Chapter Nine #2
He had shown up a few minutes before release to gather up the almost obscene amount of flowers I had been getting all morning.
I'd been dragged out of bed at the crack of dawn by a smiling woman who had woken Kingston and me up a few moments before, telling us we might want to get less cozy before the doctor came in.
Kingston, almost a little bashful, climbed out of the bed, straightening his clothes before helping the nurse get me off the side of the bed, into the wheelchair, then to the bathroom to get changed, brush my teeth, clean up a little.
The doctor came in, saying things about seeing an orthopedic specialist, about eventual physical therapy, about the importance of not getting my cast wet, handing me a couple prescriptions for pain and a little kit of things to take care of the head wound.
And then they came in.
The dreaded crutches.
"Gee, thanks, Nixon," I grumbled, feeling the hard pads scraping against the skin of my underarms and sides, the rounded hand grips crushing into my palms.
It seemed like they would get really irritating in a matter of, oh, say, a few hours.
And I would have to be on them for two months.
"Might want to drag her in one of the office chairs to scoot around your place in," Nixon suggested as I attempted to hobble my way down the hallway toward the exit. "This is just asking to break the other leg. And an arm or two."
"Your vote of confidence is really heart-warming," I grumbled.
My mood went from happy-to-be-alive-and-safe to moderately sorry-for-myself rather quickly.
That said, I was half an hour past due for the next dose of pain meds and everything was starting to throb. Anyone would be a little grumbly.
"Quit picking on her," Kingston demanded, reaching behind me to swat his brother on the back of the neck.
"I'm making helpful suggestions," he insisted, smile warmer than it usually was.
"I'm gonna hit the grocery store for you guys later. What kind of leaves and bean curd do you need me to pick up for you?"
"What part of quit picking on her is so hard to understand?" Kingston asked, rolling his eyes.
"Peanut butter," I suggested, leaning heavily on the crutches as Kingston unlocked the car doors, reaching in to tuck the medical supplies the hospital had given me into the backseat before trying to half move out of the way so I could awkwardly back toward the door.
And just for a second, our gazes caught, both of them warm.
Peanut butter and jelly and cinnamon sandwiches felt like ages ago already. But for a second, we were both back there, happy, carefree, about to move things onto the next level.
"I figure you go heavy on the outside aisles: produce, bakery, dairy, then make a quick stop in pasta and rice. And call it a day," Kingston suggested, laying out perfectly my usual trips to the grocery store.
"And pancake mix," I added, making a smile pull at King's lips.
"Okay, we get it, you're a couple and have couple secrets and shit. Can we get back to the list without the gooey eyes?" Nixon asked, grimacing at us.
And that managed to break my sour mood. "I can't wait for a woman to get under his skin," I declared, laughing at the disgusted look on his face.
"Yeah, don't hold your breath, Savvs."
"I bet you're next," I told him with certainty.
"Take that back. Put that curse on Atlas or something."
"Curse," Kingston snorted. "Never known you to be so dramatic."
"I think it is because he secretly craves to get the warm and tinglies," I said, barely able to hold back the laugh, enjoying his discomfort a little too much.
"You know, that would make sense. He's suppressing his need of a happily-ever-after. That's why he's such a dick all the time."
"If this is what I have to look forward to with you as a couple, I am going in on Mark's bet."
Scotti's husband Mark took bets on everything. How long Atlas is going to spend with a woman, the sex of a baby when someone got pregnant, what his mother was going to serve for dinner. How long it would take at dinner before Shane made some comment about the gym.
Never mind the fact that he always, always lost. Even on the sex of his own kids with Scotti. It never ruined the fun for him. It didn't surprise me in the least that there was a pool going on us.
"When did he start it up? While I was in surgery?" I asked, small-eyeing him.
To that, Nixon let out a long, self-satisfied laugh as he walked away.
"What was so funny?"
"Mark had the pool going since we first met," Kingston informed me, making my mouth drop open.
"Seriously?"
"Yep. He had his money on like three months or something. Lost a lot of money on that."
"Who won then?"
"Well, it is ongoing to see if we are just a fling or the real deal."
"So this goes on... indefinitely?"
"The rules were changed to if or when we move in together."
