“You’re such an asshole,” I muttered before I gently held my ankle, which had now swollen twice its size.
“It was an accident, Carly. You know that.”
“Do I?” I shot back. His eyes met mine.
“Yeah. You do. I didn’t hurt you on purpose.”
“No, you never hurt anyone on purpose,” I sneered. “Just behind everyone’s back like the sniveling coward you are.”
It was his turn to get mad. “What do you want me to do? I can’t go back in time and change anything.”
My eyes shot to his. “You could apologize. That’s what normal humans do when they fuck up. ‘Gee, Carly. I seem to have really hurt you. I’m so sorry.’ Not, ‘here, let’s use your injury as an excuse to move in with me, because we can’t let PING to use video against us and hurt my precious career.’” I growled deep in my throat. “Face it. Everything always works out the way you want it to.”
He didn’t get a chance to reply before we were taken back to the examination room. He stood by quietly as the doctor began his examination. He ordered X-rays, and, again much to the credit I did not want to give him, Eli helped me into the wheelchair so that they could roll me to the X-ray department.
It took a couple of painful hours, but the doctor confirmed Antoine’s diagnosis. It was a grade III sprain. The “pop” I heard meant I had torn a ligament, which made my injury more severe. Because I couldn’t bear any weight on that ankle, he put my foot in a splint I would have to wear a couple of weeks at least before I graduated to a boot. “You’re going to need to rest, Carly,” he told me as he wrote out some prescriptions for anti-inflammatory medication and limited narcotics to help me deal with the acute agony I currently endured. “The first three weeks, we’re just going to focus on bringing down the swelling. Don’t walk on it at first. Keep it elevated above your heart for the first 48 hours and use ice compresses for twenty minutes at a stretch.”
“Three weeks?” I echoed. “How long is this going to take?”
“Typically we begin weight-bearing treatment by week 3 or 4, where we can start you on physical therapy. That should get you back to your regular activities in six weeks.”
Six weeks?!
I was going to have a hell of a time relocating out of Ling’s place.
He patted my knee. “You’re in good health, Carly,” he smiled. “We’ll get you back up on your feet in no time.”
Though the doctor gave me the crutches I would need to get around without putting weight on my sprained ankle, they discharged me with full use of a wheelchair to roll me down to Eli’s car, where he waited at the entrance.
He wasn’t alone. That PING vulture from the parking lot had located us, and didn’t even bother hiding the fact he was recording every single thing for posterity.
Eli was quiet as he helped me into the car. He’d already filled my prescriptions in the time it had taken to discharge me, so there was nothing else to do but go home.
I swallowed every protest I had as Eli pointed his car west towards Malibu.
CHAPTER SEVEN
I ended up moving in with Eli Blake not on Valentine’s Day, like he wanted, but January 17th, just five days into our year-long contract. All because of my Grade III ankle sprain, and the six damnable weeks it would take to heal.
By the time I left the ER, I had a brand new splint and boot for my ankle, along with some crutches, which would make navigating the narrow stairwell of my current apartment practically an Olympian feat, especially given I did this now for an audience of curious camera monkeys who wanted to publicize my every move—the more embarrassing the better.
So I didn’t argue much when Satan—I mean, Eli—offered to let me recuperate in his Malibu beach house.
He kept things quiet on the drive there. He didn’t even play the radio. When we got there, he pulled the car as close as he could to the front door to make it easier on me.
Of course, navigating my new crutches like a newborn gazelle was anything but easy. Eli hovered around me to make sure I didn’t fall.
I so wanted to stick one of my crutches where the sun didn’t shine.
As soon as we entered the hallway, the polished wood floor presented yet another challenge. It took me what felt like an hour and a half to get down to the sunken living room, where I nearly broke my neck maneuvering down the wide steps. I hobbled towards one of the leather sofas, where I collapsed gratefully. The hydrocodone they had given me at the hospital had finally kicked in, though it really didn’t do much to help with the pain. I just didn’t really care I was in it anymore.
