House of Payne: Rude
HOUSE OF PAYNE: RUDE
(House of Payne #4)
Stacy Gail
House Of Payne: Rude
The Last Thing She Wanted…
From the moment Sass Stone overheard her social worker call her “broken,” she’s been hell-bent on proving her wrong. A broken woman doesn't have a posse of kickass friends, a foodie lover’s dream job and a string of pretty boys she enjoys playing with. Sure, she has scars, but they’re buried so far down no one even knows they’re there. Certainly her former foster brother, Rudolfo Panuzzi doesn’t know about them. The man she’d dubbed “Rude” could sniff around all he wanted, but it wasn’t going to get him anywhere. He’d never get inside—her pants, or her heart.
…Was The One Thing She Needed
A dozen years and several combat tours in the Marines has a way of maturing a man, and Rude is no exception. His last mission killed his closest friends and almost killed him, leaving him with wounds on both body and soul. When he looks in the mirror, the haunted eyes staring back remind him far too much of his sexy little foster sister, Sass. That’s when he knows there’s more to her than he ever imagined… and he’s imagined one hell of a lot.
When Want And Need Collide
One by one, Rude destroys the defenses that have kept Sass locked inside herself. But even as she reluctantly allows him to coax her out of her shell, a dark cloud casts its shadow on their world. Is it something from his past… or hers?
***This is the fourth book in the House Of Payne series, but each book can be read as a standalone. Not intended for readers under the age of 18 due to adult language and sexual content***
Discover Other Titles by Stacy Gail:
Bitterthorn, Texas Series (Carina Press):
Ugly Ducklings Finish First
Starting From Scratch (novella)
One Hot Second
Where There’s A Will
Earth Angels Series (Carina Press):
Nobody’s Angel (novella)
Savage Angel
Wounded Angel
Dangerous Angel
House Of Payne Series:
House of Payne: Payne
House of Payne: Scout
House of Payne: Twist
House of Payne: Rude
Novellas:
Crime Wave In A Corset (Part of the steampunk holiday anthology, A Clockwork Christmas)
How The Glitch Saved Christmas (Part of the sci-fi holiday anthology, A Galactic Holiday)
Zero Factor (Part of the cyberpunk anthology, Cybershock)
Best Man, Worst Man
Connect with Stacy Gail:
Blog:
http://stacygail.blogspot.com/
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https://instagram.com/stacygailsworld/
Copyright
All rights reserved. In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this book without the permission of the publisher is unlawful piracy and theft of the author’s intellectual property. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author. Characters and names of real persons who appear in the book are used fictitiously.
Copyright ©2015 by Stacy Gail
-
Cover image ©
2015 vishstudio
. Shutterstock image
ID Number: 156970904
Acknowledgments
Special thanks to Denise Garcia for naming Borysko Vitaliev. That’s just so perfectly Ukrainian and exotic. Love it!
Huge thanks to Dr. Patricia Metzger, a kickass friend and great psychologist doing amazing work with our veterans. One piece at a time, she puts broken people back together. I couldn’t have written Rude and Sass’s story without your expertise, lady. (((HUGS)))
Also, many thanks to Dr. Elena Sammons—anesthesiologist, genius, mother, daughter, wife, great friend and Ukrainian goddess. Thank you for all your help and support, my sweet friend.
And, as always, thank you, Jade C. Jamison. LYLAS!
CONTENTS
It hurts.
Sass’s jaw locked as she stared up at the high ceiling beyond the privacy curtains. There were three separate places she could feel her heartbeat, and none of them were in her chest.
Ribs.
Shoulder.
Jaw.
The ribs were the worst. They were also the reason why she’d finally decided to hobble into Northwestern Memorial’s ER. Otherwise she would have just blown it off, chalked it up under her miles-long list of Things That Hadn’t Killed Her, and moved on.
Then she’d coughed up a tiny speck of blood, and the pain of doing so had nearly made her pass out. That was when she began to worry that this might eventually go on the so-far blank list of Things That Killed Her.
But after being in the ER for three hours without expiring, she’d come to the conclusion she probably should have just stayed home and slept through the worst of it.
Or tried to, anyway.
“Good, you’re still awake.” The rattle of the curtain rings announced the arrival of the nurse attending her, a massive African-American man who probably could have qualified for giant status. Then again, she’d lied on her driver’s license when she’d put down that she was five-four. Almost everyone was a giant to her. “How’re you feeling, doll? Those pain meds kick in yet?”
No
. “I’m fine.”
“Good, good.” He went to the machine beside her that kept beeping in a way that made her wish she could reach the thing and smash it against the wall. “Okay. How’s that breathing coming along?”
“Great.” She was alive, after all. That meant breathing was happening.
“Mm-hm. Wanna take a deep breath for me?”
Not really
. “I just did. You missed it.”
“How ‘bout another one?”
“You have an accent—totally fabulous. Southern, right? Whereabouts?”
“Kentucky, and avoidance behavior won’t work with me, young miss. I’ve got four terrifyingly intelligent kids at home, half of whom are now into their teens, which makes them even more terrifying. You know what that means? It means I know all the tricks.”
