Had to Be You: Bad Boys of Red Hook (9 page)

Slater wrapped his arm around her, drawing her to his side, praying he didn’t pass out himself. It was all too familiar—the smell, the sounds, the machines. It was as if he’d been there before. He was certain of it, but he didn’t know when or why. Nothing made sense except the feel of Rocki’s shaking body holding on to him. Rocki needed him. He stuffed the half memories into his external hard drive and concentrated on her. “You need to speak louder.”

Jackson’s head was wrapped in gauze with a tube coming right out of it draining something. He was as white as Rocki looked, as white as Slater felt, but since there were no mirrors, he couldn’t tell for sure. The bruise blooming on Jackson’s swollen face was the only color Slater could see. If not for the respirator filling Jackson’s chest with air, moving it up and down, he’d swear the man was dead. He’d never seen anyone so still, so motionless, so lifeless.

Rocki let out a sob and turned her face into Slater’s chest.

Comfort. He could do that for her. He turned his back on her brother, on all the machines, and concentrated on Rocki. It was easier to do that than wonder what the hell was going on with him. He kissed the top of her head and slid his arms around her. “It’s going to be okay.” He didn’t know how he knew it, but he did. He just hoped to hell he wasn’t wrong. “Come on, sweetheart. Just talk to him. It’ll get easier. I promise.”

She looked up at him with those wide, blue eyes—the kind of eyes a man could get lost in.

“You can do this. Just take a deep breath and try again. I’m right here for you. We’ll all get through this together.”

She pulled her hands from his, scrubbed them over her face, took a deep breath, and then gave him a nod. “Jackson, it’s Rocki. I’m here. You need to wake up. God, please wake up.” She reached over and took his lifeless hand in hers. She was still shaking, but she was doing what she needed to do. Just like he was—trying to hold it together. He just didn’t know why he was falling apart.

•   •   •

Rocki was so screwed. She wasn’t sure how it happened, but then she’d pretty much been in a state of shock since she’d set eyes on Jax. By the time she and Slater had stepped out of Jax’s ICU room, visiting hours were over, and Grace had ordered them to follow her and Teddy back to the lake house using what Grace always used—logic. There was no reason for them to stay, they wouldn’t know anything until the morning, and besides, they were all upset and tired.

Grace forced Rocki’s hand by issuing an order wrapped with a pretty bow to look like an invitation for Slater to stay at the lake house. Rocki’s family home—the only part of her parents’ estate that she and Jax hadn’t liquidated.

It wasn’t as if they needed to liquidate any of it. They could have kept the whole package since money had never been an issue—only the root cause of many of the problems, for Rocki at least.

They’d kept the lake house because it was where her family had spent all their summers and most of their winter vacations. It was where most of her happy family memories took place. Nothing bad ever happened at the lake house. Unfortunately, by bringing Slater there, chances were pretty darn good that the track record would end.

The lake house was the last place she wanted to bring Slater, Mr. Perceptive, Mr. Curiosity, and her personal, though obviously tortured, hero, all rolled into a six-foot-three Michelangelo body with a da Vinci intellect. But then after she’d seen the way Slater had looked when he stepped into Jax’s room—like Superman wearing a Kryptonite cape—she could hardly send him off to a cold hotel by himself.

She’d never seen a man so close to falling to his knees and expiring. Never seen a big—and lord he was big—strong, larger-than-life, vibrant man-in-charge go from superhero to vulnerable and back in less than a minute. If she hadn’t seen it with her own eyes, she’d swear it wasn’t possible.

One minute he was holding her up, playing the hero—something she had a feeling he did more often than not—and the next, he nearly shattered, turning green and looking as if he were going to pass out, hyperventilate, and be sick all at the same time.

When she’d looked into his frantic, confused, and fear-glazed eyes, it became apparent—if only to her, one who’d been there, done that, and dealt with the flashbacks—that he was reliving a battle he’d already fought and probably lost.

She was living proof that a person could lose the battle and still survive. She didn’t know what he’d endured, but she knew with certainty that Slater was nothing if not a survivor.

