Had to Be You: Bad Boys of Red Hook Page 9

  He couldn’t imagine what one person did with that many shoes. He had his running shoes, his biker boots, and a pair of hiking boots. That was all he needed.

  Rocki pointed to the door at the end of the hall. “Bathroom’s through there if you need it.”

  The hallway opened into a large room containing a baby grand piano, a twin-sized daybed with rumpled sheets, a dresser, and a small bistro table and two chairs. Clothes littered just about everything. There were two laundry baskets beside the bed, one full of clothes in a heap, and the other containing neatly folded clothes.

  “Do you want a water?” She pointed to a kitchenette so small it looked as if there was just enough room between the oven and the refrigerator to open the oven door—maybe. “I don’t have much else. There might be a yogurt or something in the fridge, but do yourself a favor, check the expiration date before you dig in. The last thing I need is a chauffeur with food poisoning.”

  So he was a chauffeur, huh? He gave her a look that said no-fuckin’-way, but didn’t voice his opinion. He didn’t need to.

  Her return volley was an expression that told him in no uncertain terms, he could think anything he wanted. In her mind, he was nothing more than a glorified cabbie. Great. “No, thanks. I’m good.” And he was, when it came to just about everything, including sex—he was good for way more than a ride.

  She cleared the clothes off one of the bistro chairs and tossed them on the bed. “I’m just going to pack a few things.”

  He slid his laptop out of the messenger bag he was never without and sat down at the bistro table. “Do you have Wi-Fi?”

  “No. I use the restaurant’s. The password is chopsticks.”

  “Original.”

  She shrugged and raided her dresser, pulling out all the small silky things he’d spent the last week imagining. She had all the colors of the rainbow in her lingerie drawer. She definitely wasn’t the white-cotton-panty type—not that there wasn’t something to be said for little white cotton panties. Or none at all. He shifted in his seat; the last thing she needed was a freakin’ chauffeur with a raging hard-on. Not now at least.

  Rocki got on her hands and knees to search beneath her bed, her black leggings hugging and accentuating her long legs and heart-shaped ass. The oversized T-shirt or dress she wore—he wasn’t sure which—slipped over her hips and showed off the dimples on her lower back and enough pale, smooth skin to make his mouth water and his jeans tight. Shit.

  She rose, pulled a bag out from under her bed, and dusted it off. The woman would never be confused with Martha Stewart. Rocki tossed the selection of undergarments into her weekender along with a few pairs of jeans—something he’d never seen her wear—sweaters, and, to his surprise, a white cotton granny nightgown.

  She didn’t strike him as the kind of girl who wore granny nightgowns to bed. No, he’d pegged her for something sheer and silky, or nothing at all. He wasn’t sure which he preferred, but damn, anything was better than the Grandma Moses thing she held.

  Slater kept his eyes trained on his screen and thanked God his peripheral vision was exceptional. She moved around the place with a nervous energy that made him wonder if it was more the rule than the exception. “What’s the number for the restaurant downstairs? I’ll call in an order—it should be ready by the time you’re done packing.”

  “I’m not hungry.”

  “You need to eat anyway.”

  “Fine.” Rocki grabbed her phone. “I have it on speed dial—I’ll order. What would you like?”

  “Just order me whatever you’re having, I’m not picky—just make sure they give me a fork. I can’t drive and eat with chopsticks.”

  “I hope you don’t mind it spicy.”

  Spicy worked for him. “I can take anything you can dish up.”

  “I guess we’ll see.” She dialed the phone, shoved clothes under her arm, and headed to the bathroom speaking Chinese.

  Well, shit. This woman was just full of surprises.

  “It’ll be ready in five minutes.”

  He heard the bathroom door close and stopped pretending to be riveted to his computer and stood. He had five minutes, so he took the time to study the studio apartment, looking for anything that would tell him who Rocki O’Sullivan was—other than a bit of a slob.

  Sheet music littered the piano. He paged through it and realized it was all original work. Serious work. Amazing. The woman not only played classical music, but she also wrote it.

