One Night with a Hero (8 page)

“You sure you’re going to be okay?”

“Yeah. Just tired and achy. But better.”

She pushed off the bed. “Let me at least get you some supplies for the night.” Tray in hand, she returned to the kitchen, gathered fresh drinks, and laid everything out on his makeshift cardboard nightstand. “If you get bad during the night again, just knock on the wall. I’ll hear you.”

He managed a small smile. “Okay.”

She stepped to the door. “I’ll turn off all the lights downstairs and lock up. Feel better, Brady.”

“Hey, Joss?”

“Yeah?” She met his gaze.

He shook his head. “Just…good night.”

It was almost certainly not what he’d intended to say, but she gave him a smile. “Good night, sailor boy.” She jogged down the steps.

“Kicking a man when he’s down. That’s harsh, woman. Harsh.”

She chuckled to herself, made a pass through the first floor, and double-checked that the front door was locked behind her.

It was only nine forty, but she was beat. She trudged right upstairs, got ready for bed, and slipped under the covers. Mid-reach for the lamp, she paused and glanced at the wall.

She knocked on it, twice.

Knock, knock
, sounded back.

Joss smiled, but just as fast the expression slipped from her face. She clicked off the light and settled into her pillow. A tear pooled at the corner of her eye and dampened the cotton.

She liked Brady.
Really
liked him. Her breath caught and she held it to keep the emotion from flowing that suddenly pressed outward from her chest. She liked him
too
much, given how few days she’d known him and how unclear his own feelings were. And that meant she was headed for trouble. With him, these feelings couldn’t lead anywhere else.

So, she wouldn’t go out of her way, and she wouldn’t make it obvious, and she wouldn’t be unfriendly. But, from now on and for her own self-preservation, she needed to stay away from Brady Scott as much as possible.

Chapter Eight

Brady finally cast off the plague and returned to work on Wednesday, though he still wasn’t one hundred percent and had to drag his ass through the day. He canceled his therapy appointment and went to bed that night without even giving his daily run a second thought.

Thursday was more of the same.

In all that time, he’d only seen Joss on Monday morning, when she’d stopped over before work to check on him.

By Friday, Brady was feeling human again. Even better when, as he got home from work that night, Joss pulled into her spot just after him. He waited next to his Rover for her to get out of her truck, his body going tight at the thought of being near her again—no matter that he’d vowed to stay away.

“Hi,” she said in a way that seemed almost shy. “Feeling better?”

She was wearing her hair down, just like he liked. Brady’s hands itched to thread their way into it. “Yes, finally. Thanks again for taking care of me on Sunday.” Her help truly meant more to him than those words could ever encompass.

Maybe what she had done wouldn’t be a big deal to someone used to that kind of treatment, but he wasn’t. Not since his mom died of a stroke when he was seventeen, anyway. Afterward, he was always the one providing the care. For all intents and purposes, he raised Alyssa after their had mother passed. Not that he resented it one bit, but their father hadn’t left him any choice—his wife’s death destroyed him, and he lost his mind and every bit of kindness he’d once possessed in bottle after bottle of vodka.

Now, Brady was struggling to keep Joss’s compassion from crawling deep under his skin and making him yearn for more.

“I’m just glad you’re better,” she said in a quiet voice before slipping by him. Her heat nearly made him groan. “Excuse me.” Opening the passenger door of her Ford, she said in a singsong voice, “Peekaboo! There you are!” A moment later, she lifted a little kid out of a safety seat he hadn’t noticed. Child on one hip and stuffed bag on the other, she closed the door and looked up.

Brady swallowed hard. “Er, you have a baby.”

She chuckled. “Just for the night. One of the preschool parents is a single dad who works occasional evening shifts and his regular sitter went on vacation.” She walked her fingers up the little girl’s chest, setting off a giggle. “So me and Claire are having a girls’ night tonight and next Friday night. Aren’t we?” She kissed Claire’s forehead.

“How old is she?” he asked, having absolutely no sense of such things.

