Somebody to Love (Crazy Little Thing Book 3) Read online

  Copyright © 2019 by Serene Franklin

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Cover Artist: Natasha Snow Designs

  Editing: Proof Positive

  Proofreading: Judy's Proofreading

  Formatting: Rainbow Danger Designs

  Paperback: 978-1-9994727-8-8

  Ebook: 978-1-9994727-9-5

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Epilogue

  Also by Serene Franklin

  About the Author

  So please just hold on to me

  This is no end, we're not finished here

  Finding our way, we're just changing

  EDEN, “love; not wrong (brave)”

  One

  Remy

  I inhaled deeply, allowing smoke into my lungs for what would be the last time. The warm Palm Springs breeze felt cool against my skin, dampened from having been in the pool. This wasn’t my house. I’d been staying with an older guy I met online after having been evicted from my lavish Los Angeles penthouse apartment over four months ago. My career—if you could call it that—had finally imploded once the world saw how truly fucked up I was. I hadn’t had savings because I was a reckless fuck, and I’d found myself temporarily homeless.

  I looked to my left at the setting sun, numb to the beauty of the colors lighting up the sky. Purples, blues, oranges, and pinks were on full display to be admired, yet all I saw was the end. The end of the day, the end of light, the end of everything I’d come to know. I sighed, then stubbed out the roach on the concrete roof I sat on. He didn’t like it when I climbed up here—fuck him. He wouldn’t have to deal with me after today. I looked to my right where the desert seemed to stretch on for miles—maybe forever. The thought filled me with a mix of dread and familiarity. If I went in that direction, I could tell myself I could run forever. I was used to running—it was the forever part that fucked me up and made me realize how little time I had left. I turned back toward the setting sun, laughing bitterly.

  The sun had fully disappeared behind the mountains, taking some of its warmth with it. Now is as good a time as any. I stood, leaving the roach behind, and ran to the edge of the roof. My feet left the flat concrete and I felt weightless for a few gratifying seconds before gravity pulled me down. I hit the water feet first, sinking nearly to the bottom of the pool. If I could have stayed down there—away from all the noise—maybe I wouldn’t have felt like I needed to reach the end.

  Guilt ate at me over my selfishness and cowardice, but it wasn’t a surprise that I was a fucking coward. I owed too many apologies to the people in my life, though one person stood leagues above the others. I’d wronged him the most. I’d hurt him when all he’d done was love me.

  My lungs burned. I pushed against the bottom of the pool, surfacing on a gasp, then swam to the edge. Once I’d caught my breath, I hauled myself out of the pool, and headed toward the glass sliding doors. My phone rang, which struck me as odd. No one called me anymore—not after the truth had come out. Maybe it was morbid curiosity, or maybe just the last shred of hope I had in me, but I changed course and jogged toward my phone on one of the lounge chairs.

  The caller ID showed a Chicago number, immediately setting me on edge. My sister was the only person in Chicago I still talked to, and I had her number programmed in my phone. I answered the call on what had to be the last ring, and gave a cautious greeting—I didn’t need to be thinking about this random caller while I drifted off.

  “Hello. I’m looking to speak with Remington Kincaid.” The voice belonged to a woman. She sounded gravely serious, yet unaffected.

  “You’ve got him.”

  “This is Northwestern Memorial Hospital. You were listed as the next of kin for Maxim Aver…” She trailed off before going on to butcher his last name.

  “Averkiyev,” I corrected, annoyance clear in my tone before I registered who was calling. “Is he okay?”

  “Mr. Averkiyev was in an accident.”

  If she said anything after that, I didn’t hear it. I dropped the phone, and bolted inside to get changed. All thoughts of the prescription drugs I’d planned on overdosing on were replaced with the gut-wrenching fear that Maxim was injured, or worse. That person I’d hurt the most—that was Maxim. I had to get to him and make sure he was all right—he had to be. I needed him to be.

  I went straight to the hospital from the airport. I flew past the waiting area, heading for the nurses’ station. Suddenly, a firm grip on my upper arm jerked me to a stop. My fist balled tight, and I was ready to lay into whoever had the audacity to grab me, though when I turned and saw who it was, all of the flight in me fled. I stood face-to-face with one of the few people in this city who knew how deplorable I was: Maxim’s best friend, Mac fucking Buchanan.

  His brown eyes narrowed on me, and his fingers squeezed harder before he let go. “What are you doing here?” he asked. There was no mistaking from his icy tone that he wasn’t happy to see me. Then again, he and I never clicked, no matter how much Maxim wished we would get along.

  I squared my shoulders and flexed my fingers around the strap of the overnight bag I’d flown across the country with. None of your fucking business. The words were ready to spill out, but I bit my tongue and swallowed them. “I’m here to see Maxim.”

  “Yeah, I figured as much, but why—are—you—here? It’s been, what, almost eleven years, and you conveniently drop in when he’s in the hospital?”

