9. CHAPTER NINE

What the hell was that?

Clint did a complete one-eighty as soon as they had sex.

He went from attentive and caring, to distant and aloof the moment their genitals were no longer touching.

Did she do something wrong?

Did he not like that she initiated things?

She'd never been a shrinking violet when it came to sex. Brooke learned early on that if you didn't tell a man what you wanted, you wound up disappointed and taking care of things yourself.

She also trusted Clint—more than she'd trusted anyone in a long time—and felt like she could be herself around him. Or at least she thought she could.

But the cold way he picked her up and carried her back to the couch, then didn't even make eye contact with her ... what the actual fuck?

With a pout that eventually made her face hurt, she sat on the couch with her arms crossed and her feet in the salt bath.

Her heart hurt.

Was he just like all the other men in her life? Had he already lost interest? That had to be a new record. With a hard, heavy lump in her throat, she fought back the threatening tears.

Why did she repel men?

What was it about her that made them just … leave?

With a tight chest and a burning sensation behind her eyes, she picked up the tablet from the coffee table. Crap. It was only ten in the morning.

What the hell was she going to do all day alone in the house and unable to walk?

She'd never been a big television watcher. She read books when she could, but she didn't have a lot of free time. Time to take advantage of your sudden free schedule and do some of those things.

Yeah, maybe ...

Grumbling at the complex puzzle that was Clint, she grabbed the remote and flicked on the television. He'd shown her how to cast from the tablet, so after a bit of fiddling around, she had an episode of Elementary playing.

She'd met Jonny Lee Miller at a party once. He was very friendly and down-to-earth.

She watched four episodes of Elementary before she needed to pee.

It wasn't that far to the powder room, but she'd have to crawl, and her knees and shins were still pretty scratched up. During the second episode of Elementary, she dried her feet and dressed them herself, but her cuts and scrapes on her knees no longer needed bandages—or at least she didn't think they did.

Slowly, she slid down to the floor on all fours. Her bladder screamed for release. She'd managed to straddle Clint and put pressure on her knees and shins, so she shouldn't have any trouble crawling—or so she thought.

But the couch was forgiving. The floor was not, and within ten feet of crawling, she'd managed to open up one cut on her knee and was leaving bloody splotches on the floor.

Great!

But she could do this.

She wasn't an invalid. She wasn't a damsel in distress.

She was Brooke fucking Barker, and she'd managed to survive frigid waters and swimming over a mile to get to land. She could survive getting to the bathroom.

Then, like a lightbulb switched on in her brain, she smiled and sat up, and proceeded to shuffle like a toddler on her butt, using her hands and not-cut-up parts of her heels to push her forward.

"Ah-ha!" she exclaimed, so proud of herself as she crossed the gulf between the couch and the bathroom door.

She reached the door just as she thought she was going to create a puddle like a puppy on the hardwood. Then she hoisted herself up using the bathroom vanity and got herself onto the toilet.

"In your face, Clint McEvoy," she murmured as she relieved herself.

Once she finished, she did the same snazzy maneuver to get herself back to the couch.

She was nearly there when the front door opened. "Brooke?"

The voice was deep and raspy and sounded a lot like Clint's, but she knew that it wasn't him.

Jagger appeared around the corner a second later. His lips dipped into a frown when he found her on the floor. Then, like a gallant bearded Prince Charming, he swooped in and picked her up. "Did you fall?"

She shook her head. "No, I just returned from the bathroom."

The creases between his brows softened as he put her down on the couch. "Oh. I came to check to see if you needed help to the bathroom."

Sadness created a fist around her heart. "Did Clint send you?"

He nodded. "Yeah. And he sent me with lunch for you, too." He grabbed the cardboard to-go container from the console table near the front door and brought it to her. "He said you don't eat red meat, so he ordered you the grilled Cajun chicken sandwich with our house-made beer-soaked French fries with fermented and ground dried black garlic."

Brooke's mouth watered.

Jagger's lips split into a sexy grin. "Yeah, they're amazing. Wyatt's own magic recipe." He lifted one thick shoulder. "With Clint's beer, of course."

She opened up the container, and her belly gurgled when the delicious aroma of Cajun spices, garlic, and beer wafted up her nostrils. Picking up a piping-hot fry, she took a bite and moaned, closing her eyes and rolling them nearly to the back of her head.

