That Man 3 (15 page)

“Jen!”

Before I could take another agonizing step, two strong hands gripped my shoulders,
holding me back. Blake.

“Let go of me,” I screamed through my tears. To my relief, he released me, and I hobbled
away. I groaned with each step. The pain was unbearable.

Blake trailed behind me. “What’s wrong? Why are you limping?”

“I stepped on a piece of glass,” I blurted, not slowing down. My tears were blurring
my vision, and the blood loss was taking its toll. I was a walking disaster. Losing
stamina, I stumbled. Just before I hit the sand, Blake caught me. His strong arm clamped
my waist.

“Let me see your foot.” Reluctantly, I lifted my foot to show him the damage.

“Hold onto my shoulder for a minute.” I moved my hand to his broad shoulder. As I
gripped it and suppressed a moan, he crouched down and examined my wound.

“Jesus. That’s really deep.” I peeked at my foot and shuddered. It looked liked some
kindergartener had smeared a jar of red finger paint all over it. It was a throbbing,
bloody mess.

“You’re going to need to get stitches.”

“The only thing I need is to get away from you,” I snapped back at him.

“I’ll take you home after I take you to an emergency room. That cut’s going to get
infected if it’s not treated properly.”

“Leave me alone.” I choked out the words, my physical and emotional strength dwindling.
I tried to put pressure on my foot, but it was futile. I gazed woefully at the daunting
cliff side stairs ahead of me. How was I going to make it up all those steep, jagged
steps? There must have been a hundred of them. Maybe more.

“Climb on my back,” Blake commanded, still squatting. “Or you’re going to bleed to
death right here.”

I was going to die?
In my head, I fantasized the headline in
The Hollywood Reporter:
“Aspiring Porn Producer Found Dead at Famed Malibu Residence.” Subtitle: “Cause of
Death Being Investigated.” Blake’s voice hurled me back to reality.

“Just fucking do it!” He sounded frustrated and desperate.

There was no way I was going to make it up those steps. I had no choice. Holding on
to him for balance, I hopped behind him and then mounted him, curling my legs around
his waist and wrapping my arms around his shoulders. He stood up.

“Hold on,” he ordered as he began to trudge through the sand with me on his back,
piggyback style. I tightened my grip around him as if my life depended on it. Because
it did. His rippled muscles brushed against my chest, and I could feel his chest rise
and fall with every step. Huge drops of blood dotted the sand, leaving a trail behind
us as we forged ahead.

I don’t know how he did it—probably thanks to climbing all those steps at the Santa
Monica Stairs—but he got us up the impossible cliff side, Step by steep step. He wasn’t
even out of breath when we got to the top. He was obviously in top shape from working
out so much. He gently deposited me onto of one of the cushioned wicker rocking chairs
on the deck. I noticed for the first time that I’d gotten blood all over his swim
shorts and there were traces of it down the side of his muscular leg as well.

Blood quickly puddled on the wood planks. While I silently freaked, Blake grabbed
the towel that was draped over the back of the chair and told me to press it against
the open wound.

Leaning forward, I crossed my injured leg over my other knee, and did as he asked.
Shit. It hurt.

“Wait right here. I’ll be right back,” he said, dashing into the house.

Believe me, I was going nowhere. I was in no condition to walk even if I could. The
loss of blood had made me woozy. I felt faint and was thankful to be resting in the
comfortable chair. Remembering I was still holding the fragment of glass in my other
hand, I set it on the small round table next to me. At least, no one would step on
it again.

Blake was back in no time with a tray of first aid. A box of Gloria’s Secret Band-Aids,
a bottle of peroxide, and a clean washcloth. Setting it on the table, he got down
on his knees. He removed the bloodstained towel and examined my foot. Blood trickled
onto his thighs, but he seemed oblivious.

His brows furrowed. “This is going to sting,” he said softly as he soaked the washcloth
with the peroxide. Holding my ankle, he dabbed the moistened cloth on the laceration.

I yelped and almost leapt out of the wicker chair. “What the fuck are you doing? Haven’t
you hurt me enough?”

His eyes stayed focused on my foot. “I need to clean this up. Get the sand off.”

