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Chapter 4
I slept for most of the four-hour drive back to Boston. Brandon had wanted to hire an ambulatory car to transport me back, but I fought it tooth and nail. I had a nasty concussion and a bum ankle; I wasn't in critical condition anymore, no matter what I looked like. So, while some of Brandon's security team stayed behind to help Bubbe and Dad pack up their things to leave the following day, I laid across the back seat of the Escalade while Brandon rode up front with Craig, his head of security.
Margie, Brandon's assistant, was clearly some kind of wonder woman. I was pretty sure she could run the entire planet if given the right tools. In a few days, she had single-handedly procured my dad a spot in the best rehabilitation program in Boston, rented Bubbe an apartment in the same secure building as Brandon's penthouse, and hired a property manager to make sure the house in Brooklyn was taken care of until Bubbe and Dad decided whether they wanted to rent or sell it.
According to Zola, Messina and his thugs had disappeared underground, somehow aware of the APB out for their arrest. With Dad's and my statements, Zola had enough to put the man and his cronies away for a very long time––if they could catch them in the first place. Until then, all of us would have permanent bodyguards, tracking our every move until the trial was over.
Before, I might have chafed at the suggestion that I needed a bodyguard. But right now, I was thankful for the hulking men who had been assigned to keep me and my family safe. Brandon hadn't allowed us to be alone together since Zola left; I was waiting for the chance to thank him––and to ask him what it meant for the two of us.
I awoke with a start when the front door of the Escalade opened and closed. Everything was dark–-we were inside the underground garage of Brandon's building. My ankle throbbed and my head was pounding––the last round of Percocet was wearing off, and I was starting to feel the real effects of my injuries.
As I sat up from the carry-on bag I'd been sleeping on, my door opened. Brandon crouched down and started to reach inside the car, apparently to carry me out. The gesture was warm, but his face looked like ice.
I backed away, scooting farther into the car.
Brandon frowned. In the dim light and under the brim of his hat, his face was cast almost entirely in shadow, but I could still see the lines of his mouth turned downward. "Skylar, what are you doing?"
I glanced around the garage, groggy and unaccountably nervous. Another car had parked besides us––David in the Mercedes, along with the other two members of Brandon's new security team.
"I just..."
I pushed a hand over my face, wincing as I inadvertently touched my wounds. My thoughts were still jumbled and dazed. Jane had braided my hair back into a tight queue before I'd left the hospital, but I still felt like garbage. I found my glasses sitting in the cup holder, and shoved them on. There, that was better. At least now I could see the annoyance on Brandon's handsome features clearly.
"Where are my crutches?" I asked in a small voice.
Brandon bit his lip and cast his gaze up to the ceiling. "Christ," he mumbled. "Skylar...let's just get you upstairs."
"I can walk," I insisted stubbornly, scooting toward the edge of the seat. I thrust my legs outward, forcing Brandon to stand up and step back. I edged my way out of the car and stood up, balanced on my good foot. "See?"
As stone-faced as ever, he just gave a heavy sigh, then nodded at David, who pulled the crutches out of the back of the Mercedes.
"Here you are, Ms. Crosby," David said with a kind smile as he handed them to me.
At least someone doesn't hate me.
"Thanks."
I looked back at Brandon, who had his arms crossed in front of his chest in a way that put his biceps on display. Well, that's unfair.
"Well?" I asked. "Shall we go?"
We started to make our way to the elevator, but in my Percocet-addled daze, I was a lot less coordinated than I thought. It took me about ten steps to trip over the stupid crutches, land on my bad foot, and topple toward the ground. I was swept up by a pair of strong arms while my crutches clattered to the concrete.
"Hey!" I protested, although the feel of Brandon's warm shoulder against my cheek made my insides thrill. That smell was still there: almonds, metal, soap.
"Just stop," Brandon gritted out as he carried me the rest of the way to the elevators. "You're not alone in this. Just let me help you."
"What about my crutches?" I asked lamely, even as I burrowed into his neck.
He tensed at the movement, but held me a little closer. "David will get them."
The elevator opened on the top floor and we stepped into Brandon's apartment. I hadn't realized when he said I was staying with him, that he meant actually with him. I had thought he meant somewhere else in the building, although I didn't know why that had been my assumption. Why would he want me here when we were so seriously...broken?
Brandon carried me down the hallway where his bedroom was, but then turned left into a guestroom and deposited me on a large bed. He took a few steps back and flipped on the light.
I looked around. I had seen this room before, of course, on one of the few times I'd poked around the apartment. I actually hated this apartment––a rented palace in the sky where Brandon was living until his divorce was finalized and he could purchase a new house. It was the opposite of everything I knew about him and the kinds of places he loved: cold and modern, with sharp-angled furniture and dark, colorless decor. This room was no different, with stiff glass-and-chrome fixtures, a dark gray bedspread, and ceiling-to-floor picture windows that looked out over Back Bay. It was posh and pristine.
I loathed it.
