Made for Breaking (The Russells Book 1) Read online

  The thought sent a cold chill sweeping down his spine. He didn’t have insurance and certainly not the kind of money it would take to piece his bones back together. He’d been waiting for months now, wondering which swing would be the last.

  He was alone in the house, and it was full of creaks and pops. The ceiling fan above his bed made a clicking sound as the blades slid around and it was about as soothing as a leaky faucet. With a sigh, he rolled out of bed, cradling his wounded hand in the other, trying to keep it still, and took the two steps it required to cross the tiny room. He crouched beside his open duffel bag. He had no furniture save the bed, and all his worldly possessions were in bags. He had to fumble through all three in the dark before his fingers closed around the prescription bottle he was looking for. And then he had to hold it between his knees while he worked the top off and shook out two Vicodin. He swallowed them down with a two-day-old, half-empty bottle of red Gatorade and then flopped back down on the bed, silence reigning once more.

  Silence didn’t usually bother him – he was pretty silent himself most of the time – but after the chaos of the bar, the empty bachelor pad had a coffin-like quality about it. His evening had been nothing like that of the asshole who’d been harassing Lisa. Drew hadn’t been out drinking with friends, laughing, pestering girls. Instead, he’d been working. And then he’d come “home” to a place he didn’t belong, knowing his new roommates would probably hate him for what had happened tonight.

  Don’t reach for things, his father had told him once, you won’t be disappointed that way.

  And he wasn’t doing that – wasn’t reaching – but as he waited for the meds to kick in, he could think of only one bright spot of his night: Lisa’s barely-there smile as she’d wrapped his hand.

  But in the interest of not reaching, he didn’t dwell on it. At least, not once the Vicodin started pulling him under.

  17

  Could it really be considered oversleeping if you didn’t have a reason to get up in the first place? Drew didn’t know the answer to that, but he had an internal clock that snapped his eyes open around seven most mornings. And this morning, when he cracked puffy eyelids and surveyed his empty, rented, Cracker-Jack box room with Vicodin-glazed eyes, he could tell it was past seven. He reached to wipe a hand down his face, and pain exploded in his knuckles, shooting all the way up his arm. He ground his teeth and inhaled sharply through his nose, remembering his wounded hand too late. Refusing to go to the hospital didn’t mean he shouldn’t have gone; he was going to have lots of fun not touching anything with his dominant limb for the next few weeks. Eventually, the bones would knit together in whatever incorrect shape they preferred, but in the meantime, it was going to hurt like a bitch.

  When the knife strikes had dulled to a pounding throb, he kicked the top sheet off and rolled out of bed. He needed to do laundry, but managed to find a pair of gym shorts and a white t-shirt that didn’t smell too foul. A shower was necessary, but skipped, at least until he knew who was home. Or, more importantly, if Eddie was home.

  Out in the hall, the bathroom door stood open, but he could hear the TV rumbling out in the main part of the house. Sly was sitting on a stool at the island that separated galley kitchen from living room, watching the news on the flat screen that was definitely the most expensive item in the home. He had what looked like a bowl of instant oatmeal and glanced up without a smile or acknowledgement.

  Drew paused in the doorway, scratching at his short hair with his good hand. “Is Eddie – ”

  “Just left,” Sly said. His mouth twitched in what might have been a smirk. “And yeah, you’re on his shit list.”

  Drew sighed and went to the fridge. “I didn’t pop him in the face.” Every one of his protein shakes was gone, and he had a feeling he’d find the bottles in the garbage. But thankfully, Eddie hadn’t looked in the vegetable crisper, so he still had apples. He grabbed a granny smith and went to the cabinet for a water glass.

  “No, you didn’t,” Sly agreed. “But you made him look bad. Ed hates to look bad.”

  “How’d I do that?” Frustration crept into his voice as he pulled out a stool and sat, eyes automatically going to the TV affixed above the mantle. “When a man pays me to do a job, I freakin’ do it. And Eddie’s got a problem with that?”