Pain had radiated through him—a pain so monumental she’d felt it. She’d seen the way he rubbed his chest, the same way Pete rubbed his scar tissue, and wondered if it was a war injury, but then with his background as a foster kid—he might have just survived his family.

Slater had been amazing—he hadn’t succumbed. He turned around, slammed whatever personal hell he’d experienced away with the ferocity and determination of the warrior she would always see him as, and pulled back on his superhero suit. He held on to her, calmed her, and talked her through one of the most horrifying experiences of her life.

As they followed Grace and Teddy back to the house, her mind raced faster than the cars blowing past them on the rural highway. All she could hope was that since Slater obviously had his own secrets, maybe he wouldn’t out hers.

•   •   •

Slater drove with one eye on Rocki—or should he say Racquel?—and one eye on Grace and Teddy’s car. It was late—too late and he was done.

Whatever happened at the hospital had drained him like a hose drained the gas tank when he and his brothers used to siphon instead of buy the stuff. Tired wasn’t a fit description of how he felt. He wasn’t sure if there was one. It was as if someone had taken his body and soul and wrung it out and then beat it against the sidewalk a few times just for good measure—not that there were sidewalks around here.

He stared at the scenery as far as the headlights reached on the dark mountain road. There was nothing but trees—and not the pines he was used to in the Pacific Northwest—these were deciduous trees. With the light of the moon behind them, they glowed like eerie skeletons. Breaks in the trees showed a lake—a big one they’d been driving around for miles. “Where are they taking us?”

“To the lake house. We’re almost there.”

She didn’t sound happy about it. First she’d been trying to get rid of him; then in the hospital she’d held on to him as if she was afraid he’d disappear. He wasn’t sure if it was for his benefit or hers. He just hoped she didn’t ask for an explanation for his behavior because he didn’t have one to give her. He didn’t even have one to give himself.

The Watkins signaled a right-hand turn onto what was obviously private property if the stone fence and lion statues on either side of the well-tended entrance were anything to go by. The grounds screamed money—a lot of it. They continued on the private drive, climbing in elevation through a vast amount of property and past five or six huge houses before stopping at what could only be called a mansion.

Teddy and Grace parked their SUV in front of a six-car garage beside the main house.

Whoever these folks were, they were rich—rich on the level of Dominique’s family. Rich as in way out of his and Rocki’s league. Rich as in he and Rocki didn’t belong and wouldn’t—probably ever. No matter how much money Slater made, he could never run in their circles. There were some things to which a lowborn dude like him just couldn’t aspire. He might not know much, but if there was one thing he’d learned from Dominique, it was that there were some things money couldn’t buy, and class was one of them. “Rocki, the only people welcome in a place like this have old money and the kind of class that’s inbred—not purchased. I don’t have it—I never will. I can’t stay here.”

“Sure you can. Believe me, Slater, the people who own the place couldn’t care less about how much money you or anyone else makes. And as for class—you have more class in the tip of your little finger than most people have in their whole body. Not all rich people are snobs.”

“All the ones I’ve met are. Let’s just go to that hotel you told me about.”

She shook her head. “We’ll hurt Grace and Teddy’s feelings if we leave now. Come on, it’ll be fine.”

Rocki said the words but didn’t look as if she believed them. Still, she got out of the car—a car that was at least ten years old. “Do you want me to park someplace else?”

“Why?”

The Watkins drove a Range Rover, and the other car in the drive was an Aston Martin DB9. He didn’t have to be a
Sesame Street
aficionado to know the song “One Of These Things (Is Not Like the Others).” “Because Pop’s car looks like a piece of shit—that’s why. Just parking this old Jeep here is going to lower their property value.”

She leaned into the car and rolled her eyes. “Slater, I had no idea you were such a snob.”

“Me? I’m not a snob.”

Rocki grabbed her purse and the rock Nicki loaned her. “It sure sounds to me as if you are. You’re judging Grace and Teddy by the price of the car they drive. How is that not snobby?” She didn’t wait for a response before going around to the back and opening the tailgate of the jeep.