Fuck
. “Do you happen to know when I can leave? I’m feeling tons better.”
“I’m happy to hear that, doll, but here’s the thing. No one here’s gonna sign off on you waltzing out of here until you get more oxygen into your blood, you understand?” He fiddled around with something behind her. Metal clanked against metal before she heard a faint hiss, and then clear tubing draped over her shoulder. “Let’s put this on for a bit and see if we can’t boost those O2 levels before the doc gets here and decides he wants to keep you, all right?”
Sass caught at the mask before he could slide its elastic band over her head. “I’m not real excited about putting something near my mouth right now. It’s a bit sore.” Understatement of the year. Talking had become a real bitch, with pain in both the jaw joint as well as the impact site on the left side of her mouth, and the interior of her cheek and lip felt like hamburger.
A bit sore? Shit. She only wished it felt
a bit sore
.
Her nurse raised a brow. “It’s this or the nose plug, doll. And you’ve got some blood crusted around those nostrils.”
Now she remembered. She’d smacked her nose against a stair riser while tumbling. She was lucky it wasn’t broken.
No.
She was lucky she wasn’t dead.
“Because of that, I’m thinking the nose plug would hurt even more than the mask.”
She
really
should have stayed home.
Once the oxygen mask was in place, he came around to again check her saturation levels. “Now how about that deep breath, doll?”
There was no other choice. Sass went into her head, a place she escaped to when unpleasant crap couldn’t be avoided. It was a useful trick. She could blank out her surroundings, her emotions, her sense of self, and exist in a temporary limbo. She called it her Nowhere Place. She’d used her Nowhere Place more than a few times in her twenty-six years, especially during her sucktacular childhood. Blanking out was how she’d survived growing up in Chicago’s foster care system. Or, as she liked to think of it, Hell’s battlefield.
When a person was on a battlefield, foxholes and bunkers were needed to survive. But since there was no place to hide when being shuttled from home to home, to facilities that were jails for children—one memorable year she’d been in a battered women’s facility and locked in a solitary room “for her own safety”—her only option had been to go in her head and not come out until the war had eased. Her Nowhere Place wasn’t perfect, but it did the job.
One thing, though. The Nowhere Place was good, but it couldn’t shut out everything completely. At least, she’d long ago discovered, not when it came to pain.
“Okay, doll. That’ll do.” The nurse patted her shoulder with his gentle giant’s hand, and she came back to the world with a careful exhalation. “Not a peep out of you. You doing all right?”
Ow, ow, ow, ow, ow
… “That was no big deal.”
“Blood pressure sky-rocketed and you broke out in a sweat, but you’re okay, huh?” Coming to stand at the foot of her propped-up bed, he took a pen out of his breast pocket with a flourish and grabbed up her clipboard. “In… considerable… pain. Refuses to… admit it. Beware of…chronic… avoidance… behavior. Patient seems to be… a professional… hard case. There we go.” Satisfied, he nodded at his notes, then smiled beatifically at her. “The docs around here like to know if they’ve got hypochondriacs on their hands, or drug seekers, or someone just looking for a little company. Then there are their least favorites—the hard cases.”
She wasn’t going to ask. She wasn’t going to ask… “Why least favorite?”
Damn it.
“Pfft, you kidding? You hard cases are the
worst
. So much work has to go into you, because none of y’all ever give anything up voluntarily. Getting honest answers about how you’re feeling is like getting water from a rock. Hell, most of your kind’s already at death’s door by the time you realize you might need to get to a doctor in the first place. Why do you think we call y’all
hard cases
? It’s not because you’re a happy little stroll through the park.”
“And here I thought you’d appreciate someone who doesn’t complain.”
“I do appreciate that. I just don’t know why you think complaining and telling someone how you genuinely feel is the same thing. They’re not, you know.”
She ignored how the observation resonated inside until it hurt almost as much as the rest of her. “I’ll keep that in mind, thanks.”
“You’re very welcome.” He moved to the opening in the curtain. “You up for visitors?”
She didn’t move. “I told you, I fell.” Technically speaking, it was true. She’d fallen down a massive flight stairs because she’d been thrown by a fucking insane asshole, and gravity was a thing. “No cops.”
He turned and stared at her. She stared back until she thought a tumbleweed or maybe Clint Eastwood should roll by. She had to admit, the gentle giant was almost as good at resting bitch-face as she was. But he was a nurse. That meant deep down he was a softie. That gave her the advantage, so she sat back and waited for him to crack.
It took a full ten seconds—she counted—but in the end he rolled his eyes, probably looking very much like the teens he had at home. “Yeah, right. You
fell
. Well, don’t worry. We don’t have people arrested around here for being clumsy.”
“That’s nice of you.”
“What we usually do with people who have your brand of clumsy is just, you know, put toe tags on ‘em.”
“I’ll be sure to keep up my pedicure.” She knew he was trying to help, because he was clearly a card-carrying member of that rare breed—a nice guy. But she wasn’t some weak-willed, chronic victim who needed to be saved.