  There was a bottle of maple syrup on the counter between their elbows and Sly added some to his oatmeal. “You try hard,” he said evenly. “I get that. You’re a dumbass, but I get it.”

  Drew didn’t argue on the “dumbass” assertion, but glanced over, curious.

  “The thing about Eddie is,” Sly continued, “he’s basically a chick.”

  Drew bit back a grin.

  “He spends an hour getting ready in the morning; he had to have the master suite. The man wears white shoes; I mean, c’mon, total woman.” He stirred his oatmeal and took a bite. “He’s got a bigger ego than anyone I ever met, but not for no reason. He’s damn good at what he does.”

  “What? Picking up women in bars?”

  Sly shot him a warning look. “Eddie wasn’t gonna let anything happen to Lis. Tristan’s an asshole, but he’s not threatening. But you went in all white knight and trying to save the princess…makes Eddie look lazy. Puts you in the boss’s good graces. Makes Eddie very, very pissed off. You see where I’m going with this?”

  Drew sighed and nodded, picking up his apple. “You can’t make everyone happy.”

  “Nope.”

  “Where I come from, it’s more important to keep the boss happy.”

  Sly snorted. “Bet you never had many friends.”

  “Friends versus money.”

  “And that’s where you’re wrong. Neither. Anything ever happens to Lisa Russell, and that’s what you’ll have: neither.”

  Three days. They made it three days without any strange happenings. Cars were worked on, customer complaints were lodged due to the slowness of the boys’ work, and the family went about its usual routine of drudgery. And then the flowers came again.

  Lisa was nibbling at the edges of a piece of pizza, her stomach protesting such solid, greasy food, when she saw the purple and white delivery van pull into the parking lot. Her belly tied itself in a knot and she set her lunch down, her laughter dying in her throat.

  “What?” Johnny asked, folding a piece of pepperoni into his mouth.

  Rico – his skinny arms smudged with grease, his thick black hair gelled into a nest of spikes – continued to eat, but glanced between them. “What?” he repeated Johnny’s question around a mouthful.

  Lisa’s eyes flitted to the corner where Drew sat, apparently having put himself in time out or some such stupidity, and saw that he’d picked up on her sudden alarm. He’d tailed her at the bar all week, doing a good, if not overprotective job, and unfortunately, she was starting to rely on his presence, much like she did Hektor’s. Scolding herself, she looked out the window, took a steadying breath, and watched the deliveryman take a vase of pink carnations out of the back of the van.

  Johnny wiped his mouth on the back of his wrist and twisted around in his chair. “Flowers again?” he asked, frowning. “Dude, who did you sleep with to earn all this?”

  “I wish I knew,” she muttered.

  Drew stood and held the door for the delivery guy, scowling in a way that Lisa would have found amusing if she wasn’t fixated on the hideous pink carnations coming her way.

  “I think we’re gonna be best friends before this is over with,” the deliveryman said with a chuckle as he set the vase on the edge of the desk beside the pizza box.

  Lisa couldn’t bring herself to so much as smile. “I’m assuming these were from the same person?”

  He shrugged. “Far as I know. But I just make the runs, I never see the customers, so you’d have to talk to the office.”

  I might just do that. “’Kay. Thanks.” She signed for them reluctantly, and waited until he was back in his van before she sank to her chair in a shaking, rattled heap.


  “You okay?” Rico asked.

  Johnny stood and mangled the pink blossoms as he pulled the card loose from amongst the stems. “It says – ” he started, and Lisa cut him off.

  “I know what it says.”

  Drew loomed behind Rico’s chair, face a thunderhead. “We gotta tell your dad.”

  “And say what?” she asked, making a face. “’More creepy-ass flowers’? He already knows that. That’s why you’re my friggin’ shadow all the time.”

  Johnny and Rico exchanged a look that she took for confusion.