Eli was quiet as he grabbed one of the lambskin pillows on the floor, along with the gold ottoman, which he dragged to where I was sitting. He placed the pillow on top of the ottoman and helped me put my swollen leg on top. I winced the minute his hand made contact with my ankle. Though I had never been a huge crier, tears sprang into my eyes. If he took notice, mercifully he didn’t acknowledge it. Instead he headed for the kitchen to grab me something to eat with my dosage of 800mg ibuprofen.
Beau Jangles meowed at me as he jumped up on the sofa to see what was going on. I scratched him by the ears before he hopped over to the ottoman to inspect the doctor’s handiwork.
Since I had a minute, I called Clementine, who answered on the first ring. “Are you okay?” she asked at once, abandoning all superfluous greetings.
I repeated what the doctor had said, and then informed her where I now called home. “For the next six weeks at least,” I corrected. I had no intention to stay there any longer than I had to.
“Probably for the best,” she agreed. “Those PING assholes shadowed every single one of us home.”
“Great,” I sighed. But it had been what I wanted. If PING caught wind of FFF, then that was some free publicity we’d need in time for our brand new opening at the new location. That had been the whole purpose of entertaining those leeches in the first place. If I couldn’t shake ‘em, at least I’d get something out of the deal.
I got a lot more than I bargained for.
“Do you need anything right now?”
“Some clothes,” I said. “And my laptop. I can work from anywhere, so that will keep me busy for the next six weeks.”
I gave her my new (temporary) address and hung up the phone just as Eli brought me a plate of cheese, crackers and fruit, along with a large glass of water. “The doctor gave you a note so you wouldn’t have to work for the next couple of weeks, you know,” he reminded as he placed the plate next to me and handed me my pill.
“I’ll lose my ever-loving mind if I have to sit in your house for the next six weeks and do nothing. Trust me. It’s for the best.”
“I’m sure Frank would understand,” he persisted.
I leveled my gaze on him. “Frank is not the only job I have.” In fact, by my count, I was now up to three. If I didn’t keep myself busy, I was afraid of what other jobs might spring up in the meantime.
As it turned out, though, work was impossible as the hydrocodone took full effect. My eyelids got heavier and heavier until I felt like I was being dragged underwater. A couple of times it even startled me, like I had been grabbed by some mental undertow, about to drag me to the depths. I was powerless to fight it, and asleep by the time Eli prepared my ice compress.
“Let’s get you into bed,” he said as he placed everything aside. “It’s a lot more comfortable than this small sofa.”
“I don’t care,” I mumbled as my head lolled on my shoulders. I could have slept on a bed of nails at that point.
Little did I know that was exactly where Eli planned to take me. He whisked me up into his arms, not even bothering with the crutches. This was bad enough. Folded in half, stuffed in his arms, I knew he could feel every inch and bulge he despised.
Worse, he pointed us right towards his master bedroom.
It scared me straight. I practically clawed at the wall to stop his progress. “I’m not sleeping in your bedroom,” I told him.
“
It’s the only bedroom on the ground floor,” he countered without even looking at my face.
“How convenient,” I snapped. He just clutched me tighter. “Let me go, Eli, or I swear to God…”
He didn’t even let me finish. His blue eyes flashed at mine. “You’ll do what, Gimpy?”
Suddenly it made perfect sense why Rhonda had turned Frank’s office into a carny ring-toss. This egomaniac didn’t give a shit. About anything. Or anyone. “I hate you.”
“Maybe. But you need me. So pull up your big-girl panties and deal with it.”
He kicked open the door to his bedroom and stalked purposefully towards the bed. I couldn’t help but note the irony of our situation. Out of all the girls he had brought into this very room, likely carrying them to bed just like he was carrying me, I was the only one he would never dream of seducing, despite all the songs he sang.
So I didn’t argue as he placed me on the bed, grabbing some of the extra pillows to prop up my leg per doctor’s orders. Instead I laid flat, as bone-weary as I had ever been since coming to California. The exhausting events of the day finally took their toll. With the help of heavy narcotic medication, I was asleep before he finished fussing over me.
