The London Sisters: The Complete Series: Bonus Content Edition

by Abby Brooks

  “Well, hello again, Mr. Santoro.” She extends a hand and flashes a smile that doesn’t mix well with the tension in her eyes. “It’s a pleasure to see you again.”

  “Feeling’s not exactly mutual.”

  I don’t do fake. You get what you get with me and, judging by the surprised O of her mouth, this little therapist wasn’t prepared for that. Not at all.

  “Okay, then,” she says with that silly smile still plastered on her face. “We’ll skip the pleasantries and get right to the point. I’m Chelsea London, your physical therapist, and you can trust that I’ll get you back to normal in no time.”

  “I’m fine. There’s no normal to get back to. I’m already there.”

  She doesn’t respond—which I actually appreciate—and sends me through a series of exercises that test the range of motion in my knee. I can tell by the tension in her jaw and the slight flare in her nostrils that I’m getting under her skin. And that’s more than fine with me. I’ll just consider it payback for the way she got under mine this morning.

  “How did you injure yourself?” she asks, thumbing through a thick stack of papers in a manila folder.

  “I’m not injured.”

  Chelsea is crouching at my feet to get a better look at my knee and she sighs, looking up at me. “Okay. How did you hurt yourself?”

  “I’m not hurt.”

  She stands and purses her lips. Hands on her hips. Eyebrows lifted. She looks so frustrated I can’t help but smile. “Why are you here, Mr. Santoro?”

  “Because my boss told me he’d pull me off the streets if I didn’t come.”

  “And why did he send you?”

  “Hell if I know.”

  London glares at me. “Maybe I should call him, then. Let him know that you seem to think you’re fine and are being less than cooperative.” There’s an edge to her voice that takes me off guard. She sounds less like the spoiled brat I pegged her for and more like an honest to goodness professional. She’s not whining or petulant. Rather, she’s detached, clinical, and in control.

  In a rare moment of weakness, I concede. “Basketball.”

  Her brows meet. “You hurt yourself playing basketball?”

  I nod and bite the inside of my cheek. I’m really not hurt, but I don’t correct her again. I just twisted my knee a little funny when I was playing against Charlie a couple weeks ago. I explain what happened and she asks me a few more questions and then puts me through a series of exercises.

  Even though the stupid joint aches and sends these jolts of pain through my leg, I refuse to flinch. I’m only as hurt as I let myself be and I’ll say it as many times as I need to.

  I am not hurt.

  Chelsea continues to move with clinical efficiency, a tightly wound ball of energy buzzing around me. She sees everything and says very little. I can tell she notices the lightning strikes of pain but she doesn’t make a big deal about it. It almost seems like she’s decided to stop interacting with me completely and is going to make this appointment solely about my knee. All of this is fine with me but it does make me wonder if maybe I misjudged her. Not that it matters. I’ll let her do her thing long enough for the Bossman to get off my back and then I’ll be out of here.

  The hour passes slowly, although the massage at the end isn’t half bad. Her hands are strong and she knows exactly where to concentrate her attention. Again, I work hard not to flinch, but she finds some spots in my thigh that are downright excruciating. Before I know it, I’m heading out to my car, not sure if I might actually be looking forward to our appointment next week or if I’m still dreading it like the plague. Oddly enough, I found her quiet efficiency very calming.

  And lord knows I need a little extra calm in my life.

  It’s one of those beautiful fall days where the sunlight seems extra golden against the blue sky and warms you against the chill in the air. The shadows are just the right length and the red and orange leaves dance in the wind. I love the beginning of October in Ohio. It makes perfect days for meeting Charlie in the park.

  Normally, we’d play some basketball, because in all honesty, the kid is a little obsessed. But even I know my knee needs some rest, so today I’m going to bring my dog Reagan—a German Shepherd rescue. Reagan is smart, too smart for her own good really, and has enough energy to keep the boy entertained. They can play fetch while I sit on the bench and then I’ll take them for ice cream before his mom comes to pick him up.