“Twenty months,” she said. “Claire, can you say ‘hi’ to Mr. Brady?” The girl tucked her face against Joss’s neck. Every couple of seconds she peeked out at him, then hid again. “Gonna be shy, huh? Well, that’s okay.”

Twin reactions coursed through him. Admiration of how natural Joss seemed with the girl—completely comfortable, confident, competent. And fascination with how beautiful she looked with the baby in her arms. Something about the softness of her expression, the gentle sway of her body as she held Claire, the tender lilt of her voice—she was meant to do this,
be
this, someday.

His gut twisted. It was a ridiculous reaction, of course, since he’d already determined to stay away from Joss, but seeing her with Claire just reinforced that he should, in fact, stay away, because he could never give her a family, he could never be that guy. Not for her, not for anyone.

And that foreign warm pressure filling his chest every time he thought about Joss? Every time he remembered the close press and shift of their bodies coming together? Every time he considered the way she’d taken care of him when he was sick? Not even these feelings, these memories, could change the fact that he wasn’t cut out for the life she held in her arms.

And she was.

“You sure you’re okay, Brady?”

He choked down his regret. “Yeah, why?”

She shrugged, her gaze dragging over his body. “I don’t know.” Was she blushing? He swallowed hard, wanting to taste the heat with his lips, his tongue. Joss hiked Claire up on her hip. “Well, I better get her inside. It’s dinnertime. Then bath. Then stories. Then bed. Right, sweetness?”

His gaze cut from the baby’s big, toothy smile to Joss’s face. She was looking at the girl with such affection. Did she even realize she’d just used the nickname he’d called her?

“Bye,” Joss said.

“Bye,” he murmured, his gaze tracking the sway of her hips down the sidewalk and through her door.

He spent the night nursing a few beers and attempting to watch TV. All he could really think about, though, was Joss’s sweet taste and needful moans, her soft skin and tight body. The only thing that kept him from breaking his vow and marching next door was the knowledge that she wasn’t alone. Around eleven thirty, a knocking sounded from somewhere. He peered out his screen door. A man was standing on Joss’s stoop. Tall. Dark hair.

When her door opened, Brady ducked back inside, but stayed close enough to hear their conversation.

“Hey, Will. Come on in.”

“Thanks. How’s my girl?”

Her screen door closed and cut off their conversation.

How’s my girl?

Surely he was referring to the baby, Claire. But the thought of some guy showing up next door, sweet-talking Joss, taking her out—touching her—ran ice down Brady’s spine. “Fuck.” Breathing hard, dark but satisfying images of what he’d like to do to such a man ran through his brain. He leaned his head against the jamb and banged it twice. It would happen. Of that, he had no doubt. Joss was too amazing of a woman to be alone. In fact, why she was single now made no sense.

You could be the one to ask her out
. Not a quick fuck in her truck or on her kitchen counter. A real date.

Joss and the guy stepped out her front door, interrupting Brady’s pointless thoughts. Standing in the dark of his empty living room, he watched out his curtainless front windows. The man cradled the sleeping child against his chest, while Joss went to the passenger door of her truck and removed the car seat. She put it in the man’s car for him, then stood chatting with him for a few minutes before he left.

Brady melted back into the shadows when she turned toward her house. The desire to go visit her surged through him. He had the oddest sensation that his arms and legs and head might come free of his body, that he was fragmenting into a million pieces, and only the thinnest of frayed threads kept him in one piece—and that, somehow, Joss could hold him together.

Pathetic
. No doubt his shrink would have a field day with that little gem of emotion.

Brady cursed under his breath and retreated upstairs.

He lay in the dark of his room and stared at the ceiling for a long time, willing sleep to come. His head was like a roiling sea, new and disparate thoughts cresting atop each monstrous wave, then retreating again as new ones rose. By four in the morning, struggling through the morass left him exhausted and strung out. He debated getting up and running to quiet all the shit, but finally he fell asleep.

