Turn Up the Heat (25 page)

Shane had bolted inside the hospital doors the minute Jackson pulled up to the glass and brick façade of Riverside Hospital two hours ago, and they'd met him in the waiting room of the ER. All of their questions had been met with the polite yet firm assurance that the doctor would come out and speak with them shortly. As soon as it had become clear that
shortly
was a rough translation for
a dog's age
in hospital-speak, Shane disappeared for about ten minutes, presumably to call his father.

His father, who Shane had gone out of his way to avoid mentioning. He had to have something to do with why Shane hated the city so much—Charles Griffin was a paragon of Philadelphia high society. Even his money had money, for God's sake. Bellamy's family was well-off, sure, but they didn't hold a candle to
that
. Her head pounded between her temples, and disquiet squeezed her chest into tightness.

He'd lied to her.

Shane prowled the ten by ten path of linoleum in the waiting room on a restless loop, his work boots echoing a hollow thud into the squares with each step. Jackson had given up on trying to sardine his large frame into the hard plastic chairs in the waiting room, opting instead to lean back across the entire row for a better fit. A year-old
Car and Driver
magazine sat in his lap, untouched, as he stared at the walls, and Shane did yet another abrupt about-face in the corner of the waiting room. The steady
clomp-clomp
of his steel-toed Red Wings alternating with the deafening silence set Bellamy's teeth on edge, but she said nothing. Finally, the doors leading to the ER hissed open on automatic breath.

“Shane Griffin?” A tired-looking man in pale green scrubs stared at the trio with kind yet serious eyes.

“That's me,” Shane said, nearly hurdling the row of chairs between him and the doctor. Bellamy's heart beat so wildly against her rib cage that she half expected it to break free.

“I'm Dr. Russell. I'm taking care of your grandfather.” He extended his hand for the obligatory one-pump man-shake, then flipped an electronic chart from under his arm. “As I'm sure you suspect, your grandfather suffered a myocardial infarction, which is the medical term for a heart attack. We've ruled out the need for angioplasty, but we have him hooked up to the ECG to monitor his heart rhythms. He's also getting oxygen, so his body won't have to work so hard at breathing.”

Oh, sweet Jesus. Just breathing on his own was too hard? Bellamy slammed her eyes shut over the pool of tears forming there. She would
not
cry.

“We're also giving him some beta-blockers, which help to lessen the strain on the heart, and some pretty heavy-duty painkillers to ease his discomfort. I want to get him in for an MRI so we can see what we're dealing with here, and he'll probably spend some time in the ICU, just to be on the safe side.” The doctor paused, probably to let everything sink in for a minute, but Shane didn't waste a single second.

“I want to stay with him.”

Dr. Russell shook his head. “Visiting hours are strict in the ICU, and nearly one A.M. doesn't qualify. I'm sorry. Plus, what he needs above all else right now is rest. The first twenty-four hours after a heart attack are the most precarious. We've got the best cardiac unit in the area, so he's in great hands. But he's not out of the woods yet. After he's stable, we'll see what the MRI says and go from there.”

Shane nodded in defeat. “Thank you, Dr. Russell. Come get me if he needs anything. I'll be right here.”

“Do yourself a favor, Mr. Griffin. Go home and get some rest. He'll be here with us for a while, so you're going to need it. We'll be sure to call you if anything comes up.” The doctor shook Shane's hand one more time before disappearing behind the double doors.

Bellamy stood, unmoving, on the green and gray flecked linoleum, torn between wanting to ask a billion questions and throw her arms around Shane. His usually warm brown eyes fell on her with dull sadness, and she felt a distance stretch out between them as it slipped under her skin to invade every part of her.

“Why don't we go back to the cabin to lie down for a bit? Then we can come here in a few hours to see him,” Bellamy said. She fully expected Shane to protest, and had already made up her mind that she wouldn't push it if he did. Those chairs in the waiting room weren't too bad, and anyway, she'd do anything to ease the pain on his face.

“Okay, yeah.”

Jackson jumped to action. “I'll go pull the truck around, buddy. Just hang tight.” He hustled his gigantic frame out the lobby doors and into the frigid night.

Bellamy wrapped the sleeves of her shirt over her hands, curling the edges over her fingers and into loose fists. They'd been in such a hurry that she'd snapped Shane's flannel from the floor of his room, and she just now noticed that she'd missed a button in her haste to get dressed.

“I'm really sorry, Shane.” Maybe it was lame, but the apology was what she'd been thinking, and apparently her speak-your-mind habit didn't have a crisis mode. Plus, she had no idea what else to say.

“For what?” Shane asked, but he didn't look up. His face had aged fifteen years in the last few hours.

“I wish this hadn't happened to Grady. To you. Why didn't you tell me he's your grandfather?”

The question felt so utterly benign as it left Bellamy's lips that she was unprepared for the reaction it brought.

“Because it's none of your business. It doesn't have anything to do with you.”

Bellamy recoiled as if she'd been slapped, the words reverberating in her skull so hard she'd swear they'd leave a mark.

“But I . . .”

“Forget it.” He cut her off. “I just want to go home.”

