Chapter Ten
Maddie
“Please don’t crash my car,” I plead from the back seat, putting far too much faith in Baxter with my baby. I mean, the guy is a famous car restoration specialist, but fucking hell, my heart is in my throat while he navigates the roads like a NASCAR driver. “And if you see any sentient robots—”
“Maddie, I think I’m more than capable of driving your car, even if Autobots started falling from the sky,” Baxter interrupts, grinning at me in the rearview mirror before he sets his eyes back on the road ahead.
Rolling my eyes, I fall back along the back seats, still clutching the soiled towel to my head.
My leggings are wet, I’m uncomfortable, and not one of my besties has deemed me worthy enough to pick up the phone when I called.
Sure, the voicemails and vaguely threatening text messages I’ve sent them all might be serving as signs not to answer, but I am a woman in need.
Or, I was, until Caiden delicately placed me in the back of my car, pointed his finger a little threateningly at me, and demanded I share my truths as soon as we’re back home, since Baxter commandeered my car and forced Caid to drive his own.
“Whatever. I’m billing you if my car gets stepped on by Megatron,” I grumble, shuffling against the bench with an irritated huff, the inability to get comfortable plaguing me deeply.
Deciding enough is enough, I check that Baxter is still watching the road before opting for comfort.
Kicking my sneakers off, I peel my leggings from my legs and drop them to the car floor before retrieving my sweats.
Awkwardly, I stab my legs into the pants, raising my hips off the bench to pull them up over my lacy white thong.
Only, I don’t get that far, because just as my hips rise, the car fucking swerves dramatically before righting itself again.
“What?! What is it?! Is it the robots?! Oh, God, it’s the robots!” I practically scream, my pants forgotten while I scramble to sit up, trying to peer out the windshield for any signs of killer robots sent from an advanced planet.
When I see nothing but the usual traffic, I slap a hand over my chest and fall back against my seat, glaring at Bax through the mirror while his jaw clenches tightly and his eyes remain firmly fixed on the road.
“Not to be dramatic or anything, but what the fuck was that?” I blurt, doing my best to calm my rapidly beating heart.
Bax clears his throat before risking another glance in my direction, only for those stormy eyes to dart away just as quickly. Pretty sure his cheeks grow a little pink, and I frown at his reflection while I war with the confusion I’m feeling.
“Wasn’t expecting a strip show in the back of the car,” Baxter announces, and it takes me a moment to realize what he’s saying.
I slump into my seat and shake my head, relieved that we’re not going to be crushed by inconsiderate aliens, before informing him, “And I wasn’t expecting you to take your eyes off the road. Looks like we both had a surprise.”
The man laughs, that butterfly-inducing laugh that makes my body shiver and ache in places I do my best to ignore, and I have to fight the smile that begs to break free.
Instead, I drop back to lie on the bench, finally adjusting my sweats so they sit snugly on my hips once more, stabbing my feet into my sneakers before picking up the fallen towel and placing it back on my head.
With a hearty groan and a pathetic little whimper, I mutter, “This has been the morning from hell. Why did I even wake up?”
Baxter seems to find great amusement in my misery, snickering lowly before he counters, “But just think how boring it could have been if you’d stayed in bed.”
“You say boring, I say safe. My coochie and forehead have both been wounded already. I fear the rest of the day might find new ways to injure, maim, or burn me alive from the inside out,” I grumble, hissing when the towel jostles on my head after a particularly brutal pothole Bax doesn’t avoid in time.
“Sorry,” Baxter says with a wince.
I toss him a weak thumbs-up, closing my eyes against the newfound headache that spreads from the cut beneath the towel. I just know I’m going to be rocking a black eye for at least a week, which will bring forth a plethora of questions when I get back to the studio. Damn my whole life.
I can see it now: Gretchen, Jolie, and Zeke rushing to me with concern and a desperate need for piping-hot tea, and not the beverage kind.
Rolling my eyes brings another wince of pain, and I decide to zone out for the remainder of the drive back to the apartment.
I woke up this morning full of zest, a pep in my step, and a positive outlook on the day.