  “What? You think he’s just hanging out ‘cause we’re buddies or something?” Drew’s face twitched and suddenly Lisa wasn’t just jittery with nerves, she was furious too. Whatever her life had turned into, it was hers, and it wasn’t ruled by anyone else’s hand anymore. Whoever this flower freak was, he was taking away her control. Now she had a nervous dad and a dumb-as-a-brick bodyguard keeping such close tabs on her, she couldn’t turn around without bumping into someone. Somehow, her mother was handling the situation as gracefully as she handled everything…but Lisa was a Russell, and she responded with anger.

  “So who’s sending the flowers?” Johnny asked.

  “I don’t know!” She threw up her hands. “That’s the problem. And Dad thinks it’s some kinda sicko or…or…who knows. He won’t tell me. He just saddles me with Captain Meathead over here.” She sighed and glanced apologetically at Drew. “No offense.”

  He shrugged, but couldn’t hide the momentary flare of hurt in his eyes, so he presented his back to them.

  Johnny’s face was scrunched up like a rabbit’s. “Like, seriously? You have a stalker? Who would stalk you?”

  “I dunno.”

  “I mean,” he went on, “unless you pissed somebody off. You do piss people off, you know – ”

  “Johnny.” Uncle Mark’s voice lacked Ray’s frigid edge, but it was commanding in its own way. His son jumped at the sound of it, and it cut through Lisa’s mounting ire. “You boys get back to work. Hey, Drew, give us a minute?”

  When they left, it felt as if they took the tension and confusion from the room with them. Mark deftly moved the flowers to the top of a file cabinet and took the seat Johnny had abandoned across the desk from her. He stretched his legs out in front of him and linked his fingers together over his stomach. The combination of his dirty garage smock and the very serious, sympathetic grooves that crossed his face gave him the look of some misplaced therapist who was living a double life as a grease monkey. He was brimming with concern, but it radiated off him in a way different than that of his brother; he exuded calm. She’d always felt like she could tell him anything without risk of judgment.

  “Who is he?” Lisa asked in a quiet, not at all hopeful voice. She propped her chin on her fist and studied her uncle, hoping to find some telling crack in his sedate armor. She found nothing. “My flower stalker? You know, don’t you?”

  He gave her a little smile. “Your dad thinks he knows, but honestly, sweetheart, no, I don’t know who he is.”

  She believed him, oddly, but it still wasn’t what she wanted to hear. “You know,” she mused, “I left Tristan six years ago and I’ve done a very good job of not getting on anyone’s stalkery side since then.”

  His smile widened. “Very true.”

  “This is about Dad.” She knew it was true. “Someone wants to scare him by scaring Mom and me.”

  Mark nodded.

  “I want to not be worried, but…”

  “Worrying is natural. You’re not Wonder Woman.”

  “Clearly.”

  “You’ll be fine, though. Keep Drew with you. He seems awful…eager to please.”

  Lisa tilted her head far enough so she could glimpse him through the window. He had his good hand in his pocket, his bad hung useless, wrapped in tape at his side. He was trying very hard to conceal it, but she could see the pain flickering across his face when he thought no one was watching; he needed to go to the doctor. “Yeah,” she had to agree. “But what if he’s the flower guy?”

  Mark chuckled. “You think he’s smart enough to plan something like that?”

  Drew turned toward them, squinting against the sun that reflected off the windows. He couldn’t see her, but she could see him, could see the almost naïve, unveiled attention he paid to her. He’s smart enough, she wanted to say, but not wicked enough. “No,” she said instead.

  18

  “It hurts so bad you can’t stand it, can you?”

  The more time Drew spent at the bar, the more he saw it for what it was: a nightclub that had been renovated on the cheap with mismatched seams along the wooden floors and gaps where caulk and paint had been used to account for ill-fitted moldings. Through the haze of shadows and happy play of colored lights, he saw the water spots in the ceiling tiles. The wine glasses that dripped from the racks above the bar were cloudy and chipped. But rather than disgust him, all the little flaws were comforting; this wasn’t a perfect place full of perfect people as he’d worried. It was a scarred, overused place of respite for a gamut of patrons trying to pretend their lives were more fun, and more important, than they really were.

