If You Leave: The Beautifully Broken Series: Book 2 Page 3

  What the fuck is wrong with him?

  Ignoring my still-racing heart, I bend in front of him. I can do this.

  “Does your head hurt?” I ask him. When he shakes his head, I look into his eyes. His pupils seem the same size. I heard somewhere that if you have a concussion, it makes the sizes of your pupils uneven.

  Physically he seems fine. No bumps, no scrapes, no bruises. I stare down at him uncertainly. He stares back, but it’s like he’s not even seeing me.

  I sigh, long and loud.

  “Let’s get your shirt and jeans off, at least,” I finally tell him. “Then I’m going to go.”

  He stands up obediently and unbuttons his pants, letting them drop to the floor. When he sits back down, I strip his shirt off over his head, then fold down the covers on his bed.

  He immediately drops back into it, curling onto his side and closing his eyes.

  As I cover him up, I can’t help but glance at his body. It’s sculpted and cut, and it’s apparent that he works out. A lot. He has the body of a triathlete. Or Olympian. Or Greek god, maybe. He’s got a tattoo on his bicep, a skull wearing a beret over a pair of crossed swords. Words are scrolled above and below it. “Death Before Dishonor.”

  Hmm. Where would he get that? Is he a marine, maybe? He doesn’t have a marine haircut, though.

  I sigh again. This whole turn of events is so unfortunate. If I was gonna have a one-night stand, this was clearly the guy to do it with. He’s freaking hot.

  At this exact moment he moans and thrashes, throwing off the covers as he mutters into his pillow.

  He’s also apparently crazy because something controls him. God. Just my luck. I meet a hot guy who hears voices or some shit. Or he hit his head and he’s just delirious.

  I shake my head as I pick up the covers and pull them back up over him.

  I take in his clenched jaw and furrowed brow. One part of me wants to call an ambulance to be on the safe side. But another part of me thinks it’s not my place to do that, especially since I don’t know if he needs it. I don’t even know if he has insurance.

  I honestly just don’t know what to do.

  Finally I decide that I’ll hang around for a just a little while, to see if he gets any worse.

  It’s the least I can do. I wouldn’t feel right otherwise. If he wakes up and acts dangerous, I can be out of here in half a minute.

  I find the bathroom so that I can pee and it is surprisingly clean for a guy’s bathroom. It’s decorated in various shades of gray, even a gray-tiled floor. There’s no evidence whatsoever of a woman’s touch, so he must be unattached. Or at the very least unmarried. At least he’s not a scumbag like the married guys who troll the clubs for a piece of ass.

  Out of curiosity I open the medicine cabinet. Q-tips, razor, razor blades, shaving cream, and a bottle of sleeping pills with his name on them. There’s nothing that would suggest that he’s crazy. There’s no psychotropic prescription pills or anything.

  That’s good, right?

  I walk back out into the dining area, looking around with interest. Everything is neat, modern, masculine. On one wall is a mahogany case, as tall as I am. It’s so shallow that it can’t hold much, so it piques my interest. I open it and suck in my breath at the neatly lined-up guns facing me.

  Holy shit. Is he expecting WWIII? Who in the world would have this many guns? He’s crazy after all. As I’m backing away from it, unreasonably afraid of the guns, a certificate catches my eye. It’s lying on a short stack of paper at the end of the black-and-white granite kitchen counter.

  I stop and look at it and find that it is actually a diploma, issued a few years ago by the United States Army Ranger School, and it’s got his name on it.

  Gabriel is a Ranger. Or he was one. One or the other. Either way, that explains the amazingly cut body. And the tattoo. And the guns. Thank God. I feel an incredible amount of relief right now… apparently I’m not in the home of a psychopath.

  Unless he was kicked out for being crazy, which seems like a real possibility at the moment.

  Yikes. I’m suddenly incredibly uncomfortable being here.

  I walk quickly back down to his bedroom, which is decorated just like the rest of his house—gray tones, dark wood, masculine.

  He’s still sleeping and he’s no longer muttering. I stare down at him for a second, watching him breathe.