This morning me was a naive and stupid bitch, because there’s nothing I want more than to be cuddled up in bed watching Criminal Minds with a pint of Ben & Jerry’s cookie dough ice cream, a share bag of chips that I will not share with anyone, and one of those giant metal cups filled with lemon-flavored iced tea.
I’m so deep in my pity party of one that I miss the moment Bax parks my car, hauls his hefty frame from the driver’s side, and opens the door to the backseat passenger side where I’m sprawled haphazardly.
I don’t even make an effort to move, squinting against the sunshine that now beams down on me through the open door, my arm slung over my forehead and trapping the soiled towel to my eyebrow.
Smirking at me, Bax drawls, “Are you always this dramatic?”
“Yes,” I deadpan, bluntly answering his question with full-frontal honesty.
There’s no point lying. Out of all four of us in my friend group, I am the most dramatic.
He might as well know it now instead of later if he and his roommates plan on sticking around.
My level of weird and wacky is hard to hide, and often harder to handle.
At least, that’s what Toby declared when I discovered his slimy, cheating ways.
Apparently, I was too much. Too much to handle, deal with, tolerate.
You name it, it was too much for him. I mean, I’ve always been vibrant and full of zest for life.
I gave my parents a run for their money all through my adolescence.
I spent more time brawling with my cousins than being sweet with them.
I’ve had an upbringing that has allowed me to feel free and fun and funky in a world that wants nothing but to shit on everyone in it.
But it wasn’t until I found Toby Tic Tac-deep in another woman and trying to defend himself that I realized I’m an acquired taste, I suppose.
I am a lot to deal with, but I never thought it was a bad thing until that man marred my personality with a mark I’m yet to remove.
“Come on, drama llama. Let’s get you to Rayne so he can patch you up,” Baxter snickers, completely unfazed as he reaches into my car and swoops me out of the car like a knight in ink and muscles.
A small squeak of surprise escapes my mouth, my eyes wide when I find myself airborne before being tucked against a firm, warm, muscular chest. I have no idea what happened to the ruined towel, nor do I care, because I’m painfully distracted by the sheer strength of Baxter’s body as he effortlessly shuts the car door and carries me to the elevator once we’re inside the apartment building I own.
“Miss Fowler?” an alarmed voice I recognize calls, seeping through my shock, and I limply wave at the pretty blond receptionist I hired last year. She’s one of two receptionists, usually working the night shift while Tanner works the morning.
“All good here, Callie,” I murmur, my eyes focused on the man carrying me. I’m staring hard at his bearded chin as I say, “Just had an accident. Nothing to worry about.”
“Are… are you sure?” she questions timidly, and it takes me a moment to put myself in her shoes. She just watched her boss being carried bridal-style into the building by a burly man with tattoos and muscles for days, with blood smeared over her head and face. It’s a cause for concern, I’ll admit.
Clearing my throat and blinking away from the cheeky smile Baxter is now sporting, I turn my head to Callie and confirm, “Definitely sure. This beauty came from a hockey stick, and I’m being carted around like a princess because apparently I struck myself stupid when I fell and the stick had an impromptu meeting with my face. ”
“That…” She blinks and shakes her head. “That brought more questions than answers. Are you okay?”
“Peachy,” I declare, offering her a gesture that tells her I’m okay, just as the elevator dings.
I’m carried onto the thing before I can converse some more, and Callie’s confused expression is the last thing I see before the doors shut and the mirror image of Bax and me greets me instead.
I actually flinch at our reflection when I see the mess I’m in, and I cringe when it dawns on me just how valid Callie’s concern was. “Damn. I look like shit. Callie wasn’t concerned enough.”
I startle when Baxter laughs loudly, but a cautious smile tugs at my lips as I watch his head fall back, his Adam’s apple bob with his laughter, and crinkles form in the corners of his eyes as my ears blissfully drown in the sound that fills the elevator.
It’s definitely not my possible concussion talking when I say this man is absolutely breathtaking.
Hell, all four of them are, and I’m thoroughly humbled when I realize once more that they are seeing me at my lowest, and I can’t find the appropriate levels of embarrassment to feel when Baxter is laughing enough that a tear falls from his eye.
It takes him a moment to compose himself, chuckling and sniffling every now and then, and it’s only when the doors open to his floor that he finally heaves out a steadying breath and admits, “I haven’t laughed like that in ages. Christ, Mads, where have you been all my life?”