He and Alyssa were sitting at the table before school, eating the last of a stale box of Frosted Flakes. Alyssa looked at him with her big brown eyes, desperately trying to eat her dry cereal quietly. They didn’t have any milk, or much of anything else. The two of them just needed to finish and leave the house before their father woke up. Then everything would be fine.

“Done,” she whispered.

“Good girl. Take your book bag and wait outside for me,” Brady whispered back, setting their bowls in the sink.

Her face paled. “I left it in my room.”

Brady gritted his teeth. “It’s okay. You go out. I’ll get it.” When she hesitated, he smiled and nodded.

She tiptoed out of the kitchen and through the dining room, and ghosted through the foyer and out the front door.

Brady shouldered his own book bag and went the opposite direction. Pausing beside the arch that separated the living room from the back hallway where all the bedrooms lay, he peeked around the corner.

His father was sprawled on the couch, one arm and one leg hanging off. The TV had been on all night and now played a morning show full of overly cheerful people.

Brady held his breath and dashed down the hall to Alyssa’s little pink bedroom. Her book bag was hanging off the back of her desk chair. He grabbed it and made his way through the house, not pausing at the arch this time. He was going for speed over stealth.

Turning into the kitchen, he froze. His father was standing at the sink, arms braced against the counter, staring downward. Instinct told him to keep moving, but Brady hesitated for just an instant.

What happened next was a blur. His father hurled one of the dishes from the sink. Brady dropped Alyssa’s bag, raised his hands, and caught the bowl before it hit him in the face.

Whatever rage his father had exorcised in throwing the bowl boiled over when it didn’t hit its target. He lunged. Grabbing Brady by the neck of his T-shirt, he slammed him against the refrigerator. His backpack cushioned the blow but his head snapped back against the freezer door.

“Think you’re such a hotshot, don’t you? Think the whole world lies at your feet. Yours for the taking.” Joseph shook him again. “Well, let me tell you, kid. The world is shit and you’re nothing. And you never will be.”

He shoved Brady, hard. Brady tripped on Alyssa’s backpack, lying on the floor, and crashed to the linoleum, his left elbow and knee taking the brunt of the fall. He’d protected the stupid bowl, though.

His father stepped over him, and Brady braced for…he wasn’t sure. A hit, a kick. “Next time, clean up after your damn self,” his dad said.

Brady scrambled up and grabbed Alyssa’s pack, then ran out the front door.

She glanced from where she was sitting on the front porch. Her mouth dropped open. “What happened?”

Unsure of his voice, he shook his head, worsening the ringing in his ears.

“You’re bleeding.” Rising, she pointed at his elbow.

He wiped it away with his hand and managed a smile. “All better.”

“Brady,” she whispered, fat tears filling her eyes. “He hurt you.”

Gasping for breath, Brady shot into a sitting position, the dream-memory still claws-deep in his skin. His stomach lurched. He bolted off the bed and just made it to the toilet in time.

He hurt you. He hurt you. He hurt you.

He threw up until it was impossible there was anything left in him. And then he threw up some more.

Jesus. Where had that come from? He hadn’t remembered that moment in years.

He flushed and collapsed back against the wall next to the toilet. “No, dammit,” he said, voice like sandpaper. “He hurt
Aly
.” At seventeen, Brady had been big enough and old enough to defend himself. It wasn’t too many months after the dream incident that Brady had raised his baseball bat at his father in a threat he had every intention of following through.

Afterward, Brady tried to keep Alyssa out of the Scott house as much as possible. And Marco’s family had taken them in whenever they’d needed. Hell, it was Marco’s dad who had driven them to and cheered them on through their baseball championships. And the high school graduation presents he received were all from the Vieris.

The one thing he’d known then was that he had to protect Alyssa, no matter what. And he’d done it. He’d been the protector.

But as he sat there on the bathroom floor in the gray light of morning, shaking and head pounding, all he could hear was Alyssa’s twelve-year-old voice declaring him a victim, too.

Chapter Nine

Three loud bangs sounded against Joss’s front door.

