Hard Fought (A Stepbrother Warriors Novel) (4 page)

Chapter Six

My old bottles of shampoo and body wash are still in the
corner of the shower, like I never left. I rinse myself off and hop out,
digging through a suitcase to find a pair of shorts and a tank top. I slip on a
pair of flip-flops that I never wore while I was in Europe, and head back down
the steps, cutting across the lawn and around the pool to the doors at the back
of the kitchen.

I reach for the handle and almost step forward into the
glass when it doesn't open. Since when are these doors kept locked? I spot a
new keypad on the side of the door and peer into the bright kitchen. No one's
there. I sigh, and start knocking, wondering if I should just walk around to
the front and ring the bell. I spot a flicker of movement by the hallway and
cup my hands over my eyes. I knock louder.

Carter appears at the other end of the kitchen, looking
around in confusion. It's strange to see him here, in my house. I almost pull
away, but I do want to get inside. I knock again and his head snaps in my
direction. He walks closer on his crutches and I wave as he peers toward me,
knowing I'm against a dark background and he might not be able to see me. He
finally recognizes me when he's a few feet away and opens up the door. I smile
as I see he also took a shower, and have to stop myself from admiring the way
his shoulders look in his plain white t-shirt.

"Is this all one house?" he asks abruptly.

"What do you mean?" 

"It's enormous."

"Oh, yeah. I guess I'm sort of used to it."

"You stay in the backyard?"

"In the boat house."

He laughs sharply, taking me aback. "A boat
house," he repeats, shaking his head.

I clear my throat, feeling awkward. "Do you want any
water or anything?"

"Water would be good."

I move toward the cabinet, hoping the glasses are still in
the same place. They are. I take two out and fill them at the refrigerator.
"I guess I should tell you where everything is," I realize. "So
those are the glasses, plates over there, pots under the counter, pantry is
around the corner. Help yourself to anything, if no one has said that yet.
There's a game room and a theatre downstairs, and a wine room. Also a gym, when
you..." I trail off, not wanting to pry about his injury.

"Thanks," he says as I hand him the water.
"And where's the living room?"

"Well, there are a few, to be honest," I reply,
feeling self-conscious. "My guess is your mom meant one over this
way," I tell him, leading him back down the hallway into the foyer, and
crossing over to the other wing of the house. "What room are you staying
in?"

"A bedroom. On the end, past Bree's."

"Big oil painting of a stork over the bed?"

"That's the one."

"Jack and I always called that the bird room. Jack's my
brother. He's a football player."

"Right," he nods, as I peer into an empty room. We
hear laughter from down the hallway, and cross over to what I've always thought
of as the den. It's cozy, with a leather couch and a big TV over the mantle.

"There you are!" Anne says from the couch, where
she and Bree are sitting. "Good bourbon on the bar cart if you want
some," she adds.

"I'm not—" both Carter and I start at the same
time. He nods at me to go ahead. "...Drinking right now," I finish.

"Bree!" Carter exclaims as he walks over to an
armchair. I walk around to the other side of the couch to see what's put the
frown on his face and smile when I see the beer on the coffee table in front of
his little sister.

"Carter, it's OK," Anne says. "She can drink
a little when she's home. I'd rather her get used to it some before she's twenty-one."

"Just one, though," Carter grumbles as he settles
into his chair.

"Carter," Bree sighs, rolling her eyes.

"Is Jack protective of you like this?" Anne asks
as I pull a chair over to the other corner of the coffee table.

"He was a little in high school, after I had my, um,
growth spurt," I say with a smile, unsure of how to reference the summer
my breasts went from an A to a C cup. "But we're so close in age, not even
two years apart. So I think it's different. What's your age difference?"

"Twelve years," Bree answers. "I was a
mistake."

"A surprise!" Anne exclaims, and Bree giggles,
clearly enjoying teasing her mother a little. "So, Alexa, is it strange to
see us here, making ourselves comfortable in your house?"

She clearly means it lightly, but all three of them glance
at me, and I shift in my seat. They all have the same bright green eyes, and
they're all focused on me. "Honestly, I don't really see this as my house
anymore. I haven't been home in a couple years."

"Well, I hope you'll tell me if you have anything you'd
really like to eat on Thanksgiving," she says with a kind smile, and my
heart pulls a little in my chest. My dad's never made much of the holidays
before.