I bit down on my bottom lip as he attended to the gash. The expression on his face
was intense. After a few more dabs, he tossed the blood-soaked cloth onto the deck
and tore opened the Band-Aid box. Frantically, one by one, he ripped open the plastic
bandages with his teeth and pasted them over my open cut. They were white with little
hot pink hearts in the center. He must have gone through entire box because a mountain
of wrappers sat on the deck. There wasn’t a single one left for my broken heart.

His forehead creased as he inspected his handiwork. “Fuck. This isn’t working. You’re
bleeding right through all the Band-Aids. Don’t move. I’ll be right back again.”

He quickly returned. This time with another dry white towel in one hand and a leather
belt in the other. One of the floral sundresses Gloria had gifted me was draped over
his sculpted forearm. Crouching, he hastily folded the towel up into a thick six-inch
square and pressed it hard against my bleeding wound.

Another loud gasp of pain escaped my throat. His gaze met my tearing eyes.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

I found it bitterly ironic that he’d just repeated the words he’d said in a different
context just a short while ago. I didn’t know what hurt more… the wound to the sole
of my foot or the wound to the soul of my heart. One shed blood; the other bled tears.

I watched as he strapped the leather belt around the makeshift bandage and my foot.

“What are you doing?” I asked, my voice nothing more than a hoarse whisper.

“Making a tourniquet to stop the bleeding.”

“Where’d you learn to do that?”

“Boy Scouts.”

I almost snorted, but he handed me the floral sundress before I could utter a sound.

“I thought you might want to put this on. Do you need any help?” His forlorn eyes
searched mine.

“No.” After my snippy one-word reply, I slipped the dress over my head and my two
arms through the spaghetti straps. I shimmied the skirt of the dress past my thighs.
Though the temperature was mild, I began to shiver. The loss of blood was wreaking
havoc on my body. I felt cold, broken, and empty. Teeth chattering, I folded my arms
across my chest.

“Geez. You’re fucking freezing,” breathed out Blake. Not wasting a second, he grabbed
an ocean-blue afghan folded over an adjacent chaise and wrapped it around me. The
next thing I knew, I was in his arms, cradled like a baby.

“There’s an urgent care center a few miles down on PCH. We’ll be there in no time.”

Wearily, I rested my head against his chest as we headed to his car. I wanted no part
of him, yet here I was all his.

Blake

I
t took us a short fifteen minutes to get to the urgent care center. The drive had
been as painful for me as it was for her. We were steeped in cold silence, fighting
our emotions. Jennifer kept her pale face turned away from me, staring out at the
ocean on her right. I wondered what was going through her mind. For sure, nothing
good. What had started out as a glorious romantic weekend had ended up in disaster.

I parked my car in the first spot available outside the cookie cutter cement structure.
There were only a few other cars, all parked in reserved spaces—obviously for the
doctors, nurses, and paramedics who worked here. It appeared we were the only ones
here with a New Year’s Day emergency. I hopped out of the car and rounded it to help
Jen out of her seat and carry her into the center.

“What can I do for you?” asked a plump redheaded receptionist. Smoothing her Minnie
Mouse print nurse’s smock, she eyed Jennifer. “Food poisoning? There’s been a lot
of that going around. People must be eating some bad fish.”

“No. My girlfr—” I stopped myself just in time. “She stepped on a piece of glass;
I think she needs stitches.”

The receptionist lowered her eyes to Jennifer’s foot. “We get a lot of that too. Damn
those bums who litter our beaches.”

It was unlikely that a bum—or anyone for that matter—had been trespassing on the Zanders’s
private beachfront property. Most likely, the glass had gotten there during the construction
of their house. It wasn’t, however, worth explaining to this pigheaded woman.

“She needs to fill out some forms. I assume she has insurance.”

“Yes. ” Jennifer nodded.

The receptionist pulled out a clipboard with some forms and a pen attached to it.
She stood up and handed it to Jennifer. “Take a seat somewhere, and when you’re done
filling out the paperwork, I’ll call someone to wheel you back to see the doctor on
duty.”

Jennifer quirked a faint smile. I got us settled into two armchairs. She kept her
foot up on the coffee table in front of us as she filled out the forms.

