Unbroken (9 page)

“Shit.”

She knelt down and checked to make sure he was breathing. He was, but he wasn't conscious.

“Oh . . .” She stood up and ran for his bedside table. There was a phone with extra large numbers in the cradle there and she picked it up and dialed 911.

The dispatcher answered. “Nine-one-one. What is the address of your emergency?”

“Uh . . . Uh . . . 238 Sundown Road.” She rattled off the address as quickly as possible while she walked back into the bathroom.

“And what is the nature of your emergency?”

“My grandfather is on the bathroom floor. And he's unconscious. And he's bleeding. His head is bleeding. His temple,” she said, shaking now. “He's breathing and everything but I don't know what to do.”

“Did the fall cause his unconsciousness or was there something else?”

“I don't know! I'm not a paramedic. That's why I'm calling for paramedics!”

“Ma'am, you need to stay calm.”

“I need to stay calm? No, you need to panic! Don't you understand? My grandpa . . . something is wrong.”

“I know,” the dispatcher said, her tone still maddeningly even, “but panicking won't help him.”

“Neither will staying calm, he's unconscious!”

“Ma'am, just stay calm.”

“Amber?”

“Oh . . . Cade.” She turned away from her grandfather and saw Cade standing in the doorway of the bedroom. “I'm in here! It's . . . Grandpa.”

“What the hell happened?”

Cade barreled through the room as quickly as his leg allowed and into the bathroom. “Shit.”

“That's what I said.” She stood back and started ringing her hands. “I don't know what to do.”

“Ma'am?” Amber heard the dispatcher's voice in her ear again. “Is someone there to wait with you?”

“Yes. Yes, yes. My friend is here. It's okay.” It wasn't okay though. There was nothing okay about your grandfather lying ashen and bleeding on the floor in front of you. But Cade was with her, so it at least wasn't unendurable.

She felt her knees giving way, and then strong arms around her. He faltered, then they dipped, stabilizing when his back butted up against the wall. He tightened his hold on her.

“It's okay,” he said.

“Yeah,” she said. “It's okay.”

“Ma'am, the paramedics are less than two minutes out.”

“Okay.” She hung up the phone and dropped it on the floor and let Cade hold her, his chest rising and falling against her back.

A few minutes later she heard footsteps on the stairs.

“In here,” Cade called, patting her arm before releasing his hold on her. “Come on, sweetheart, let's go into the bedroom so they have room.”

She went with him. Because he was so familiar. Because he was Cade, and he'd called her sweetheart, which she wasn't sure he'd ever done before with any measure of sincerity.

She sat on the bed and waited. One of the paramedics stopped to ask her questions that she genuinely didn't know the answers to, while the other two worked at getting her grandpa onto a stretcher.

“Is he okay?” she asked, even though she knew it was a stupid question no one could answer.

“We think he had a fall and hit his head, but we aren't sure what caused it,” one of the men said, his tone far too gentle.

She wanted there to be more upset. More panic. Because that's what was happening inside of her, and everyone was just . . . handling it. She felt like she was going to die. Or at the very least like her insides were imploding. And everyone else was so stoic.

While she had to watch the last piece of her family go through the room on a stretcher.

“I want to ride with him,” she said.

“That's fine,” the medic said.

“I'll drive your car behind you,” Cade said.

“Thanks,” she said.

She wanted him to hold her again. And she knew that wasn't right. She didn't need anyone to hold her up. She never had. But really, really, she wanted to go back to that moment when his arms had gone around her and he'd held them both up, braced on the bathroom wall.

She was a wimp. And she couldn't afford to be a wimp right now, because her grandpa needed her. And it wouldn't do her any good to be a pansy-ass crybaby. He would be the first person to tell her that.

She rode to the hospital feeling numb. Being in the back of an ambulance wasn't interesting when your entire life was focused in on the man strapped into the gurney in front of you.