I hear footsteps in the hallway and glance toward the door
just as my father appears there, as if on cue. I stand as he walks in. He looks
a little older, and a little shorter than I remember, but his eyes are just as
steely.

"Dad," I greet him.

"Alexa. Glad to see you made it home safely," he
says, giving me a kiss on the cheek. "And you must be Carter," he
adds, turning to shake his hand. Carter stands, not bothering to reach for his
crutches.

"Sir," he says, and I see that they're almost the
same height, though Carter might have a half inch on him.

"Dr. Sauveterre says you're healing excellently,"
he remarks. I look at him in surprise. My father's been talking to Carter's
physicians?

"Yes, sir," Carter says shortly. My father crosses
over to the couch and sits next to Anne. I watch him put his arm around her,
resting it comfortably around her shoulders. It's strange to see him with
someone. I never even saw him date after my mom, but I guess he could have
while I was away at boarding school or college.

"And you get your cast off tomorrow, correct?" my dad
asks.

"You do?" Anne asks. "I wish I had known! I'm
meeting with the wedding planner to go through the catering options."

"Maybe I could switch shifts," Bree offers.

"It's fine," Carter assures them.

"Someone should be there with you. You've gone through
so much of this by yourself," Anne says with obvious pain on her face.

"I can go," I offer impulsively, wanting to allay
her concern.

"Oh, that's so sweet," Anne says, "but you
don't have to."

"She's not busy," my father counters, and I
bristle. From someone else I wouldn't have taken that comment as an insult, but
I know how he means it.

"I'll be fine by myself," Carter interjects.

"Please? It will make me feel better," Anne says
pleadingly. Carter pauses, then nods. "Then it's settled," Anne says
with a glowing smile.

Chapter Seven

My old Audi sedan in still sitting in the garage under a
tarp. I pull it off and fold it up, placing it on one of the metal shelving
units along the walls. The tank still has some gas in it, so I pull out and
stop at the front door. Moments later, Carter limps out. I resist the urge to
hop out and help him to the car. He was already reluctant last night to have
anyone take him to the doctor, so I'm sure he wouldn't appreciate me treating
him like he's completely incapacitated.

He opens the back door first and lays his crutches down
along the seat. He hops toward the front passenger door and eases himself in.
His scent fills the car and I swallow nervously. Maybe this was a bad idea.

"OK," he says shortly, and moves his seat back
farther so he can stretch out his leg.

"Um, OK," I say back, and start down the driveway.
He's silent as we drive to the hospital, and I drum my thumbs against the
steering wheel. I park underground, and we take the elevator up to the third
floor after Carter checks the slip of paper where he's written the doctor's
suite number. He pauses outside of the elevator, and I look around him to the
plaque he's considering on the wall.

"The Ray Stratton Memorial Wing?"

"You'll find his name all over this town," I reply
with a wry smile. "I think it's like a rich man's way of pissing on his
territory."

"Some might say he's being charitable."

"Some might," I allow, and gesture down the
hallway toward the office, indicating I don't really want to discuss my father
any further. Carter shrugs and I follow him down. I reach in front of him to
open the door, and take the paper work from the receptionist as he sits down in
the waiting area.

I watch the TV mounted in the corner as Carter fills out his
medical history. We're called immediately after I hand it back, though there
are other people in the waiting room who were here before us. I smell the
Stratton name's influence.

The nurse takes us back to a room with big windows that let
in streaming sunlight. She hands Carter a gown and excuses herself. I sit in a
chair and am surprised to see Carter looking at me expectantly.

"You're staying?" he asks with a frown.

"Oh...I just...I assumed. You want me to leave?"

He pauses. "No, I guess it's fine," he finally
says, but he keeps looking at me.

"What?"

"I have to change."

I can't help but giggle. "Carter, we—"

"I know."

"Fine," I sigh, and shut my eyes. I hear him
moving around, and the sound of paper crinkling.

"Done," he says, and I open my eyes to see him sitting
on the bed. The doctor breezes in, a cheerful-looking man in his mid-sixties
with thinning red hair.

"You must be Carter Driscoll," he says, shaking
Carter's hand. "And...Mrs. Driscoll?" he asks, turning to me.

"No! No. I'm his step-sister, basically. Alexa
Stratton."

"Ah, of course. Please tell your father I say hello.
And I'm Dr. Lyngstad," he says, turning back to Carter and pulling a
rolling chair over to the bed. "I've just been reviewing your chart,"
he says, lapsing into silence as he runs his eyes down it. "You're quite
lucky to have been in the care of Dr. Sauveterre in Paris. I took a fascinating
seminar that he gave at a conference in the Netherlands. Not that I intend to
switch to neurosurgery, of course, but I wanted the chance to see a living
legend."

