33. Meanwhile…
Meanwhile…
Brooks
A Night of Hope Gala
F uck, fuck, fuck.
I knew Thea would be pissed. I also knew she’d rip me a new fucking asshole, but seeing how disappointed she is really makes me feel like shit.
I hadn’t intended to be late for the stupid event or to even go to Hayes asking for a fight. It just… happened. Which is getting old, even to my own ears. What am I supposed to say though? I can’t tell her what I was doing. I can’t tell anyone. None of them would understand. They’d all just tell me how stupid and irresponsible I’m being. I don’t need anyone to remind me, I already know.
But Thea is right, of course she is. It’s a fucking domestic violence prevention charity event. I can't walk around looking like I got the shit beat out of me and somehow not cause a scene or raise questions about RED’s involvement.
“Fuck!” I yell into the empty space of the distillery as the door shuts behind me. I need to do something to make this better. She’ll probably be even more pissed off later, but the least I can do is call Cary and get him here to help.
I pull the phone from my pocket, using my other hand to wipe the running blood from my cheek as I scroll until I find his name in my contacts. I press the call button, knowing he’ll answer immediately. I don’t exactly call anyone very often, so seeing my name on his screen is sure to raise suspicion.
He answers on the second ring, “Hello?”
“Hey, bro, listen—any chance you can come to RED?” I say as I break the seal on a new bourbon bottle from the most recent batch.
I can already hear the panic building through the phone before his voice breaks through the silence, “Is Thea okay?” There’s shuffling in the background like he’s rushing to leave.
“Physically? Sure. Mentally and emotionally? To be determined.” I take a swig of the bourbon, the smooth taste of it constantly reminding me how fucking good Rip is at what he does.
Cary’s panic shifts to impatience. I don’t need him to voice it for me to know. “Brooks, what’s going on?”
“Travis had some emergency with his daughter. I don’t know much, but Josh is stepping in as head chef for this event, and let’s just say, he looked green in the face when he found out. Not sure the kid can handle it.” It’s a shit thing to say about the dude, but it’s the truth. I may not be reliable or all that responsible, but at least I know to speak up when I’m in over my head. The kid just stood there as Thea told me he was taking the lead, clear as day on his face that he didn’t think he was capable of doing the job.
I hear the car starting up as Cary says, “I’ll be there in a minute.” He hangs up without so much as a goodbye. I roll my eyes.
Knight in shining fucking armor.
The door towards the back of the distillery shuts as I’m shuffling some old kegs to the back of the line, and pulling up the new ones.
I know it’s Cary before he even rounds the corner, and his eyes find me then widen in shock at my appearance. One more person I get to let down today. Fucking great. I was hoping he’d go through the restaurant and avoid the distillery. My eyes fall to the ground as a sigh slips from my mouth, preparing for whatever onslaught I’m about to receive.
“It’s nothing. I’m fine,” I say in an attempt to push through the conversation without really having to deal with it. I go back to moving the boxes as he walks closer to me.
“You’re not fine . You’re bleeding,” he starts, but I cut him off before he can say anything else.
“Save it, okay? Thea already ripped me a new one and exiled me here for the night. I don’t need to hear it from you too. Pretty sure I heard her calling a nurse friend to come patch me up.” I try to keep the resentment I’m feeling for myself out of my tone, but it’s hard knowing I fucked up so bad.
“What happened?” he asks, his voice gentler than before, meaning I was unsuccessful at hiding my own feelings on the matter.
“I fucked up,” I pause but bring my gaze up to his for the first time since he walked into the distillery. “She was counting on me today, and I just…” Fuck, this is hard to admit, especially to him. “I needed to blow off some steam, but it got out of control. I don’t know why I keep doing this. I feel like I just. Keep. Fucking. Up.” I run my hand over my hair as I punctuate each word, letting my anger spew through them.
