“Just keep driving,” I tell her.
Anton mumbles, “Tell Mia I love her. Help her with the girls.”
“Stop, you’re gonna be fine,” I tell him. “Just hang in there and keep breathing. I can see signs for the hospital.” I pound on the top of the front passenger seat. “Drive faster, will you?”
I’ve never seen my brother like this. He’s the strong one. The reliable and steadfast one. It’s scaring the hell out of me.
The Uber driver is cruising to a stop at the Emergency entrance, and I say, “Call the Chicago Blaze front office. Tell them Alexei Petrov told you to call. They’ll get your information and we’ll take care of the cost of detailing your car.”
“What the hell?” She glares at me in the rearview mirror. “My car smells like a toilet right now. I can’t work the rest of the day!”
“We’ll fucking pay for it,” I snap.
As soon as she puts the car in park, I open my door and hook my hands behind Anton’s shoulders, dragging him out. He falls limply to the ground.
“I shit myself,” he moans. “This is the end.”
With a deep breath, I bend down and heave him up into my arms, my hip aching from his weight. I’m able to keep my balance though and walk through the hospital’s emergency doors.
Two nurses stand on either side of a stretcher.
“Right here,” one of the nurses says. “We were expecting you. We have several ambulances on the scene now.”
I nod, breathing hard as I lay Anton down on the stretcher, and start following the stretcher as they roll it away. One of the nurses puts out a hand to stop me.
“Just have a seat. We’ll take care of your friend and let you know how he is as soon as we can.”
“That’s my brother. I’m staying with him.”
She hesitates, then nods. I trail the stretcher as they roll it into an exam room, wishing Graysen was here with me.
* * *
“The fruit salad?” I ask Easy, furrowing my brow. “No, I didn’t eat any of it.”
“Neither did I. But everyone who got sick did.”
“Shit.”
We’re in St. Louis’ visiting locker room, and even though it’s a skeleton crew, we still have enough players to play our preseason game. Our head coach isn’t sick, but all the others are. Most of the guys were treated and released, but a few had to be admitted overnight due to severe food poisoning.
Anton was one of the admitted players, but he was feeling much better by the time I left him to come to the arena to shower and get ready for the game.
“Guess we’re the first line tonight,” Easy quips.
“Dude, we’re like the only line. I’m surprised this game is still on.”
“It’s only preseason,” he says. “Let’s just give it our best, eh?”
I bump his outstretched fist. After this road trip, I’m gonna need an entire weekend of R&R with Graysen.
23
Graysen
I’m still riding the wave of last night’s Blaze win when I leave my apartment to walk to my El Train stop the next morning.
Miraculously, with half the team seriously ill with food poisoning, Alexei led the Blaze to a 5–3 win. They had the momentum determination, the game commentators astounded they were even playing and the St. Louis crowd cheering them on along with their home team.
When Alexei called me from the locker room, my eyes welled with tears as I heard the excitement in his voice. He said he’s picking me up at my place as soon as I get home from work so I can spend the night with him, and I’m more than ready for it.
I’m glad we waited nine months—Alexei needed to get his feet under him and I needed to know he wasn’t staying sober just so we could try having a relationship. But I don’t want to wait any longer.
The El is uneventful this morning, and I’m all caught up on client files, so I have time to read some news articles about the food poisoning the Blaze players and staff got. It sounds absolutely horrible. Alexei told me he’ll never forget it and I’m sure once everyone recovers, there’s gonna be plenty of jokes about it in the locker room.
When I get off at my El stop, I buy a coffee at my favorite café, which I like to do when I’m running a little early. One of my former patients owns it, and I smile at how far she’s come since I met her three years ago.
I’ve just left the shop and am about to round the corner when someone grabs me from behind, spilling my coffee all over. I forget about the coffee when I’m hauled into a dark alley and shoved face first against a brick wall.
Terror courses through my veins as I feel something hard pressing against the back of my neck.
“Make a sound and I’ll cut your throat,” a female voice says.
I just breathe, too afraid to move. I’m usually guarded when walking downtown, but I don’t know how I could have anticipated anything like this.
“I just want to talk to you,” the woman says.
Oh God. My mind floods with possibilities. What if this is my mother? I don’t recognize the voice, but if she’s using and desperate, it could very well be her mugging me right now, or one of her friends.
“About what?” I ask, still out of breath from the struggle. “Who are you?”
Silence. Then I feel her slightly shifting backwards, but keeping the knife in place. I wait for her to say something, but instead, I hear her crying.
“You didn’t help him,” she says through her tears. “You were supposed to help him.”
“Who?”
She’s sobbing now, and I can tell based on every clue she’s given me so far that this woman isn’t going to use that knife on me.
“Hey,” I say softly. “Put the knife down and I’ll turn around so we can talk.”
“No. You’ll call the police,” she says through her tears.
“I won’t. I promise I won’t.”
I’ve been trained for these situations, and I’m far less panicked than I was when I got shoved against the wall. This isn’t a man wanting to rob or rape me; it’s a grieving woman.
“I’m sorry you’re hurting,” I say.