Not this time, anyway.
His brows quirked. “Tough as nails and then some, aren’t you? Have it your way. I’ll let your visitor know he’s got a hard case waiting for him.”
He
? “Wait, who is it?”
“I think he said he was your brother. I guess you two look kind of alike, at least in coloring. Dark hair, dark eyes. But he’s a huge guy and you’re pocket-sized.”
Oh, no.
“He came in after we called the contact number you gave at the Admissions desk, just in case we needed someone to sign for you.”
No, no, NO.
She’d given the Admissions person her former foster parents’ number. The Panuzzis, Mama Coco and Papa Bolo, were amazing people, and she loved them with her whole heart. They were currently in California visiting their daughter Izzi, who’d just given birth to her fourth child, and the Panuzzis’ thirteenth grandchild. She hadn’t given the numbers of her best friends and former foster sisters, Scout Upton-Fournier and Tonya Jackson-Daresey, because Scout was in the south of France on her honeymoon, and Tonya’s family had been hit with the stomach flu from hell. Her other best friend, Francesca “Frankie” Panuzzi-Valente took her role of older sister to borderline-manic levels, with a tendency to gush or freak, depending on the situation. No way was she going to tell Frankie she’s landed her butt in an ER. She hadn’t wanted anyone bothered with this infuriating little hiccup, so she’d thought she’d been safe in giving a number belonging to a phone that no one would be around to answer.
But apparently someone had.
Worse yet, she had a sinking feeling she knew who’d been there to pick up the phone.
“I don’t suppose he gave a name.”
Please don’t let it be him. Please don’t let it be him…
“Same name that went with the number—Panuzzi, right? Rudy, though he told me that you don’t call him that. You call him—”
“Rude.” She would have sighed in frustration if she could have expanded her rib cage that far. Just when she thought this night couldn’t get any worse, Fate had decided to serve up a huge plate of Rude.
Outstanding.
“He’s been waiting all this time to see you. But if you’re not up for it—”
“Don’t be silly.” The sooner she saw him, the sooner he’d go away. More than anything, she wanted him to go the hell
away
. “I can’t wait to see him.”
“Why do I get the feeling you’re one of those weirdly wired people who says the exact opposite of what they mean?” Without waiting for an answer, he left her to gather her strength and courage to face what was now inevitable.
To say that she didn’t get along with Rude was putting it mildly. Rudolfo Panuzzi, the youngest son of her former foster parents, had earned his nickname the first day she and Scout had been brought into the Panuzzi household. The hell of it was, Sass had never wanted to go into another private foster home again; she’d even been assured that after a nearly deadly stay in a private foster home, she’d be in government-run group homes from that point on.
Then she’d been told the Panuzzis had specifically asked for a child with her kind of background, and she’d been carted off yet again, with no control over where she went and no hope that things would ever get better.
When she’d met the Panuzzis’ biological child, Rudolfo, it was clear she’d been right not to get her hopes up.
Rude was the youngest of five children. Just when he’d gotten his parents all to himself, he’d been hit with an influx of foster siblings. The peaceful dream of only-child living went up in a puff of smoke, and he hadn’t been shy about letting everyone know how displeased he was with the situation. The moment she’d landed her fourteen-year-old self on the second floor, following Mama Coco’s instructions to go upstairs and put her small suitcase in what would be the room she’d share with Scout, she’d been greeted by Rude.
Arms crossed, feet planted wide, he stood in front of a door decorated with a skull-and-crossbones pirate flag, and a warning sign to Keep Out. His stance was unmistakable—this was his territory, and she’d be a fool to go anywhere near it.
She’d had no desire to go near it, or him. Ever.
Rude had curled his lip in a disdainful snarl. “I heard my mom and dad say
welcome home
, but let’s get something straight. You’re
not
welcome, and this
isn’t
your home, so don’t even think about getting comfortable. In a week you’ll be wishing you’d never come here.”
On that estimation, he’d been way off. It hadn’t taken a week. As he’d bristled with hostility, she’d been wishing it right then.
On the other hand, there was one thing to be admired about Rude—even back then he’d had the manly balls to say out loud what all the other biological children of foster parents merely thought, so in a weird way she’d admired his honesty. That, and his physical appearance. Even at that time in her life, so entrenched in her Nowhere Place she’d thought she’d never want to come out again, she’d noticed that Rude Panuzzi wasn’t hard to look at.
Like all the Panuzzi children, Rude had those killer Italian-lover looks—curling black hair he kept military-style short, with a widow’s peak that would undoubtedly be as defined fifty years from now as his father’s was. Long black lashes as lush as any woman’s, framing deep-set eyes the color of cognac. He’d been named after the legendary movie star and heartthrob, Rudolfo “Rudolph” Valentino, and Rude could have been considered a heartthrob in his own right. With high cheekbones, straight nose and lover’s mouth with a lower lip full enough to give it a perpetual pout, he certainly looked like the complete package.