She jumped and her heart took off at a sprint. Joss glanced at the clock—it was only 8:00 a.m.—and saved the document she’d been drafting, a spreadsheet of local businesses to contact for auction donations for the center’s annual fund-raiser. Who could it be this early? She ran to the door and looked through the spy hole. Butterflies tore through her stomach and a mixture of curiosity and worry rushed through her. She frowned and pulled the door open. “Brady?”

“Hey. Can I come in?” he said, sounding…strange.

She smoothed down the short nightgown she was still wearing, wishing she’d thought to grab a robe or a sweater. “Uh, sure. Everything okay?”

He brushed by her, the smell of soap fresh on his skin. “Yeah. I don’t know. I just…” He paced to the dining room, surveyed the paperwork she had sprawled across the table, then turned back.

“Do you want to sit down?” she asked, watching him. She was beginning to get the very distinct feeling that Brady Scott was a way more complicated man than she’d first believed. That intense but playful demeanor she’d initially associated with him was only one part of his personality.

“No, I—” He turned toward her and stepped right in close. “Why did you take care of me last weekend?”

What?
That’s
what he was so agitated about? She shook her head and searched for words. “Because you were sick, Brady.”

“But why?” He leaned in until he was towering over her.

She took a step back. “Because you needed help. What is
wrong
?”

“Because I needed help,” he murmured, brow furrowed, eyes dark. “I’m not some damn…weakling,” he sputtered. “I take care of myself.”

Annoyance with his aggressive tone had her straightening her spine and bracing her hands on her hips. “
What?
Okay, number one, of course you can. Number two,
never
have I thought of you as a weakling. Sometimes we all need a hand. And, number three, what the hell is the matter with you today?”

He stepped forward and, given his mood, Joss retreated. Her thigh came up against the arm of her sofa.

“I am not…” He shook his head and struggled to swallow. “I am
not
a victim.”

A victim?
Joss’s fear disappeared in favor of gut-deep concern. The anguish in his voice resonated in a deep, dark part of her soul—the part that harbored hurts so old they’d been imprinted in her DNA. Damn if it didn’t make her feel closer to him. However stupid that was.

Slowly, she reached out and cupped his cheek. “Okay,” she said. She stroked her thumb over his cheekbone, the tip occasionally catching his long eyelashes.

After a long moment, she grasped his hand and guided him to sit down with her. His stare was hard and wary. Finally, he gave in and sat next to her, but he didn’t drop her hand. Joss’s heart gave a ridiculous squeeze at that.

His jaw clenched and his features appeared harsh and shadowed, but he was still the sexiest man she had ever seen. And he was apparently hurting. “Do you want to talk about it?”

His head whipped toward her. “Hell, no.”

“Then what do you want? How can I help?”

His gaze bored into hers, and she knew the exact moment it went hot, because she felt his need down to her curling toes.

He closed the distance between their bodies and kissed her. His hand dug into her hair and fisted thick strands of it. Tugging her in harder against him, his tongue penetrated her, thrusting and twisting.

Joss moaned, surprised and overwhelmed by the taste and heat of his erotic assault. Gasping for breath, all the reasons this was a bad idea paraded through her brain.

“God,” he whispered. “You always take it all away.”

The desperation in his voice set off an ache in her chest that made her need to comfort, to soothe. How often had she had someone who truly
needed
her? It was a heady feeling, knowing you could ease another. She wrapped her arms around his neck and held him close, surrendering to the hot chemistry that burned so brightly between them.

His kisses grew more intense, more aggressive, stealing her breath and turning her liquid. She sucked hard on his tongue, once, twice, wanting him as frenzied as she felt. He groaned and held her harder, his fingers urging her not to stop.

Pulling away nearly killed her, but the desire to take care of him, to make this about him, flooded through her veins. She pushed against his chest.

“What—”

“Shh,” she said, sliding to her knees on the floor.

Brady’s dark eyes blazed as she settled between his thighs and unfastened his jeans.