  His right hand, bare, its dark bruises looking like blue lipstick marks on his knuckles, lay on top of the bar, and twitched every so often of its own accord. When he glanced up, he saw Lisa with her elbows propped on the bar, loose dark hair tumbling over one shoulder, the ends clinging to the condensation of his beer bottle. Her eyelids battled fatigue, and her smile was tired, but he liked to think that the overall softening of her face could be attributed to more than just the late hours she kept. Slowly, at a snail’s pace, she seemed to be thawing. He didn’t get the impression she despised him anymore.

  “It hurts.” He was honest, but flexed his fingers to show he wasn’t immobilized. “I can still use it, though.”

  She snorted. “Did you change your mind about that X-ray?”

  “Nope.”

  “A cast wouldn’t make you less of a man, you know,” she said lightly, and straightened to unlace the apron she wore over her denim cutoffs.

  “Where are you going?”

  She rolled her eyes and pulled a can of Coke from the cooler beneath the bar. Drew was off his stool and prepared to follow her when she came around and settled in beside him. “Oh, sit back down, I’m on break,” she chastised. “You’re taking this all way too seriously.” The words were unkind, but her tone wasn’t, not truly, and after two weeks of keeping tabs on her, he’d become dead to it.

  Lisa popped the tab on her Coke and took a dainty sip, her gaze focused somewhere in the near space beyond the bar. She always gave off the impression that she was comfortable with silence – or in this case, the silence between the two of them, because the cacophony of sound around them was almost deafening. Drew never felt the need to fill up moments with his own voice, but he’d not been around too many females who could bear to be so quiet, and the curiosity was starting to drive him mad. Lisa didn’t appear all that shy, or nervous, and she was chatty with her cousin and the Latino kid who worked at the garage. He seemed to be a piece of furniture to her, an object, something that kept her safe, and to which she didn’t feel compelled to speak. He was okay with this – he was – he told himself that a lot. If anything, it made her more interesting.

  He pulled his battered hand in to his chest and leaned his forearm on the bar, shifting closer so she could hear him above the crowd. “You hate working here, don’t you?”

  She took another sip of Coke. “More than you know.” Her reply was flat. “But the money’s good.”

  “Your dad’s paying me to just sit here. You can’t need the money that bad.”

  She turned toward him with narrowed eyes. “I might have to live at home, but I don’t ask my parents to pay for a damn thing.” Her expression became something akin to a glare. “My dad’s in credit card debt up to his receding hairline, and since my dumb ass didn’t go to college, then yeah, I have to work at places l
ike this. And I do need the money.” She snorted. “I’d figure at least you would know what that’s like – needing money so bad you take sucky friggin’ jobs.”

  She had him there: he wasn’t proud of the things he’d done for a little cash in his pocket. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to make you angry.”

  “I’m not – ” She sighed, and he thought she checked some of the venom in her tone. “I’m not angry,” she started again, actually sounding like she was “not angry” this time. “I just – ”

  “Don’t like me?” he offered with a half-smile.

  She surprised him by smiling back, and setting her elbow on the bar so she could be more comfortable and continue to face him. “I don’t like that you have to be here,” she amended. “But seeing as how I don’t know you, I can’t dislike you.”

  “I dunno. I think you can dislike someone you don’t know.”

  She rolled her eyes. “But that’s not what I meant.”

  He was strangely relieved to hear that.

  “Can you blame me for not wanting to have a watch dog? I mean, I have a literal watch dog at home, but having to bring muscle to work? Don’t tell me this is fun for you either.”

  Parts of it were fun. Watching her was fun…in a non-creepy way…right…

  The patrons around them paid them no attention, and the music was like a second pulse in his ears, so he figured it was safe to talk. “Who do you think is messing with you?”

  She made a face. “You could probably fill a room up with poor little boys whose feelings I’ve hurt.”

  “I thought girls were the ones who always wanted revenge.”