Fix It Up (Torus Intercession 3)

“I talked to Mr. Cox today,” Jared explained, “and we agreed that as soon as you get Nick back to Santa Barbara, hire him another assistant, since you reported that you were planning to release Mr. Donovan, you’re clear to leave. We’ve more than satisfied our contract, and with the extension on the record deal there’s nothing more to do.”

“That’s the official word?”

“It is.”

“And so, what, is Nick off the hook for the conservatorship?”

“He is, and Mr. Cox told me that he has a conference call scheduled with Nick in the next couple of days to let him know.”

“That’s great,” I said, happy for Nick, so pleased at the changes he’d made.

“You’re to be commended. You did an excellent job.”

“Only because everything I thought about Nick was completely wrong.”

I had thought I was dealing with a spoiled, out-of-control, drugged-out, alcoholic, bad-boy rock star, but nothing could have been further from the truth. Nick Madison had been dealing with extraordinary circumstances, and many people would have reacted the same way.

“You need to give yourself just a bit of credit here, Loc.”

But I wasn’t so sure.

The following afternoon, Nick was sitting in what had become, in the past two weeks, his place. He was out on the patio, strumming the guitar, writing in his notebook, and my mother was taking a nap, she’d informed me, before she started making dinner. I had continued to work in the flower garden on the side of the house, which needed at least three more guys, along with me, to get it into shape. It was a mess, and I’d been pruning and weeding, mulching and creating some sort of walkway through it, since morning.

It was hot, as usual, and I realized when I started to sway a little that even with all the hydrating I’d done, I needed a break. Taking off my hiking boots and socks, hanging the straw cowboy hat my mother had insisted I wear on the fence, I then peeled off my T-shirt, leaving on only my jeans, and walked right into the creek. It was heaven. My skin was so hot I was amazed that the water didn’t turn to steam.

After a good twenty minutes, I got out, walked back up the slight incline, certain I’d be dry by the time I got back to where I left my hat, boots and shirt, and was surprised to look toward the patio and find Nick staring at me. Since he wasn’t working and I needed to talk to him, I headed his way.

As I took the stairs up to the patio, I noticed that he was still staring. “Are you all right?” I asked, worried that something had happened that I wasn’t aware of.

Nothing.

“Nicky?” I said, striding forward, stopping in front of him and squatting down beside his chair. “Is everything okay?”

His eyes were so round, and his lips parted; he was freaking me out.

“Please, tell me,” I prodded, taking hold of the arm of his chair and searching his face, trying to figure out if he was distraught or sad or both or neither and was just lost in his own head, in what I hoped was his creative process. He’d told me that things were coming to him, pieces of lyrics, parts of songs, notes, chords, so I didn’t want to disturb him if that was the case, but neither did I want to leave him alone if he needed support. “Talk to me, kid.”

He growled.

I smiled at him. At least he was alive.

“Nicky?”

He threw his arms up in defeat and let his head fall back on his shoulders.

I tried to stifle my chuckle, but the picture he made, clearly irritated about something, at the end of his rope, was far too appealing. The rest of him, those broad shoulders, the sleek tan skin over hard muscles, and his long, toned legs, was to be admired as well.

He caught me staring, and I glared to cover it, but the smile I got was beautiful, his lush mouth curled up at the corner and his heated golden-brown gaze locked on me. “What did I say about that?” he asked me, tipping his head, waiting for my answer.

“I missed something,” I replied, suddenly uncomfortable with how he was staring at me. It was too familiar and far too fond. I stood up to put a little distance between us and then took a step back to add a little more.

“I told you,” he said, his voice smooth and silky, touching me almost physically even though I’d put a couple feet between us. “I am not a kid, so I would appreciate if, going forward, you’d strike the word from your vocabulary.”

I shrugged, trying to restore normalcy. “I don’t mean anything by it.”

“Yes, you do,” he insisted, putting the guitar on the chair beside him and standing up, facing me. “You say it to purposely try and put distance between us, and I don’t like it. Honestly, it’s cowardly, and that’s not like you at all.”