Fractured Beat (Meltdown Book 1) (10 page)

“You actually think you can keep up with me?” I challenged.

“Are you kidding? After our bonding experience yesterday it’s obvious you need some serious levity in your life. Just call me your reality check.” Her words were funny and her smile contagious. When she patted me on the arm like we were pals and took off jogging I could no longer hold back my bark of laughter.

Hank let out a chuckle. “I like her.”

That was the problem, I liked her too. Fuck if there wasn’t a story behind this woman and damn if I didn’t want to hear it.

Sneak Attack

Mallory

I
was upset.
Upset and mad at myself. Why did I let him get to me like that? It wasn’t as if my accident was a secret. Normally I had no problem talking about it. In fact, talking about the past was part of the process. It was recovery lesson number one. With Grant it just felt…different. If my stint in rehab had taught me anything it was that honesty and humility were things to always strive for. Yet, for some reason, I didn’t want Grant to know how far I’d fallen or how low I’d sunk. If he knew I’d been baptized in the river of shame and had to scrape, scratch and claw my way out of that abyss, only to lose everything in the process, he would no longer see me. He would see that poor pitiful girl I once was. In a matter of seconds I would become less in his eyes….just like my parents…and my friends…and my teammates. I may be reformed but I would never be whole again. Due to my own stupidity I would forever be that flawed, fractured girl, forced to carry the stink of my past with me for the rest of my days… but Grant didn’t have to know this. I didn’t want him to see
that
girl. I wanted him to see
me.
Too bad the two were interchangeable. I was she and she was me and this is why I ran when he asked about my knee, and why I always would.

After slinking back to my suite with my tail between my legs I called CiCi. To say she was angry was an understatement. Her offer to call Blane and get me out of my contract was tempting but I kept thinking about Grant and the pain in his eyes. His lack of support bothered me more than it should so I didn’t want to bail on him. Grant Hardy was in need of an ally and I was in need of some answers.

While the guys were at practice a courier arrived at my door with Grant’s file from the rehab facility. I’m not sure what I expected but a seven page file was not it.
How could two weeks of rehab produce only seven pages of notes?
I spread the pages on the bed in front of me and dug in. Just as I’d suspected, things didn’t add up. For one, a patient’s period of withdrawal is always documented. The severity and duration, along with a plan of management, should have been the first thing I turned to. At Woodway we refer to this time as Phase One. After pouring over every last detail three times over, I finally discovered one hand written sentence at the bottom of a copy of the toxicology report.

The patient is asymptomatic.

Asymptomatic meaning he was showing no symptoms of addiction, or was it something else?
I wondered. The next five pages contained detailed notes from Grant’s therapist about his counseling sessions. Other than the one sentence about him being asymptomatic there was no other detail concerning Phase One. This made absolutely no sense. I shook my head in disgust. The therapist claimed Grant was resistant to therapy. I was beginning to think it was a lot more than that. From everything I’d witnessed over the past few days, as well as what was in this file, I had serious doubts that Grant Hardy was an addict at all.
So why would both the doctor and the therapist claim he is? What am I missing here?
After pouring over the file a few more times I gave up and shoved it in my bag. The first chance I got I was calling the facility and speaking to Grant’s doctor. In the meantime I had a concert to get ready for.

That night I stood in the same spot as the previous night. The show was equally if not more thrilling to watch. I couldn’t take my eyes off of Grant. The man was a spoonful of charisma and a heaping side of sexy with a vocal range to die for. Tonight he was wearing a pair of faded jeans that looked as if they’d been washed a hundred thousand times. With holes worn in them they still managed to cup all the right places. For observation purposes only, and not because I found the man irresistible, I could see why women lost their minds when they were in his presence. His deep, raspy voice paired with such beautifully harsh, yet poetic lyrics rendered him awe inspiring. Shivers coursed up my spine and tingles danced to my toes with each word he sang. Grant Erwin Hardy had a depth to him that both scared and intrigued me. I could get lost in a man such as this, but I wouldn’t. I’d been lost once before and almost didn’t survive. To do so again would destroy me. I glanced around the stage at the rapt, slack jawed faces and realized I was no different. However, if I was honest, and I mean really honest with myself, I wanted to be.

Through most of the show Blane stood off to the side talking to a group of men wearing suits. I didn’t trust that man as far as I could throw him. Thanks to both him and his jerk of a father I was persona non grata with the band. In order to do my job I had to establish trust, but how in the world was I supposed to do that now? If I was going to successfully do my job I needed to come up with a plan of action, and fast.

I’d managed to play off Kirkland’s naked girl comment this morning but I wasn’t sure I could handle seeing it firsthand, so directly after the concert I found Marcel and told him I was ready to return to the hotel. I wasn’t being paid to be Grant Hardy’s keeper. If he was going to use tonight or any other night there wasn’t much I could do about it. I was tired and the lack of sleep was starting to get to me. The time on the bus tomorrow would give me a chance to get to know the guys a little better. My focus was on Grant, but if he refused to cooperate and I had to go through his band mates to get to him, so be it. If I had to play dirty, I would.

After getting ready for bed I grabbed Grant’s file and read back over the therapist’s notes.

Day 1:

Patient shows signs of delusional behavior. He’s convinced he didn’t take the Oxycodone and that someone slipped it in his drink. When directly challenged he becomes agitated and verbally abusive.

Day 2 was more of the same.

Delusions continue. Patient keeps insisting he’s allergic to Oxycodone and to check his medical records.

I made a note to ask if they checked his records.

Day 3 caught my attention.

Had a breakthrough in today’s session. Patient is beginning to take ownership.