I see Cary wanting to move in for a hug when the back door creaks open again. A small woman with more hair than body walks in. Her wild dark-chocolate curls frame her face and take my goddamn breath away. She’s covered in so many freckles I can see them from across the large space. Her light green eyes pierce through me as they find mine. I don’t think a woman has ever stunned me speechless before. But as I study her face, I realize the look she’s giving me is pity, and I’m instantly pissed off. I don’t need her pity—or anyone else’s for that matter.
After they exchange hellos, Cary takes off to find Thea, thankfully without another word. I’m left with the tiny woman standing in front of me, holding a tote bag overflowing with supplies. I’m assuming she’s a grown-ass woman—she looks so young that it’s hard to tell. I’ll feel really fucking gross if she ends up being some teenager. She’s so short I’m having to look down so I’m not looking over her head. She’s got to be at least a foot shorter than me. She still hasn’t introduced herself, but Cary didn’t seem concerned.
“I’m Margot, Thea called me. I work at St. Stephen’s. She said…” she trails off, wincing as her eyes gaze over my face. “Well, she said she had a friend that needed medical attention. I’m… umm… assuming you’re the friend.”
Ahh, Lydia’s nurse. So, not a teenager then. Thank God. I want to be annoyed with Thea for phoning her damn on-call nurse, but the girl is so fucking pretty I’m finding it hard to be anything but grateful for her presence.
“What gave it away?” I joke, though she doesn’t laugh. That’s fine, I have other ways of charming the pants off of her.
“I’m going to start with a physical exam. Is there… somewhere you can sit?” she asks, looking around the space.
“Uhh, we can sit at the bar in the tasting room?” I say, more of a question than a statement as I point toward the room off to the side. She looks in the same direction I’m pointing, nods her head, and walks that way. I go to follow behind her but decide my bottle of bourbon deserves to come with me. Chances are I’ll need the fucking alcohol to numb whatever pain she’s about to cause me.
She’s already setting up on the bar, pulling supplies from that Mary Poppins bag of hers, barely paying me any attention. When she sees the bourbon bottle hanging from my fingers, that’s the moment she decides to look up and meet my eyes. I can’t tell what emotion is shining through them. It shouldn’t be a surprise I’m drinking bourbon in a fucking distillery. The moment drags on, and I realize the expression on her face may be disgust, which only pisses me off more.
“What’s that look?” I ask, pointing my chin toward her face. She schools her features immediately, as if that will erase whatever contempt she has for me.
“It just… looks like it hurts,” she says, shooting her eyes back to the supplieson the bar.
I laugh, shaking my head as I say, “Nah, it’s not that bad. I’ve had way worse.”
Once again, she doesn’t seem to find me funny. Her eyes widen, and her brows crease as she zones in on the still oozing cut on my cheek.
“You sound proud of that.” Her voice comes out more steady than I anticipate, a sliver of judgment lacing through her tone.
“Maybe I am,” I state, not allowing her to get under my skin.
“Hmm…” I can tell she doesn’t find me the least bit charming which, honestly, annoys the fuck out of me. Chicks love rough guys. I see it constantly at The Pit. Guys come back bloody and bruised, and the girls at the gym go crazy over it. This one must think she’s too good.
I don’t say anything more. This woman has me questioning just how stupid I’ve been the last few weeks. Once she’s shuffled some things around, she gestures to the chair like she wants me to sit on it. I take a pull of the bourbon, put the bottle on the bartop, and drop myself into one of the high top stools that line the bar. I’m not sure she’s thought this through, and I smirk knowing what’s coming.
With her little pen-light-thing in hand, she turns back around, pleased to see I did as she asked, but soon enough, the pleased look is replaced by frustration once she notices the height difference. “I can sit on the floor if it’ll make it easier, Doc.”
The thin-lined lip she gives me almost makes me break out in laughter. Two can play this game, sweetheart.
She crosses her arms over her chest, drawing my eyes to her perfect tits. “That won’t be necessary. And I’m a nurse, not a doctor,” she states plainly. “Oh, and my eyes are up here.” She points to her face as she says it.