  He seems fine now.

  Fine enough for me to leave him alone without feeling guilty, anyway.

  Before I can rethink it I’m out the door, down the stairs and on the street again, breathing in the cool night air. When the doorman waves at me, I walk over to him.

  “Gabriel isn’t feeling well,” I tell him. “I think he’ll be OK, but maybe someone should check on him later. If you know anyone to call, that would be great.”

  The doorman nods and assures me that he’ll take care of it.

  His assurance makes me feel slightly better, but I still feel like I’ve been bitch-slapped by tonight. It’s all been so bizarre.

  But that’s OK. It’s over now. I just have to make my way back to the club, get my car, and then leave all this weirdness behind me. In a few minutes the crazy hot guy will be a distant memory.

  * * *

  Gabriel

  I wake up in a cold sweat.

  I’m not sure where I am.

  This isn’t unusual, so I force my breathing to slow, to regulate. I need to gain my bearings.

  I glance around, at the gray walls of my stark bedroom, at the white ceiling, at the familiar ceiling fan with the blades that look like large wicker leaves.

  I’m in my apartment. In my bed. One glance at the clock tells me that four hours have passed since the last time I was conscious.

  The problem is, I have no idea how I fucking got here.

  My hands are shaky as I reach for the glass of water on my bedside table, swirling the water inside the glass as I force myself to calm, as I try not to remember the nightmare that woke me. I take a gulp and force the blurs of reds and blacks out of my head, even though I know from experience they are unwilling to go.

  Darkness and blood.

  These are two things that will apparently always haunt me. I doubt I’ll ever get a full night’s rest, or that I’ll ever feel comfortable in the dark again.

  I slump against the pillows, then startle as I remember Madison.

  The beautiful girl from the club.

  We were on our way here when we were in a car accident. I hold up my hands and look at them, barely able to see them in the dim light streaming through the window. I seem to be fine, nothing on my body hurts, so apparently we weren’t injured. Or I wasn’t, at least.

  I honestly don’t know about Madison. There’s no possible way I can because I don’t even know how I made it home. I hope she’s all right. But I don’t fucking know. Everything is a black void. All I know for sure is that I’m alone now.

  I left Madison there, standing next to the twisted, burning wreck of our taxi. Even though I can’t recall much else, I remember the stricken look on her face as she realized that I was leaving.

  I’m not sure if I’m ashamed of myself or relieved. She was pretty fucking amazing. And pretty fucking hot. But there’s no way she should get mixed up with someone like me, even for only one night. Especially for only one night. I might look normal, but I’m far from it.

  I think back to Madison’s question in the cab.

  How do I know you’re not a crazy person?

  I almost smile grimly in the dark.

  I’m not crazy… exactly. The army doctors say I just need time. They call it PTSD. Posttraumatic stress disorder. I call it something else entirely: fucked up.

  Chapter Four

  Madison

  I open my bleary eyes, not exactly sure what woke me from my dead sleep.

  The lake crashes against the shore outside, but that’s not it. I’m used to that sound since I hear it every night. The rain is slanting against my bedroom windows
, but that’s not it either. As I gaze at the ceiling, my phone buzzes, vibrating from my nightstand with a text message.

  Ah, that’s it. Mystery solved.

  I rub my eyes, glare at the clock (which surely must be wrong because there’s no way it’s that late), then grab the stupid phone.

  Where are u? Where did you go last night?

  Staring at the words, I cringe with guilt.

  Craaaaaap.

  Jacey. The friend I left at the Underground last night, the friend who just happens to work for me. She’s the best waitress I’ve got, mainly because she’s just the right mix of charm and flirtation. She’s also the best friend I’ve got, mainly because I don’t get close to that many people.

  I never found her last night and then I completely forgot about her… because I was distracted. My distraction flashes through my head, a vision of Gabriel’s face and muscled body, and my cheeks flush. I quickly put him out of my mind and turn back to my phone.

  I’m a bad friend, I text her back simply. I’m sorry.

  Where did you go????

  Apparently I’m not going to get off that easily. I sigh.

