Breaking (Fall or Break #2) (4 page)

His crutches were wedged between the bed and bedside cabinet and he furiously yanked them out, which did nothing for his back. Hard to tell what sort of day it was going to be before he stood up. Taking extra tablets would help with the pain but he was paranoid about getting addicted. Braced for severe discomfort, he pushed himself upright
.

When he managed to stand without crying out or slumping back, he felt briefly cheered. It looked like it might be a good day. With his forearms tucked into his crutches, his hands wrapped tightly around the handles, but trying not to use them to support his weight, he made his way slowly across the room and into the bathroom.

He’d wanted the full-length mirror taken out of there, but Mark, the physio he least disliked, had told him to keep it in, to practice standing upright in front of it, straightening his body, pulling his shoulders back. Conrad stared into the mirror looking for the man he used to be. His once sharp blue eyes were dull and lined with exhaustion. His salt-and-pepper hair seemed to be growing more salt than pepper and it was untidy. In another life, he’d have had it cut. Now he didn’t care.

Doing what he needed to in the bathroom sapped his energy. Even cleaning his teeth exhausted him. The shower could wait. He’d be wringing with perspiration once the physio had finished. As Conrad made his way back into the bedroom he heard his mobile chirping. He hoped it was his torturer telling him he wasn’t coming.

He picked up the phone and glanced at the display. Not the physio. Not many had his new number. As far as work was concerned, he was on a six-month sabbatical and not to be contacted unless it was an emergency and only then through Martin, his clerk, who
did
have the number. But this wasn’t Martin. Conrad briefly debated if he could be bothered to talk to his mother, but knowing she’d only call back later, he pressed the button.

“Mother,” he said.

“Conrad, darling. How are you?”

“Fine.” Because any other answer was pointless.

“Wonderful. I’m sure you’ll be back to normal in no time.”

How comforting
.
Back to my bitter twisted self.

“Alexander and I are about to go for lunch with Prince Albert on his yacht but I just had to call to see how you were.”

Conrad gave the response he knew she expected and understood the reason for the call was not an enquiry about his health but an attempt to impress him and those eavesdropping on her conversation. He really didn’t know why she bothered. “Fabulous. Have an oyster or two for me.”

His mother laughed. He wondered if she even remembered he hated the fucking things. It was an urban legend you were supposed to tip them straight down your throat, but it was the only way Conrad had been able to stomach them until he finally stood up to his father when he was ten and refused to eat them. Why the hell would anyone expect a kid to like oysters?

But that wasn’t the point. Conrad was supposed to gratefully eat what he was offered and say nothing because that was gentlemanly behavior. Being awkward turned out to be painful. He’d learned to pretend he was eating things he didn’t like and instead slipped whatever it was into a plastic bag he’d hidden in his pocket. Pretending became a way of life. It still was.

“We should be back in the UK in six weeks. You can come and stay with us then.”

“Right.” Over his dead body.

“Bye, darling.”

She ended the call before he could even say goodbye.

He tossed the phone on the bed and struggled over to his chest of drawers to find clothes. He wouldn’t need them until the physio had pummeled him to hell and back, but he might as well get them ready. Before he’d been tossed into the air on Tucker Street and ended up in the hospital, he’d always slept naked, but so as not to upset his succession of housekeepers, he now wore a gray T-shirt and shorts in bed.

Today’s physio burst into the room like a tornado. Mark was built like a rugby player and had a face to match—heavy eyebrows, flat crooked nose and big ears. Conrad didn’t fancy him at all which was a huge relief, probably to Mark too because he had a wife and kids. In fact, Conrad outright hated him because Mark was an even bigger bastard than he was. But while Conrad, as a barrister, used words as his weapon, Mark’s hands and arms were his instruments of persecution.

“You in a good mood today, mate?” he bellowed in his Australian accent.

“Does it matter?”

Mark laughed and set up his treatment table.

“Can you tell whether I’m in a good mood or not?” Conrad was genuinely interested.

Mark looked across the room at him. “Sometimes your eyes glitter with barely repressed rage.”

Fuck it. I’m losing my touch.
“Is that a surprise? I’m convinced your real name is Josef Mengele.”

“Who’s he?”

Oh my God. Don’t they teach them anything?
“Nazi torturer.”

Mark chuckled. “Get your butt over here and lie on your back.”

Conrad did as he was told. He’d had his spine broken in more ways than one.