  Just breathe. “A nurse called me. I’m still listed as his next of kin.” The fight drained out of his face, replaced with utter shock. I’d have smiled and felt smug about it under other circumstances. I checked the nurses’ station over my shoulder—they were busy talking to someone else. Seeing Maxim wasn’t going to happen right away, I faced Mac again and tried to keep any traces of sass or condescension out of my tone. “Do you know what happened to him? I panicked when the nurse called, and didn’t listen to the details.”

  He nodded. “He was on a jobsite a few blocks away. An apprentice didn’t properly rig up some cables and was almost crushed by steel beams. Maxim was able to save him, though he fucked up his right shoulder. He’s out of surgery, but they won’t tell me more than that.”

  I exhaled deeply, feeling like I was breathing for the first time since my phone rang back in Palm Springs. “Thank fuck.”

  “Um, what?”

  “He’s alive,” I clarified. “I was in such a hurry to get here, I hadn’t stayed on the phone long enough to find out if he was even alive. I”—I looked over my shoulder and saw the nurse at the desk was free—“need to go. I’d like to get in and see him if he’s stable.”

  “Can you tell him I’m here? A bunch of us are,” he said, motioning to a group of men, and a blonde woman I vaguely recognized.

  “I’ll tell him when he wakes up.”

  The nurse closed the door to Maxim’s room behind me. It was a shared room decorated in too much white and dated wall art. The other patient seemed to be as
leep behind a half-drawn curtain. I approached Maxim’s bed and drew the curtain closed behind me. His right arm was in a brace, and there was a fresh bandage on his shoulder. His face had a few minor scrapes, though none of them looked serious. They’d clearly been cleaned up, and didn’t one bit take away from the fact that he was still the most handsome guy I’d ever seen.

  I studied his face, searching for the changes a decade was sure to bring. For the most part, he looked the same. Where he’d been clean shaven before, he now had a few days’ worth of stubble. The slightly curved scar on his upper lip was every bit as inviting as it’d always been. It was one of my favorite places to kiss him back when I had that right. His brown hair was shorter now, just a couple of inches on top and shorter on the sides. If it were any longer it would start to curl. He now had faint lines around the corners of his eyes and creases between his brows.

  Those made me yearn for what I’d lost. I’d loved his expressions. What others thought was a scowl I knew to be a look of deep contemplation or worry. Maxim had always had the world on his mind, yet I’d been able to tell exactly what each of his expressions meant. His eyes moved behind closed lids, and a small rueful smile pulled at my lips. I sat down in the chair next to the bed and placed my hand on his.

  “I used to love watching you sleep,” I whispered, brushing my thumb over the rough skin of his hand. I leaned down and kissed his arm, then carefully rested my head on the bed next to his hand. The past six hours had been draining. Finally seeing Maxim alive and relatively okay had killed all of the adrenaline that’d been keeping me going.

  Who knew what a difference six hours could make. I should have been dead, and in the bed of a man who essentially saw me as his property. Instead, Maxim’s body heat bled into me as I drifted off to sleep, never happier to be alive.

  Two

  Maxim

  I hated taking drugs of any sort. I’d always had an awful tolerance, and they messed with my head—especially anything illicit or prescription strength. I remembered that I was in an accident on a jobsite, though everything was blurry after the ambulance arrived. Likely after they gave me drugs to manage my pain.

  My eyes felt liked they’d been glued shut, and I didn’t yet have the strength to open them. I could feel that my shoulder was in a sling or brace of some sort, though the pain was merely a dull throb. Clearly, I was still doped up. Having strong drugs in my system would also account for the strange dream I’d had. The bluest eyes I hadn’t seen in years peered down at me, and the smoky voice I only knew from memories sounded clearer, closer. I’d definitely been dreaming.

  An itch near my wounded shoulder got my attention. I tried to scratch it with my good arm, but I couldn’t move it. It felt heavy, weighed down somehow. Am I still asleep? I wiggled my fingers, and they prickled with pins and needles—someone was definitely on my arm. My mind instantly went to Macalister. It wasn’t at all shocking that my best friend would have found a way to sneak in, and he was a fairly tactile guy. He usually respected my wish for space, though if I were unconscious I could see how he’d seize that opportunity to sneak in a cuddle, or so he’d say. Yet, somehow, this didn’t feel like him.

  Despite the drugs, I was almost certain this wasn’t Macalister. It didn’t… feel right. He had scruff, and though the sensations in my arm were weakened, this felt like someone without a beard. Blake, perhaps? She wouldn’t be far behind Macalister. I took a deep breath, stilling when a scent I hadn’t noticed earlier came to my attention: chemicals. Specifically, the smell of a pool.

  I tried again to open my eyes, but only managed to crack one lid. It was enough to see a wave of bleached hair so light that it was almost white. I forced myself to blink until I was able to get both eyes open. As the figure came into focus, I noticed dark roots growing in beneath hair that was more pale gray than stark white. His neck was lightly tanned and he wore a white T-shirt. A tattoo peeked out of the back of his shirt, something purple and black that I couldn’t decipher. His face was out of view, yet something about him seemed so familiar. Then I saw it: a small scar on the upper cartilage of his left ear. It was from a cut I’d put there by accident.

