Shattered and Shaken Read online

  Blake's head falls. “Shit. Just…motherfuck,” he mumbles, shaking his head from side-to-side. I'm taken off guard by his swearing, but then I realize the woman's screams have stopped. I risk a glance inside the car; my mouth drops in fear. She's pale. Her breathing's extremely shallow, and her eyes roll repeatedly into the back of her head.

  “Oh my God,” I gasp. “Blake, she's losing consciousness,” I panic.

  “I know,” he says barely above a whisper, defeat in his voice. He stands and rests his hands onto the top of the car, pounding it with his fist, denting the woman's car. “I can't even help her,” he whispers, his words sounding strangled. I place my hand on his shoulder. “She can't deliver the baby hemorrhaging the way she is, and I sure as hell can't stop it here on the side of a filthy-fucking interstate,” he continues. “I can't even determine what the cause is. Shit, it could be a number of things; uterine rupture, placenta abruption - all of which are harmful to the fetus, and the mother,” he explains.

  He bends down to check on the lady and shouts, “Fuck!” He takes her legs and pulls her toward him, attempting to remove her from the car “Allie, you're smaller than I am. I need you to climb in beside her and hold her head up. Do not let her head hit the car or the ground as I pull her out.” I scramble into the car and capture her head in my hands. Blake removes her from the car, quickly lying her to the ground. “You remember how to give CPR, right?” I nod in conformation, feeling shit-scared. He interlocks his hands, one on top of the other, placing them to the center of her sternum. Tilting her head back, I clamp her nostril closed, and administered two breaths, watching her chest to be sure it rises with each breath I breathe into her. Lifting my eyes to Blake, I see him rise slightly before forcefully pressing his hands into her chest; I cringe from the cracking sounds her ribs make as they break.

  He administers thirty chest compressions and I breathe into her two times. We complete three cycles of thirty compressions and two breaths before the ambulance finally arrives and EMS takes over. Thank God, I’m not sure Blake could last any longer. As I look into Blake’s eyes, I see nothing but pure rage. Anger isn’t an emotion Blake shows often, and it scares me. Blake bites hard onto his lip, places his hands low on his hips, and paces back and forth, fighting the temptation to unleash his wrath on them.

  His chest rises and falls rapidly as his anger flares. “You know-” he begins, but I place my hand over his mouth silencing him. “Not now, she needs their help,” I plead. He nods in agreement.

  As the paramedics work on the woman, Blake informs them of her situation. Grabbing my hand he leads me to the ambulance. He fills out a report and hands it to one of the medics as they load the woman into the back of the ambulance. Once the sirens blare and the ambulance begins to take off, Blake grabs my hand and leads us to the truck. “I hate not knowing if they’ll be alright,” he breathes. He's exhausted, mentally and physically. I'm no doctor, but I can imagine that it's difficult trying to help a patient but feel completely powerless due to lack of equipment. And no matter how much you exercise, it can never prepare you for the strength you'll need to administer CPR; it's exhausting.

  Even though we're covered in a stranger’s blood, it no longer matters, I lean over and kiss him. “You did an amazing job, Dr. Andrews, and no matter what happens, remember, you did all that you could do. That's all that matters,” I say, trying to reassure him. I’m so damn proud of him. He has nothing to feel defeated about; he did something no one else would've done. No one I know would touch anyone bleeding without gloves, not even a pregnant woman hemorrhaging on the side of the road in the middle of a rainstorm; it's too risky. Not Blake. He's so passionate about life, about his job; he will risk his own life for someone else’s, especially if he's the person saving it.

  Blake strips from his clothes before entering his truck; he's completely naked except for his boxer briefs. Normally, I'd be ready to attach myself to him, but the blood on his arms is somewhat of a turn off. However, I'll continue holding his hand; mine's just as bloody as his. “I can't wait to get this shit off of me. We can shower together,” he suggests. As nice as it sounds to hop in a hot shower with him and all his sexiness, I can't. “Well, I can't go to your place, not tonight,” I tell him, hating to see the look of disappointment on his face.

  His smile quickly vanishes. “Oh, okay,” he pouts. He's absurdly adorable when he pouts.