When Mark was done with him, Conrad felt as though he’d been beaten up. In essence that was what Mark had done, used his hands to mobilize joints and soft tissue. He pressed, pummeled and persuaded muscles to stop lazing around and work properly. He watched Conrad walk on the treadmill, supervised his cycle to nowhere and told him he was doing great. But it hurt. It fucking hurt. He thought of the tablets in the bathroom cupboard and promised his aching body he’d take two if he still felt bad after his shower.

“Going to let me take you for a drive?” Mark asked.

“No.”

“The pub for lunch?”

“No.” Conrad shuddered.

“A museum? Art gallery? Cinema?”

“No, no and—let me think—no.”

Mark shrugged. “Going to try and walk without support?”

Something to which Conrad wanted to say yes but panic flared. “You think I’m ready?”

“You could try. You’ve done it on the treadmill. Be careful. Don’t overdo it. Baby steps, remember? You’re not up to hiking anywhere yet.”

A point well made when Mark had to help him to the bathroom before he left. Mrs. She-who-must-be-obeyed had already gone. When he heard the sound of Mark’s car pulling off the gravel drive, Conrad struggled out of his T-shirt and shorts and waited for the water to warm up. He missed his power shower, his travertine tiled wet room, his tub, his life. He swallowed hard. If he started down the route of thinking about what he missed, he’d slide so fast he’d run out of control, crash and burn.

He’d rented this place on a long-term lease so that he could get back onto his feet well away from London, out of sight of everyone he knew. As far as Chambers was concerned, he’d only be absent for six months, but Conrad had no idea how long it would take before he was back to normal. And what the fuck was normal? Plus he wasn’t sure he wanted his old world anymore which was rather worrying. What else could he do? What else did he
want
to do?

From a life that was full-on 24/7 not so long ago, he’d been reduced to a stumbling shadow who did little more than eat, sleep and suffer.
Oh yeah, and whine.
He’d lost interest in everything. A whole pile of stuff he’d ordered online to occupy himself lay unused in the cupboard. Depression had sunk its claws into him, dug deep and wouldn’t let go. He suspected Mark had only suggested he walk without crutches to improve his mood.

Conrad clung onto the handrail as he stepped under the flow. He let out a loud groan as hot water poured over him. He soaped his body, and when his fingers wrapped around his cock he couldn’t help playing with it a little, just in case, but it remained limp.
God-fucking-damn. Is it too much to ask that I could at least still have that pleasure in my fucking life? The chance to wank my way to oblivion?

Google supplied the answer to a question he couldn’t bring himself to ask the doctors. There was no reason why he couldn’t get hard. Even if the damage to his spine had been more severe, erections were possible.
So what’s fucking wrong with me?
He washed his hair and still clinging to the handrail stood with his forehead pressed against the wall until the water running down the plughole was clear and not soapy.

He might be depressed but he wasn’t going to start taking tablets. Who wouldn’t be depressed if they’d had their life interrupted by some homicidal maniac lunatic driver who hadn’t even fucking stopped to see if he was okay? Rage flared, his heart thumped harder and he forced himself to take several deep breaths. Depression was pointless. So was rage.
And whining.
Getting better was all that mattered. Except what did he have to look forward to when he
did
go back to London? An empty flat, a heavy caseload that would eat up his evenings and no Malachi to distract him.

By the time Conrad was dressed in chinos and a pale blue shirt with trainers on his feet because Mark said they were better for him to walk in, it was one o’clock in the afternoon and he was exhausted. He squashed the temptation to lie on the bed even for a few minutes because he knew he’d fall asleep and then he wouldn’t sleep that night. Instead, he headed on his crutches to the kitchen. Everything took so fucking long.

He was lonely, but he didn’t want to see anyone he knew. Or anyone he didn’t know. He wanted to walk back into his London home the way he’d left it when he went for a run that morning. It
would
happen.

A plate of ham sandwiches covered in cling film sat on the kitchen table. He hated ham. He’d repeatedly told them he hated ham. It was almost as though they were deliberately trying to piss him off. He threw the food in the trash and called
WE DO 4 U.
A few moments later, they were no longer
doing
for him and he felt a rush of relief that he’d taken charge of at least one aspect of his life.

