Long Shot: An MMA Stepbrother Romance Read online

  Shit, I think as I rifle through my bag. Ain’t got a needle that’ll stitch him up proper. And no damn iodine, no nothing that’ll get those stitches done. He probably knows I’ll take him to the damn clinic where I used to work. I used to take him there when he begged me not to take him to the hospital, and damn him, he knows I never let go of that access card after I quit. I think of the rush of sneaking him there in the middle of the night back when I was in nursing school, and I almost roll my eyes at myself and sigh deeply.

  Get a grip, Natalie. This is just his same old shit. You can’t get involved. But as I’m taking his pulse and guessing at his blood pressure because he won’t stop fucking moving, I know he’s making me get involved just by being here, rolling here into my apartment like no time has passed at all.

  I throw the pillow under his head. He lies down and lets out a groan, like he’s been holding it deep inside, hiding how hurt he really is. Kneeling next to him, I take his wrist in my hand. His skin is hot to the touch, his pulse rapid. The long, straight line of his jaw starts to quiver as he grabs my hand and squeezes it hard. A shock runs through me, heat spreading through my belly and down into my thighs. This is how it is with him, and I’m suddenly aware that I’m mostly fucking naked. My body responds, betraying me. But it’s a betrayal he doesn’t need to know anything about. I put on an annoyed look and bat his hand away, trying to hone in on his pulse again.

  “Thank you, Nat,” he says. He knits his eyebrows together when he looks up at me, and I smile for just a second. His eyebrows have always been darker than his hair, and because his hair is cropped so close, the contrast makes him look unnaturally serious and intense.

  “I haven’t done anything yet,” I say, nervously running my fingers through my hair. I haven’t been this close to Josh in years, not since that one night where it almost happened, him and me. He’s probably forgotten about it. And I should have too. It’s not right that it affects me to be near him like this, not after all this time. Not after the chasm that’s formed between us.

  “Thanks for opening the door, I mean.” His voice is softer now, almost like it’s an effort for him to speak. There’s no hint of his characteristic sarcasm, and though his eyes show pain, there’s an honesty I haven’t seen there before.

  “What the hell else was I supposed to do?” I ask. He shrugs and cringes hard, favoring his left shoulder. “All right, your pulse is officially rapid. You’re in pain, and something is fucked up. That’s my doctor’s assessment. Now, asshole, tell me what hurts.”

  “My shoulder, and my side. My ribs on the left side.”

  “What about that nasty gash on your forehead?” I touch my hand to his head and turn his face to get a better look. The cut is down to the bone in one place, but the blood is already thickening, forming a scab.

  “That’s fine. Seriously.”

  “It needs stitches, so we’ll tend to that… when we tend to it.” I shake my head, silently chastising myself for even keeping a civil tone with him, let alone offering to give him stitches. He’ll live without stitches, and he’ll see the light of day tomorrow even if I kick him out now. But that part of me that needs to help is stronger than anything else. What made me strong all the way through nursing school—and through med school, too—it’s the same thing that’s always made me weak with Josh.

  “At the clinic?” The pain is evident in his voice, but I ignore him. I’ll have to see what his condition is before I make any idiotic decisions. Well, any more idiotic decisions. Letting Josh in was probably the first one of the bunch.

  “I’m going to move over to your left side and look at whatever horrendous damage you caused there.” I walk over and sit down next to him. His eyes follow my body and rest on my face as I sit. “It could hurt,” I add. He nods.

  I’ve got a bad feeling I know just what he’s done, and I’ve got an even worse feeling that he probably should have gone to the hospital right away—but that he didn’t because he’s an idiot and because his boss is an evil dick. Placing my hands on his ribs, I feel for evidence of swelling. There is some, and the bruise has darkened even in the time since he’s arrived. I move my hand to his shoulder and feel around the joint. Nausea hits me.

  “Dislocated,” he says and sucks in a quick sharp breath.

  “Ya think? God, how the fuck did you get here? Don’t tell me the Camaro is idling outside.” I’m taken back in time just thinking about that thing, how impressed I was when he bought it, how excited I was when he took me for my first ride. But back then I was easier to impress. If I ignore the tight, chiseled muscles, the high cheekbones and somehow sexily broken and re-broken nose… I wouldn’t be impressed at all right now.

  “Ash. My trainer. He brought me over from the club.” The club. The goddamn club. Ever since Josh turned sixteen, he’s been fighting at that gym. At first, I thought it was good, thought he was focusing some of his anger, some of his brain’s penchant for destruction. But it was clear, even then, that Frank’s gym was anything but a clean operation.

  “Well, I hope you tipped. Dammit, Josh. We’re going to need to get this back into joint. I’ll take you to the E.R.” Even as I say it, I know he’s going to resist. “I probably shouldn’t even be driving after this shift, but—”

  “No, no, not the hospital. Please, not the hospital. Frank says—”

  “I don’t give a shit what Frank says. You’re twenty-six. You’re a grown-ass man. Or at least you should be.”