"Yeah, that's everyone's reaction the first time they try them."

Jagger took a seat in the low wooden chair with the dark green cushions adjacent to her. He crossed the ankle of his right leg over his left knee. His khaki shorts slid up his thick thigh, dusted with dark hair, revealing quite the tan-line. It made her smile.

"How are you doing? I heard your brother is on his way. That's great."

She finished her fry and nodded. "Yeah. It is. I'm relieved he knows I'm not dead." She scoffed and shook her head. "Never thought I'd say those words. But ... him knowing I'm still alive and not grieving me is a bigger relief than I ever would have thought. To know he's not alone is huge."

"You guys are close, then?"

She nodded again. "Yeah, I mean, it's just the two of us. Even though Rocco lives in Brazil, we talk and text all the time. I try to fly to Rio at least twice a year to visit, too."

"What about your parents?" It didn't look like Jagger had chatted with Clint, because his question came innocently. His blue eyes were wide with curiosity behind his glasses. No hidden secret agenda lurked beneath. He wasn't trying to get her to let down her guard.

Nobody knew about her parents. And she intended to keep it that way.

She merely shrugged and picked up another fry. "Not in the picture. Not close." She needed to change the subject. "What about your parents? Obviously, the five of you are close, but where are your parents?"

Jagger's lips formed a thin line as he smiled grimly. "Mom died a few years ago from Parkinson's and Dad is in a long-term care facility in Seattle for early on-set Alzheimer's. He was already gone—mentally ..." He pointed to his head, "When Mom went. So he still asks about her a lot, which is tough."

"Oh, I can just imagine. I'm really sorry."

"Thanks. We take turns going to see him, since when we all go, it's overwhelming. He doesn't recognize us. Or he mistakes us for someone else, like one of his own brothers. He still remembers Mom, though." His expression turned soft and wistful. "Has their wedding picture on his bedside table and kisses her goodnight every night. Calls her his ‘sweet love'."

"That's so beautiful. But also, heartbreaking."

His head bobbed. "He remembers the past clearly. It's the present he's muddled on. He still thinks he's in his twenties, still in the military, courting our mother and without any kids. Makes it tough to go see him because we're stuck having to pretend Mom is still alive, and that we're not alive, that we're his brothers—blood or in arms. It all just opens up old wounds. You know? Our mom was there for all of us when the women died in the accident. She was our rock. Then a year later she got her diagnosis and a year and a half after that she was gone."

"What about the other grandparents? The mothers' parents?"

As sad as this topic was, Brooke was grateful to be off discussing her own past, and it also gave her a greater insight into Clint and his family. They'd all been through so much in such a short span of time. No wonder the brothers all banded together and were helping each other raise their children.

"They're involved—sort of. Only Dominic's kids' grandparents live in Seattle. The rest are spread out. So they see the kids once or twice a year. But they also have other grandchildren, and most live closer to them so ..."

"The kids here are kind of an afterthought."

Jagger heaved a resentful sigh. "Yeah, kind of. They're also a visual reminder of the daughter they lost. Which doesn't help, either."

Brooke knew what it was like, to be an afterthought.

She and Rocco were afterthoughts when it came to all their family. She was ninety-nine percent convinced her grandparents, aunts and uncles knew what was happening in her home, but they all turned a blind eye and just backed away. If her mother wasn't doing anything about it, why should anyone else? Her father also did a bang-up job alienating their mother from her side of the family. Brooke could count on one hand the number of times she'd met her maternal grandparents.

Then, when shit hit the fan, and it was just Rocco and Brooke—their mother was gone, dad out of the picture, too—they were less than afterthoughts for their family. They were burdens.

Nobody from her mother's side stepped up, even with her dad no longer a threat. It was like Brooke and Rocco just didn't exist.

Her dad's sister Gina and her husband Rick finally took in Brooke and Rocco—out of obligation—but they were never considered members of the family the way their own children were. Damian and Mary ate steak with their parents while Brooke and Rocco got hotdogs. And her aunt and uncle never let Brooke forget that she was the reason her dad went away. That it was all her fault.

They lived like that for three years until Brooke graduated high school, then a year later Rocco got out as well, and neither of them had spoken to any member of their family since.

Not that family didn't try. Once she got famous, they came crawling out of the woodwork like rats—even her mother's side attempted to make contact. But she just ignored them all. If they couldn't be there for her and Rocco when they needed family the most, why on Earth would she consider them family now?