“You have no idea. None. You just send people off and make them think they’re strong enough to face their demons, but they’re not.”
“Please lower the knife. I won’t turn around if you don’t want me to, but please take the knife away from my neck so I can talk to you.”
She sniffles and I feel the pressure of the blade lessen.
“Thank you,” I say, relieved. “Can you tell me who I was supposed to help?”
“My husband.”
It all starts making sense then. I know things like this have happened to other therapists at Beckett, but not to me. Until now.
“He was a patient of mine, wasn’t he?” I ask.
She breaks down in tears again. Despite the knife, and the brief terror she made me feel, my heart cracks a little. This woman is clearly in a lot of pain.
“I’m so sorry,” I say. “I truly am.”
“You might as well turn around,” she says, her voice breaking with emotion. “I don’t care if I live or die anymore anyway.”
“I care.”
When I turn, I’m shocked to see Kim Banks, the wife of Ashton Banks, my rock star patient who passed away several months ago.
“Oh, Kim,” I say softly.
She covers her face with her hands and weeps. Ashton was one of the most famous men on the planet—they owned lavish homes in several cities and a yacht. Last time I saw her, she was perfectly made up for her family visit to Beckett.
But now, she’s a broken woman I barely recognize. She’s skin and bones, with sunken cheeks and oily, unwashed hair. Love is universal in many ways—it can make or break all of us.
“I was the one who found him,” she says, wiping her fingertips across her cheeks. “You can’t imagine how hard that was. The love of my life for thirty-one years, and he’s just…gone.”
“I’m so sorry. He was a really good man, and
he was so devoted to his family.”
She gives me a pleading look. “Why did you let him leave rehab? He graduated, that meant he was clean and sober.”
“He was, at that time. But I couldn’t help him anymore after that. And you couldn’t have, either. He had to do it himself.”
Kim heaves out a sigh, looking weary and exhausted. “I’m sorry for what I did. I haven’t been myself since he died.”
“I understand.” I put my arm around her shoulders and hear the knife fall from her hand and hit the ground. “Listen, I’m on my way into Beckett. Will you come with me and we can talk some more?”
She shakes her head. “There’s nothing more to say. Nothing can bring him back.”
“I know, but I’m worried about you. Ashton loved you so much, Kim. He’d want you to get some help.”
“You aren’t going to call the police on me?”
“No, you have my word. Let’s get that knife and toss it in that dumpster over there. We’ll get some breakfast at Beckett and you can shower and rest in one of our rooms if you want. And we’ll talk, okay?”
She nods, her eyes brimming with tears as she chokes out, “I’m so, so sorry.”
“It’s okay. Let’s just get you taken care of.”
We leave the alley together, and I tell Kim about Al Anon as we walk to Beckett. I know all too well that you never have to touch drugs or alcohol to be deeply affected by addiction.
24
Alexei
“A knife? Are you fucking serious, Graysen?”
I give her an incredulous look.
“It wasn’t a big deal. I think it sounds worse than the situation really was.”
My laugh is unamused. “It sounds like you were held at knifepoint ten hours ago and this is the first I’m hearing about it.”
“I wasn’t trying to keep it from you, I was just crazy busy at work all day.”
I shake my head, exhale hard and pull her into my arms. We just walked into my apartment, and she was so preoccupied with asking me how Anton and my other teammates are recovering from their food poisoning that she forgot to tell me about Kim Banks until we were in the elevator on the way up to my floor.
“This is really nice,” she says, standing back and looking around at my place.
It’s a tidy downtown apartment in a renovated warehouse, with warm hardwood floors and exposed beams. There’s a couch and an adjacent loveseat, a recliner, and bar stools at the kitchen island—the apartment came furnished when I bought it from the developer.
“You do live here, right?” she asks, furrowing her brow.
“Yep. When I’m not at the rink or traveling.”
“It looks brand new, like no one even lives here.”
“I have someone come clean once a week. And the bedroom is definitely not this neat.” I reach out behind me and take hold of her hand. “Come on, I’ll show you.”
As I lead her down a short hallway, I say, “If you’re ever held at knife or gunpoint in the future, can we make a deal that you’ll let me know within the hour?”
She laughs. “I wasn’t being held up. She was the wife of a former patient who passed away a few months ago. She was just—grieving in an unusual way.”
“Unusual?” I give her a pointed look as we stand outside the door to my bedroom. “You should’ve knocked her teeth out and called the cops.”
“Well, I decided to go a different direction, and it worked out very well.”
I cup her face in my hands. “When someone loves you, they have a right to know when your life’s put in danger. Can we agree on that?”
She smiles and says, “Yes.”
I kiss her forehead. “Okay, so here’s my bedroom.”
The hardwood floors continue into my moderately sized bedroom with a queen bed, a dresser, a floor lamp and a chair. A mix of folded and unfolded laundry sits on the chair, and the bed is unmade.
“Messy enough for ya?” I ask.
“It’ll do.”
I arch a brow. “Want to go out for dinner?”
“Hmm….” She pretends to think about it. “Not really.”
Grinning, I step closer. “Yeah, me neither.”