  One piece rested on the music rack and looked as if it was a work in progress. She’d titled it “Him.” Him who? The paper had been erased more times than a grade school chalkboard and showed some serious wear. Entire bars had been scratched out and rewritten. Notations in the margins pointed out which parts needed more work. He scanned the room looking for any evidence of a man in her life—after all, she’d written the piece for someone.

  Slater sat at the piano more confused than ever, took a deep breath, and let his eyes wander. Rocki must have spent a lot of her time sitting right here, considering the amount of music she’d written. His eyes landed on a photograph—the only one in the apartment.

  He slid off the bench, skirted the piano, and picked up the four-by-six shot of Rocki on top of a ski slope with a blond-haired man. They had their arms around each other, as if they’d stopped midrun for a kiss and a cuddle.

  Rocki looked happy—too damn happy in Slater’s opinion. Shit. He put the picture back where he’d found it. The sight of Rocki touching another man—any man that wasn’t him—did funny things to his insides. Things he wasn’t used to feeling. Feelings so foreign to him, he wasn’t sure he even recognized them. All he knew was that he didn’t like whatever the hell it was. If Slater had been standing next to them, he’d have put his fist through the guy’s face and ripped Rocki right out of his arms. That knowledge alone was enough to make Slater want to get as far away from Rocki as humanly possible. Unfortunately, he couldn’t leave. He would be stuck like Velcro to the woman for the next day or two at the very least. “Fuck.”

  “Problem?”

  Slater turned so fast he almost tripped over his size-thirteen feet. “No.” Other than he’d just freaked himself out. “I didn’t hear you.” When he got his balance—both physical and, he hoped, mental, he wondered how much of his klutziness she’d seen. He pulled himself together, took a good look at her, and almost fell over again. She must have washed her face because she wore no makeup. Not even a hint, much less the outlandish, yet weirdly attractive color choices he’d seen her sporting over the last week.

  Rocki had changed into jeans. Another first and they weren’t even skinny jeans. They were a little baggy and looked as if they were a good size too large for her. She’d paired them with a big, shapeless sweater, and stood before him looking like a teenager.

  “How old are you?”

  “Almost twenty-five. Why?”

  “You look like you should be singing in a high school chorus not a bar.”

  Rocki tugged on a pair of rag-wool socks and reached to the top of her shoe wall to pull a pair of flat boots down. She blew the dust off them and sneezed.

  “God bless you.”

  “Thanks.” She stuffed her feet into the boots, tossed a ditty bag into the suitcase, and zipped it up. “I’m ready when you are.”

  He blinked and did his best to hide his shock while he tried to make some sense of this new side of Rocki O’Sullivan. She didn’t bother to mention her sudden style change. In his limited experience there was never a good time to ask a woman about her fashion choices—especially during times of stress like this, so Slater did what every smart man would in this situation—he kept his mouth shut. Still, his silence did nothing to keep him from wondering if the woman would ever stop surprising him. He packed up his computer, tossed the strap of his messenger bag over his shoulder, and gave her a nod. “I’m ready, Rocki. Let
’s go.”

  • • •

  Rocki slid into the passenger seat of Pete’s car, threw her coat over the back, and prayed she didn’t ralph. She’d been in such a state; she hadn’t even noticed her stomach rebelling. Maybe doing shots of scotch hadn’t been the best idea.

  Slater had insisted on paying for their meals. Of course, he charmed Anita and Rosemary Chin, the beautiful and single daughters of Mary and Charlie—the owners.

  The man was annoyingly attractive—which is what she’d told her friends in broken Cantonese.

  By the way the two of them batted their eyelashes, they didn’t find Slater nearly as irritating as she did.

  He closed her door and went around to the driver’s side.

  She waited for him to buckle his seat belt. “Just what do you think you were doing in there?”

  He started the car and checked traffic. “Paying for our food. I should ask you the same thing. You were the one speaking Chinese, not me, and you seemed to have an awful lot to say.”