  When I first joined the Big Brother program, I was nervous that I wouldn’t have anything of value to impart to these kids. After all, I’m carrying more than my fair share of scars. I couldn’t help but worry that I wasn’t the kind of role model these boys would need.

  It didn’t take long to learn that these kids just need some one on one time with someone who cares. That I didn’t need to worry about imparting some great dose of wisdom on them. I just needed to be there with an encouraging word and a friendly smile. And, as it turns out, I learned that I actually do have some advice for these kids. In the end, I don’t know whose life is more changed. Theirs or mine.

  The drive home is peaceful, another rare thing. I head inside to get Reagan and the moment I pull the leash off the little hook by the door, she comes running, her nails clicking and clacking on the hardwood floor of my kitchen.

  “Hey, my friend.” I kneel down and press my forehead to hers. Her tongue is lolling out the side of her mouth and she’s panting her doggie breath into my face, but none of that bothers me. I take a moment to appreciate the closeness and then clip the leash to her collar before leading her outside and up into the backseat of my car.

  I roll down her window just enough for her to stick her head outside and turn on the radio as we make the short drive to the park. I can’t stand silence. It makes me anxious. Itchy. The thoughts in my head get loud and angry and I don’t need any more of that in my life than there already is. The music helps keep them at bay.

  Charlie is waiting for me, swinging his skinny legs on a bench all by himself, his worn shoes skimming just above the concrete. Give him another month and he’ll be tall enough for his feet to touch the ground. The boy grows like a weed.

  “Hey, Charlie,” I say as I drop onto the bench beside him. “Where’s your mom?”

  “She had to go. But it’s okay. I sat right here just like she said and didn’t talk to no one.” Charlie eyes Reagan warily. “That’s a big dog.”

  “Reagan?” I say, rubbing her between her ears so he can see just how friendly she is. “Yeah, she is pretty big. But she’s sweet. I thought you might like to play fetch with her today.”

  “She bite?”

  “Nah.” I slide off the bench and take her big head in my hands, rough her up a little and then hug her tight. “Reagan’s a good girl. I rescued her from the shelter a couple years ago. Can you believe no one wanted her?”

  Charlie’s eyes soften. “So she’s like me, then.”

  His words are a punch to the gut. “If you mean that she’s the kind of friend I like hanging out with and she makes me laugh until it hurts, then sure. She’s exactly like you.”

  I have to be a little more hands on with the whole fetch idea than I intended. It’s easy to forget how intimidating Reagan looks, especially to a little boy who has a fair share of uncertainty in his life. My knee is not at all happy with me. Whatever that physical therapist did to me today has taken its toll. Wouldn’t you know that the thing that’s supposed to make me feel better actually made things worse. Isn’t that the way of it?

  By the end of our visit, Charlie is over his fear of Reagan and giggles like the child he is when he feeds her the ice cream I got for her. He doesn’t laugh often; he giggles even less often. Today, for whatever reason, the sound pierces through the armor around my heart and plants the boy right there.

  Not many people get in that far, but now that he’s made it, he’s safer than he’s ever been in all his life. I protect the people I love, no matter the cost.

  Chapter
Three

  Despite my initial misgivings about going out with Hudson, I’m actually excited. We’re going to Aura, a club in downtown Cincy that’s known for its long lines and swanky clientele. This, coupled with the fact that I haven’t done something outside of my routine in a long, long time has given me just the excuse I need to go all out on the getting ready portion of my day.

  Normally, I straighten the heck out of my hair, leaving it shiny and sleek. Today I went for a little volume, blowing it out and teasing it up. I’m sure it’s still tame by most standards, but for me, I’m feeling a little dangerous. Add the short little body-hugging blue dress, the high rise heels, and the smoky eye makeup and I barely recognize the woman in the mirror.