  “Don't pout. I promised Mom I'd come home when we returned. Plus, I miss my bed,” I explain, my fingers tracing hearts to his palm. We pull into my driveway thirty minutes later and it's occupied with an unfamiliar red Jeep Wrangler.

  “Whose is that?” Blake asks curiously.

  That's a good question. “I don't know, Jack's?” I assume. Blake helps me exit the truck and walks me to the door. It's after midnight and all the lights are off. We use the light from his cell phone to guide us to the front door.

  “Night, gorgeous, sleep tight,” he says, kissing me tenderly, passionately. The warmth of his lips causes me to go breathless.

  “Mmm,” I moan, gliding my hands up his naked chest.

  “Sure you don't wanna come home?” he asks, placing his hands into my back pockets and pulling my pelvis to his, tempting me.

  He knows that he's my weakness, but I try not to break my promises. “I can't, really. I promised her I'd come straight home,” I explain, kissing him one last time before inserting my key into the lock.

  His fingers circle my wrist; his front is to my back, and I feel his hardness press against my ass. “Alright, but you don't know what you're missing, baby.” My heart stammers at his words. Believe me, I know what I'm missing. It's ungodly to turn it down. He places a feather-like kiss to my neck, just beneath my ear. “If you happen to need me for anything, I'm only a call away,” he whispers. “You know, I'm good at role play. I've been known to put out a few fires here and there, but you already know that,” he mentions, confidently. As I listen to his feet scuff the sidewalk, I lean against the door, holding myself up by the doorknob. His words have made my sex happy and my knees weak. Cold shower, here I come.

  Entering the house, I'm startled at the sound of someone stirring on the couch. It's dark so I can't make out who it is. As they settle down, I tiptoe up the stairs, praying that it was Jack on the couch and not a skilled burglar playing possum. I rid myself from all clothing and hop in the shower, turning on the water. I welcome the ice-cold water first, and as much as I need to stand under the frigid water, my body's craving a nice hot shower. I'm covered in crusted dried blood. My feet are covered in mud, and my hair is tangled in knots all over my head.

  Long shower my ass. I wash off, get out in under fifteen minutes, throwing away my puffball and spraying the tub with bleach. No offense to the pregnant lady, but I don't know her, and I'll be making a trip to the clinic tomorrow to get tested for any infectious diseases, just in case. You can never be too careful.

  I brush out my hair, separate it down the middle evenly and braid it into pigtails. After brushing my teeth, I dress in my normal boy shorts and tank top, pull my bedcovers down, and crawl into bed. Before I'm able to close my eyes, my phone rings; it's Sophie.

  “Okay, somebody better be dying, or Cooper better have caved,” I answer. She's silent. “Sophie?” I ask, making sure she's on the line.

  “Yeah, I'm here. I was trying to come up with an excuse, besides the fact that I miss your freaking face!” she exclaims. No matter how hard I try, I can never be angry at her.

  “Since you put it that way...”

  She giggles. “Guess what?” she asks in a sing-song voice. I'm scared to guess. She's calling me at two in the morning, asking “guess what”. It can't be good.

  Immediately, I assume she's in jail. “Oh shit. You're not in jail are you? How do you have your phone? Oh my God, you smuggled it didn't you?”

  “Oh God, no! We already established that ladies like us won't survive in a place like that. Unless we surrender to being Big Sally's bitch. Not happenin
', sista,” she announces. “I kissed Cooper!” she squeals, nearly busting my eardrum. What the hell is up with everyone and their high-pitched voices tonight? Well, preggers had a reason.

  “Damn, Soph, next time you decide to yell, stick you face in a pillow for crying outloud - sheesh,” I huff. She calls and interrupts my sleep to brag about kissing a guy. Really? She's acting as if she isn't the biggest slut in Jacksonville. “You're kidding me, right? You're calling me at two in the damn morning, to tell me that you kissed a guy - as if you haven’t done so before?” I confirm, speaking through clinched teeth.

  She sighs. “Um, yeah. It's a big deal,” she replies matter-of-factly. “You have no idea how many drinks I had to feed him to steal that kiss,” she adds. Sounds like her. She doesn't know how to take no for an answer; it's not in her vocabulary.