“I want to take care of you,” she said, tugging his jeans.

Expression awed and intense, he lifted his hips and she pulled the material away. His cock stood hard and thick. Joss took his length into her hands and stroked him. Leaning in, she slid his swollen head against her tongue—and her piercing.

He groaned, his eyes zeroing in on her mouth.

Satisfaction roared through her. She dragged the little metal ball from tip to root and back, wetting and teasing him.

“Take me in,” he rasped. “Please.”

Something about his words sent her heart thundering so hard she felt its echo against her eardrums. She sucked him in deep.

“Fucking hell,” he bit out. His hand stroked her hair.

She crowded into the vee of his legs, her breasts crushing against his thighs, and worked to take as much of his cock into her mouth, her throat, as she could. The heavy weight of him against her tongue, the warm scent of his masculinity, the restrained urgency of his touch—her body was so hot and wet she never wanted it to end. She flicked her piercing against his hard length as she withdrew and plunged down again.

“Shit, that feels so good.”

The gravel in his voice shot straight to the center of her. She reached between her own legs and pressed her fingers against her clit, aching for even the slightest friction. The contact made her moan around his cock, buried deep in her throat.

Brady released a harsh breath and slid his other hand into her hair. Her mouth still full of him, she kept her eyes on his as she sucked him in again and again. He looked at her with so much need, so much desire, her heart clenched.

He wanted her.

But did he want more than just her body? The freely given words of encouragement and praise, the soft petting of his hand, the fact that he’d come to her in a moment of such vulnerability—her heart insisted these were the actions of a man who
cared
.

Or maybe that was just wishful thinking.

She shoved the thoughts away and focused on him, on the wet slide of her lips and tongue over his pink skin, the teasing drag of her teeth over his hardness, the flick of her piercing around his head.

“Please. I need you,” he bit out. His hips lifted, his fingers pressed. Joss sucked him in deep and hard and fast, hope flying. His muscles went rigid and a groan tore out of his throat. And then he was coming, hands tangling in her hair, thighs crushing her sides. She swallowed what he gave her and licked him clean. Resting her chin on his lower belly, she settled a hand over his heart, reveling in the sprinting beat she felt there.

He grasped her hand and pressed it harder against his chest. With his other hand, he stroked the hair off the side of her face, tucked it behind her ear. For a long moment, he seemed absorbed in these small touches.

Then he dropped his hand to the couch. Shaking his head, he closed his eyes. His shoulders sagged. “Dammit, I’m sorry,” he said in a flat voice. His dark eyes opened and held an emotion she couldn’t read as he reached to right his pants.

Joss sat back, bewildered by the sudden shift in his mood. “What for? I didn’t mind—”

“This can’t happen again.” He roughly pulled up his jeans and fastened them.

His words were like a bucket of ice water. “
What?
” Like
she
was the one who started it.

“I just… This is wrong,” he said, refusing to make eye contact and pushing to his feet.

Her stomach tossed as she rose. “Since when?”

“Since always.”

Since always?
Right, because he never wanted her. No one ever had. Why should this be any freaking different?

“Look, it’s me, not—”

“Get out of my house, Brady.” Stupid. She was
so
stupid. Here she was thinking this
meant something
, that he was here because he needed her. “Get out and don’t come knocking again.”

Without saying another word, he crossed the room and did just that.

Joss slammed and locked the door behind him.

Then she fell back against the door and slid to the floor. She pressed her hands to her mouth and fought back the tears. They fell anyway.

When will you learn, Joss? Nobody wants you
.

She shook her head and tried to push the self-destructive thoughts away. But right now, she was nearly lost in those old emotions.

Joss heaved a deep breath and all she could smell was Brady. She couldn’t stand it.

She rose and climbed upstairs. In the bathroom, she brushed her teeth ruthlessly, but she could still taste him, still smell him. She lifted the bodice of her nightgown to her nose. Pure Brady. She ripped it off and threw it the trash. God knew she could never wear it again without thinking of this morning. Then she set the shower as hot as she could stand it and stepped in.