It was dark when I awoke some time later. The window blinds were open, as well as the patio door, so I could hear the waves crash against the shore just outside on Eli’s private stretch of beach.
My leg was propped up on the extra pillows, and a thin blanket covered me to give me a little warmth against the cool ocean breeze that filtered through his room. There was a glass of water on the nightstand beside the bed, along with my phone. My crutches were in reach just beyond that, in case I needed to get up for any reason, like going to the bathroom.
It was practically thoughtful. And very puzzling.
I grabbed my phone to check the time. It was just after seven o’clock in the evening. I had been unconscious for hours, which had been the only thing to help the pain. My ankle reminded me quickly that it was injured. It throbbed and ached, and was so swollen I thought my skin might split in two, just like an overcooked sausage. With a sigh, I swung my legs out of bed and reached for the crutches.
I was so glad no one could see me attempt to navigate to the bathroom by myself. I barely made it, dropping the crutches with a clatter so I could shove my leggings down before I had a humiliating accident.
No, the humiliation came later, when Eli burst into the bathroom, a door I hadn’t bothered to lock because I was trying not to fall on my ass using the crutches. He caught me in one of the most vulnerable situations possible, forcing me to scream, “Get out!” at him like a banshee.
He was still in the bedroom when I managed to exit. “You okay?” he asked.
“No,” I answered shortly and honestly.
I tried to hobble back around the bed, but he shadowed me instantly, easily sweeping me once again into his arms.
“What are you doing?” I shrieked. “Let me go!”
“I’ve got a surprise for you,” he said with a smile.
“I don’t want any more of your surprises,” I muttered, but that didn’t stop him from carrying me, as easy as you please, from the bedroom and back towards the living room. Music blared from the speakers as Clementine toiled in the kitchen, preparing the evening meal.
“Hey, girl,” she greeted with a smile. “Glad you’re up. We’re cooking your favorite.”
“We?” I repeated as my gaze swung around to Eli.
“She’s doing most of the work,” he assured as he placed me back on one of the sofas and situated my leg.
“Stop trying to be humble,” Clem told him at once. “It doesn’t suit you.”
His infernal smirk returned as he joined her in the kitchen, where he donned an apron. “At last. A woman who gets me.” He glanced over the bubbling pots. “Is there anything you’re not frying?” he wanted to know.
“Dessert,” she chirped happily. “It should be done. Why don’t you check?”
“How do I do that?”
“Got a toothpick?” He opened a drawer and pulled out a box. “Use one to test the cake. If it comes out gooey, it’s not ready.”
He chuckled. “Funny. Any time I stick something anywhere, being gooey means it’s really ready.”
Though she laughed at his lame joke, I rolled my eyes from where I sat. Clearly it was time for more medication, which I mentioned to him when he brought me my ice pack.
He referred to his fancy watch. “I got you covered, baby. Don’t worry. We’ll get an alert when you’re due for a dose, which, if we’ve timed it right, will be right around dinner.”
As it turned out, they timed it perfectly. He brought me my plate the very second his watch alerted him to my dosing schedule. We probably would have eaten in the fancy formal dining room with a crystal clear view of the ocean, but I was pretty well set where I was at, with my leg elevated and no real stamina to move on my own, much less have Eli carry me anywhere. So we ate in the living room instead. He pulled up a TV tray to place my food, before retrieving the meds.
Clem had made good ol’ southern chicken-fried steak, mashed potatoes with cream gravy, and fried okra. For dessert? My absolute fave: pineapple upside down cake.
It was food to warm the soul, and of course my sister of choice would know that. She joined me on the sofa, as did Eli, who complimented the chef the minute he took his first bite.
“Normally I make chicken fried chicken,” Clem told him. “I eat red meat sparingly, and only eat fried foods once or twice a month. But I figured if any occasion called for breaking the rules and splurging, this was it.”