“Oh, I know exactly where they are,” I laugh as the words leave my mouth, and my eyes slide up to hers. I decide getting under her skin may be my new favorite past-time.
She rolls her eyes, not once breaking her stern facade, but her cheeks tinge pink. “I’ll need you to remove your shirt.”
My smile leaves my face almost instantly. “What? Why?”
That, of all things, makes her release the smallest laugh as she says, “Nervous? I thought you’d make some crude joke about me wanting to undress you.”
I don’t even touch her quip. “It’s just my face.”
Her sea-foam-green eyes seem to stare into the depths of my soul as she says, “Then the physical will be over quickly. Now, remove your shirt.” After a beat she tacks on, “Please.”
I take a deep breath, knowing the moment she sees what’s hiding underneath my shirt, nothing about this will be quick. I grab the bottle and take a long swig before setting it back down. I cross my arms and grab the hem of my shirt to pull it up over my head. The moment I start to lift it, I hear a gasp leave her lips. I haven’t seen it yet, but I feel all the spots I’m sure are mottled shades of purples and reds. Bruises, old and new. I let my shirt fall to the floor, avoiding her eyes at all costs.
“So, you’re a liar.”
“What?” I ask in surprise.
“You just lied to me. I would have left here thinking it was just the cut on your cheek, never knowing you had plenty of other injuries that need tending to.” She sounds mad. It should piss me off. I should storm out of here and tell her I don’t need her to fix me. Instead, I’m intrigued. The idea of her being mad makes my dick twitch.
What the fuck is wrong with me?
“You should see the other guy,” I say with a chuckle. “And they’re just bruises, Doc. No need to get your panties in a twist.”
Her cheeks flush as the word ‘panties’ leaves my mouth, which only makes me chuckle more.
“Okay, Killer, I’ll be the judge of that.”
Once Margot has pressed and prodded every single one of my bruises across my chest—with no remorse, I might add—she finally says, “Okay, I’m going to clean the cut on your cheek now.”
I roll my eyes, grabbing the bottle once more, taking another long swig. “Fucking great, I’m stoked.” The sarcasm rolls off my tongue but doesn’t seem to phase her.
She gets up on the chair next to me so we’re more at eye level and attempts to scoot it closer to me. I let her struggle for a good five seconds before I reach over and pull the chair toward me, the sound of it scraping the floor echoing through the cavernous, empty room. Her arms land on my biceps as she shoots them out to steady herself and our knees touch. The contact sends a spark through my body that I try to ignore, blaming it on the alcohol in my system instead of this insane attraction to the woman in front of me.
“Thank you,” she says once the shock of me pulling her over wears off. It takes a second, but then she notices she’s holding my arms and quickly draws her hands back. I grunt in her direction instead of saying you’re welcome. “This could sting.”
I bite the inside of my cheek as she dabs the antiseptic shit to the cut on my face. It stings, but I’ve definitely been through worse.
“It’s not as deep as it seemed. I can put a butterfly bandage on it, and it should heal fine.”
“Just do whatever you gotta do, Doc.”
This time, instead of rolling her eyes, I see her lips tick up at the corners like she’s fighting a smile. If I were keeping score with her, I’d count that as a win.
“Make sure you ice it at least three times a day for ten minutes so the swelling goes down,” she says as she turns back to the supplies on the bar, gathering them up so she can put them back in her bag. “And keep an eye on those bruises on your abdomen, you may need to get x-rays to check for broken ribs.”
I wave her off, pushing her chair back to its original spot, making her yelp again. “Sure thing, Doc. I gotta get back to work, but thanks for patching me up.” I wink at her with my good eye that isn’t almost swollen shut and walk back into the distillery to finish moving the kegs out, bottle in hand.
For the rest of the night, I stay busy making sure the bar is stocked and inventory is accounted for, all the while my mind keeps wandering back to wild dark curls and judgy light green eyes.