  Remember when u said I needed to get laid? Well, I almost did. But didn’t. So I came home alone instead. Did you just go home with Peter? I would’ve called, but I knew you wouldn’t hear your phone.

  Gabriel’s face pops unbidden into my head again. The look on his face while we watched that taxi burn was indescribable. Tortured, almost. But that sounds stupid to say.

  Obviously I was in shock too. It’s not every day that you get nailed in an intersection and then your taxi explodes into flames. So of course I was disturbed.

  But not to the degree that Gabriel was. For some reason my heart twinges just thinking about it, but I ignore it. I don’t know him and there’s no use wondering what the hell was wrong with him. He’s irrelevant now. I force him out of my thoughts and wait for Jacey to reply.

  It only takes her a second.

  You should definitely be sorry. I was almost worried. And why didn’t u get some??? Any man would give his left nut to take you home. I’m pretty sure I hate you for that.

  I have to smile. Jacey wasn’t worried. I’m sure of it. She probably didn’t even realize I was gone until it was time to go home.

  Long story, I answer.

  One beat passes and then she replies.

  K. My brother never showed up last night, but he’s coming to the Hill tonight to bring me my bday gift. You can meet him then.

  I smile, which hurts my pounding head. I’m glad she mentioned it. I’d forgotten it was her birthday. Maybe I really am a bad friend.

  Fine, I tell her. You’re not going to let up until I meet him, I know. And I’m bringing you a birthday cupcake.

  One pause, then an answer.

  My diet doesn’t thank you. But I do!

  I toss my phone onto the foot of the bed and settle back into my pillow for a second. My head doesn’t hurt because of drinking. I only had one drink last night. It’s pounding because of lack of sleep. I didn’t get in until four thirty a.m. And that’s very unlike me. I glance at the clock again.

  Nine a.m.

  Normally I would already be at my restaurant, the Hill, by now. But I’m dying from sleep deprivation. If I don’t consume a massive amount of caffeine, I might murder someone later.

  I throw the covers back on my little double bed, the same one that I had all through high school. I barely spare a glance at the walls covered in old posters and high school news articles. I inherited my childhood home a couple of years ago. One of these days I need to get off my ass and clean this room out.

  I’m not going to worry about it today, though.

  Today I just need coffee.

  I pad down the long hall to the kitchen, where I start the coffee and make a frozen burrito. I sit eating it in my underwear, something I can do since I live alone. My eating habits are shit, which is ironic since I own a restaurant, something else I inherited.

  After two cups of coffee loaded with sugar and cream, I finally feel human again. I take a quick shower, twist my hair into a sloppy bun and throw on a pair of capris, a polo and a sweater before I grab one more cup of coffee on my way out the door.

  I button my sweater up as I jab at the button that lowers the top on my convertible, my one luxury. Driving with the wind in my hair is the only freedom I really get to experience and since the spring rain has stopped for a minute, I can ride with the top down today.

  I shift into gear and back out of my driveway, starting down the narrow road that winds along Lake Michigan. It’s a fun little road and I used to love driving it, back before it killed my parents.

  Today the morning sun is bright and the ground is wet from rain. As the light rebounds from the misty surface of the lake and directly onto the glass of my windshield, I squint while I reach for the volume on my car stereo. The ridged knob slides in my fingers as I crank it up.

  I almost sigh aloud. That’s better. There’s nothing like coffee and loud music to jar me from sleepiness. I punch at the button to change the satellite radio station as I glance up into the sun.

  The light is in my eyes, bright and sharp.

  I blink, but before I can really refocus, I realize exactly where I am. I’m coming up way too fast on a hairpin curve.

  Fuck.

  I gasp and yank on the wheel, spilling hot coffee between my legs as my car veers sharply from the road. Everything seems to happen in slow motion as my car careens into the ditch, skidding sideways at an unnatural angle toward the beach below.

  I’m almost frozen, blinded by the sun and completely at the mercy of Newton’s laws of motion as my car slides through the mud, the wet grass hitting it in a thumping hiss as the bottom of the hill rushes to meet me.

