Chapter III
MAVERICK
“You’re welcome,” I shoot back at the redhead currently glaring at me. She’s so short, it’s almost comical how she’s blustering. As if I didn’t just save her from that jackass inside the bar.
“I didn’t… I don’t… I…” She steps backward, shaking her head at me.
Then, in an instant, the fire seems to abandon her, and her entire body starts to cave in, her arms wrapping around her midsection.
“Hey, hey, you’re fine. I wouldn’t have let him do anything.” I’m closing the distance between us, my hands coming to the tops of her arms to support her.
Her choked laugh sounds way too self-deprecating. “Trust me, I can take care of myself when it comes to dirtbag Dirk.”
“What?” I ask, amused at the nickname and relieved some of her spunk seems to be coming back.
She rolls her eyes behind big gold-rimmed glasses. “The guy inside. My ex-boyfriend. He’s annoying. Also, pathetic and apparently delusional if he thinks cornering me at the bar is the way to win me back. Not that he could win me back.” The last sentence is mumbled half under her breath.
Her arms are still wrapped around her middle, and I drop my hands from her shoulders, ignoring the twinge in my collarbone.
“Well, thanks for your help,” she starts hesitantly, then stops, tugging her lip in between her teeth.
Don’t ask me to explain why, but I want to reach up and free it. Instead, I stuff my hands in my pockets.
“It’s fine. Are you gonna be okay?” I say gruffly, more than ready to leave and go home, to get away from this woman who’s getting to me in a way not many ever do.
She looks up at me and catches my wince as I try to subtly rotate my shoulder that’s still throbbing from me moving it in ways I shouldn’t.
“I’ll be fine, but are you okay?”
I shrug. She still doesn’t seem to know me, which means she doesn’t know how fucking broken I am. “Yeah, just some old injuries acting up.” If four weeks is old…and if acting up means my ribs are on fire, and my fucking collarbone feels like a hot poker is being stuck into it.
“Okay. Well, thanks again. I really am sorry you had to get involved in there.” She starts to move like she’s going to walk away, then stops and looks back at me.
“And, earlier today…at the hospital. I didn’t mean to overhear anything, I hope you know that.
And I hope whatever’s wrong gets better soon. ”
It takes me by surprise that she brings up what she saw in the stairwell, and I’m at a loss.
What the fuck am I meant to say? Instead, I give her a brusque nod.
She’s looking at me, like she’s waiting for me to say something.
Too bad, babe, you’ll be waiting a long-ass time.
After another few seconds of silence, she gives me a small smile, then turns and walks away.
My eyes don’t leave her luscious ass until she turns the corner.
As soon as she’s out of sight, it’s as if a haze is lifted and I can think clearly again.
Which leaves me fucking baffled. Sure, I’m not one to shy away from defending a woman — any woman — if I see them being harassed.
That’s one thing I won’t stand for, in any situation.
Most of the fucking gossip about me being in fights is because of that kind of shit.
But something about my redheaded Specs had me on edge more than normal, and that was before the fucker sat down across from her.
The second he opened his fucking mouth, I was ready to go.
I start walking in the opposite direction she went, toward my apartment. It’s not a far walk, and I’m hoping it clears my head the rest of the way. Although, if the doctor doesn’t clear me to drive when I see him next, I might lose my shit.
The only good thing about this fucked-up day is that she didn’t recognize me, even if her asshole ex seemed to. Last thing I need is some goody-two-shoes hero-worshipping me or getting me tangled up in her drama.
No, that’s the last I’ll see of her.
As soon as I let myself into my apartment, I flick on some lights and drop my shit on the counter. Going to the fridge, I grab a sparkling water and pop the top of the can before settling down on my couch, and closing my eyes.
A small weight lands on my lap a minute later, and a paw lifts to bat my cheek.
“Mrowp.”
I look down at the scruffy ball of fur and lift my good hand to scratch behind an ear that’s missing a chunk.
“Hey, Cat.” I get another meow, and then he spins in a circle before settling onto my lap, his purr the only sound in my otherwise silent apartment.
Grabbing the remote from the couch beside me, I turn on the TV.
Sportscasters are going over the day’s highlights, and I lean my head back and close my eyes again.
It’s not like the stats matter to me right now.
I couldn’t fucking care less what team won or lost today since my team was traveling, not playing.