  “You fed him drinks? Please tell me it was purely alcohol and you didn't slip anything illegal into it,” I plead. If she did, I need to know. I'll need to research regulations for pleading the fifth before I get subpoenaed to testify.

  “No, nothing illegal, yet; however, it's rather tempting,” she responds, far too seriously. “I don't know what it is about him, but I want him, all of him. I literally dragged him to the dance floor at Wille's. I don't understand his disinterest. And his dick... Oh. My. God. His dick's huge. I saw the outline through his jeans,” she announces, overly excited. That's why she's so obsessed with this guy; she saw his manly bits. We're in trouble. Flaunting a penis around Sophie is like dangling a catnip-filled mouse in front of a cat; they won't give up until they sink their claws into it. I feel bad for Cooper. He has no idea how far Sophie will go to claim him. She's competitive, and she'll do whatever it takes to make him surrender.

  Chapter Sixteen

  AS I LIE IN bed, the aroma I've missed for so long lingers in the air, invading my nostrils. There's nothing better than being woken by the delicious smell of roasted coffee that you didn't make. I sniff the scent several times before I roll out of bed. I slide my feet into my slippers and head downstairs. I don't bother brushing my hair or teeth; my stomach's rumbling, craving the steamy deliciousness that's awaiting me in the kitchen. Plus, I can't wait to wrap my arms around my mother; it's been too long.

  As I make my way down the steps, I miss the last one and stumble, grabbing the banister to prevent from falling. As I catch my balance, I hear my mother in conversation with a man I know all too well. My breathing labors, and my heart contracts with each syllable that escapes his mouth. I've always pictured what I'd do to him if we ever crossed paths, but now that he's here, all I want to do is run away and hide.

  My legs go weak and give out as I scramble up the steps, so I begin to crawl. Before I make it up a single step, his front presses against my back, his arms circle my waist and he lifts me up. “Morning Butterfly,” he whispers beside my ear.

  The sound of his voice causes me to gasp. Why is he here? Why? When he left, I was convinced I was going to drop dead at any given moment, but the pain I experienced then is nothing compared to what I'm feeling at this very moment.

  “Let. Me. Go,” I demand between gasps, fighting to release myself from the hold he has on me. But as I push forward, he lifts my feet from the floor and carries me down the stairs.

  “Calm down. If you'll calm down and promise not to run, I'll release you,” he promises.

  Normally, my heart rate would have sky rocketed, but right now, it's beating painfully slow. I feel each painful beat punch against my chest, and I want nothing more than to wither away, to disappear. Why do his arms have to feel so fucking good holding me? Why does my body betray me, and how can he do this to me? He’s speaking to me as if he never left, as if he's allowed to have contact with me. Words flow through my brain; evil and hurtful words surface, but I can't form them. How can I yell when he makes it hard to breathe?

  Since I can hardly breathe, it's impossible to speak, so I nod, and his arms release me. Immediately, I grab the banister and dart up the first two steps before I'm pulled back, again. He pushes me against the front door, pinning my arms above my head, his touch sets the skin around my wrists on fire. “You broke your promise,” he says, disappointment in his eyes. Does he think I give a flying fuck about breaking a promise to him? He’s the master of promise-breaking. And the fact that’s he’s speaking to me as if we’re friends causes anger to surge through my veins.

  “Well, I'm in the presence of a liar. It’s obviously rubbing off on me,” I smirk.

  Pain takes over his features, and he looks at me as if I've bitch-smacked him. “Ouch, that hurt, Butter-”

  I cut him off instantly. “Don't you fucking call me Butterfly! You lost that privilege a long time ago when you abandoned me,” I seethe.

  He gasps as the words flow from mouth, looking bewildered. Good. Butterfly is what he called me after we first made love; the only time we made love, actually. He stated that butterflies represent life after death, and since I overcame depression after my father's death, it fit well. It was either Butterfly or Phoenix, and I despise birds, so Phoenix was quickly eliminated. He promised me nothing but happiness in my future. Yeah, that worked out well.