  I twist to get a better view of my backside and can’t help but smile. I look good. A little slutty, sure, but good nonetheless. You know who wouldn’t believe that I’m going out like this? My sisters. I snap a picture and send it to them, grinning while I wait for the responses. I don’t wait long and the shock and awe coming from Maya and Dakota does not disappoint. I spend the rest of the time giggling as they blow up my phone with questions about where I’m going and with whom and why didn’t they know sooner.

  I expect all the details, preferably with pics, the moment you’re alone.

  That’s Dakota, my youngest sister.

  I send her a smiley face in response as my doorbell rings. The phone buzzes in my hand as I race downstairs, but Dakota will just have to wait. I’ve got better things to do right now. You know, like open the door for my mildly famous, hot as hell, built like Hercules date. When I get to the bottom of the stairs, I take a beat. Smooth my dress. Fluff my hair. Put on a smile and calm the butterflies in my stomach.

  And then I swing open the door and totally lose my composure.

  Hudson is dressed to the nines. Gorgeous pants that fit him more than perfectly. An expensive white button down, untucked, the cuffs rolled up to show his strong forearms and one damn fine watch. The top few buttons undone and showing off just a hint of what has to be a brick wall of a chest. My mouth is open and I close it quickly.

  “Damn, London,” says the Grecian statue on my front porch. “You look almost edible.”

  I’m sure another woman would have the perfect response to that statement but I’m busy blushing from head to toe as I imagine being eaten by this man. I quiver a little. Needless to say, it’s been awhile since anyone’s been … err … down there.

  “Ditto,” I say and cringe at my total lack of game and hope he doesn’t take it the wrong way. As in, I look edible and he looks edible and we will be enjoying each other’s edibility before the end of the evening.

  Hudson’s eyes light up and I know in a heartbeat that he totally took my response the wrong way. “Alright then. It’s gonna be that kind of night,” he says with a look that is a little more creepy rapist than Greek god.

  I take the time to get myself under control while I lock up and follow him to his car. It is most definitely not going to be that kind of night. I’m here for the company, the conversation, the drinks, and the dancing. There will be no eating of anyone for any reason. The sooner Hudson understands that, the better. I do my best to keep the conversation light during the trip downtown and then again as he leads me right into Aura—bypassing all the people stuck in line, whispering to each other about us—but Hudson is not having it. He keeps leading the conversation right back to inappropriate.

  When we run into one of his friends, another football player with one of those douchebag athlete names I can’t remember right now, things just get worse by the minute. There’s too much drinking, too much innuendo, too much of Hudson’s hands on my body. June, the douchebag’s date just drinks it all in and it doesn’t take long for me to realize she’s a vapid moron, taken in by the muscles, the fame, and the dollar signs.

  And good lord the dollar signs. Hudson and Douchebag throw money around like it’s no big thing, ordering alcohol by the bottle, pushing tips into the waitress’s bra as she leans over to gather up empty glasses. June just giggles her stupid little head off, but I’m really starting to wish I had stayed home. If I knew I was going to waste looking this hot on a totally immature experience like this, I would have declined.

  “Come on, Chelsea,” slurs Hudson. “Lighten up. Smile a little. I mean, that pout is sexy as hell. What I wouldn’t do to that mouth, am I right?” He turns to Douchebag and actually high fives the guy. “But you’re sitting in the hottest club, with the hottest guys, drinking the hottest drinks, looking mighty fine yourself. Relax. Have some fun.”

  I smile while June giggles and wonder how long I have to stay in order to not jeopardize our relationship at work. This was such a mistake. What kind of idiot dates her own patient? Especially when she knew from the get go that he wasn’t her type…

  This kind of idiot, I think with a sigh.

  “Dance with me?” I ask Hudson, trying not to show my irritation.

  June actually bounces in her seat and claps her hands. “Oooh. Yes. Let’s dance, Sloan.” She bites her lip and bats her eyelashes.

  Sloan, that’s the douchebag’s name. Sloan Anderson.

  “I’m a fighter, not a dancer, baby girl.” Sloan crosses his massive arms over his chest and leans back while June melts into a puddle beside me.

