Gorgeous Rotten Scoundrel Read online

  "No. He is unbearable."

  "What happened?"

  "I don't want to talk about it. I have to get back to work. My fucking feet are killing me," I said, whipping off my shoes. Just then, I caught a glimpse of Heath heading out with a couple of bros and Illy--Ill--Gross. I should just call her Gross.

  "Should I stay?"

  "No, go home. You have a ride and all, right?"

  "Yeah, I have to get back to the city, but I can move some appointments. You look upset."

  "I just need to take care of all this."

  "Okay, call me tomorrow?"

  The next hour, I worked on closing up shop. The house was a bit of a disaster area, but a cleaning service was coming the next morning to fix it all. I sat upstairs in my bed, unable to sleep, wondering if he would come back at any minute and what he might say to me. But another hour passed, and sleep eventually overcame me.

  I dreamt of him. How instead of stopping Heath in the hallway, I let him keep his fingers in me, massaging me as he pressed his nose against mine. He smiled, looking into my eyes, and I giggled back, both of us acknowledging the naughtiness of the situation. And then he pushed my dress up, all the way so that only my thong covered my lower body. He reached down and unbuttoned his pants, holding his firmness. I waited with bated breath, this would be it, we would pass the threshold into more than just boss and employee. He smirked, and then I felt his tip graze against me.

  DO YOU LIKE PINA COLADAS? AND GETTING CAUGHT IN THE RAIN?

  My head felt like it was in a vice when I awoke to Mindy's ringtone. I didn't know which way was up. I knocked the stupid thing over, and then it vibration-danced beneath my bed. I hung upside down, feeling for it in the darkness, answering it in the nick of time. The clock on the phone read 5:43.

  "Hello?" I asked in a froggy, upside-down voice.

  "Sadie? Were you asleep?" She sounded distressed.

  "Yes...are you okay? Is something wrong?" I asked, trying to sound more alert, but I was only more confused.

  "I had the driver turn my car around, I was halfway back to the city, but I just got a call. Heath has been in an accident. I think it's really bad."

  "What?" The information and the quivering in her usually unsympathetic voice was sobering.

  "I'm his emergency contact. He doesn't have family here. I don't know what to do. They said he was unconscious when he arrived"

  "Oh my god."

  "Can you go? It's going to take me a while to get there. Someone has to be there for him and I fucking hate all the twats he hangs out with. Those fucking sycophants!" She loudly cried the last sentence in her more familiar borderline-psychopathic way.

  "Yes, yes, of course," I said, trying to lift my body back on the bed. When I realized that would require some level of strength, I slithered onto the floor like a wet noodle instead. "What hospital?"

  "I'll text you all the details."

  "Okay."

  I didn't know Heath long, but I was filled with dread as I drove to the hospital. I felt this was my fault. Not that I want to sound all self-centered, but I was sure he left the house because I quit and he was pissed. Pissed or at least wanted to make me sweat it. And now, he's laid up in a hospital. For all I knew he could be dying.

  I ran into the entry of the emergency room and straight to the reception nurse.

  "Heath Hillabrand. I am his assistant. Is he okay?"

  "Are you a family member or a medical contact?"

  "Yes. Mindy-- Amanda Sloane." I learned that trick in the movies.

  "Okay." She stared at her little screen as though she was reading a dissertation or something. "The physicians have completed working on him and he is stable. The doctor will be out in a moment to talk to you."

  I paced for another ten minutes or so when finally, a doctor approached me.

  "Are you Amanda?"

  "Yes. Is he going to be okay?"

  "He was very lucky. He was in a car accident, drove into a light pole. The police have already inquired about speaking with him. Apparently someone else was the driver and he may have been drunk. That is all I know. He sustained several fractures and a severe concussion, so he will be bedridden for the next few weeks then after that he'll need to take it easy for the remainder of the summer. He didn't sustain any internal injuries other than a concussion, so I believe he will make a full recovery."

  "Oh thank god! Can I see him?"