"Who has the next closest timeframe?"
To that, his smile went a little wicked.
"Helen."
Helen won every single pool.
Every one.
"Come on, let's get you off those things," Kingston suggested when I said nothing, not knowing how to interpret that.
With that, he helped me in, and we drove in somewhat awkward silence back to his place where I hobbled up to the door, pausing there for a long moment as the alarm sounded, making me jump, stiffen.
"If you want to go somewhere else, we can," he said, immediately reading the situation. "The Mallicks own that penthouse. It sits empty most of the year. We can use it until you feel better about here."
A part of me wanted to say yes, to go somewhere with no bad memories. But that was just a form of running away. And I didn't want to do that. I wanted to face up to our reality. And our reality involved an unfortunate event in this place, one that needed to be overcome, not avoided.
"I like your place," I insisted, hopping over the threshold. "But you need a second exit," I told him with a serious nod.
"Says you and the building inspector," he agreed, trying to keep it light even as my eyes moved over the room, taking in the missing coffee table that had once been there, likely broken, stained with my blood, now replaced with something very intricately carved.
So much so that I knew Hunter—the only Mallick not in the family business—had made it, gifted it to King.
"We have a pretty awesome family," I declared as Kingston's gaze followed mine.
"Yeah, we do," he agreed, making a move to get closer, having to stop.
That was the thing about crutches. They kept people away.
"Couch or bed?" he asked. "The doctor wants your leg elevated to bring down the swelling."
I was foolishly embarrassed about my fat toes sticking out of the end of the cast, nail polish chipped, looking like sausages. I'd made Jamie run out and get me diabetic socks from the pharmacy to slip over the edge of the cast, claiming my toes were cold just to hide them from Kingston.
"Bed it is," I agreed, reminding myself it was just another ten feet and I could get off these blasted crutches.
But even as I thought it, one was pulled away, Kingston moving in, wrapping my arm around his shoulders to support my weight as he grabbed the other crutch, propping them against the cabinet holding the TV, gently swooping down to snag me under my knees, lifting me up once again.
"A girl could get used to this," I told him, leaning my face into his neck, taking a deep breath of him, trying to remind my body not to get any grand ideas.
It didn't listen, of course, because this was Kingston after all.
And I had barely gotten to have a taste of him before life temporarily ripped him away from me.
"Go ahead, get used to it. Waited years to get you in my arms, Savvs.
Could carry you around all day," he informed me as he lowered me gently down onto fresh bedding, pointing to someone coming in to do it—likely one of the Mallick women since Peyton would have made the bed, but lined it with sex toys that could be used in place of actual sex while I healed.
This was why people had families, clung to those connections, worked through the rough times even when it was difficult.
"Hey King?"
"Yeah?"
"Do you want kids?" I asked, looking up at his face while he carefully tucked me in, his gaze cutting to mine.
And I was sure right in that moment that it wasn't a deal-breaker if he didn't want them.
That if all he wanted was the two of us—and dogs, we can't forget the dogs, of course—then that would be more than enough.
"Yes."
There was no hesitation, none of that modern uncertainty most guys I knew had. But then again, Kingston wasn't a guy. He was a man. There was a definite distinction that had never really occurred to me before.
"Do you?"
"I mean... I don't want to have a litter like your sister and Shane and, well, all the Mallicks. But I think I would like one or two."
"One or two sounds good," he told me, eyes warm, liquid.
"Especially if they have these eyes," he added, running his finger under the good one, the one that wasn't ringed with a smattering of blue, purple, and yellow from the impact with the coffee table.
"But it would be good if maybe they have a little more dexterity than their mother," he added with twitching lips.
"It is not my fault that humans are not meant to walk on sticks!" I objected, shaking my head at myself.
The rest of the day went much that way—light, easy. We ate Chinese. We picked on Nixon when he showed up with groceries. We watched movies that made us laugh, not wanting to watch anything harsh, violent. I'd had enough for that in real life to last a lifetime.
Maybe that made me sound cowardly. But, well, that was okay with me. I wasn't a badass. That wasn't how I was wired. I didn't stare danger in the face and think, 'Come and get me, bitch.' I would very much prefer it that danger and I avoided eye-contact if crossing each other on the street.