She was numb all through the hospital stuff. And Cade hung out, mainly in the waiting room, while she hovered in her grandpa's room and tried to process scary words like
contusion
,
concussion
and, the worst one,
stroke
.

Yeah, that was the worst.

“He's just going to sleep tonight,” one of the nurses said, squeezing her hand and giving her a smile. Amber knew her from lunch hour at the diner. She was a chicken Caesar salad with dressing on the side, but Amber couldn't remember her name.

“Okay,” she said, feeling numb.

“You should go home and get some sleep.”

Amber found herself nodding and being ushered into the waiting room. Cade was there, in a chair against the wall, his forearms resting on his thighs, his head down.

“Hey,” she said.

He looked up. “You ready to go?”

“No,” she said. “But I should go home and get some sleep. Because he's not awake and I need to make sure I get some sleep. Because I need to make sure that I'm not completely wiped out when he does need me. And . . . and things.”

“Do you work tomorrow?”

She shook her head. “No.”

“Good, then you can get wasted tonight.”

Eight

It was a time-honored tradition between him and Amber.
Have a horrible thing happen to you, and the other one would buy a whole truckload of alcohol.

Amber had done it for him when his mom died. And when he'd found out his dad had had an affair that resulted in a child. He'd done it for her after she'd lost her grandma.

But they weren't kids now. This wasn't a job for a few 40s. This was serious business. Serious Jack Motherfucking Daniel's business.

Two hours later and he was pretty buzzed, but Amber was flat out on her back, laughing hysterically, tears rolling down her cheeks. He couldn't tell if it was from the laughter now, or if she was genuinely crying.

Probably a little of both.

“He was elbow-deep, stuck in the mare. And it's not really funny because on a contraction it can break your friggin' arm. But of course he didn't even react,” she said, gasping for air. “Because he's like that, he's . . . he's a badass. He's still a badass even though he's like . . . eighty.” Her laughter subsided a little. “He looked a little less . . . badassy tonight, though.”

“People can recover from strokes, Amber.”

“Yeah,” she said, her hands folded over her stomach, her feet crossed at the ankles. He was looking down at her from his position on the couch, watching the firelight dance over her skin.

They had, of course, lit a fire in the fireplace, because Jack Daniel's had thought it was a wonderful idea.

“Yeah, they can recover,” she said, rolling over onto her stomach. “If anyone could, it's him. He's the strongest man I have ever known, Cade, true story.”

“Stronger than me?”

“Dude, yeah.”

“I'm wounded,” he said.

“Ah, yeah, whatever. Like hell you are. It's true. He's got all those grumpy old man points saved up. Crotchety old guy plus badass equals way stronger than you.”

“I'm only running on one cylinder,” he said, deadpan. “That's hardly fair.”

“Yeah, but he's flipping eighty.”

“Fair point.”

She got up on her hands and knees and he couldn't help but notice the way her back dipped, then curved up to form a very, very enticingly round ass. He was buzzed, so looking at Amber's ass was officially okay.

As was noticing the way the fabric of her t-shirt stretched tight across her breasts when she straightened, still on her knees, and stretched, her arms behind her, hands clasped.

She knee-walked over to the edge of the couch and leaned forward, her chin resting on her wrists, her face right next to his thigh.

“I don't know what I'll do if I lose him,” she said.

“You won't.”

“You don't know that. Gramma died so suddenly. One day she was sneaking an extra stick of butter into the potatoes behind my back, and then she was just . . . gone. And he's all I have left. They . . . I was so afraid they would get sick of me and send me back. That they would be like everyone else and get tired of my attitude and my crappy music. Or of the fact that I was banging every guy at school and sneaking them in through my windows.” She laughed hysterically at that. He didn't find it so funny. “But they never did. They just kept me. All the way up till now. And I just . . . I don't want him to die.”

“I know,” he said, resting his hand on her back, his thumb touching a lock of silky hair. Damn, she was soft. He was tempted to wrap a strand around his finger, stroke it a little bit.