My eyes flick over to Carter, whose expression hasn't
changed. I remember he said something on the plane about not being awake when
Anne and Bree visited him in the hospital, but I suppose I hadn't processed yet
how serious his injuries must have been. He might have a cast on his leg, but
it sounds like he was in a coma and had some kind of neurological work done.

"Well, let's get this cast off, shall we?" he
says, slapping Carter's chart shut and standing up. He reaches into the
cabinets next to the bed and pulls out what look like a pair of large gardening
shears. "Now be prepared for the smell," he adds to me mischievously.
"This leg hasn't seen the light of day for a while!

Carter pulls his gown over the top of his cast, and Dr.
Lyngstad steps next to him and inserts the shears at the top of the cast, which
reaches several inches over his knee and extends all the way down almost to his
toes. Carter grimaces as the doctor bears down and the cast begins to split
down the middle. After every few cuts, the doctor readjusts, cleaning away bits
of plaster, until the cast falls onto the floor.

I get my first look at Carter's leg, and tears spring to my
eyes. I duck my head, embarrassed. My emotions have always laid close to the
surface, but he doesn't need to see me blubbering right now. It's obvious that
the injury to his leg wasn't just a break. The skin from the middle of his calf
up to the top of his kneecap is red and rippled, clearly only recently
recovered from serious burns. For some reason, this visible proof of his
injuries and how he must have suffered is hitting me hard.

"I warned you about the smell!" Dr. Lyngstad says
merrily.

I clear my throat to get rid of the lump there. "I
think I have some perfume in my purse," I say with a smile, raising my
head.

"We'll have to do with plain old water first," the
doctor says, wetting a paper towel and gently brushing it over Carter's leg.
"This skin is still delicate." I watch Carter's face as his leg is
cleaned. His expression is impassive as ever, and I wonder what he's thinking.
Do the burns look better or worse than he expected? "Skin looks like it's
healing nicely," the doctor says as he tosses the towel, "though you
should see a specialist to make sure. I'm sure a dermatologist could help you
with some cosmetic options, too, if you care about that. Now, I'm going to ask
you to shift toward the end of the bed here, and raise your leg to touch my
hand."

They go through a series of exercises together as the doctor
tests his strength and range of motion. "Good. I'd like you to start
physical therapy immediately. You need to counteract the stiffness right away
so that you regain full mobility." He turns to a prescription pad and
starts writing. "If you have time today, you can head straight over to our
facility here, it's just down the hall. But all in all, you're healing
well!" he finishes, patting Carter on the back.

Carter doesn't even smile at the news. "Thanks so much,
Dr. Lyngstad. We really appreciate it," I jump in. Maybe it's not my place,
but I'm confused by Carter's behavior.

After the doctor leaves, I close my eyes again as Carter
gets dressed. "How does it feel to put weight on it?" I ask as he
walks to the door.

"Like it's weak," he grumbles. I follow him back
out to the hallway and stop as he turns toward the elevators.

"Why don't we go to do the physical therapy now?"
I suggest. "Are you busy or—"

"It doesn't matter."

"What doesn't matter?" But he's already headed
down the hallway the other direction. I sigh in exasperation and head after
him. We ride back down to the garage in silence. After I unlock the car with
the remote, he heads straight for the passenger door and closes it behind him.
I stare at him for a moment, and then knock on the window. He jumps a little,
as though he forgot I was there. I open the door and hand him the keys.
"You wanna drive?"

"Oh," he says, looking at the keys in surprise.

"Look, I obviously don't know what you've been through,
but it's pretty clear you don't care about getting better all that much. Which
is sad. Especially for your mother and sister. But since you can walk, you can
drive, so that means I'm not your driver anymore." I raise my eyebrows at
him expectantly, and am relieved when he smiles and grabs the keys.

A second later we're pulling out of the garage. He rolls the
windows down and I watch him out of the corner of my eye as we stop at a light
and he turns his head into the breeze. He looks peaceful for a second, but when
the light changes his expression becomes serious again.

"Woah!" I exclaim as he takes a sharp and sudden
right turn. "You can follow that road straight back, you know."

"I know," he says, glancing in the rearview
mirror. "But we're being followed."