  I’m at such an unnatural angle and skidding so fast that I’m afraid for a second that the car is going to roll, but it doesn’t. Instead it slams to an unceremonious stop at the bottom, the wheels halfway buried in the wet sand of the beach. I’m flustered as I try to take deep breaths, yet somehow remain breathless as I sit frozen in shock.

  Holy shit. What the hell just happened? Was I seriously in my second car accident in as many days?

  My hands shake as I look around. I didn’t hit anyone or anything.

  I’m not hurt.

  I’m not hurt.

  I chant this silently to myself as I look around. I’m at the bottom of the incline leading up to the road, in the middle of rocks and grass and sand. I’m so stupid. I’ve driven this road a thousand times. I knew better.

  Even though my hands are shaking and I can’t breathe, everything’s fine. I’m fine. My car is fine. I’m not my parents. Unlike them, I didn’t die. There is no broken glass or blood. I’m fine.

  I think.

  I open the door and step directly down into calf-deep mud.

  Hell. I cringe as I pull my foot back up, glancing at my mud-covered paisley Jimmy Choo wedge. Shoes are my weakness and this one, which had been practically brand-new, is now ruined.

  Efffffff.

  As if that’s not bad enough, I’m surrounded by mud, a result of last night’s thunderstorm. I can’t get out to check my car, but from where I can see, the left front wheel is bent under. I have no idea if it’s even drivable.

  With a scowl I press the accelerator and attempt to drive back up the incline, but my car won’t budge. The bent wheel won’t even turn.

  I’m stuck. Not just stuck, but firmly and completely stuck.

  “Fuck.”

  My head drops to my steering wheel as my fingers reach for my cell phone.

  * * *

  When my sister comes to my rescue twenty minutes later, she rushes to get to me, picking her way down the wet hill. Her descent isn’t graceful.

  “I’m fine, Mila. Go back up!” I lean out my window and call out to her. “You’re going to fall and break something, preggo!”

  She scowls at me as she walks toward the car, stopping where th
e mud pools start.

  “Oh, God. Not you too. Pax will barely let me lift a finger to do anything. You’re a woman. You should know better. I’m pregnant, not an invalid.”

  I shake my head as I take off my shoes and grab my purse. As carefully as I can, I step from the car, instantly sinking ankle-deep in the mud. I slam my car door closed hard.

  “Your husband just wants to take care of you,” I remind her grumpily as I slog through the mud toward her.

  At seven months pregnant, Mila has that mythical glow about her that few pregnant women actually get. In fact, pregnancy truly agrees with her. She’s always been gorgeous, but now she literally glows. Her long dark hair is lush and shiny, her cheeks pink and flushed, and her skin flawless.

  “I can’t believe you look so good,” I grumble as I eye her tiny baby bump. “It’s sickening. You’ve barely gained any weight at all.”

  She holds out her hand to help me over a rock and laughs.

  “What? You want me to look hideous?”

  “Maybe,” I answer with a mock scowl as we carefully make our way to the top of the hill to where Mila’s car awaits. “It’s not fair that you’re prettier than me even while you’re pregnant. Big sisters are always supposed to be hotter. It’s a law of nature. I didn’t make the rules, Mila, but we should definitely follow them. Try to gain a few pounds.”

  She laughs again and rolls her eyes as we buckle ourselves in.

  “You’re crazy, Mad. You’re the model in our family. The only things I have that you don’t are bigger boobs. And you can’t have those.”

  “Whatever,” I mutter as I flip the visor down and look at myself. “I’m not a model anymore.”

  I have mud splatters on my forehead. And mud caked almost up to my knees. It drips onto the floor and I sigh.

  “I’m sorry. You’re going to have to get this thing detailed now,” I tell her apologetically. “I’ll pay for it.”

  “It’s fine,” she assures me, serious now. “I’m just glad you’re all right. How the hell did this even happen, Maddy? You know how dangerous this road is.”

  Of course I know.

  I feel guilty at the worried strain in her voice. I feel guilty that she had to come here, to this particular curve of all places.