Hard Fought (A Stepbrother Warriors Novel) (5 page)

Chapter Eight

After a few more sharp turns, Carter is satisfied that we've
lost the car that's been tailing us. As we head back toward the house by a
different route, though, I start to worry. I never actually saw the car...is it
possible his experiences have left him paranoid? Seeing danger where there
isn't any?

Back at the house, I watch him cautiously from a window as
he walks around the perimeter of the property. I'm more worried that he's
overexerting himself on his leg than I am about any car tailing us. What the hell's
he doing anyway?

I shake my head and decide that if he's going to hurt
himself then I can't stop him. I walk back into the kitchen and fix myself some
lunch. Thirty minutes later, he reappears just as I'm finished eating.

"There's some fish in the fridge, and some cous-cous
thing," I tell him.

"Your father's security won't tell me anything,"
he says. "Won't even let me inside their center."

"Center?"

"The security center next to his office."

"The
what
? That wasn't there before. Weird.
Maybe he's feeling protective of your mom and sister?"

"Maybe."

"Will you eat something please?" I ask, trying to
distract him. He grunts in response, but he opens the fridge and begins to
search through it. I watch as he makes himself a plate, but I guess he doesn't
feel like talking much anymore. "I'm going to get in the pool," I
announce as I stand up and put my plate in the dishwasher. He doesn't answer.

With a sigh, I leave out of the back door and cross the
patio back to the boat house. I put away all my clothes before leaving for the
doctor's appointment earlier, so I take my black bikini from the bureau and
quickly pull it on. It still smells like salt and sunscreen from the time I
fell for a man I met in Paris and accompanied him on an ill-fated trip to the coast.
He ended up stealing all the money from my wallet and abandoning me there.
Another disastrous choice in a long string of them.

I grab a towel from the bathroom and head back to the pool.
I jump in feet first without testing the water temperature. After doing a few
somersaults, I allow myself to float over toward the side of the pool nearest
to the house. I turn my head slowly to the kitchen and start as I see Carter
watching me from the window. He's sitting at the table, empty plate in front of
him, and his eyes look almost glazed over. I'm not sure he even realizes that I
see him.

I wave, and he frowns. I make a beckoning motion with my
hand, and he reluctantly stands and walks to the door. He slowly walks out onto
the patio, glancing around almost suspiciously.

"Wanna join me?" I ask, resting my forearms on the
cool, slate gray tile that lines the pool.

"I don't own a swimsuit."

"Wear your boxers, then."

"You weren't supposed to look."

"I wasn't. I noticed...before."

"No thanks," he says, but I hear a momentary
hesitation in his voice and I begin to wonder if he's just disinterested or if
there's something more going on.

"You know, your leg's not as bad as you think," I
tell him quietly.

"I saw your reaction at the doctor's," he replies.

I wince. "I was just surprised. Besides, we're the only
ones here, and I've seen it already."

He runs his hand through his long hair, pushing it back from
his face. "Fine," he mutters. He whips off his shirt and I push back
away from the wall to submerge myself under water. I can feel the blush that
just sprung to my cheeks and I want a chance to cool off. When I resurface,
he's at the shallow end, wearing only his boxers. Wow. I don't know what he
looked like before, but being in a hospital for weeks doesn't seem to have cut
down on his muscle mass as significantly as I would have thought. True, his
right leg is half-covered in scars, but now that I'm prepared for it, it truly
doesn't put me off. Especially since I know how he got them.

I swim over to the shallows and sit on the bottom of the
pool as he steps in. The water swirls up around his shin, hitting the red skin
that was hidden under his cast.

"Does it feel OK?" I ask, nodding to his leg. I
don't want to be rude, but I also don't want to pretend I'm blind.

"The water just feels a little colder on that
side," he says, kicking up the water a bit with his feet. He walks the
rest of the way down the steps and then lets his knees collapse and ducks under
the water.

"What's this?" I ask as he comes back up, flicking
his hair out of his face. I point to the tattoo on his upper right pec, almost
allowing my fingers to touch his skin before I pull back.

"Marine Corp symbol. Eagle, globe, and anchor."