  “You don’t understand.” Moving fast, I reach for his right hand and ease him up. I catch a glimpse of the network of tattoos over his shoulders—some tribal, some numbers and dates I don’t understand. They accent his muscles, make him look hard and far older than he is. I suppress a shiver and bite my lip, looking down so he doesn’t see me checking him out.

  “Good thing you landed on your right shoulder when you pushed the door open, you idiot.” Working with patients all day has made me stronger—maybe not strong enough to get Josh’s shoulder back into place, but I’m going to try anyway. It’s here or at the hospital, and doing it here will make the car ride in a rain storm a fuck of a lot easier on him, and on me. I usher him over to a dining room chair and sit his ass down.

  “No hospital, Nat. Frank told me—”

  “I’m going to do this on three, Josh. Can you count with me?” He shakes his head furiously. I lock my hips and take his arm, my right hand at the top of his shoulder, his elbow propped against my knee for leverage.

  “Nat, wait!”

  “One,” I say.

  “Oh fuck, one,” he groans.

  “Two,” we say together. I launch my body against his and pop his shoulder back in place. The sound that comes out of him is something between a groan and a wail. I let out a sharp laugh before examining his shoulder to see if it’s actually in its proper place. His eyes bug out and he grimaces, gritting his teeth hard and growling loud.

  “That wasn’t three,” he says. He groans again.

  “It’s better if it’s not on three,” I say and snort. I grab my scrub pants from the floor and fashion a makeshift sling. The knot at the top might not be the most comfortable, but it’s the best I can do in a weird, awkward, and highly irritating situation. I slip the pants over his head and help him secure his elbow in the sling.

  “What the hell is this? I see you’re already throwing your pants at me.” He chuckles at his lame joke, but he lets me assist him.

  “You—sit right here while I grab some clothes. You need fluids, you need food, you need to get an x-ray on those ribs.” I walk to my bedroom and grab a maxi dress from the floor. Before I pull it over my head, I hear desperation in my stepbrother’s voice.

  “Natalie, you don’t understand. I can’t go to the hospital. The police are after Frank’s club for hiring underage fighters. They’re looking for any way they can to get at him. I can’t—”

  I pull the dress on and walk back to my half-naked, still-bleeding stepbrother. Even like this, he looks like heave
n on a platter, and it’s hard to stop myself from stealing glances at him. Petty insults seem to be the only things that pop into my head, so I stand still for a second, with a look on my face that I hope says Nat is figuring out what to do. I gulp when I glance again at him. Desire pricks at my body, starting slow and feeble but undeniably there, like the engine of a car that’s been sitting out in the weather unused for three years.

  Angry. Aroused. Angrily aroused, fuck. That’s exactly what I am. Insult. Hurl an insult, Nat—

  “Haven’t you fucked someone on the police squad? There was that girl from high school—”

  “Cupcake?” He snorts and then breaks out into a laugh. “No, I haven’t fucked Cupcake. I don’t think I’m really her type.” I laugh in spite of myself. It’s been so long since I’ve thought about the nicknames we used to have for our classmates, so long since I’ve thought about the friendship we used to have. Even at the thought of the jokes we used to share, a jolt of pain sears through my body. Even after three years, the hurt of his departure still feels so real.

  “Seriously, what would be so wrong about leaving Frank in the dust? You’re bigger than this stuff.” The words fall out of my mouth before I can stop them. We’ve had this fight before, and I never win. He’s silent for a moment, and then he sighs.

  “We can’t go over this again.”

  “You’re right, Josh. We can’t. I’ll drop you at the hospital, and then you can decide what you want to—”

  “Nat, I need your help. I can’t tell you what’s going on right now, but I’m begging you. I know I’m an asshole for disappearing like I did, but I need to play to Frank right now. He’s more of a threat than he seems.” I try to help him up, but he resists, leveraging his weight against my much smaller frame. “Listen to me, Nat.” He catches my gaze, and holds it for a moment. Too many times, I believed he’d get his life together. And too many times, he’s disappointed me beyond measure.

  “No,” I say, trying to pull him up again. “Asshole doesn’t even begin to cover it. So again, fuck no.”

  “I’m getting out, Nat. I swear it, or I wouldn’t have come to you.”

  “I want that for you, Josh. I really do. But you can’t come here and make these pretty promises, these lies. Not this shit all over again. I’m too old for it.”

  “You’re as old as me. Youngest person in your graduating class in med school. I read it in the paper.” I blush. Now, intellectually, I shouldn’t trust a damn thing this boy says. My heart never quite catches up to my brain when it comes to Josh, though. “Mighty impressive,” he adds.

  “I didn’t even think you knew I was back home, Josh.”

