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Nate shrugs, the movement too casual. “You don’t know me, either.”
I do, though. Not in a way I can explain to him right now, on this couch, with my head throbbing and the rest of my body flaring with more pain. “I know enough. And later, when we both go home, I’ll get to know you better. If that’s what you want. You don’t have to stay with me, but you can. As long as you want. Falling out of a building hasn’t changed that.”
Nate hesitates. “Elise said you jumped.”
“That’s true.” I can still feel remnants of ash clinging to my lungs. Or my chest just hurts. Hard to tell. “Broke a window and jumped. I had to get home to both of you.”
He blinks, then blinks again. At first I think he’s startled, or maybe he has an eyelash in his eye, but then I see the tears.
Nate’s still blinking them back when he balances on one knee and leans over me for a light, pretend-I’m-not-doing-this hug.
I have exactly one second to pat his back.
Then he gets up. He’s still healing, and the effort shows in his face. “Is there someplace I can lie down?”
“My room. My old room. Mason kept it for me.” I look in every time I visit, and every time, I find my old bedroom in pristine condition. Clean, with fresh sheets and spare clothes in the closet. I clear my throat. “Mason.”
“What’s up?” I can’t see my brother. He’s behind me, at the door of the living room. “It’s time for your meds, isn’t it?”
“I don’t want those. Can you show Nate my room? He wants to rest.”
“Of course.” It’s impossible to miss the secret pride in Mason’s voice. “It’s near the other bedrooms. I happen to think the view is—”
Nate follows Mason out of the living room, and I attempt to make myself presentable.
And…end up falling asleep again.
The next time I wake up, there are two additional voices in the penthouse. My phone says it’s a quarter to noon. Mason enters the living room in a businesslike way. “I’ll help you up.”
“I’m fine. I can do it.” I push myself off the embarrassment of pillows he brought in earlier, and the room tilts. This is better than the dizzy spinning that happened at the hospital, but not ideal. Mason’s there with a hand on my shoulder. “Fuck. Okay.”
He insists on accompanying me to the bathroom, then stands there in case I fall over while I wash my face and brush my teeth. Naturally, my brother has a new toothbrush still in the package and my brand of toothpaste.
I’m not going to cry over toothpaste. Jesus.
When we get back to the living room, Mason’s favorite detective, Patrick Jordan, and Scott, his head security agent, personal bodyguard, and driver have taken two of the overstuffed chairs.
I’m going to sit on my couch like a professional, but as soon as my ass hits the cushions, I’m struck by the overwhelming urge to be less vertical. I settle for leaning back on the pillows. Mason went overboard with those. There are three, I think. Maybe four.
My brother takes the other side of the couch. He slides a hand under both my ankles and stretches my legs out over his lap. That’s an unprecedented scenario. It’s usually Mason with his long legs taking up somebody else’s space on account of his knee.
I can’t even tell him not to do it. It’s hellish to sit with my knees bent today.
“Now that we’re all here and conscious, we need to have the discussion about Bettencourt. Or at least start the discussion. Gabriel, I’ve told Patrick and Scott as much as I can about the situation. Once they have your version, we can make plans.”
I wish I had more painkillers for the recap. Talking about it makes me want to punch Bettencourt, which makes my abs tense, which hurts. Talking for too long makes me feel light-headed. All of it intensifies the headache.
I tell them about the consortium. About Bettencourt’s connection to Charlotte’s father. About the rumors Jacob heard, and about things people have whispered to me in bed. It’s like opening up the last lock on a box full of winged creatures. All of them fly out at top speed.
What a bizarre way to think of it. Must be the concussion.
When I’m finished, Scott has sketched out a rough approximation of the Bettencourt estate on a sheet of printer paper, and Mason looks cool and collected in the way he does when he wants to kill someone. He rests his hand just below my knee. “In summary, this bastard is going down.”
“I’ll communicate the situation with the backup teams.” Scott’s already tapping at his phone. His face started getting red when I told them how Elise had been involved as a child, and it hasn’t returned to its normal color. “The man won’t be a threat for long. An even shorter period of time, if the two of us meet.”
Patrick writes something on his notepad. “I’d prefer you saved those kinds of comments for when I’m not in the room.” He looks up at Mason. “But I’ll be on hand to make an arrest if there’s cause.”
“There’s definitely fucking cause.” Mason’s tone is level. “If my lawyers haven’t made any progress in the next few hours, we’re going ourselves to get the evidence.”