He stood in front of the kitchen sink and stared out of the window. The sky was cloudless, the waves huge, the sun glinting off distant breakers. He spotted a solitary surfer in a black wetsuit. Conrad waited for the pang of envy at seeing someone on the water but it didn’t come. Was that because he knew it had to be fucking freezing out there or because his body accepted surfing would forever be beyond him?
No, it bloody won’t. If I want to surf, I’ll fucking surf.
Not that he’d ever actually been on a surfboard.

Between him and the sea was an expanse of golden sand. He really thought he’d be jogging on it by now, building up his strength. He wasn’t sure he could walk as far as the end of the path. He couldn’t even get up the stairs to the sitting room with the
amazing
view for which he’d paid a fortune. His life was confined to bedroom, kitchen and bathroom. Desperation to get out of the house under his own steam, if only for a little while, pushed him toward the back door.

He hadn’t been outside since he’d arrived weeks ago. He’d rebuffed all attempts to help him into the garden or to go out with Mark. He was cultivating the vampire look and made looking bored, blue and remote an art form. He didn’t feel up to walking down the path, but he was going to do it. He tugged on his coat, left the door unlocked, something he could never do in London, and set off on his personal marathon of fifteen yards. With crutches.

Chapter Four

Conrad’s backyard was little more than an uneven concrete path running down the center of a sandy area studded with rocks. On the right-hand side was a bench made of driftwood that didn’t look safe to sit on. The letting agent had ambitiously described it as a Zen Garden. Conrad suspected the attempt at serenity was by accident rather than design. The rocks weren’t strategically placed. They were in those spots because they’d been too heavy to move
.

As he cautiously made his way down the path to the beach, he tried not to think about what he must look like. He was relieved no coworkers could see him shuffling like an old man. When he realized how far he’d walked, he felt pleased until he recalled he’d have to make the return journey. He figured there was a shitload of pain to get through before his mobility improved. He tried to follow the physio’s instructions and use the crutches more for balance than support, a safety net if his legs buckled. Progress was slow, but it
was
progress.

Though by the time he leaned on the gatepost, his breathing was labored, his hands ached, his head throbbed, and his thighs burned. The beach was deserted apart from the single dark-haired, wet-suited surfer. He was too far away for Conrad to see his face but he admired his build and technique as he rode a wave most of the way to the shore before paddling back out.

No town or village served Shennan Sands, an isolated and unspoiled gem on the Northumberland coast between Seahouses and Bamburgh. It had no local shop, no pub, no church. It was comprised of a handful of properties scattered along a stretch of coastline accessed by a single track road. The place Conrad was renting and the unoccupied house next door were the only ones that fronted the sea. A couple of hundred yards away there was a visitor’s car park that served the beach, but when the lot was full, people had to drive elsewhere.

Conrad had been told those who frequented Shennan Sands were mainly locals with their dogs, ramblers using the coastal walk and the occasional surfer. Part of the reason for the high rental tag for the property had been its isolation, privacy and seclusion. Oh and that view from the room on the upper floor that he had yet to haul himself up to see.

He watched a little dog running backward and forward at the edge of the sea, darting in and out of the incoming waves, and had an urge to get closer to the water. Knowing if he thought much longer about it, he’d change his mind, Conrad pushed open the gate and stepped onto the beach.

Walking became considerably more difficult as his crutches sank into the sand, and he had to lift his feet with purpose. He almost turned back, but his hankering to achieve
something
pushed him on. Once he reached the hard-packed sand the going became easier. Though it belatedly struck him that since the tide was coming in, he couldn’t risk going too far in case the sea moved faster than him when he struggled back. He swallowed hard at the thought of his clothed, dead body washing up and the conclusions people would draw. He might have thought about suicide when he was paralyzed but now he wasn’t, he wanted to live.

Shit, it’s cold.
The wind cut through his coat and made his ears tingle. He should have worn his gloves and hat. That surfer had to be freezing. As he approached the little black-and-brown dog, it came running up. It looked like a mix of long-haired dachshund and terrier with a bit of spaniel thrown in, or maybe none of those. It wagged its tail hard, barked and spun in a circle before dashing into the foam and running back out again to circle Conrad’s feet. Conrad looked for the surfer and couldn’t see him. He assumed he’d been knocked off and would clamber back on, but when he caught a glimpse of the surfboard, there was no head bobbing next to it.

His heart thumped harder as he scoured the surface of the sea.

“Shit.”

The guy
was
there, but floating limply away from his board.

“Hey, are you okay?” Conrad yelled.