Her vague observations were annoying.
Did Grant confess or did he realize he wasn’t getting anywhere and give up?
I made notes to ask the doctor about this as well. I kept coming back to the same question. What if Grant was telling the truth about being drugged? If there was one thing I despised it was incompetence. I made a few more notes before putting the file away. As I turned off the light my mind wandered to Grant and I wondered what he was doing right now. Hopefully he was behaving himself. I tried to focus on all of the things I had to accomplish in the weeks to come and not how amazing Grant’s ass looked in those jeans. Finally I drifted off to sleep.

Why did coach insist on doing a training run in this weather? Normally when conditions were this bad we trained in the gym. I rounded the corner and almost wiped out on a patch of ice. Shit! Quickly I adjusted my left ski and recovered my balance just in the nick of time. Close call. I could barely see the path in front of me through the falling snow. Keep going, I told myself. I had a steep incline and then another bend and I would be at the first set of targets. I was in the lead, but I knew that wouldn’t last if I didn’t pick it up. Halfway up the slope I stalled out. Jamming one pole deep into the snow above me and one below, I flipped my skis sideways and began sidestepping up the hill. When I crested the top I gathered both poles in my left hand and reached for my rifle, only to discover it wasn’t there. A sick feeling washed over me. Coach was a sadistic pig. If I screwed up this run he would make me do it a hundred more times.
Jabbing both poles into the snow, I attempted to unclip my harness, only to discover my harness wasn’t there either…but something else was.

What the hell?

Before doing anything else, I glanced back down the hill to make sure my teammates hadn’t caught up with me yet. When I couldn’t see sign of anyone else I focused on the matter at hand. Clipped to my waist was a .38 caliber revolver. I had no clue as to how it got there. Without thinking I pulled my gloves off. They fell to the ground with a quiet thunk and one rolled down the hill.

Damn. Should I go after it now or wait?

Deciding the glove could wait, I dropped both hands to the holster at my waist. My fingers shook as I unsnapped the strap and lifted the gun to inspect it.

Recognition had me gasping out loud. How is this possible? I stared down in shock at the gun my father taught me to shoot when I was a kid, the gun that should be sitting in the top of my closet at home in a lock box. Yet, here I stood on the crest of a snow covered hill in Utah holding that same gun.

It can’t be.

The snow was coming down hard now and my fingers were beginning to go numb. I needed to get my gloves back on, and fast or I wouldn’t be able to grip my ski poles. Shifting my weight to my right ski, I moved to put the gun back in the holster and accidentally dislodged one of the poles. I reached out to grab it before it toppled down the hill and lost my balance. Before I could regain my footing I found myself tumbling head first down the hill. As I hit bottom the gun in my hand discharged and I was enveloped by a red hot blinding pain.

“Noooooo!” I shouted, and shot out of bed. Pain seared through my left leg as I bolted across the room. Not watching where I was going, I tripped over my bags and butt-planted on the hard as hell floor.

Ouch.

It took me a few minutes to catch my breath and to realize it was all a dream. The obnoxious pink knee brace winked up at me from my perfectly intact left leg and I began to laugh. Soon the laughter turned to tears.
Always the tears.

It’s stress,
I told myself.
Once I get into my groove the dreams will stop. They always do.
Wiping the tears away, I carefully peeled myself off the floor and checked the time
. Five-thirty.
Pain radiated through my rear as I headed to the bathroom. Not only was it red, but my left ass cheek now sported a half dollar sized rug burn. This definitely called for some ice. Assuming no one in their right mind would be up this early I didn’t bother with getting dressed. Grabbing the ice bucket I headed out the door and down the hall wearing a Dallas Mavericks t-shirt, plaid pajama shorts and no bra.

As I neared the open doorway to the ice machine I heard someone talking and froze. I thought about escaping back to my room, but decided ice was more important than being busted wearing my pajamas. Not wanting to interrupt, I politely waited outside in the hall for them to grab their ice and move on. The door was wide open so I couldn’t help but overhear their conversation.

“Hey Grant, you’re up early.” My ears perked up at the mention of Grant’s name. It sounded like Hank. “Do you have your running shoes or do I need to get them from the bus?” he asked. Grant was going running. “Okay, give me fifteen and I’ll be down.”

Completely forgetting about my sore ass I turned and bolted back to my hotel room. I had fifteen minutes to get dressed and be down to that lobby. Opportunity was knocking and damn if I wasn’t answering the door.

As I dug like a mad woman through my packed bag for my running gear, I thought about what to say to Grant. I needed to push without being pushy and to counsel in a non-threatening way. I stared down at my outfit and laughed.
Who cares if it matches?
I had just enough time to pull up my hair and brush my teeth before running out the door. My heart sank when I got to the lobby and it was empty. I was about to give up when I spotted Hank through the front windows of the hotel. Standing next to him was a scantily clad, very sexy looking Grant. Before they took off without me I charged across the lobby and out the front entrance.

To say Grant was surprised to see me was an understatement. Of course, he played it off by calling me a narc and I accused him of being threatened by little ole me. I tried not to laugh when I challenged him and he blasted past me in a full on sprint.
Typical man
. Sporting black running shorts and a sleeveless shirt he looked like an advertisement for Runner’s World, minus the tats and hair. It was impossible not to stare at the man. He was absolutely decadent both on stage and off and I couldn’t decide which side I preferred more, his front or his back. Hank shot me a knowing smirk and I pretended innocence. While Grant attempted to prove his manliness Hank and I did a light jog and chatted away about the bus and what to expect in Atlanta. Grant eventually slowed down enough for us to catch up with him.