Slater turned the car off so the fumes didn’t suffocate them—the beast was burning oil—and he listened to its death rattle while he watched Grace and Teddy go up to the side entrance of the mansion and walk right in without unlocking the door. He couldn’t believe people around here didn’t lock their doors. What were they? Nuts?

He got out and stomped over to Rocki, grabbing the bag right out of her hand. He might not look like one, and sometimes he didn’t act like one, but it wasn’t as if he didn’t at least try to be a gentleman. “I’m not judging anyone. I’m just trying not to piss anyone off.”

“You’re not doing a very good job of it. You’re pissing me off royally.”

If he weren’t so damn done, he’d appreciate the way Rocki’s eyes blazed and the color that lit her face. The part of him that wasn’t still in shock from his earlier hospital escapade did, but the part that would have done something about it was temporarily out of order—at least he hoped it was temporary.

Slater barely had the energy to follow Rocki up the steps and into what they probably called the mudroom. The mudroom was the size of Pop’s living room. Ten-foot-long pristine white benches sat beneath hooks for coats, scarves, and hats. Beside the benches, ski and sports equipment racks were filled with first-class gear, skis, boards, snowshoes, and the like. There wasn’t a speck of mud to be had. He was afraid to put down his battered duffel.

Rocki dumped her purse and her coat on one of the benches like she owned the place, so Slater set the bags on the floor beside her stuff, afraid to scuff the furniture.

He looked down at his own clothes and realized he was incredibly underdressed and wished he’d bothered to change before they headed out of Brooklyn. If he’d known where they were going, he would have done better than to wear his old threadbare jeans and beat-up boots. He didn’t have much in the way of dress clothes, but he could have worn a newer pair of jeans, and maybe a shirt that wasn’t faded. The thermal Henley he wore used to be red, but now was muted due to years of washing. He pushed up the frayed cuffs, hoping to make them less noticeable. If anyone walked in, they’d surely think he was the help.

“Addie left a pot of soup cooling on the stove,” Grace called out to them. “I’ll have it heated in a flash.”

Rocki gave him a
you-better-eat-it-and-like-it
look before slogging up the steps to the kitchen.

The kitchen had two commercial stoves, miles of granite counters, and more cabinets than he could imagine filling. It was twice the size of the restaurant’s kitchen. A farm table that had to seat ten sat in front of a fireplace on a braided rug beside floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking what he assumed was the lake. The place looked like something out of
Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous
.

Slater blew out a breath and asked for directions to the restroom to wash up.

Rocki waved a hand. “Just go through the butler’s pantry and it’s there on the right.”

Slater didn’t know what the hell a butler’s pantry was, but he figured it out pretty quickly. He walked down a long hallway with glass-fronted upper cabinets and full lowers with more counter space on both sides. The cabinets were filled to overflowing with more china and gleaming silver than they stocked at Pottery Barn. Shit. It all looked old and expensive. There must have been enough dishes to serve more than a hundred. He had no idea what people who lived in a house—even one as big as this—would need with all that stuff.

He slipped into the bathroom and washed the sweat off his still bruised face, thankful Grace and Teddy hadn’t mentioned it. He wished he could jump into a shower, wished he could get the hell out of there without losing his dignity, wished he could just erase the roller-coaster ride of a day from his memory bank.

Rocki took a sip of the hot tea Grace set in front of her. The warmth of the fire chased the chill out of her bones, and she groaned in appreciation. The tea was heavenly, heavy on the honey with a splash of lemon—just the way she liked it, just the way Grace had fixed it for her all her life.

Grace’s hand slid across Rocki’s shoulders as she passed by. Grace touched everyone. Always comforting, always there, always steady. Grace and Teddy had been the only constants in her and Jackson’s lives since their parents died, when it seemed that the rest of their world was falling apart.

Rocki turned to her and wrapped her arms around Grace’s waist, resting her head on the woman’s not so flat stomach, and closed her eyes, holding back tears.

“Jackson’s strong and he has a reason to live. Don’t give up on him, Racquel. He won’t give up on you. You have to know that.” Grace’s hand stroked Rocki’s hair like she had since Rocki was a baby.

