yours.”

  I don’t go into the room. Can’t. I can barely breath as I take in the sleek furniture that’s been decorated with silvers and purples. My favorite colors. Everything about it is – me.

  Overwhelmed doesn’t even begin to describe the way I feel. It’s too much. Too quick.

  “Kane-”

  “Before you say no, take a look at this.” Again, he takes my hand and drags me to another room, this one with floor-to-ceiling windows with a view overlooking the city.

  Weights and workout machines line the walls.

  “A workout room. Now that is a bonus,” I say sarcastically, since he knows full well I’ve never exercised a day in my life.

  He chuckles. “It’s your studio.”

  I try to keep my expression neutral, but it’s hard to hide the way my heart beats a million miles a minute. I didn’t expect this. Any of it.

  “My studio?” My voice cracks on the words.

  “I’ll have my people put this stuff in storage, and you can move your supplies in.” He leans against the doorframe, watching me. “What do you think?”

  What do I think? That everything is moving at warp speed.

  “I don’t know. It’s…a lot.”

  He leans closer, and I can smell his aftershave, the tang of mint on his breath. His eyes, clear and blue, stare down at me with an intensity that goes straight to my core.

  Bad idea.

  “We can make this work, Brynne. Move in with me.”

  I hold his gaze, while he waits for an answer.

  Noah’s cry saves me.

  “I’ll get him.” Kane reaches out and brushes his thumb along my jaw, already breaking his own rule. But I can’t help but lean into his touch, to crave more.

  Yeah, really bad idea.

  “Stay here and think about it.” He disappears down the hall, towards the now desperate squawking.

  A few seconds later, Noah’s stops crying.

  I glance around the large room with its hardwood floors and bare walls. Even when I lived with my dad, despite the enormous house and multiple rooms, I never had anything like this. Nowhere other than my bedroom to work on my paintings and sculptures.

  My father did everything he could to crush my love of art. I didn’t understand it then, and I still don’t now. When I’d asked to sign up for art classes, he’d put me in hockey, then soccer. And when it was clear I wasn’t a team-sport person, he registered me for gymnastics, then ballet, and finally karate.

  I did them all. Never complaining, but never really enjoying them. My fingers itched to create, to draw and paint.

  “You need to keep your body active,” my father would say whenever I’d grumble about going to whatever activity he was dragging me to. “All that artsy stuff just makes your mind weak. Are you weak, Brynne?”

  That was one of his favorite questions to ask Sam and I.

  “No, Daddy.” I shoved back the tears, never understanding why he wouldn’t look at my drawings, or why he got mad whenever he caught me doodling in my books.

  I learned to hide my drawings from him. Even when the teachers at my school commented on my work, suggesting that I had real talent, I didn’t tell him, afraid of his anger, his disappointment.

  And then I found the room. I was eleven. One of the housecleaners must have forgotten to lock it, because I’d never seen the door open before.

  It was small, but it had large windows on two sides that were covered by thick, dark drapes. Different sized canvases perched against the wall, some finished, some half started. But it was the easel in the center, with its large blank canvas that drew me. An old palette with crusted paint sat on a table beside it, along with an assortment of different sized brushes. Tubes of half used oils beckoned me, tempting me with their bright colored labels.

  Maybe I should have known better. But some part of me wanted to believe that the room was a gift from my father. The paints. The brushes. Secret treasures
that he wanted me to find.

  The first stroke of color on the canvas and my heart leapt in joy.

  I’d make him a beautiful painting, something he would be proud of.

  I’m not sure how long I’d stayed there. Probably hours, because by the time my father found me, he was frantic.

  “What the hell are you doing in here?” his voice bellowed.

  I jumped, smudging an ugly red line across the field of roses I’d created.

  “I-I was painting.”

  He barreled across the room, large and intimidating, and grabbed the paintbrush out of my hand, tossing it across the room. “Who said you could come in here?”

  “I…the door…it was open…I thought…”

  His eyes filled with more anger when he glanced at the painting I’d done. “Go to your room. Now.”

  “Daddy, please, I-”

  His large hand wrapped around my arm, pulling me roughly from the stool I’d been sitting in.

  I cried out at the pain, but he only tightened his grip, his eyes dark and scary.

  It’s the first time I’d seen that look directed at me and not Sam.

  “Go. To. Your. Room.” His fingers tightened, pinching my skin, before he finally released me.

  Tears blurred my vision as I’d scurried to my room.

  Hours went by.

  I wasn’t called to supper.

  When the moon was high in the sky, and the lights under my door went dark, I knew he wasn’t coming. There was no explanation. No apology. No comfort. Just silence.

  Two days later, I walked by the room again. But this time, the door was wide open and it was empty.

  No paints.

  No canvases.

  No easel.

  Just a bare room.

  He’d thrown everything away. Even the painting I’d poured my heart into. That hurt more than the bruises that still shadowed my arm.

  “You okay?” Kane is standing in the doorway with Noah over his shoulder, blue eyes drawn and filled with concern. “I was talking to you. Didn’t seem like you heard me.”

  “I was just thinking.”

  “About how much you want to move in here?” His lips twist up on one side.

  I can’t help but smile at his persistence.

  It would be nice to have my own space to paint.