  “You’re my best friend, Nat. I’ve read every email and every update. And your friend Summer at the hospital told me that you were back at the old house.” Heat pricks behind my eyes, and I look away. I won’t let him see me tear up. “Please Nat. I won’t bug you again. But there are things in motion here, and I need your help.”

  “Fine,” I say. “But you need stitches, and I guess I have to drag your sorry ass up to the clinic to do it.”

  I pause for a second and wonder if it’s worth risking my job for this man. The head nurse there had told me I could come any time, but the hospital would probably take a different view entirely.

  Josh grabs hard onto my arm and catches my gaze. “Thank you,” he says again.

  “Come on, you trifling douchebag. I’m not getting any younger.”

  I try to ignore the laughter that bubbles out of Josh—and the rush of excitement I feel as we walk out of the door and into the rain.

  As good as I was, I always loved sneaking around with him. And if I get him out of my house in two days’ time, well, it won’t do me one bit of harm to take care of him for a spell.

  CHAPTER THREE

  The wind rocks Natalie’s car from side to side on the bridge. Her poor Civic can’t keep up with the thunderstorms that blast through the sound in the early autumn. I haven’t sat in the passenger’s seat since the day I left Manteo high school for good, and fuck, she cursed me the hell out that day.

  Dammit, Joshua. “Dammit” was a big deal for her back then—she still bought into that religious ideal her daddy preached, even when he was hitting the bottle hard and robbing the convenience store at three o’clock in the morning. Fine to steal and drink, terrible to curse or take the lord’s name in vain, God forbid. Dammit Joshua. You’ve gone and got me cursin’, dropping out of high school like every other idiot in this town. I laugh, and I can feel her rolling her eyes next to me. I can’t turn, but I know she’s got her eyes rolled so far back in her head she can probably see her big brain.

  “You think this is funny? Coming out of nowhere and dragging me into your mess?” Her voice is ragged around the edges, and her eyes are bloodshot. I feel a pang in my gut. I shouldn’t have come to her, not yet. But the desire for her grew so great—especially when the hurt started consume me.

  “No, I don’t think it’s funny. I was just thinking about—”

  “You got a lot of nerve, boy. I’ve been worried about you for years, and you show up out of nowhere. I don’t even know if my car can make it in this storm.” Her voice is hoarse, knuckles white against the steering wheel. As if in response, the Civic nearly spins out when we hit a deep puddle half way across the bridge. A tractor trailer zooms past us, adding a gritty spray of water to the blinding sheets of rain.

  “Might not. But as righteous as you are, I know you can’t resist this medical shit. I’ve got a really weird gash on my head, and I know your fingers are itching to stitch on it.” She laughs, breathy and fine.

  “You got me pegged, I guess. That cut looks ragged. And I’ll sew it up, even though you disappeared and I ain’t heard from you until this very moment.” She sighs. I can almost feel her gripping the steering wheel. Her stress, her worry, and her anger all swirl together like a living thing in the dark, humid air. The car swerves again and nearly hits the guard rail this time. I’m betting she didn’t have money to get new tires when she was supposed to. I looked up what the average pay for a resident was at a tiny hospital like this one, and I knew damn well it wasn’t enough to pay for her loans and a set of tires like she needs for the shitty, watery roadways around here. What she really needed was a Jeep with four-wheel drive, but as long as the Civic was running, she’d probably keep it till it fell apart.

  She got the damn Civic right when she turned seventeen—she was determined to be like everyone else, even though we were poor as shit and picked on all the fucking time. She scrimped and saved her babysitting money, the tips from waitressing at Darryl’s Fish House, and she bought the damn thing. Nearly a decade later and it’s still running. It ain’t perfect on the bridge. It wobbles and protests, and the wipers ain’t worth a good goddamn. I’m trying to ignore the waves crashing against the side of the bridge. I crane my neck to look over at her, and it sends a pain through my shoulder, and shit does it ever hurt. But the way she looks in the spotty streetlights, filtering in through the rain, it’s a sight for sore eyes after so many years away.

  Her silken blond hair tumbles over her shoulders, and I close my eyes, remembering for an instant just how it felt to touch her hair, bring her face close to mine. But it all went to hell that night. And it should have. I’d be a weight, dragging her down. It was easier to stick to my role. Keep fighting, keep fucking disreputable women, keep my head down and my fists up.

  Natalie pulls off the bridge and breathes a deep sigh of relief. “I’ll get you fixed up at the clinic, but you can’t tell no one at the club that I did it. Else, I’ll have three or four boys a night knocking on my door. You got it?” She turns to me, her amber eyes serious. I try to keep a straight face, but her accent has gone deep country. Cain’t tell no wonnn. Her accent always comes out when she’s tired.

  I crack a grin as she turns onto Beach Road and drives to the little urgent care clinic where she used to work. “You sound like a fisherman’s wife, Nat. You’ve gone isla
nd on me.”