  "You can go in now, but he might not be awake for a while, he's under quite a bit of sedation. We'll have to keep him here under observation for the next 24 hours."

  I watched him lay there unconscious, his face bruised and swollen, his limbs in casts. He he looked so helpless, not like that cocky, blonde Adonis I had come to resent over the past week and a half. Finally, after an hour and a half or so, he awoke.

  "It's okay, Heath, I'm here," I said as his eyes wildly scanned his surroundings. "Can someone help!" I called out. "It's okay, you were in an accident, but you're going to be fine." He grabbed his head with his hand and winced in pain.

  The nurse came in and checked his vitals. He retched a few times, I suppose a reaction from the meds or the concussion. The nurse informed him that the doctor would be coming in to speak with him about his injuries.

  Heath looked over at me, and grabbed my hand. The vulnerability in that gesture touched my hardened heart. Damn I am such a sucker for that.

  "I AM Amanda Sloane!" The familiar voice carried into the room from a distance. Oops.

  I pulled away from Heath to address the situation I created out there, but he tightened his grip.

  In a throaty, weak voice, he said the first words he had uttered to me since he had awoken. "Stay."

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Heath would have to be in bed for six weeks, after that physical therapy for another month. That's if things went well. How could I leave someone at the lowest point of his life? That's just not me. He needed me more than ever.

  The morning after the accident I called Brock, but he didn't answer. So, I shot him a text to which he responded within an hour.

  Me:

  Hey Brock. I heard about your knee. I know you must be really busy trying to figure it all out, but I wanted to let you know and you are in my thoughts. Sending positive vibes.

  Brock:

  Thanks Sadie. I'm hoping for the best here. Missing your food like u don't even kno. Offer still stands for u to come :)

  Me:

  Don't tempt me, but I am stuck here and you know it! Seriously though. I hope everything is ok.

  Brock:

  Me too. I've got a lot of specialist visits coming up. I'll keep you in the loop. Or I am sure ESPN will, those bastads.

  Me:

  LOL. It's hard out there for a pimp ;)

  Brock:

  U kno it. ;)

  There wasn't much I could do to help Brock, who I know was trying to keep a brave face (he had always told me a serious injury was one of his greatest worries), but I could be there for Heath.

  When Heath was released from the hospital, he spent his first week and a half locked up in his room in the dark, recovering from the concussion. He was also hopped up on painkillers and slept much of the day. After his head stopped throbbing, he was softer, at least for a few days. A couple of people visited the day after he returned home, but the visiting ceased without the parties and access to clubs Heath provided. No one wanted to be around a melancholic, broken supermodel. Heath seemed sad as he realized this would not be the wild, party-filled, fun summer he had imagined. I would not be organizing grand soirees. Instead, I would be feeding him and wheeling him around the garden for fresh air when the nurse wasn't around to do so. I became more of a health aide than a personal assistant. But that softness, it quickly turned to something hard. Maybe it was because he had very few visitors, maybe because it became very quiet and that was the thing he dreaded most: to sit alone with himself in his thoughts.

  Towards the end of the second week, I called through his bedroo
m door since my hands were occupied by the breakfast tray. "Heath, I have your breakfast."

  He didn't answer.

  "Heath?"

  Still there was silence.

  I slowly opened the door and I could only assume he was the lump in the middle of his bed under the covers. I slowly walked over and, guessing he was still asleep, laid the tray on a table next to the bed. I planned on returning later to retrieve it.

  About two hours later, the home health aide arrived. Her job was usually easy, as besides the two fractured legs, one fractured arm, a severely dislocated shoulder and overall soreness, Heath was a healthy guy. She would help clean him, administer any meds he might need, wheel him around when he felt like going outside and then she would go on her way.

  I welcomed her into the house and made my way into the kitchen, not even a minute later hearing the commotion.

  "I said get out! Don't come back! I am not some goddamn gimp!" The screaming was accompanied by a crashing sound.