“But Mom and Dad—”

“Didn’t have the medical attention Jackson’s receiving. Honey, don’t do this. History will not repeat itself. Jackson won’t let it, especially now that he knows you’re here.”

“Thanks to Slater. I don’t think I could have gotten here without him.” Rocki didn’t need to look up to see the expression on Grace’s face. Just to stop the questions, she cleared her throat. “He’s been a really good friend.”

When Grace didn’t answer, Rocki knew she was in for it—maybe not tonight but sometime soon. Grace was like an elephant; she was good at holding on to things. She’d drag it out as soon as she was sure Rocki least expected it.

Someone cleared his throat. Slater.

Grace patted Rocki’s shoulder and leaned over to kiss her brow. “It’s good to have you back. I’m just sorry this is what it took for you to come home. You’ve been gone too long.”

Only six months, but Rocki didn’t say that. Instead she snuck a peek at a very uncomfortable-looking Slater while Teddy brought over bowls of thick, creamy chowder.

Teddy set Rocki’s before her and squeezed her shoulder. “Addie just came back from Kennebunkport and brought over a bushel of clams and a half dozen lobster. The lobster will keep until supper tomorrow.”

She did her best to smile but it felt as if her face was frozen. The smile must have been brittle at best from the sad look Teddy gave her. God, she was a mess. “That’s a treat for us. You’re okay with shellfish, aren’t you, Slater?” She looked at the chowder that, any other time, she’d be salivating over. “You’re not allergic or anything, are you?”

“No, I love seafood.” He waited to start eating. When Grace came back to the table with the bread and salad, Slater stood and held her chair.

Grace beamed at him. “Thank you, dear.”

Great. As if Rocki wasn’t in enough trouble with Grace, Slater had to play the consummate gentleman.

Grace didn’t give Rocki a choice; she filled her salad plate and pulled off a hunk of crusty bread and set it in front of her. When Rocki didn’t dig in automatically, Grace leaned over. “You need to eat. You’ll not be losing any more weight on my watch, young lady.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Rocki ate. She was sure the chowder was wonderful—no one made chowder as well as Addie—but Rocki didn’t taste it. She stared into the bowl and only saw Jackson with his head all wrapped up, his eyes closed, machines breathing for him. It was all she could do to choke down half the bowl and a few bites of salad.

Slater seemed to have no problem eating, but then he probably hadn’t eaten since breakfast and, she reminded herself, it wasn’t his brother lying in the hospital bed. The Chinese food still sat in the car—neither of them had touched it.

When Grace finished, she pushed her bowl away and collected the dishes around the table. “Racquel, I made up the blue room for Slater. Teddy has already taken your bags up. Why don’t you show Slater to his room and get some sleep? I set fresh towels out for you. You two look like you’re about to pass out in your bowls.” She shot Slater a look. “I have a picture of Racquel sound asleep in a bowl of spaghetti when she was just a little tyke.” She smiled at the memory and put her hand out to illustrate how short Rocki had been at the time. “Bald as a cue ball she was. I think she was two before her hair came in, just as blonde as corn silk. Her mother and I used to tape bows to her head so people would know she was a girl.”

Slater shot Grace the first real smile Rocki had seen on his face today.

“Don’t encourage her, Slater. If Grace gets out the photo albums I swear I won’t come to your rescue.”

“That doesn’t sound like much of a threat. Just think of all the ammunition I’d have.”

The thought was scary, or would have been had she been able to feel anything. She seemed to have gone numb. “Yeah, well, whatever.” She waved her hand and grabbed a few glasses to carry to the sink.

Grace took them from her. “Teddy and I have this. You go on up to bed. You know where we are if you need us. The hospital will call if there’s a change. I gave them both our numbers.” She placed the glasses on the counter and gave Rocki a hug, kissing both cheeks. “Just say a prayer, dear. There’s not much else we can do.”

Tears threatened again so Rocki just nodded, giving Teddy a wave.