I just need the noise.
The next thing I know, light is coming in through my living room window.
The sun looks to be just coming up, which means it’s still really fucking early.
A glance at my phone confirms it’s just after six in the morning.
I don’t have anywhere to be until my rehab session at the stadium later, so for a moment, I contemplate simply moving to my bed and going back to sleep.
But as soon as I start to move, it becomes annoyingly evident that I won’t be getting any more sleep today.
Not unless I give in and take some of the untouched prescription painkillers sitting on my counter.
Spending the night on my couch has made everything that was already painful yesterday hurt even worse, my entire body aching and stiff.
I drag myself up and stagger down the short hall to the bathroom.
Stripping down, I turn on the water as hot as it can go before stepping in.
The heat helps, slowly loosening my muscles that are really not fucking happy I fell asleep sitting upright on the goddamn couch. It wouldn’t have been so bad if I was smart enough to lie down, but apparently, exhaustion makes me stupid.
I can hear my phone ringing in the kitchen but ignore it. Whoever the fuck it is, they can wait.
When I eventually step out of the shower and get dressed, I bypass my phone, still not wanting to see who or what is trying to cause shit for me today. Heading out my apartment door, I knock on the door across the hall before letting myself in with a key.
“Ralph? My man, you awake?”
The rattle of his walker across the floor has me looking toward the short hallway. “What the hell are you doing here so early?” he grumbles as he slowly makes his way to the main living area.
I go to cross my arms and then stop. I’m gonna have to wear that goddamn sling today. It’s the only way to stop myself from doing shit that hurts. “Are you complaining? I’m here to make omelets.”
“It ain’t Saturday,” he mutters.
“So?”
Ralph eases himself down into his recliner with a grunt. “Well, alright then. What are ya waitin’ for?”
He can’t see my lips quirk up at his grumbling. He’s probably the only person around who’s more grumpy than I am, but I know better than to take it personally. Guys like me and Ralph push people away. It takes someone tough to stick around.
I make my way to the kitchen and carefully start to prep the ingredients I stocked his refrigerator with earlier in the week. “Did you take your meds, old man?” I call out, earning a grumbled “Fuck off” but then a louder “Not yet. I need my coffee.”
Grabbing the instant coffee crap he insists is just fine, I prepare his mug and get the water on to boil.
Minutes later, I carry it over to him, setting it down with the little container that holds his medication for the day.
“Here. Take it.” Back in the kitchen, I finish off the omelets, his with just some cheese and mine loaded with ham and vegetables.
It takes a couple of trips since I know I shouldn’t use my bad arm to carry things, but eventually, the food is set out on the coffee table.
We eat in silence, as always. That’s why we get along so well. No need to talk about random shit.
“You able to play again yet?” he asks when he’s finished. Ralph’s just about the only person who can ask me a question about my injury without pissing me off. I finish my mouthful before answering.
“Not yet. It’s only been a month, Doc says another week or two before they’ll let me try some load-bearing exercises. Just working on range of motion for now.”
Ralph harrumphs. “You really fucked up, boy.”
I snort out a half laugh. “Yeah. Thanks.” I know he’s right.
Just like I know Colin’s right when he tells me I have to stop bailing out our former foster brother Eli every time he calls.
That’s how this all happened. He called, sounding beyond freaked, and I tracked his phone to some back road out in the valley.
When I realized he’d somehow ended up agreeing to a fucking street race, I only intended on talking him down and somehow getting him out of it.
Then I discovered my brother was high as a motherfucking kite, and the guy who had convinced him to race was not gonna let him out of it.
Instead, he said he’d let me drive.
I thought I had it in the bag. Drive fast? Not a problem.
Until a massive pothole I didn’t see knocked me off course and I ended up losing control and spinning into a fucking telephone pole.
Everyone scattered, including my drug-addicted foster brother, and I had to call 911 for myself and come up with some reason for the multiple sets of skid marks on the road.
It took some fast-talking, but with no evidence, I was in the clear. And lucky to walk away with only bruised ribs and a fractured clavicle. It could have been a hell of a lot worse.
It’s not the first time I’ve bailed Eli out of a dumbass situation. Most of the time, I could throw some money at it, and the problem would go away. This time that didn’t work.
But I still paid the fucking price.