I’m hard as hell for her. I’ve known her for around ten months, but it feels like much longer. I wanted to be physically closer to her for much of that time, but emotional closeness was all we could have.
Until now.
This time, the kiss I give her is different. There’s a deep longing and it’s echoed back in the way she kisses me, with a fierce hunger and passion that takes me by surprise.
I slide her shirt up and over her head, then wrap my hands around her waist, my touch making her shiver.
“I’ve been waiting a long time for this,” I say against her lips.
“Me too.”
“Longer than I’ve known you, even. I always wondered if it would ever feel like this for me.” I brush a stray curl back from her face. “I’ve had lots of sex in my life, you know that. But this will be the first time I’ve made love to a woman.”
She takes a step back and reaches around to unfasten her bra, and I can’t help but stare in awestruck reverence. She slides out of her jeans and panties next, and I groan as I see all of her for the first time.
I love being the only one who gets to see her this way. Her tummy’s not flat and her hips have stretch marks, but to me, she’s perfect. My body aches for her.
I slowly undress for her next, watching as her eyes take in every detail of the ink on my skin. There are tattoos on my chest, arms and one on my outer thigh. Her gaze darts to my cock, jutting out between my thighs. And then…her eyes trail up and lock on mine, and I see everything I’ve dreamed I’d see during the many months I’ve been without her.
“I love you,” I whisper.
“I love you, too.”
We each take a couple steps closer and I pull her into my arms, lying her down on the bed. I take my time caressing and kissing every inch of her, worshipping her body until she’s wet and ready for me.
At last, I’m sliding inside her. She tenses up as I fill her and I immediately stop, waiting for her body to relax around me until I can push all the way inside.
“It’s good now,” she whispers. “You can go faster.”
I do, closing my eyes and groaning as our bodies find our rhythm. My body climbs hard and fast toward its climax, her moans of satisfaction nearly sending me over the edge. I can feel her coming as she cries out my name, and I finally let go, too. I keep myself buried deep inside her as I groan loudly and touch my forehead to hers.
I slowly pull out and turn to lie on my back, pulling the covers over the both of us.
“So that was good,” she says, a grin in her voice. “Really good.”
I turn my head toward her and laugh. “That was fucking amazing.” I lean in and kiss her. “And I’m really happy my hip can still thrust. I’ve been worried about that for ten months now.”
Our post-O cuddling is infused with joking and laughter, and I don’t think I’ve ever felt so content. Graysen was so worth the wait.
We rest and go another round, ending our night with pancakes and eggs cooked in my kitchen and a shower together.
We go to bed soon after that, and I’m almost asleep when my phone buzzes from inside my pants pocket on the bedroom floor. I don’t want to get up and risk waking Graysen, but after what happened with Ella and Martin over the summer, the late-night phone call worries me.
I ease myself out of bed carefully and answer the phone.
“Hello?” I say softly.
“Hey Alexei. It’s Joe. I need your help.”
25
Graysen
I’ve never seen Alexei this upset, and I saw him in every possible mood when he was at Beckett.
“Fucking bastard,” he rants. “He just lied right to my fucking face.”
“I know it hurts, but it’s not unusual behavior for an addict, babe.”
“I’ve never wanted to kick any
one’s ass so much.” He paces across his living room. “What a cocksucker.”
“Try to relax,” I tell him.
He gives me a look that tells me that’s impossible, and I understand why. When I was asleep, around 2 a.m. earlier this morning, Joe called Alexei asking for his help.
Alexei jumped, of course. He got out of bed and got dressed, leaving me a note that he had to go help Joe with something. That something, it turned out when he picked Joe up in a seedy South Side neighborhood, was money.
He had outstanding debts with a drug dealer from before he went to rehab, Joe told him, and the dealer had put a bounty on his life. He’d left home because he was afraid the dealer would approach his wife and kids, maybe hurt one of them to get Joe to pay up.
“If you could have seen the desperation on his face,” Alexei says, sinking down on to the couch and burying his face in his hands. “He was in tears, babe.”
I go sit down next to him. “You did what any caring friend would do in that situation, don’t beat yourself up.”
Alexei told Joe to get into the car, and they drove to an ATM machine, where Alexei withdrew the $3,000 Joe needed. Then he drove Joe back to the seedy neighborhood, offering to go with him to pay off the dealer.
Joe said he could handle it, but Alexei said he’d wait for him. Joe disappeared down the block then, and Alexei waited. After half an hour, he got worried and started texting Joe, but he didn’t get a response. After an hour, he got out of his car and went looking for him.
It took him three hours to find Joe passed out in a crack house, a needle on the floor next to him. Alexei said he almost puked, afraid he’d given Joe the money for the overdose that killed him.
Alexei checked his vitals, though, and Joe was alive. Alexei got him a room for one night at a hotel and left him there, then came back to his place to wake me up. I’ve been trying to talk him down for a good forty-five minutes now, but nothing’s working.
“I didn’t even know he had a drug habit,” he says, giving me a helpless look. “I thought it was just alcohol. And he told me he’s been clean every day since rehab.”
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