He winked and in his face she saw love and understanding—he’d seen her like this before. He knew she couldn’t talk right now.

She left the kitchen, heading to the main staircase through the dining room like she’d done a million times before. The house looked the same—dark hardwood floors were buffed to a shine, and it smelled the same, like lemon furniture polish and the flowers Grace always arranged, but it felt empty. She felt empty—as if someone had hollowed her out like an avocado, leaving only the skin. Even though Slater padded behind her and Grace and Teddy chatted in the kitchen, she felt more alone than she had since her parents died.

She dragged herself up the steps, concentrating on the comfortably worn oriental runner held in place with brass rods that shone in the light of the milk-glass overhead pendants. She made the turn and counted the last four steps. The wide hall greeted them, the runner softening the sounds of their footfalls.

The door to Jackson’s room stood open, a pair of tennis shoes looked as if they’d been kicked off next to the pair of jeans lying on the floor beside them. She stopped herself from going in and picking up after him. She stopped herself from dragging in the air that still carried the scent of his aftershave. She stopped herself from curling into a ball and crying. She held on to the wall, staring through the door wondering if Jax would ever return.

Slater’s strong arm came around her and pulled her to his chest. “He’ll be back. I know he will. He’ll be okay.”

She wished she could believe him.

Slater ran his hand through her hair, massaging her neck muscles, and holding her close. “Which room is yours?”

“I’m just across the hall. Yours is right next to mine.”

He turned, opened the door, and led her through.

“What are you doing?”

“Getting comfortable.” He toed off his boots. “Go get changed.”

“What?”

He pulled down the duvet. “I’ll just stay until you fall asleep. You don’t look like you should be alone.” He wiped the tears off her face and kissed her forehead. “Go ahead.”

She rummaged through her bag and grabbed her cotton nightgown. “You don’t have to do this. I’m a big girl.” She was more than capable of crying herself to sleep—she’d had a whole lot of practice.

“Yes, I do. If I want to get any sleep tonight, I need to know you’ll be okay.” He pulled his Henley over his head; his T-shirt rode up, showing off washboard abs and a thin trail of dark hair disappearing into his threadbare Levi’s. He tugged the hem of his T-shirt back into place, tossed his shirt on his boots, pushed the pillows against the headboard, and settled in. “I’m not going to leave you alone until I know you’re sleeping soundly. You need the rest.”

“So do you.”

“Rocki, don’t argue with me. There’s not much I can do to help. This is something I can do.”

He looked so sincere, as if the fact there was nothing he could do to fix things, to fix her, made him feel impotent or worse, useless. Slater didn’t strike her as a person who suffered either well.

She didn’t know what to say; her thanks sat like a stone lodged in her throat. She’d never be able to thank him for all he’d done for her. She just wished she had something to sleep in other than the ugly cotton nightgown Grace had given her last Christmas. She’d never worn it—why would she? She didn’t wear PJ’s at her apartment. It was so hot, she had no choice but to strip down to nothing. Even with that, she kept a window open all winter. But here at home, Grace never thought twice about walking into her room to wake her. Besides, it was cold here—much colder than in the city or maybe it just felt that way.

•   •   •

W
hoever said granny gowns weren’t sexy had never seen Rocki O’Sullivan—or Racquel Sullivan—wearing one.

Rocki stepped out of the attached bathroom and the light behind her outlined her body, leaving nothing to Slater’s imagination. He’d spent the last week imagining Rocki naked. He thought he’d exaggerated her qualities, but he hadn’t. If anything, he hadn’t done her justice.

Rocki was covered from chin to toes but with the light behind her, it didn’t matter. She might as well have been naked.

When she stepped back into the room, the light no longer illuminating her body, she still hadn’t lost any of her appeal. Even her walk was sexy and the part of him he thought had been temporarily out of order roared to life as if someone had just yanked on his starter and opened the throttle. Shit. It had been a long time since seeing the silhouette of a naked woman could get him half hard. Hell, even seeing a naked woman wouldn’t cut it. Rocki seemed to defy the laws of attraction.