Hell, he might. She wouldn't remember, and it seemed like a really great idea right in that moment.

He slipped his hand over so that his palm covered the dark wave of hair that shimmered over her back, catching the gold from the fire. He moved his hand slowly over her, a gesture of comfort. But he was also acutely aware of the softness. He was saving the memory of that softness, because he'd never touched her hair like this before, and he would probably never do it again.

Because if he was sober he would think it was a bad idea.

Sober Cade was boring.

Sober Cade was celibate for a reason. And sober Cade would have never found out just how soft and perfect Amber Jameson's hair felt beneath his hand.

Sober Cade lost on all fronts.

She looked up at him, a strange smile on her face, the light from the fire dancing in her eyes now, gold flecks deep in the brown that leapt higher when she cocked her head to the side, stealing all that soft hair and moving it out of his reach.

“You are . . . really sexy,” she said.

His stomach tightened. “You're only saying that because you're really drunk.”

“No. I'm not.”

“Baby, you're wasted.”

She laughed. “I know. But I'm not just saying it.” She scrambled into a sitting position, her thigh nearly touching his now. “I . . . I was thinking it yesterday. And the day before. I've thought it a lot of days. And especially when you said you hadn't . . . you know . . . done it, in like four years.”

He winced. That truth hurt with
and
without booze.

“You know what, though?”

“What?” he asked, his throat tight.

“I haven't gotten laid in, like . . . so much longer than you.”

He took a fortifying drink. “What?”

“I think, like . . . dude, Cade, I haven't had sex in thirteen years.”

He just about spit out the fortifying drink. “What?”

“I was seventeen. And I was doing it with this guy. And it sucked. And I just, like . . . realized I didn't even want the guy. I just wanted to not be alone. And that's such a stupid . . . it's stupid. You shouldn't have sex because of that. You should have it because you're really,
really
horny.”

She was looking at him now, her dark eyes intent on his, the flames somehow appearing more intense in them. “Right,” he said.

“I'm
really
horny,” she said.

“I thought you were sad.”

“Yeah. But I think you can be sad and horny. I think you can be horny and a lot of other emotions.”

He was a prime example of that fact right at this moment. He'd never been terrified of a woman before, but he was damn close just then.

And, he had to admit, horny.

She leaned in, her hand braced on the couch just behind his head, her hair falling forward, making a curtain around them, separating them from the rest of the world. “You know, I've barely even kissed a guy since high school. I miss it.”

He could feel her breath on his face. Warm. Sweet. Enticing. A mixture of booze and Amber, and he wanted a taste.

It was a bad idea, because she was hammered. He wasn't functioning completely normally either. And there were other reasons. Valid ones. And he could think of none of them at the moment.

Because nothing else mattered but how soft her hair was. And the fact that her lips were so close, and he wanted to taste them more than he could ever remember wanting anything before.

Amber's lips.

He'd seen them turned down into a frown, stretched into a genuine smile, contorted during an ugly-cry. But he'd never watched them kiss a man.

And he wouldn't be watching now.

But he would sure as hell be a part of it.

He sifted his fingers through her hair—another chance to indulge in her softness—and he leaned in, closing the distance between them.

It turned out everything about her was softer than anticipated. Softer than anything had a damn right to be. And she tasted like heaven.

If heaven was made of alcohol, sin and lust.

And his version of it just might be.

He cupped the back of her head and crushed her harder to him, keeping the kiss firm and steady. This was just a test. Just to see.

She lowered her chin, separating their mouths so that her forehead was resting against his, their breathing heavy.

He wanted . . . he wanted to pull her top off and explore her body. Wanted to part her thighs and find out if everything about her was as soft as what he'd already discovered.

She moaned, a sweet, sensual sound like he'd never heard from her before. One that his body responded to in a very predictable, very male way.