Shrugging a shoulder as I ignore the flurry of butterflies that spawn in my stomach, I mutter, “Building up a tolerance to embarrassment so today’s entire encounter wouldn’t render me trapped in an asylum, barely clinging to my sanity.”
The guy doesn’t bother answering, simply carrying me to his apartment instead of my own. I mean, obviously. Rayne won’t be at my place. Maybe that hockey stick really did do some damage after all.
Reaching for the wound, wanting to check if it’s still bleeding, my fingers brush the wet blood still dripping from my head when Baxter opens his door without once fumbling me in his arms. Not sure how he manages to use his keys without jostling me, but I add it to the already impressive résumé of qualities this man seems to possess.
“Hey, Rayne?” Bax calls, carrying me carefully to the couch, lowering me with all the care of a mother hen looking after her young’uns.
As soon as I’m seated, I fall back with dramatic flair, taking up space on half of the couch.
I sling my legs over the armrest, because I was raised with manners and putting my sneakers on the couch is a sure sign of disrespect, and I close my eyes against the light that filters in through the large windows that span the far wall much like they do in mine.
The only difference is that my windows open out onto a balcony I paid a pretty penny to have designed into the blueprints the architect produced during the building’s early development stages.
“Rayne?” Baxter shouts again, and I wince against the thumping of my head, any sound making the pain worse. I don’t even remember the last time I managed to hurt myself enough to get a headache, but I certainly know it’s the pits and I regret ever opening my eyes this morning.
“Baxter, can we maybe use our indoor voices? I’m one raised voice away from perishing from the relentless headache that wooden stick has bestowed upon me. I’m going to kill my uncle when I can no longer see sound,” I complain, my voice carrying a whine of agony that I can’t disguise.
I don’t receive an answer. Instead, I hear his quiet steps as he walks away from where I’m dying, so I relax against the couch and pray to a God I don’t believe in that the pain disappears sooner rather than later.
Dying in peace isn’t an option, though, because footsteps sound in my ears moments before a finger presses against a particularly tender part of my forehead. The yelp that escapes me is completely unintentional, and so is the sharp swat of my hand that connects with warm skin.
My eyes spring open with a nasty glare, one that goes completely unappreciated, because Rayne is busy inspecting my forehead with the professionalism of someone with medical training.
“What happened?” Rayne questions, those pretty eyes finally meeting my narrowed gaze, his lips twitching as I continue to glare daggers at the beautiful man.
“Today. Today happened,” I answer unhelpfully.
“Her head took a beating from a hockey stick, and her ass took a pounding from the ice she was skating rings around like she was an Olympic figure skater,” Baxter declares, explaining it far better than I would have.
“I don’t know how it happened, but one minute she was standing upright, laughing with Mack Brady, and the next she’s flat on the ice with Caiden holding a towel to her forehead. ”
Rayne’s fingers pause their painful prodding, and I watch as he turns a baffled expression toward Baxter. “Mack Brady? As in…”
“Yep. Coach of the City Titans. Her uncle,” Bax explains, nodding in understanding as surprise paints Rayne’s face. It only doubles when Bax says, “Oh, also father to none other than Morgan Brady, the center of the City Titans. Apparently, fame runs deep in our neighbor’s family.”
Rayne drops his eyes back to me, and I give him a pained smile and a pathetic wave, right before pointing at what feels like a pretty sweet cut above my eyebrow. “I appreciate the shock, but can we internalize until I no longer have a hole in my head? Pretty please?”
Lips twitching with amusement, Rayne nods once before he stands and disappears, returning a minute later with a first-aid kit, a clean cloth, latex gloves, a clear liquid I instantly recognize as saline after so many trips to the hospital, and a cherry-flavored sucker.
As soon as he’s close enough, he kneels beside me once more, unwrapping the sucker before popping it into my mouth.
“Here. That’ll keep you distracted while I fix you up,” he declares, looking a little proud of himself when I hum with approval.
I won’t tell him cherry is my favorite flavor, because he’s a little too smug about distracting me with candy, but I lie on his couch like a good patient while Baxter watches with no small amount of amusement.