"I don't have any tattoos," I offer.

"I know," he replies straight-faced, and my lips
twitch.

"I bet swimming would be good for your leg. Just
sayin'," I add with a shrug as he raises an eyebrow at me. "There is
this Danish guy with my face on his ass."

"What?"

"A tattoo," I clarify, leaning my head back and
letting my hair float across the surface of the water. "I met him at this
little bar by my apartment, and we got really wasted, and I said the only way
I'd sleep with him is if he got a tattoo of my face on his ass. And he
did."

"So you slept with him?"

"Yeah. It was very romantic at the time, really."

"What was his name?"

"Um..."

"Oh my god," he chortles, "the guy's walking
around with a tattoo of your face and you don't even remember his name?"

"He was memorable in other ways," I say with a
smile.

"Do you remember the name of the guy you followed to
France?"

"Unfortunately," I say with a sigh. "James
Aloysius Mulholland. He was a sculptor, just graduated from university where I
was getting my undergrad. He was offered this really prestigious spot in this
MFA program in Paris, and told me he couldn't live without me."

"But he could."

"Yes, but apparently not without a painter who was also
in the program, whom he managed to get pregnant within three months of the
move."

"Ouch."

"So what about you?"

"What about me?"

"What's your big heartbreak?"

"Who says I've got one?"

"Come on, you're what? Twenty-eight?"

"Thirty."

"And you've never had even a small heartbreak? I've had
dozens."

"I dated a girl in high school. We ended it when I
joined up. I think she's married now."

"That's it?"

"Well, there've been plenty of other women," he
smiles wolfishly.

"But no relationships."

"It's better that way."

"Maybe you're right. I mean, I've had to swear them
off. I just get too...distracted." I make the mistake of looking into his
bright green eyes, and that familiar pull tugs at my stomach. "Look how
long your beard is," I comment by way of changing the subject, reaching
forward to gently run my fingers over it.

"Yeah, I guess I should cut it at some point."

"I can do it! And your hair!"

"I don't know..."

"No, I'm really good! I used to charge the boys at
boarding school. I'd set up in the bathroom on Saturdays."

"Well, OK. I can do the beard. I have a trimmer
somewhere."

"I'll meet you in your bedroom, alright? I have good
scissors in my bathroom," I tell him as I swim for the edge and he follows
me. He lifts himself out onto the deck and I look skyward to avoid checking out
the way his boxers are clinging to his package. He glances around, and I realize
what he's looking for. "Here, take mine," I say, tossing him my towel
as I back away toward the boat house.

I need to get away from this nearly naked man before I grab
him and have my way with him.

Chapter Nine

I knock on the door of the bird room about ten minutes
later, comb and scissors in hand. I'm safely clothed, but when the door opens,
I see that Carter is not. Well, at least he has pants on, but his bare chest is
enough to make me shiver.

He stands back and sweeps his arm into the room. "I
haven't been in here in forever," I murmur as I walk in, noticing his
duffels still unpacked by the bureau, though there are some knick-knacks on top
of it. "Did your mom bring your stuff over from your old place?"

"Yeah. Wasn’t much there. I try not to accumulate a lot
of stuff."

"You're a regular rolling stone."

"Shall we?" he asks, heading into the bathroom.

"Mmhm," I reply, spotting a small leather ottoman
in his sitting area. I put the scissors on top of it and carry it in.

"I could have gotten that for you."

"I'm good. Here, take a seat," I say, placing it
in front of the mirror. He does, and I work my comb through his still damp
hair. I feel a ridge on the right side of his head, and brush the hair away
from it. I see that the hair on top of it is short, and covers the rest of the
scar that reaches across his brow. "I'll go a little shorter on the sides
so everything evens out," I say softly. He nods, and I keep running my
fingers through his hair before I realize that he can see my moony expression
in the mirror.

I pick up the scissors and pull his hair out to the side. In
some places, it's a few inches long, so I'm not worried about being too precise
as I cut it down. When it's at a more manageable length, I start to make more
careful cuts, angling the scissors so that he gets a gradual fade.

"Where'd you learn?"