  As I hurried over to the stairs I caught sight of the nurse scurrying down as she slung her purse over her shoulder.

  "What's wrong?"

  "I will not tolerate this treatment!"

  "Are you okay?"

  "He is refusing treatment and then he threw his food across the room. I am sorry, but I am leaving."

  "Oh my god. I am so sorry."

  She left in a huff, giving me a look as though she thought I was some sort of accomplice to his callous behavior.

  I crept up the stairs, my heart thudding because I expected I might be the next to experience his wrath.

  The door was wide open as the nurse had flung it upon exiting. Heath was once again a lump in the middle of the bed. I quickly scanned the room and saw the breakfast I had so lovingly crafted that morning was in a pile of shattered porcelain on the floor.

  "Heath?"

  Again he remained silent.

  "Heath? What's going on? The nurse just quit."

  "What part of fuck off does no one understand?"

  "Excuse me?"

  "I don't want a fucking nurse and I don't want any fucking food. I just want to be left alone goddammit!"

  "And how do you suppose you'll get better without a nurse or food?"

  "I don't care. You didn't even want to be here anyway. Just get out, when I need something, I'll be sure to text."

  "Why are you acting like this?"

  His lump under the covers shifted, a visual method of conveying he was setting in even more and was done with our conversation.

  "Fine then. I'm not cleaning up after your tantrum," I said indignantly.

  "I didn't ask. Now leave."

  What an asshole! Who the fuck does he think he is? I ran downstairs, grabbed my keys, and stormed to my car. I didn't know what I was going to do, but I had to get some space. He confounded me, but I felt drawn to him, like an elaborate puzzle that I just had to piece together. I drove to the nearest beach. The weather was perfect, very warm, with an ocean breeze that swept the perspiration from my skin. To be honest, I'm not sure if I was sweating because it was hot or because I was so frazzled by his tantrum. I found the quietest spot and plopped my tush in the sand, not having prepared by bringing a towel or blanket.

  I was at a crossroads with Heath. I thought I hated him, and then we kissed, well, more than kissed. Then he had the accident, and he begged me to stay; he was so vulnerable at that moment. Then he was quiet for a couple of days, and maybe I mistook that for kindness or softness, but maybe he was bubbling. Maybe he was slowly seething and today he blew. I could leave, no one was holding me back, but I didn't want to. If I left now, I would have failed, and he would have done what he has likely always done: gotten what he wanted or dismissed people when things got tough.

  And then I realized why he was so angry. This time he had no power, there was no easy answer. He was incapacitated all summer: no modeling gigs, no parties, no "friends" to drink with. For once, there was no easy win for him. Once I realized this, that this was just some giant pity-party he had created for himself, I grew full of resolve. I would do what I intended when I first arrived here: cook and kick ass! And I didn't have to cook for another couple of hours.

  I stood up abruptly, swatted off the sand from my ass and stomped back to my car. I am going to show him what's he's been lacking, someone who will stand up to him and not just bat their eyelashes in his presence. This time, Heath wouldn't get rid of me so easily. He should have let me go when he had the chance.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  I fearlessly marched back into the house that afternoon. What was he going to do? Get up and attack me? He could barely wipe his own ass at this point with his bum shoulder. I threw my things on the entry table and strode up the stairs to the threshold of his bedroom door. He was still that lump in the middle of his bed. It seemed he hadn't moved since I left. I glanced over at the untouched mess from earlier in the day. Disgusting, I mouthed to myself.

  "Alright, that's it!" I shouted loudly, walking over to the windows and pulling open the curtains.

  "What the fuck?" Heath asked, shielding his eyes with his available hand.

  "Oh come on. Who are you, Nosferatu?"

  "I thought I told you to leave."

  "Yeah you did and I did and now I am back."

  "Well leave again then!" He said pointing to the door, trying to mask a wince. Serves him right for using that arm to throw plates of food like a two-year-old.

  "No! I am not going to sit here and be an enabler to your pathetic pity party and I certainly will not be your punching bag."