  I don't know where all this courage suddenly comes from, but I'm not stopping now. I want to hurt him as badly as he hurt me, if not more. “You’re an insensitive and arrogant piece of shit. You don't even deserve to be living. You're a waste of space,” I hiss, glaring deep into his eyes so that my words penetrate his soul. His nostrils flare. His face turns red, and the veins in his neck become inflamed. He pushes my wrists into the door as he pushes himself away from me. His bare feet pad across the living room as he joins my mother in the kitchen.

  Now, I’m even more pissed off. How dare she befriend Wyatt! She witnessed the pain he caused me. I need to vent, but the one person who would understand what I'm going through is dead, and I have no one to call. Sophie wouldn't understand, and Blake would go ape shit if he knew Wyatt was here, inside my home. Fuck! I stand against the door and gather my thoughts; I swallow them deep into the pit of my stomach then I join them in the kitchen.

  Wyatt's shirtless, leaning against the counter, blocking the coffee pot. He has an elbow resting on the countertop as he sips his coffee from a red coffee mug - my coffee mug. Unwillingly, I gulp. My eyes trail down his core, taking in his muscles and the red basketball shorts hanging low on his hip. The tattoos that cover his entire right arm have my mouth salivating and my mind defying me. I don't want my body to react this way toward him; I will it to despise him as if he's toxic, which he is.

  I stand in front of him waiting for him to move aside, but he doesn't flinch. Crossing my arms over my chest, I tap my foot and suck my teeth, warning him. His baby-blue eyes take me in from top to bottom. Chuckling and biting the left side of his bottom lip, he asks. “Am I in your way, Butterfly?” Of course not, I just cross my arms and tap my foot at everyone. Jerk.

  “Yup,” I respond, cocking my head. He remains planted in front of the coffee pot, not moving in the slightest. “Coffee?” he asks, wrinkling his nose. Obviously, asshole. “That obvious? That would be the only reason I'm standing here tapping my foot, urging you to move the hell outta my way,” I reply, hatred enveloping my every word.

  He sets his coffee to the counter, stands upright, and crosses his arms over his chest. “By all means, help yourself, but by the way your eyes seduced my body, I assumed you were simply enjoying the view. I'd never have thought you wanted coffee,” he whispers as he shrugs. Leaning in beside my ear, he adds, “Go ahead, sweetheart. It's all yours.” He walks over and takes a seat beside my mother, and they engage in conversation. God only knows how bad I want to smack that fucking smirk off of his face, but my heart won’t allow it. Stupid fucking heart. I pour my Joe and lean against the counter, sipping it slowly.

  I feel nauseous as Mom explains how much she's missed him and how nice it is to have him back. But nothing about this is nice. In fact, I wish he was the one who was dead, and it was Kyle si
tting at the table sipping coffee with us. And how can my mother engage in conversation with the enemy? She might as well stab a knife through the center of my back; that would be less painful.

  They begin to speak about Kyle and his death, so I take my coffee and go to my favorite place on the back deck, still fuming and incredulous that my mom is gushing over this asshat who broke my heart.

  I've missed talking to Kyle; it's been over a month. I relax into the chair and take in the scenery. I watch the fog evaporate into the air, watch the sun rise above the trees, and listen to the joyful melodies the birds let out. And for a moment, I allow my mind to go blank. Forgetting that the man who destroyed me is in myhouse, spending quality time with my mother, is almost too much. I let the pain vanish, temporarily, and nothing exists but nature. That is until the door that leads to the deck opens and Wyatt appears before me.

  God, I need a better place to hide away. Why does my life have to be so complicated?

  “Care if I join you?” he asks sheepishly, pulling a chair in front of me. Why did he ask if he planned on answering his own question?

  “Yes, actually I do,” I answer, lifting my brows as if the answer to his question is obvious. Okay, so showing resentment toward him attracts him, so I should try another approach - kill 'em with kindness. Wyatt reaches for my hand; I pull it back and squint my eyes at him, advising him to back off. “You can join me, but don't touch me,” I command harshly.

  He leans back into the chair and lets his hands rest on the arms. “Al, look, there's some things we need to discuss,” he begins.