  “I just told them I was going to New Hampshire. That’s all.”

  “Did you tell them about the accident?”

  “No.”

  “Why not? I thought they were your friends.”

  “They are. Just because they’re my friends, doesn’t mean I’m going to weep all over them.”

  “Telling them your brother’s been in an accident isn’t weeping.”

  It would have been if she’d so much as mentioned it.

  “And there’s nothing wrong with tears. Hell, you can cry as much as you want. At least if you’re crying, you’re not hiding your feelings.”

  “I don’t hide my feelings. I tell it like it is. Just ask anyone.”

  “Your opinion is one thing, your feelings are altogether a different story. I know you have no problem expounding upon your views.”

  “Are you saying I have trouble expressing my feelings?”

  “I don’t know. Do you?”

  If she expressed her feelings, she’d explode. Right now, it was all she could do not to fall apart. Jackson was in a coma. If she expressed her feelings, she would be hysterical and Rocki didn’t do hysterical. Okay, maybe for a few minutes there at the Crow’s Nest she’d rubbed up against the fence separating her from full-on hysteria hard enough to leave some skin on the barbs, hard enough to leave her bleeding, hard enough to taste the metal, but she never stepped through or over, and she’d never even thought about ducking under. No. Rocki knew the danger of going there and she’d never travel that terrifying path again.

  If she expressed her feelings she’d have to face the fact that without Jackson, she’d be alone. She didn’t know if she’d survive losing Jackson and she didn’t want to find out. She knew all too well what it felt like to lose the people you loved most in the world. She’d relived losing her parents more than once. She’d had nightmares of the car accident for years afterward.

  Rocki blinked away the image of her mother staring at her through lifeless eyes, the metallic scent of blood, and the shrill of her own scream when she realized her parents were dead and she was alone. Their bodies might have taken up space in what was left of the front seat, but Rocki had been alone, cold, scared, and trapped.

  She wasn’t sure how long it had taken for someone to rescue her. Hours? Days? She’d been in and out of consciousness and the blackouts reset her mental clock.

  She awoke in the hospital with Grace holding her hand and Teddy beside her, praying. They were probably doing the same thing now with Jackson. They’d always been more than just the caretakers of the lake house. Grace and Teddy were the closest thing to parents that she and Jackson had. They were the reason the lake house was still where she considered herself at home.

  Jackson hadn’t been in the car accident all those years ago. Jackson had never lived the nightmare that made her scream from the pit of her being, cutting like glass all the way up, and echoing in her mind—clouding the edges of her vision.

  Jackson had been spared that horror.

  The only reason she’d survived was because she had no choice.

  The only reason she’d survived was because she had more to think about than herself.

  The only reason she’d survived was because when their parents died, Jackson had become her lifeline. Without Jackson, she would be alone in the world. All alone, just like she’d been in that car.

  • • •

  Slater took his eyes off the road and zeroed in on Rocki. One minute they were talking about expressing feelings, and the next she stared through him as if she were in a trance. She might be sitting beside him, but she was light-years away. Rocki had looked pale before but now she looked ghostly. “Rocki?”

  She didn’t move. She didn’t blink. She didn’t breathe.

  “Rocki?” He hadn’t even hit the West Side Highway and already he was in trouble. He didn’t know what the hell to do. He took her cold hand in his and thought about dropping it to bump up the heat but he didn’t want to let go of her. He gave her hand a squeeze, then brought it to his lap, sandwiching it between his hand and his thigh, trying to rub some warmth into it. Shit.

  He dropped her hand, flipped the heat up to roast before reaching for her and cursing the console between them. There was something to be said for bench seats. He did his best to tuck Rocki under his arm, and kissed her chilled forehead. “Come on, sweetheart. Say something. I’m good with silence, but at least answer me so I know you’re okay.”

  Rocki didn’t say anything; she just burrowed into his side, her face tucked against his neck, her soft-as-silk hair brushing his chin.