"You went quiet," Jagger said softly. "Everything okay?"

Brooke cleared her throat and nodded, realizing she was still holding onto a fry. She flashed a fake smile, then popped the fry into her mouth. "Yeah, just ... a lot on my mind."

"Understandable."

"So ... is Clint usually gone all day? Or until Talia gets home?"

A knowing, cheeky smile spread across Jagger's full mouth beneath his beard. Was she that obvious? She thought she was a better actor than that. "Yeah. He spends his days down in the brewery. At least one of us—either Clint, Dom, Bennett, Wyatt or me try to always be there to greet the kids when they get off the bus. Then we escort them home and set them up with a snack. It's usually Clint and I usually wrangle the kids and make dinner. Sometimes Bennett helps, too. Dom and Wyatt work in the kitchen and bar, so their schedules are wonkier. But they try to be home to put the boys to bed. Sometimes, if they can't get coverage down at the pub, we'll shuffle the boys to another house, or I'll go watch them."

"You guys seem to have a system. All the kids appear well-adjusted, happy and healthy."

"They're all bat-shit crazy, though." He barked out a loving uncle laugh. "But in a good way."

"Most kids are, aren't they?"

All Jagger did was nod in agreement.

"So, what's the name of the pub, anyway? I know it's San Camanez Brewery, but what is the name of the restaurant and bar portion?"

Back came that cheeky, flirty smile that probably drove the ladies—and a lot of men, too—wild. "Sound Bites. Or more specifically Sound Bites Restaurant and Brewpub."

Brooke smiled. "Sound Bites. I like it. Who came up with that?"

"I wish I could take credit for that cheeky pun, but it was Clint, actually. One night, we were all drinking beer from one of his batches, tossing around ideas, and he slapped his thigh and said, ‘I've got it.' And he was right."

A weird and wonderful pride filled Brooke's chest, knowing that it'd been Clint who had ultimately named the restaurant. She didn't know why she was proud of that, but she was.

And then she remembered how cold he'd been to her right after they had sex and that pride shriveled to a raisin in the hot summer sun.

"How're your feet?" Jagger angled his head toward her bandaged feet, which she had propped up on the coffee table.

"Better," she said, wiggling her pink-painted toes. "I'm doing the salt baths like Dr. Malone suggested, then putting on the antibiotic ointment and bandages. Still hurts to put pressure on them, though. Hence the butt-shuffle to the bathroom."

Jagger smirked. "I call that ingenuity at its finest. Where there's a will, there's a way. But while I'm here, do you want a hand or a lift anywhere?"

Her lips twisted in thought. She just wanted company more than anything. She was bored in the house all by herself. Maybe she could get down on the ground after Jagger left and do some Pilates. She'd stay on her back, but some core and leg work might boost her mood.

"I could use a cup of tea and a glass of water," she finally said. Then she sighed as he pried himself out of the low chair, grunting slightly when he stood up to his full height. "I feel so helpless and I hate it."

He dismissed her woes with a head shake and a cute pout. "Don't. We're not bothered by it. And we all know it's temporary. By tomorrow or the next day, you'll be walking around by yourself, no problem." He disappeared into the kitchen. "Just no traipsing up the hillside after wildflowers with the wildlings, okay?"

"But they're such cute wildlings."

His chuckle warmed her.

Clint had been just as chatty and friendly with her until they took things to the next level. Hell, they bypassed the next level and went about four more levels up from where they started.

She was no better than a Disney princess.

Nice to meet you. Oh, my hero. Kiss me. Bang me. Let's rule a kingdom together.

She shut her eyes, dropped her chin to her chest, and shook her head in self-loathing and disapproval. How could she have been so stupid?

"What's that look for?"

Jagger's voice snuck up on her like a jungle cat, and she jumped and squawked, jostling her to-go container. Thankfully, none of the decadent fries spilled out. He set down her glass of water on the coffee table.

"Nothing," she dismissed. "Just more thinking." She reached for her sandwich, but it was so big she had to hold it with both hands. He watched her with fascination as she strategized how to get the behemoth into her mouth. Finally, she got her lips around it and took a bite.

Just like with the fries, she was moaning and closing her eyes.

"Yeah, the sandwich is pretty good, too. Wyatt knows his way around the kitchen."