Of course he’s not, you fuckwit.
He looked around in case the beach had been invaded by a platoon of fit lifeguards, but there was just him. He put his hand in his pocket for his phone and remembered where he’d left it.
Damn.
He shrugged out of his coat, tossed it back up the beach and walked into the sea on his crutches.
Fuck it, it’s fucking freezing. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

Conrad could barely stay upright against the force of the waves but he planted the crutches in the shifting sand and kept going. When it was too hard to walk, he let go of his supports and swam, relying on the power of his arms, fighting against the weight of his clothes and trainers, and the power of waves.
Shit, it’s cold. What the fuck do you think you’re going to be able to do?
He had no idea, only that he had to do something.

When he had the breath for it, he yelled for help on the off chance someone of more use than him would hear, but he suspected he was this guy’s only hope. Conrad bobbed over a wave, reached out and gripped the surfer’s arm, and as another wave came, he twisted him so that his face was out of the water. Blood smudged his forehead until a wave washed it clean. To Conrad’s relief, he was still breathing. The board wasn’t far away so Conrad hauled him to it. He doubted he’d be able to get him on it but it would at least support the pair of them while he tried to get back to shore.

That was the theory. Not so simple in practice although controlling an unconscious person was a damn sight easier than dealing with a panicking one. Though that assumed the rescuer was able bodied, and Conrad wasn’t. Bubbling foam was coming out of the guy’s mouth and his breathing was ragged and shallow. Exhausted, swamped with cold and pain, weighed down by worry he wouldn’t make it, Conrad wondered what the hell he’d been thinking. Instead of one dead surfer, both of them would drown.

He spat out a mouthful of salt water.
Not going to happen.
Little by little, he maneuvered them through the waves toward the beach. The dog was going nuts, yipping and racing up and down. Conrad hadn’t even realized he’d reached the shallows until his knees hit the sand and he yelped.

There was no way he could get to his feet. He crawled out of the sea, pushed forward by the waves, dragging the guy with him, little by little hauling him out of the water. Once they were clear, he tipped the surfer on his side and hooked his finger in his mouth to make sure nothing was obstructing his breathing before continuing to pull him up the beach.

Once they were well away from the sea, Conrad collapsed onto his back, his chest heaving.
Now what the fuck am I supposed to do?
He ignored the little dog bouncing around at his side as he waited for his heart to slow and his breathing to ease. He was shaking with the intensity of how cold he felt, and the pain in his lower back and legs made him want to howl. He leaned to check on the guy lying next to him. Still alive, eyelids flickering, chest rising and falling erratically. Good, because Conrad wasn’t sure he had enough breath for CPR no matter how tempting the guy was.

Actually, he
was
tempting. Dark hair, long thick lashes and—

Think! And not of sex.

He pushed himself up to a sitting position and looked around but the beach remained deserted. He could leave the guy lying on his side, search for his crutches, assuming they hadn’t washed away, or try and manage without them and get back to the house to call the emergency services. That sounded like the best option until he felt a wave wash over his feet.
The fucking tide.
If he left the guy where he was lying, he’d drown.

He crawled back to the surfboard now floating in the shallows, flipped it over and dragged it to where the guy lay. The little brown dog licked the surfer’s cheek, turned to Conrad and whined.

“I’m doing the best I can.”

With some difficulty, he rolled the guy onto the board then had to stop to catch his breath. Now what? Wait for the sea to float him up the beach? It wasn’t a bad plan but Conrad’s fingers were white with cold, his teeth chattering. He’d have to stay in the water to steady the board and he wasn’t steady himself. Plus it would take too long.

It even felt like too much effort to travel the ten yards or so to where he saw his coat lying, but he still crawled to get it before it was soaked by the sea. He draped it over the guy, then sitting with his back to his house, he grabbed the fin on the board and pulled. He was almost shocked when it slid a short distance along the wet sand. All that hauling himself upright must have increased his upper body strength, though hadn’t the Egyptians used wet sand to shift heavy stones when they were building the pyramids?

He shuffled back and repeated the same maneuver while the dog barked encouragement and ran from side to side. At one point, it jumped on the board and Conrad glared. “Really? As if he’s not heavy enough?”

The dog jumped off again and Conrad continued. When it began to hurt too much to pull, he tried pushing. He could feel the tide racing in behind him, hear the crash and slither of waves. He gritted his teeth and kept going. Once he’d reached dry sand, he could risk leaving him and going to call an ambulance.