Refusing to think of the morning Brady had washed her, Joss stood under the streaming water and forced herself to stop crying. It never changed anything. It never did any good. It just left her feeling weak and exhausted. And what use was that?

When she was done, she marched downstairs and parked herself at the computer. Nothing like a mountain of work to lose yourself in. The center depended on this fund-raiser every year, so the work was way more important than her hurt feelings anyway.

The only good that had come from the morning’s fiasco was that she didn’t have to wonder anymore where she stood with Brady. So it would be easy to stay away. Before her emotions got anymore involved than they already were.

…

By the following Thursday afternoon, Joss was debating calling Will and canceling on babysitting.

She’d been dragging all week. On Sunday she’d felt so drained she didn’t leave the house once, not even to spy on Brady’s furniture delivery when it arrived just after lunchtime. On Monday, she went to work. But each day felt harder than the last, especially because the week was jam-packed with planning meetings and outreach calls about the holiday fund-raiser. The budget allocation they received from the county only covered half of their programmatic expenses, so the center depended on the swanky fund-raiser being successful—and it was Joss’s baby this year. After such an exhausting week, she just wasn’t sure she had anything left to give to Will and Claire.

But she hated to complicate Will’s life when she knew he didn’t have an alternative. Plus, she really enjoyed spending time with his little girl. Unless she got sick or started to run a fever, she was determined to meet her commitment, and then crash all weekend long.

When the center closed at six on Friday night, Joss wasn’t feeling substantially better. In fact, she’d been struggling with nausea all day. But she loaded Claire into her truck and made her way home through the traffic anyway. The gridlock seemed worse than usual, but maybe that was just because of how run-down she felt.

Relief rushed through her when she veered onto 36th Street. She’d feel much better after she changed into some comfortable clothes and had a bite to eat with Claire. She turned into her parking lot and her relief fluttered away.

Brady was getting out of his truck.

Thank you, universe. Seriously. Totally awesome of you.

This week, when the last thing she wanted was to see him, it seemed she couldn’t
stop
running into him. Twice arriving home from work, once leaving for work, and once when she’d been lugging groceries in as he was heading out for a run.

Joss parked, came around the back of her truck, and got Claire and her diaper bag, all the while pretending she didn’t notice him hanging around the front of his Land Rover looking like he might be thinking of talking to her.

Screw that.

Maybe it was childish. Okay, it
was
childish. But she avoided the whole awkward situation by walking back around the rear of her truck and up the far sidewalk to her front door.

“Joss,” he called, pushing off the car.

She fiddled with her key ring and adjusted Claire on her hip.

“Joss, please?”

Turning, she took a mental deep breath and reminded herself to keep her voice pleasant, and not to ogle his uniform. Damn him. “We’re not doing this.”

Brady frowned as his eyes scanned her face. “Are you okay?”

She glanced back to the door, hand fumbling at the lock. Finally, the key found the hole. She pushed the door open and took a deep breath before turning to him again. “I’m sorry. Weren’t you the one who said we were wrong together? Well, I agree. So, please—”

“You don’t look well, Joss. Are you—”

She sighed. “I’ve been taking care of myself my entire life, Brady, so I sure as heck don’t need your help. Not now.” She stepped inside and closed the door.

A half hour later, Joss’s words came back to haunt her. She’d just prepared dinner for Claire—hot dogs and applesauce—when the smell of the cooked meat as she’d sliced it into bite-sized pieces made her stomach turn over. Violently. She dashed out of the kitchen, where Claire sat playing on the floor with some little plastic cars, through the first floor, and up the steps.

The vomit was on its way up before she got to her knees, and some hit the toilet seat and caught in her hair before she could center herself over the commode. Her stomach revolted again and again, because she could still smell the hot dogs.

“Ja? Ja?” came Claire’s little voice, not yet able to pronounce Joss’s name.

“I’m coming, ClaireBear. I’ll be right there,” Joss called out.