  Slater didn’t know what to do to make Rocki feel better. He couldn’t tell her that everything would be all right. No, in situations like these, platitudes were insulting. The only thing he could do for her was keep her fed, hold her hand, and listen if she felt like talking. He was almost glad she wasn’t the talkative type since talking was definitely not his forte. It wasn’t as if he was insensitive—at least he didn’t think he was—but until they got up there and saw firsthand what the situation was, there wasn’t much to say. He’d done everything he could do. He’d bought food so she could eat. He hoped she’d relax enough to sleep. He’d be there for her if she needed him. Other than that, he was completely out of his depth. Just like he’d been with Nicki.

  Shit. He felt like slamming his head against the steering wheel. He’d forgotten all about Nicki’s rock. “Rocki, reach into my bag. There’s a rock in there—take it out.” He thought she’d ask what the hell he was doing carrying around a rock, but she didn’t.

  Rocki didn’t so much as blink, but did as he asked.

  “Nicki wanted to lend you her special rock. She said it’s her lucky charm and swears nothing bad happens when she carries it. Nicki thought it would do the same for you.”

  Rocki curled up against the console with Nicki’s rock in one hand, and her other holding his in a surprisingly strong grip. Good thing he could steer with his knees. He didn’t want to drop her hand to turn on his blinkers to merge onto the Cross Bronx Expressway. “Why don’t you close your eyes and try to get some rest?”

  She didn’t answer him but after a half hour, he felt her grip on him loosen, her breathing evened out, and her head lolled against his shoulder. He wasn’t sure if he was relieved or not. At least when she was awake, he could focus on Rocki and her problems. Now that she was asleep, all he had to think about were his.

  CHAPTER 8

  Rocki’s neck hurt. She tried to find a more comfortable position, but the pillow felt . . . hard? Boney? It was as if she slept on someone’s shoulder. She didn’t sleep with people. Ever. She opened her eyes and realized where she was—in Pete’s car. And who she was sleeping on—Slater. She hoped she hadn’t drooled or anything. Then she remembered why she was in Pete’s car with Slater—Jackson.

  “We’re a
lmost there. How are you doing?” His deep voice was like a soft blanket, warm and comfortable, tempting her to wrap herself in it . . . in him.

  How was she doing? She was doing as well as could be expected, considering she was living a nightmare. She kept telling herself that Jackson wouldn’t dare leave her. He was young and strong and too damn stubborn to die. But her parents hadn’t been, and she knew they’d done everything they could to live. The fear she’d seen in their eyes had been for her, not for themselves. Until their last breaths, they’d tried to live for her. She remembered the anguish in their eyes when they realized they were losing the battle.

  And then it hit her, the fear she had was for Jackson, of course, but it was also mixed with a huge helping of another kind of fear. Jackson was her rock, the one person she knew she could always count on to care about her. The only person who really knew her—all of her. The good, the bad, the snarky, the emotional wreck, and the scared little girl who used to wake screaming on a nightly basis. Her nightmares had been so bad, she’d never been able to have roommates at school, which did nothing but further isolate her.

  When she moved to New York after college and met Pete and the gang, Rocki made the first friends she’d had in years. She’d hid her background and the parts of herself that had isolated her since her parents’ deaths.

  She looked at Slater and cringed. She’d been so upset, she hadn’t thought of the consequences of falling apart in front of Pete and Slater. She’d been so upset, she hadn’t realized what that one mistake would cost her. But looking at Slater now, she wasn’t sure she even regretted it. Not yet anyway. As much as she didn’t want him to be here, the fact that he was gave her more comfort than she could have ever imagined. “Thanks for this.”

  “This?”

  She realized he was still holding her hand. His hand was big, warm, solid, and seemed to ground her. She felt protected, which was something she hadn’t felt for so long. “Driving me to the middle of nowhere, letting me sleep on you, taking care of me. I know you’re just doing it for Pete, but I appreciate it. Since I don’t know if I’m going to be in any shape to thank you later, I thought I’d better cover all my bases and do it now.”