"I'll say," she muffled, her mouth full.

The flavors and full stomach helped boost her mood significantly.

After a few minutes when the kettle whistled, Jagger took off to the kitchen and returned with her tea, the steam rising from the hand-thrown green and brown ceramic mug.

"Do you need anything else before I go?" he asked.

Yes, just stay and talk with me. Fill me in on your brother and why he changed into a completely different person after we had sex.

But she merely shook her head and smiled. "I think I'm all good. Thank you, Jagger. I really appreciate it."

"You've got the walkie talkie, right?" he asked, glancing around for it.

She nodded and reached under the throw pillow on the couch. "I do. Must have slipped off the arm."

"Good. Just radio if you need anything. We've all got one that we carry around the property with us. Each household has one, too. But since the kids are all at school, it's just you right now." He headed for the door. "As much as it was a fucked-up circumstance how you got here, Brooke, it's been really nice meeting you. I love your movies." He reached for the knob. "And for what it's worth, Flynn Howard is a shitty actor." Then he opened the door and left with a wave.

Brooke finished her sandwich—though she probably shouldn't have her belly was so full—then also finished her fries.

They were just too good to leave uneaten. Cold fries were only good when you were drunk.

But after that, along with the herbal tea Jagger made her, she was sleepy. Not that she should have been. She'd literally done nothing all day. Nevertheless, she was tired. So she grabbed a throw from the back of the couch, closed her eyes and within seconds, she was asleep.

But it wasn't a peaceful, dreamless sleep.

No.

The dreams came on almost as soon as her eyes closed. Or at least that's what it felt like.

And she was trapped in her sleep.

She knew it was all a dream, and she kept screaming at herself to wake up, but she couldn't.

The water filled her mouth each time she tried to yell for help. Each time, she pleaded with herself to wake up, her arms flailing.

She knew how to swim. So why wasn't she swimming?

For some reason, her legs just wouldn't kick.

The swells were enormous, and the faint cackling sound of someone laughing at her from a great distance just escalated her panic.

She was going to drown.

Someone wanted her dead. Someone took great joy watching her struggle. Watching her fight for her life.

She spun around in the water, searching for help, then suddenly, she was in a public pool, not the ocean anymore, and there were people everywhere. Spectators lined the pool edge, and they were watching her drown.

"Help!" she cried again, before more water filled her mouth and she went under. She kicked hard to propel herself to the surface again and took in a big gulp of air when she got there. Her eyes fixed on the crowd.

People she recognized glared back at her.

Her family.

Aunts and uncles. Cousins. Her mother. Her father. And of course, a sea of police officers. Her father's friends. All of them dressed in their uniforms, watching her with interest. With smirks on their faces, hands behind their backs.

Nobody was going to help her.

Nobody was going to save her.

She went under again, this time rather than air, she took a big inhale of water and her lungs burned.

Maybe this was for the best.

Maybe this would just be easier. If she died. If she gave up the fight. Clearly, these people didn't want her to live. Otherwise, they would jump in and help her. Was this even a dream? Or was this real?

Opening her eyes, she stared up through the water at the bright white light and a peacefulness fell over her. She stopped struggling. Stopped kicking. Stopped flailing. A smile claimed her lips.

Acceptance was freeing.

It was liberating and brought her a sense of peace she couldn't remember ever feeling.

Closing her eyes as she let the bubbles of air flow from her nostrils, the blackness closed in around her mind.

This was it.

This was the end.

Things were finally going to be easier.

Only, just as she thought she was finally leaving this cruel and unforgiving world, strong hands gripped her by the shoulders and hauled her toward the surface.

"Brooke! Brooke! Wake up."

The hands shook her.

The cold air on her skin pulled out goosebumps, and those hands on her shoulders kept shaking her.

"Brooke!"

That was not how you performed CPR. She'd worked as a lifeguard at the pool during high school. She knew how to perform CPR and shaking someone by the shoulders was not the way to do it.

Then she levitated upward, and her chest slammed into something hard and warm.

The voice was next to her ear now. Calm, deep and reassuring. A familiar timbre that instantly brought tingles to her heart. "Brooke! You need to wake up. Please wake up."

She gasped and her eyes flashed open.

The pool, water and sadistic crowd vanished, leaving in its wake Clint, sitting on the edge of the couch staring at her in panic, and six frightened children stood behind him.

Oh crap.