She angled her head, pressed a kiss to his cheek, then his neck. He put his hand on her hip to try and brace himself. He had no clue what the hell was going on, but he didn't want to stop it either.

He was already rock hard. Aching. And this was the most female contact he'd had in a very long time.

She leaned back, her smile crooked, the look in her eyes a little bit fuzzy. She bit her lip, the expression one of almost exaggerated seduction, and even though his brain said it was obvious and therefore should not be sexy, his dick had another response entirely.

Obvious was right up his dick's alley.

“I wonder if sucking cock is like riding a bike,” she said. “If you just never forget how.”

She leaned forward again, pressing her lips to the hollow of his throat. The action, combined with her words, effectively stopped his breathing.

“There's only one way to find out,” she whispered, her breath hot on his neck.

Her hand moved to cover his cock, delicate fingers curving around his erection. He let his head fall back. Let her stroke him through the denim.

Oh . . . yes. If there had ever been anything better than this, he couldn't remember it.

Better than the way Amber's hand felt on his body.

Amber's hand.

Amber.

Shit shit shit shit.

That was the other thing. The list of reasons why this was bad was so long. She was his friend. His best friend.

And her hand was on his dick.

She was drunk, she was hurting, and he was letting her . . .

He was an asshole.

“Stop,” he said, moving away from her. “Stop, Amber.”

“Why do you want to stop?” she asked, moving her hand over his erection. “You don't feel like you want to stop.”

God almighty help him, he didn't want to stop. But she was drunk, he was halfway there, and it was the worst possible time and way to introduce sex and sexual touching and . . . and cock-sucking into their relationship.

There would never be a good time, but on a scale of terrible to Hindenburg, this was an
Oh, the humanity!
moment.

“What? So you get to be all macho and chivalrous . . .”

“Can you be macho and chivalrous?”

“Yeah,” she said, taking her hand off of his body. He was simultaneously relieved and so disappointed he wanted to weep. “Because you're doing it, so it must be a thing. You're being all . . . those things and moving in with me and protecting me and pretending you're banging me and I don't even get the benefit of actual banging. My celibacy could freaking babysit your celibacy. I am practically a virgin again over here. But one who knows what she's doing.” She said the last part in what, he imagined, was supposed to be a seductive whisper.

It was a little slurred. Also obvious.

And it kicked his arousal up another notch. There was something wrong with him.

“Amber, no. Not like this, okay?”

“What do you mean not like this?”

“Not with you drunk as a skunk.”

She frowned. “What if I still want to suck your cock in the morning?”

“I promise that if you're in the mood to dole out any early morning BJs, I'll let you, okay?” She wouldn't be. She would sober up, she would be horrified if she remembered any of this, and they would never speak of it.

She probably wouldn't remember it, actually.

But he would.

Shit, Amber Jameson offering to suck him off would haunt his dreams for the rest of his life.

“Promise?” she asked, her capitulation ringing more warning bells than anything else that had come before. Because while sober, Amber was mule-caliber stubborn, but drunk she was a shade of common sense higher on the food chain than a good ol' redneck boy.

And that meant stubborn as hell—and no common sense.

“Yeah, of course.” Arousal gave him a good, swift kick in the gut. Just to punish him further for attempting to be some kind of a gentleman. For trying to save the most important relationship in his life by not compromising it with drunken head.

A smile, one that was both wicked and pouty, curved her lips. “I really don't want to wait.” Her fingers fluttered back down, caressed the top of his belt buckle.

“Amber . . .”

She looked up, dark eyes clashing with his. “Let me do this, Cade. I want this. I want you. I think . . . I think I might even need it.”

He should say no. For sanity. For friendship.

He didn't say no.

She tugged the end of his belt through the buckle and released it, letting both halves fall open. He was hard, and there was no hiding it. The bulge in his jeans was plainly visible, even through JD goggles. So there was no point telling her he wasn't in the mood.