When his father moved to his side, he waved him away.
Something jabbed into his arm and he scowled, staring at the IV tubing. With deliberate thoroughness, he peeled back the tape and pulled out the needle, ignoring his parents and his brothers. He couldn’t see worth shit, thanks to the bandage, and he craned his head around, trying to see the room more clearly.
Travis was even there, silent, like always. His face was grimmer than usual.
Reaching up, Sebastien touched the bandage and pain flared under the light pressure.
Blood dripped from his arm as he rose and moved over to the mirror hanging over the sink.
The bandage was a thick, heavy pad and it covered the left side of his face from just under his hairline down to his jawbone, a bizarre Phantom of the Opera—just without an eyehole. He reached up and started to peel the tape away.
“Damn it, Sebastien, you’re bleeding all over the place and you’re going to rip the stitches out.” Zach came toward him, reaching up to try and catch his hands. “Wait for the nurse. I’ll go get her.”
But Zane interfered, blocking Zach and nudging him away. “He’s on his feet and steady.”
“The nurse—”
“Zach. Let him see,” Denise said softly.
It was Zane who joined him at the mirror.
Zane who came up and helped with the tape.
Zane who took the discarded bandages and who used them to make a temporary one for the bloody place on his arm where the IV had been.
And Zane was the one standing there when Sebastien forced himself to look at his face.
The scar ran in a jagged line from his forehead, just above the eyebrow, all the way down until it stopped about an inch away from the corner of his mouth. His eye was taped shut, and when he tried to open it instinctively, it hurt like a motherfucker.
The cold inside him spread even more.
“I look like Frankenstein’s monster.”
“Nonsense,” Denise said. “We’ve already gotten the names of some plastic surgeons—”
“No.”
He turned back to the bed, but Zane blocked him. “We need to get your arm looked at, Seb,” Zane said softly. “You’re still bleeding.”
Sebastien looked down at it almost absently. What the fuck did his arm matter? He pulled away the wadded-up bandage and immediately blood started to well up, forming a fat bead before it started rolling down his forearm once more.
A soft sound caught his attention, and he looked up, met Marin’s gaze.
She sucked in a soft breath and he looked away.
Yeah, he didn’t blame her for looking so appalled. His face was a scarred ruin. And the one time he’d actually needed to be the hero he was always pretending to be in movies? He hadn’t been able to do shit.
“Marin!”
He jerked his head around just in time to see Travis catch her.
She’d passed out.
Chapter Three
One year later
The little red number on his machine was blinking.
He didn’t even bother to see how many messages he had—the count wasn’t right anyway.
He hadn’t answered his phone in days. Sometimes he picked up when it rang, but more often than not, it went to his voice mail and he hadn’t listened to those messages in quite some time.
He wasn’t totally lazy, though. Every couple of weeks, he went in and deleted the messages—all of them.
There was one person he didn’t mind talking to these days—no, make that three.
The pizza guy was fine because he took the tip, left the pie, and asked no questions.
The chick who delivered his food for him was good, too. She brought in the groceries, accepted her tip, and ignored the mess—although she had once politely left a card with a number on it for a cleaning service. He’d ended up using the cleaning service. They came out twice a month now, and he had to admit they were just as discreet and quiet as she was. They must like the tip, too.
And then there was Marin.
Sebastien wouldn’t have thought that Marin Lassiter would be welcome, considering that the first day she’d seen him with his shiny new scars, she’d passed out, but there you go.
His brothers, his parents, his sisters-in-law, his friends—all of them grated on his nerves. From time to time, he didn’t mind Zane or Keelie, although Zane would eventually try to get him to call the family. Travis would probably be welcome, but that guy was so buried in work, he never emerged for longer than it took to call and Sebastien didn’t do phones anymore.
Unless it was Marin.
When Marin called, he answered.
When she knocked on the door, he opened.
So today, when she appeared on his deck carrying a picnic basket, he disappeared into the house to shower and try to look presentable.
Now ten minutes into his hot shower, he figured he was about as presentable as he was going to get.
Well, save for the raging hard-on. But he’d grab some board shorts and a T-shirt. Half the ones he owned no longer fit. He’d put on nearly fifteen pounds during the past year and all of it was muscle.