“Done,” said Jennifer. Obviously, the lazy receptionist bitch wasn’t going to leave
her throne, so I took the liberty of handing them over to her. She perused them quickly
and then called for a wheelchair. An attendant arrived right away, pushing one. I
helped Jennifer stand up and situate herself in the chair.

“Do you want me to come with you?” I asked.

“I want you to leave.” Her voice was as cold as dry ice.

My heart ached as she was wheeled away. There was no way I was leaving her here by
herself, whether she liked it or not. I sunk back into my chair and pulled out my
iPhone to check my e-mails and texts. But there was something I needed to do first.
Delete the video. With an indignant press of my finger, I made it disappear.

Fuck this phone! Fuck
Operation Dickwick!
How could I have been so stupid to have not erased the video? Stupid, stupid me.
Maybe what made me fucking stupid in the first place was taking it. Sending it to
her under a false identity was a shit-ass thing to do. I wasn’t just fucking stupid.
I was a fucking stupid asshole! I’d fucked up big time. I’d succeeded in prying her
away from Dickwick, but now I was the dick with a price to pay. I knew she’d never
want to see me again, and I had no clue how we were going to work together. Was she
going to say good-bye to her job as well?

While Jennifer was being treated, I beat up on myself. I had no solution to the damage
I’d caused. Sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you wasn’t going to cut it. Not with someone
like Jennifer. I was going to be her forever bastard.

Forty-five long minutes and twenty stitches later, Jennifer re-emerged from the emergency
room. Her foot was mummified in bandages, and she was on crutches. I stood up as she
hobbled my way. Her face was still pale and pained.

“I’ll take you home,” I said quietly, longing to take her into my arms, crutches and
all.

“No need. I had a nurse call Lip Service. A car should be here any minute.”

I was taken aback. “Are you sure? Seriously, it’s not out of my way.”

“There’s no discussion.” Her voice was still frosty.

“At least let me pay for it,” I pleaded.

“No need,” she repeated. “I put it on my credit card.”

A heavyset foreign-looking man entered through the automatic doors.

“Ms. McCoy?” he asked, searching Jennifer’s forlorn eyes. Obviously, he was the Lip
Service dude.

Jennifer nodded and followed him out, struggling on her crutches. My eyes never left
her, the crutches and bandage a reminder of all the pain I had caused her. Goddamn
it. For the first time in my life, I hated myself.

Jennifer

T
hank goodness, I had a Lip Service account—an online alternative taxi service that
was quickly becoming one of he best ways to get around in LA if you didn’t have a
car or were unable to drive one. My credit card was on file. I made it home.

“What the fuck happened to you?” asked Libby, her eyes wide, as I stood at the front
door on my crutches. It was just a little after five. It was a good thing she was
home because I’d left my bag with my wallet and keys at the beach house. She continued
to rant.

“And why haven’t I heard from you? When did you get back from Boise?”

In retrospect, I should have let Libby know what was happening. I hadn’t spoken or
texted her during the break. I took a deep breath.

“I have a lot to tell you,” I muttered as I hobbled into the living room. I still
hadn’t quite gotten the hang of getting around on crutches, and they moreover made
my armpits ache. Fortunately, the kindly doctor who had stitched up my foot said I
would only need to be on them for a week. By then, the pain would subside and there
would be little chance for infection, as long as I kept the gash well covered.

I collapsed onto the couch, leaning my crutches against the armrest. I propped my
bandaged foot on the coffee table, remembering the doctor wanted me to keep it elevated
as much as possible for the next twenty-four hours. I reached for one of the decorative
pillows gracing the couch, but Libby got to it before me.

“Here, let me help you,” she said, placing the pillow under my heel. I couldn’t ask
for a better best friend than Libby.

“Anything else I can do?”

“A glass of wine would be great.” I rarely drank before six o’clock, but today warranted
an exception. My head was pounding with sorrow and regret.

“You got it.” My bestie scurried out of the room and returned quickly with two glasses
of white wine, one for her, one for me.

After handing me a glass, Libby sunk into her favorite armchair. “Now tell me everything.”