“You watch what you eat?” he asked before he could stop himself. Both Clem and I dropped our forks to look up at him. He at least had a small modicum of decency to try to walk back his rude statement. Probably because unlike the girls he normally dated, Clem and I could do some serious damage to him if he pissed us off. (Rhonda, obviously, not included.) “I mean… I just thought… you know…”
“Because we’re fat we’re indiscriminate about our diet?” I filled in.
“Well… yeah,” he finally admitted. Clem and I shared a chuckle. “So what do you eat?”
“I’m what you might call a ‘flexitarian,’” Clem told him. “I eat mostly vegetarian. I live with my Gramps, who went with an all plant-based diet to help him combat diabetes. Two years later and he’s off all the meds and his sugar completely stabilized. We tend to use food as a medicine at our house.”
Eli had a hard time computing this. “But you’re obese,” he said. I glared at him for using such a word for her. Obesity was a medical term, and he was no doctor. His layman diagnosis only pissed me off.
Clem, however, took it in stride. It was her world; we were all just living in it. “I really don’t do well with limiting myself in anything in life, much less food. If I want a cheeseburger, I usually get one.”
“And she’s not obese, by the way,” I told him. “According to that bullshit BMI calculator, for her weight and size she’s still in the ‘overweight’ category. So you might want to leave any of those medical diagnoses to actual doctors.”
“Technically I am obese now,” she clarified. “Class One. Apparently a couple of pounds make all the difference, tipped me over from 29.8 to 30.1.”
“Two pounds,” Eli shrugged. “Literally a walk in the park.”
She laughed again. “I could eat nothing but lettuce for a week and it’d take care of that point-whatever difference. But extreme diets and yo-yo diets are no bueno, especially over a couple of pounds I routinely gain and lose anyway every month simply due to hormonal fluctuations.”
“Yeah, but you wouldn’t have to stop at two pounds. You’re gorgeous, Clem. You could really be a knock-out if you could lose more weight.”
I wanted to stab him with my steak knife. How dare he shame her with such a backhanded compliment? Especially that one, which made me stabby coming from anyone. Who did he think he was?
Oh, rig
ht. He was Eli Fucking Blake; an arrogant, egotistical, chauvinistic pig who thought he was God’s frickin’ gift to women, and to music, and to the whole entire world itself.
Move over, God. Eli needs a place to sit.
Fortunately he was talking to the one person on the whole planet who knew how to handle the likes of him.
“I’m a knock-out anyway,” Clem grinned. He was taken aback by her confident admission. “Look, I’ve done the diet thing. We all have, most of us since we were kids. For some of us, that ended up being way more dangerous than a couple of measly pounds.”
My eyes shot to hers. I silently begged her to steer the conversation away from this topic entirely, which she seemed to understand.
“Don’t you worry about a thing, handsome,” she said instead. “It’s not that I don’t care about my size, I just care about it differently than I’m told to. The picture is a lot bigger than some number on a scale or some BMI calculator that doesn’t factor anything more than weight and height. I go to the gym. I have a trainer. I participate in marathons and walk-a-thons. I stay active. I eat a diverse diet that doesn’t consist of a whole lot of junk. I just have other things to focus on than making myself more palatable to people who wouldn’t give a shit about me regardless. I get to be me, even if others don’t agree.”
“But don’t you want to be healthy?” he persisted.
“Who says I’m not?” she challenged. “Lots of things factor into health, like diet, activity and genetics. No one thing paints the whole picture. I go to my doctor every year. They test my sugars and my cholesterol regularly, to keep me ahead of any problems. I’m well within normal levels. And,” she added as she held up the fitness monitor she wore on her wrist, “I get at least 20,000 steps a day, which makes me healthier than your cigar-smoking, bourbon-swizzling, slightly overweight agent.” She popped a bite in her mouth in defiance.
His gaze drifted from her to me, where he could read my outrage easily. He looked back at Clem. “I stand corrected.”
Glitter on the Web Page 10