Skirting the bed, she slid between the sheets on the far side, and shivered.

“Rocki, if I wanted to be this far away from you, I’d have gone to my own room.” He wrapped his arm around her waist and yanked her across the bed and into his chest. The damn nightgown didn’t slide like the silky kind did; it just pulled tight against her body, which didn’t help his ever-growing problem. There wasn’t much he could do about it so he chose not to let it bother him any more than the physical discomfort already did. They were both adults, and hell, in his book, his being turned on without even a kiss or a grope was a true compliment.

Rocki’s cold feet hit his shins and he sucked in a Rocki-scented breath. Her nose slid over his neck, sending chills through him.

“You’re an iceberg.”

“And you’re a heater. How can you be so warm?”

With her lying against him, he was more than warm—he was downright hot, but he couldn’t tell her that. “I’m a guy. Guys are always hot.”

Rocki’s hand slid over his chest and he caught it in his and held on. He hoped it would look as if he was trying to warm her when in all actuality he was just trying to contain her movement. The last thing he needed was for Rocki to realize his predicament.

Cupping the back of her neck, he set her head to rest on his shoulder and slid his hand down her back so she straightened her body and leaned against his side, which was safe. All he wanted to do was warm her while he did his best to concentrate on everything but the press of her body or the way her breasts pillowed against his chest. Shit. He pulled the thick duvet over them, tucking it in behind her and settled in, hoping she’d fall asleep quickly.

“Slater?”

“Try to get some sleep, Rocki. We’ll talk in the morning.”

From the way her body stiffened, that was the wrong thing to say, but he was afraid she’d ask about what happened with him at the hospital. He couldn’t go there. Not again. Just the thought of it sent his heart racing and made him feel sick with dread. He wasn’t sure what it was about, and he had no great urge to explore the phenomenon—just the opposite. He’d do anything to avoid feeling like that ever again.

Instead of thinking about it, he massaged Rocki’s neck and moved down her back, chasing away the tension he felt coursing through her as he examined the room by the light of the almost-full moon.

The room was painted a soft antique blue and was filled with white Shabby Chic–like furniture Dominique had wanted him to buy—the kind that looked real—not the stuff you buy new that’s just made to look old and well loved. A bookshelf lined the wall beside the bathroom, containing what he figured a teenaged girl would save: books, pictures, trophies with ribbons dangling from them, and a stuffed animal or two tossed in for good measure. Framed photos he was unable to make out sat on a long bureau with a mirror hanging above it, reflecting the light coming in through white lacy curtains. The curtains matched the duvet cover, which was made of a bleached white fabric with intricate flowery cutouts. All told, the place had a real girly feel without being overly prissy.

This bedroom was so different from Rocki’s apartment—he couldn’t believe they belonged to the same person. It was a definite disconnect. This room had a history. It was clearly decorated by someone who had a deep love for its occupant. Maybe it wasn’t Rocki’s room. Maybe Grace and Teddy had given Rocki their daughter’s room to use. But when he thought of Rocki, the way she moved through the house as if she’d done it all her life, the way she walked into this room, took a deep breath, and looked as if she’d finally come home, it sure as hell seemed as if this was her childhood bedroom.

Home.

Grace had mentioned that it had been too long since Rocki had been home. Had she meant home to New Hampshire, or home to the mansion? And if Rocki had grown up in a mansion, what the hell was she doing living over a Chinese restaurant in a walk-up on Mott Street?

The more he got to know Rocki, the more questions he had, and the more intrigued he became. The woman was a mystery wrapped in an enigma and rolled in a paradox.

Tomorrow he’d figure her out, but right now, with her body curled against his side absorbing his heat, all he could do was concentrate on how holding Rocki O’Sullivan or Racquel Sullivan—whoever the hell she was—felt right in a way he’d never before experienced. Yeah, that was just one more thing he couldn’t dwell on, so he closed his eyes and did what he did best—he wrote code in his head, trying to come up with a fix for a problem he had with one of the new programs he was developing. He was in bed with a beautiful woman practically lying on top of him and he was writing code. What a geek.