  I turn to Hudson and raise my eyebrows. “What about you? Fighter? Dancer? Little of both?” If I could just get him away from Douchebag and Vapid Moron, maybe we could start having some fun.

  A grin slides across his face and for some reason, it makes me recoil. “Me?” he asks with a little twist of his head. “I’m all about the ladies.” He stands and offers me his hand and I get the feeling that I’m supposed to cover my mouth and titter, but I just can’t bring myself to do it. I knew Hudson was a player, I just didn’t realize the ramifications of spending an evening with this kind of guy.

  It’s lame.

  He’s lame.

  I regret everything.

  We work our way through the crowded club and I catch more than one person recognize Hudson. I also catch more than one person size me up, try to figure out who I am and how I warrant such prestigious company. Part of me wants to throw up my hands and let everyone know the experience isn’t all it’s cracked up to be, but I think there are plenty of people here who would beg to differ. They see the hot guy, the dimpled smile, the expensive clothes and total disregard of the cost of anything, and that all just seems like the best life has to offer.

  Me? I see tired pickup lines and tedious affectations. I see shallow people being impressed by shallow things. This just isn’t me. But I’m here, so I’ll make the best of it and for me, that means dancing.

  Hudson is a little too drunk to call what he’s doing dancing. For a guy who makes a living with his body, he’s being completely uncoordinated, jerking his hips and hands in some weird spastic seizure that I’m pretty sure he thinks is sexy. And, true to form, no matter how many times I push him away, he comes right on back, invading my personal space like he has already decided he owns me. He pulls on my hips, runs his hands up my back, even goes so far as to grab me by the back of my neck and lean down until our foreheads are almost touching.

  “You’re so fucking hot,” he slurs, his tequila tainted breath slapping me in the face. “You’re gonna be famous after tonight. You looking like that, with me looking like this.” He steps back and flares his hands down his body, eyeing me like he thinks he’s setting me on fire. “Your face is gonna be plastered on all the tabloids.”

  Sure. Because the tabloids care enough about an injured rookie in a club in downtown Cincinnati to make him front page news. “You think?” I ask.

  “Uh-huh.” Hudson nods and steps back into my space grinding his hips into me until I back up. “Fast track to fame, London. I’m on it.”

  I’ve pretty much hit my limit of sleazy asshole for the evening. I pick his hand off my shoulder and drop it before holding out my palm in a gesture that means stop. I take a deep
breath and shake my head, swallow hard and wait for his eyes to focus on me.

  “Fast track to fame?” I ask and raise my brows. “Not if you don’t start leading more with that heel.”

  And with that, I do my best about-face and make a beeline for the bathroom. My heart is racing and I can’t quite catch my breath. I can’t believe I just said that. I’m never rude. Like, never ever. And that was pretty much the rudest thing I’ve ever said to anyone. Ever. But I tried getting my point across delicately and he was way too drunk for delicate. So much for not affecting our work relationship.

  I am so dumb. What was I thinking?

  I push through the bathroom door, intent on getting to the sink and splashing some cool water on my face before I figure out how the hell I’m going to get myself home. As the door swings shut behind me, I can’t make sense of what I’m seeing.

  There’s a man. A big man. And a little woman. Struggling.

  His hand is on her mouth. The other has her dress hiked up over her hips, fighting its way between her legs. Her eyes are wide, her mascara joining with her tears and running down her face. She sees me, and her eyes go even wider, the whites showing in fear and desperation.

  If you believe the movies, things slow down in a situation like this. That’s not at all what happens for me. There’s no slow motion sequence where I get to see everything and makes sense of it all. Instead, I get flashes of information. Everything going too quick for me to understand it all at once.

  First, I recognize the woman as June.

  The man turns and I recognize Sloan. Worse, I recognize the slow smile of a predator as he realizes he knows who I am, too. There’s a scuffle. June screams and he slaps her. Hard. Her head ricochets into the wall and her eyes go blank while somehow, some way, Sloan gets his hands on me. I struggle. His hand clamps on my throat and I rake my fingernails down his face.