In an attempt to distract himself from the pain biting at his body he stared at the guy’s face as he lugged him up the beach. He looked a little like an older version of Malachi. Same scruffy dark hair and dark stubble. Good-looking. There was something about him that made Conrad think he might not be English. Blood smudged the board around the man’s head but at least it wasn’t pumping out. There was no visible injury so Conrad guessed he’d smacked his skull on the board and become untethered.

When he felt dry sand beneath him, Conrad collapsed back with a groan. “Shit, shit.” He wanted nothing more than to just lie there but he couldn’t. He checked the guy’s breathing again and made sure he was in the recovery position before he set off. When the dog tried to follow, he waved him back.

“Stay with your master. I’m going for help.”

Conrad crawled as far as the gatepost, pulled himself up and, taking a deep breath, shuffled back up the path to the house as fast as he could. He stumbled into the kitchen, grabbed his phone and tapped in 9-9-9.

After he’d given the operator the details, he sagged with relief. Part of him felt he ought to go back to the guy, the other part of him wanted to stand under a hot shower for at least three hours. Concern the surfer might stop breathing before the paramedics arrived drove Conrad out of the house. He hadn’t gone to all that trouble for the guy to die on him. This time he took his phone.

He was desperate to move faster but his legs refused to cooperate. Halfway down the path he realized he ought to have at least put on another coat but he couldn’t face going back. The dog came running up as he stepped onto the beach. The guy didn’t appear to have moved.

Conrad sank to his knees shivering as he reached the surfboard. He unclenched his jaw in relief when he registered the guy was still alive. He tucked a wayward hand back under the coat and the surfer opened his eyes.
Dark blue. Oh God. Not the right time, cock.
But it had definitely perked up.
How about that?

“You’re going to be okay,” Conrad said. “You’re safe now. Help’s coming.”

“No,” the man grunted.

“You need medical attention.”

“Fuck it. No.” He struggled to sit up.

Conrad was torn between annoyance his help was being flung back in his face and worry the guy didn’t know what he was saying or doing. But the surfer lost consciousness again and moments later, Conrad heard the sirens of the emergency services. He hadn’t heard them when they’d come for him. He’d been unconscious moments after he hit the road and lost two weeks of his life in a drug-induced coma. The doctors had been amazed he’d remembered anything. Part of the reason he suspected the police hadn’t believed him.

The dog snuggled up between them and Conrad found himself stroking his fur. He’d grown up with dogs but they weren’t treated as pets. When one of his father’s golden retrievers had puppies that clearly weren’t what was expected, Conrad had sneaked one to his room after he’d been told not to. The gamekeeper had killed them all in front of him. A hard lesson for a seven-year-old.

This dog wore a collar and tag. Conrad twisted the tag. On one side it said, Deefor, and on the other Archer Hart and a telephone number.

“Archer.” Conrad tried out his name. The guy didn’t respond. “Deefor?”

The dog pricked up his ears.

Deefor.
Conrad had been slow to get that. D for dog. He blamed the imminent onset of hypothermia. He’d stopped shivering and he knew that was bad. When he heard the paramedics hail him, he sighed. The police were with them. Conrad was grateful to hand over responsibility.

Wrapped in a thermal blanket provided by the paramedics, he mumbled what he’d seen and done.

“Sure you don’t need to go to the hospital with him?” one of the policemen asked.

“I’ll be fine. I just need a hot shower. Could you do me a favor though? See if my crutches have washed up.”

“Crutches?”

Conrad struggled to his knees, then his feet, trying not to yelp. “I’m recovering from an injury.”

A paramedic gave Conrad’s coat to a cop and as Archer was stretchered off the beach, Conrad felt a pang of envy for his mode of transport.

“You know him?” asked the cop holding his coat and the surfboard.

“No. The dog’s tag says Archer Hart.”

“Come here, boy,” the policeman called.

Deefor bolted in the opposite direction.

“Deefor, sit,” Conrad yelled.

The dog dropped his butt onto the sand and a laugh burst from both Conrad and the policeman.

The other cop came back with his crutches.

“Thanks.”

Conrad set off toward his house, so cold and exhausted, he could barely focus. The cops walked at his side, while the dog bounded along in front.

“You don’t need to walk with me,” he muttered. “I’m sorry I’m slow.”

“Take your time. We want to make sure you get back safely.”