  "It's not like I am sitting here covered in plaster! My face all busted up."

  It's true: his face was bruised, his lip busted, there were cuts, but the doctor assured him that it would all heal, there was nothing to worry about. But I could sense his fear, that his biggest asset might be compromised. Honestly, his pristine skin might benefit from a few small cuts, it would make him look all rugged, and if he added a beard on top of it...stop it.

  "Yeah you are, but you're lucky you're not dead. Oh poor Heath, rich super model who survived a major car accident with no long term damage. You should be thanking your lucky stars all you have is a few broken bones. And if you want to get back into civilization, moping around like this won't do anything for you."

  "So you're a doctor now?"

  "No, but you asked me--begged me--to stay. If you want me here, you better act like you do. I am all you have left right now. You scared the shit out of the nurse, and I don't see any of your party-friends showing up with casseroles. Do you?" Heath went silent. I might have seriously hurt his feelings with that last line, but besides a couple of brief phone calls, no one has showed up since that first day. Even his sweet Illy was a no-show, he mentioned she was at a gig overseas, but whatever. Mindy planned on coming back, and checked in frequently, but she was loaded with projects between NY and LA. Maybe if he didn't act like such a douche, he would have better friends. "Listen, I want to help you. So why do you have to be such a dick about everything?"

  "Me a dick? You have been the frigid bitch since we met. All stuffy and miss goody two-shoes."

  "And yet here I am." Heath scowled at me silently. Though he said nothing, I could tell he was resigned. "So here's what's going to happen. I am going to prepare a nice dinner, and then I am going to bring it up here and you and I are going to eat like two civilized fucking human beings on your beautiful balcony. And if you want to act like an adult and tell me what crawled up your ass this morning, I'll be here to listen. Capisce?"

  His face softened from a scowl to shock. He sort of looked like a deer in headlights.

  "I asked a question."

  "Capisce..."

  "Alright, I'll see you in an hour." I confidently strode back to the bedroom door and glanced at the mess again on the way out. "Oh, and next time you do that, I am picking it up and throwing it right back at you. I dare you to try me."

  ***

  I ferociously chopped vegetab
les for the sauté, feeling victorious in my decision to tell off Heath. In fact, I caught myself smiling several times thinking of the shocked look on his face as I marched out of the bedroom. It was about an hour before I carried the tray of vegetables and steak upstairs to his bedroom (as a model who could not exercise, Heath was now on a strict diet of lean meats and veggies to maintain his taut physique).

  I was shocked to find Heath sitting in his wheelchair bent over in front of the splattered breakfast, holding onto a broom with his two disabled limbs: one arm in a sling, the other in a cast. Needless to say it was both pitiful and pointless.

  "What are you doing?" I asked, as I placed the dinner tray on a table. I hate to say it, but I felt sympathy for him.

  "I've got it."

  If you can imagine a penguin holding a broom, well then you understand how he looked.

  "Heath, I wasn't expecting you to pick this up. I appreciate the gesture, but the food will get cold...and let's be honest, you're not gonna succeed within either one of our lifetimes."

  "This sucks," Heath said with a sigh, finally relenting.

  "I know. Now, let's just forget about everything and go enjoy some dinner on this gorgeous evening on your fantastic balcony, you lucky bastard. I'll get it later."

  "I'd hardly describe myself as lucky."

  "That's your problem. You lack perspective."

  Heath had already done me the favor of getting into his wheelchair (miraculously I might add), so I wheeled him outside and served our dinner. He was disheveled, his tan had faded slightly, but he was still a treat for the eyes. Surprisingly, the stubble and bed-head served to make him more approachably good-looking versus the flawless statue of David look he typically walked around the earth with.

  "How the hell did you get in the wheelchair?" I had to ask.

  "You have no idea. It took me the better part of the hour."

  "You could have hurt yourself."

  He glanced down at himself, "Can it get much worse? What's left to break? My dick?"