  A bitter laugh tried to escape me, but my throat was too dry. I must have still been dreaming. There was no way that Remy was here—he… why would he be? As if determined to obliterate my doubts, he sighed in his sleep, and I knew without a doubt that it was him. Before I could retreat inside myself and panic, a light knock sounded on the door, then a doctor entered.

  He looked young—almost alarmingly so, with wavy brown hair that curled past his ears, blue eyes full of optimism, and a huge smile directed at me. He came to stand at my right side, checked his chart, and kept his voice low when he spoke. “Good morning, Mr. Aver… key… do you mind if I call you Maxim? I mean, I can totally try for your last name, but you’ll have to forgive me for my poor pronunciation.” His smile turned apologetic and he bit his bottom lip.

  “Maxim is fine,” I scraped out.

  “Thank you. I’m Dr. Rey, and I’ll be doing your rounds today. If you need anything at all or experience any pain, give that button there”—he indicated to the call button near the bed—“a push and I or a nurse will be over in a jiffy. Can I get you some juice or water?”

  “Water, please.”

  He looked around, spotting a plastic cup of water on my nearby tray. He picked it up then frowned. “A nurse must have brought this earlier. All the ice has melted. Give me a minute and I’ll grab more.”

  I shook my head, frowning at the slight pull on my shoulder. “It’s okay.” Dr. Rey nodded, then held the cup to my lips, slowly tipping it up. As strange as I felt having someone else feed me water, the relief to my throat more than made up for it.

  Once the cup was empty, Dr. Rey returned it to the table before he turned his attention back to me. “All right, Maxim. It’s question time. I’ve got some things I need to ask you, then I’m open to answering any questions you’ve got for me. Sound good?”

  I nodded, and he went through what he had to ask, making note of my answers on my pain levels, my side effects, and how much I’d slept. It had been years since my last hospital visit, though I was sure it wasn’t this pleasant the last time. The doctor was young and enthusiastic, but he was thorough and genuinely seemed to care about my comfort. He finished his questions, rewarding himself with an air high five, then asked me if there was anything I wanted to know.

  “What kind of drugs did they give me?”

  “Let’s see.” Dr. Rey checked my chart, tapping his finger along the edge of the clipboard. “You’re on a drip for fifty milligrams of tramadol every four to six hours. You mentioned you were feeling kind of hazy; if that doesn’t improve in a few hours, I can have you switched to hydromorphone. We want you to be as comfy as possible. You know, given everything that’s happened.”

  “It’s fine. I have a low tolerance for any drugs.”

  He nodded and hummed. “Unfortunately, I do need you on something for a couple more days. It’s my job to keep you as close to pain-free as I can while you’re here. The good news is that the damage to your shoulder isn’t permanent, but it’s going to hurt pretty badly for at least three weeks—especially if you forgo meds upon discharge. Depending on your pain levels, you’ll likely be prescribed some tablets of tramadol, or maybe just some Tylenol Three. I do recommend you follow up with your home recovery treatment, but I can’t make you.” One corner of his mouth lifted in a sympathetic smile.

  “Thank you.”

  Remy sighed again, catching Dr. Rey’s attention. He pointed his pen at Remy and quirked an eyebrow. “Your dude has been here all night. Visiting hours kind of ended at nine last night, but he was out cold—you both were—so I made the executive decision to just leave him here.”

  My eyes flashed wide, and I couldn’t help the flush that crept up my neck and cheeks. Unable to get away, I turned away from the doctor in a feeble attempt to hide. He snickered under his breath then gently patted my knee.


  “It’s all good. I’m not here to judge you. However, it is my duty to make sure his head isn’t hurting your arm.”

  I turned my gaze down to the top of Remy’s head and felt a small smile tug at my lips. I shook my head before I remembered to speak. “He’s fine.”

  “Okie. I’ll be on my way then. If you need anything else, don’t hesitate to push the button.”

  I thanked him, and he left the room. I turned my attention back to Remy, who was still sound asleep. I couldn’t try to convince myself he wasn’t there; the doctor had seen him too. I’d find out the why and how when he woke up. Until then, I needed to touch him—just for that last bit of doubt to melt away. A large part of me never thought I’d see him again, and now there he was.

  I reached for him, momentarily having forgotten about my wounded shoulder. Pain lanced through my arm and shoulder, and I jerked and winced as tears welled in my eyes. Remy shot up with wide, dazed eyes that settled on me. I bit my tongue to keep from saying something stupid or pathetic, and instead reached up with my good arm and stroked his cheek with my thumb. My breathing caught unexpectedly, and I was about to pull my hand back when Remy leaned into my touch. He gave me a shaky smile, then put his hand over mine, clasping his fingers around mine, before returning our joined hands to the bed.

  I swallowed hard and blinked at him—and all of his tattoos. His tanned skin was covered in ink from what I could see, his neck, his chest, and his biceps. There was only one on his right forearm, I noticed. His blue eyes stood out against his dark eyebrows, and his lips still looked as soft as I remember them being. He still had the same beautiful face, though surrounded by the bleached hair and tattoos, he looked even more striking. The only real change to his face was a small silver hoop nose ring on the left. It suited the rest of his new look.