"Hm?" I murmur, immersed in my task.

"To cut hair."

"Oh, I always cut Jack's hair. My brother's."

"Your mom didn't mind?" I freeze for a second to
avoid taking a chunk out of his hair.

"My mom died soon after I was born," I reply
quietly. I take a deep breath before I make the next cut. "That's why I
was the one cutting his hair."

"I'm sorry. I've been so out of communication, no one's
really filled me in..."

"Well, it's not really the kind of thing people like to
talk about anyway."

"So then Jack didn't mind?"

"There was a bit of a learning curve, but by the time
he cared what he looked like, I was pretty good."

"You two are close?"

"You know, it's funny...I would say we are, though I've
been really shitty about talking to him. I felt horrible lying to him about
what I was doing in Paris, but I was worried he'd tell our dad. So I just
started talking to him less. He's so easygoing though...knowing him, I bet
we'll just pick back up where we left off. Is this length good?" I ask,
picking up the hair at the front of his head and showing him in the mirror. He
nods.

"When's he coming back?"

"From his game? Friday, I guess. He'll probably shack
up with some girl after the game."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. He really gets around, but if there is one thing
I'm proud of in life, it's that he never leads them on. I saw him start down
that road in high school, and I made him see how unfair it was."

"You talk like you're the older one."

"I think that if it was our father who died it would
have been different, but since it was our mom, I was the one who stepped
forward, you know? Like you with Bree."

"What do you mean?" he asks, turning slightly.

"Stay still. You're pretty protective of her."

"Well..."

"Oh, come on. Own up to it."

"I get worried because I'm away so much," he
finally grumbles. "I mean, she's so unaware of...you know..."

"The fact that she's beautiful?"

"Exactly. But it doesn't mean men are."

"I bet she'll be fine. She seems like a little
spitfire."

"She doesn't take any shit, that's for sure," he
says with a proud smile. I pause, stepping back and brushing the shorn hairs
off his shoulders and trying not to notice the electricity that runs through my
fingertips.

"There. What do you think?"

He tilts his head forward and runs his palm across the top.
"Good. I guess I should get this off now," he says, tugging at his
beard. I nod, leaving him to it. As I walk back into his bedroom, I spot his
bags lying on the ground. My Type-A instincts take over, and I reach inside.
The bureau drawers are almost completely empty, and I unpack his clothes in a
way that makes sense to me, trying not to think too much about the fact that
I'm handling his boxers. At the bottom of his first duffle, I take out a rolled
up old t-shirt and shake it out to refold it more neatly. Something falls from
it onto the plush white carpeting.

I bend down to pick it up, not noticing that the sound of
the beard trimmer has stopped. I turn the object over in my hand. It's a small
medal, with a purple ribbon at the top and a man's face in the heart shaped
gold below it. The Purple Heart. It must be.

"What do you think?" Carter asks from the bathroom
doorway. I grip my hand around the medal, suddenly feeling like I'm intruding.
As I glance up, though, my mouth drops open. Without the long hair and beard
hiding his features, Carter's looks are absolutely devastating.

"I...yep. Uh-huh. Good," I stammer. He gives me an
odd look, then glances down at the empty suitcase on the floor.

"You didn't have to do that," he says, walking
over.

"I just thought I'd help," I say with a shrug, so
distracted by his pillowy lips that I forget I'm supposed to be hiding
something in my hand.

"What's that?" he asks with a frown, glancing at
the flash of metal in my palm.

"Oh, I...I was just unpacking, and—"

"I didn't ask you to," he says, his voice suddenly
quiet. He reaches out and snatches the medal from my hand.

"I know, but—" I break off as he pulls open a
drawer and throws the medal inside. "Be careful!" I cry out
instinctively.

His eyes narrow as he turns on me. "The fuck do you
care?"

"I—it just seems like a shame...I don't know," I
stammer.

"You're right. You don't. You have no idea. I think you
should leave," he says, nodding to the door.

"I didn't mean to intrude," I whisper.

"Get out!" he yells, his neck muscles bunching in
anger.

I shrink back and hurry toward the door, blinking my eyes
quickly to hold back the tears.