“O-okay.” Bellamy wrapped her arms around herself to suppress the shudder working through her. Shane was stressed beyond measure, and she knew she should cut him some slack. But now she didn't know if that meant staying close or leaving him alone, and the confusion rattled her brain. She turned toward the lobby doors, trying to hide the sting of his words. “I'll just see if Jackson's here yet.”

“Bellamy, wait.”

She hovered a few steps between Shane and the doors, not moving toward either. Her disloyal legs refused to move her one way or the other, even though she commanded them to just head for the damned door.

“It's fine,” she managed to croak. “Let's just get you home.”

Shane exhaled a shaky breath. “Listen, I . . .”

“Shane.”

The word came from behind them, a deep baritone that sang of seriousness and quiet power. Bellamy turned toward Shane, who didn't move except to close his eyes. The man stood in the mouth of the hallway leading from the main hospital, his stance still and imposing. His face was a perfectly sculpted older version of Shane's, with the exception of the steel-gray eyes coldly fixed on Shane's back. Bellamy blinked in surprise, too shocked to speak.

Shane squared his shoulders and opened his eyes to give her one last, fleeting look before he turned on his heel toward the man.

“Dad.”

All of the breath and blood in Shane's body felt as if it had been replaced with permafrost the minute he heard the familiar timbre of his father's voice behind him. Leave it to Charles Griffin to come up behind Shane and catch him off guard. Even in a crisis, he was all about strategy.

Shane turned to meet his father head-on. Charles Griffin stood with his back to the hallway, looking as polished as if he'd walked out the door for a business lunch at Del Frisco's. The perfectly knotted silk tie seemed so out of place under the circumstances that Shane had to fight the urge to cough up a bitter laugh.

“I'm surprised you're here,” Shane said, measuring his father's stance with careful eyes.

“Is that because of my relationship with him or you?” his father returned coolly.

God damn, he should've figured it would go this way right out of the gate.

“I'm not the one who's sick,” Shane volleyed, hoping his father would bite. He didn't want to talk about himself, but hell if he was going to back down, either.

His father nodded, a smooth stroke of his elegantly graying dark head. “Have they told you anything?”

Relief swirled in Shane's chest at the successful diversion, though he knew it wouldn't last. “Grady's headed up to the ICU. They won't really know the extent of the damage until he's had an MRI. For now, the doc wants him to rest while they monitor him.” Shane knew his father would double-check every detail with the doctor anyway, but he wished there was more to tell. At least that way, they'd be talking about Grady and not him. Not that it probably mattered.

“He's a tough old man,” his father said, and for a minute Shane wondered if it was meant to be reassuring rather than just a statement of fact.

But his father was a statement-of-fact kind of guy, the cold bastard, and Shane felt the resentment well up within him.

“How would you know? You've seen him what? Four times in twenty years? Last time this happened, you were all set to just let him rehab with strangers and watch the business he loved fall to pieces,” he bit out, each word laced with accusation.

His father was unruffled. “You're upset.”

Damn, the man was such a manipulator! Anything he didn't want to discuss got conveniently swept under the rug without a second thought. Well screw that. Shane had plenty to say.

“And you're not upset enough,” he hissed, floodgates he'd locked bursting open as he took an angry step closer. “That's your father up there, and you could give a rat's ass. Just like last time.”

His father's gray eyes flared, his mouth pulling into a thin slash. “Don't think for a second that I don't remember where I came from and who raised me. As a matter of fact, you might do well to remember that on your end, son. You and I have unfinished business, don't we?”

Shit.
Shit
.

“My business with you is done,” Shane said flatly, knowing the blanket statement wouldn't hold.

His father sneered. “Your business with me never really got started, did it? You're into me for a lot of money, Shane.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I'm talking about the law school loans you're two months behind on paying. You see, I had a nice, long conversation with the senior loan officer when she called the firm looking for you the other day. It seems you had
two
work numbers listed on your account, and she was covering all the bases to try and get you to pay up.”

“I talked to a loan officer last week,” Shane ground out, on the defensive as his father moved toward him. “My debt is to them, not you. Plus, I'm paying it.”

The older man lifted a cold brow. “Not fast enough, according to them, but don't worry about being in the hole. I paid your loan off four days ago. You owe
me
that money now, and I want it the right way.”

Panic clutched at Shane's gut with iron fingers, and he heard a small gasp behind him, but it sounded very far away. “You paid off my loan?”

His father's smile was more of a grimace. “I didn't want to have to do it like this, but you gave me little choice. You went through three years of law school at Princeton, passed the goddamn bar, and for what? To piss it away.”

“I tried,” Shane argued, although his voice didn't want to cooperate fully. “I put in time at the firm.”

“And those two years were just enough time for everyone to expect great things from you before you disappeared.” His father paced around Shane slowly, his unforgiving stare forcing its way under his skin. “I'm done watching you fool around out here in God's country, son. Playtime's over. You need to get your ass back to Philadelphia to start putting your credentials to work.”

Shane cranked his hands into fists so hard that he knew they should hurt, but he didn't feel a thing other than the sudden, blinding rage that kicked his mouth into gear. “It must piss you off beyond measure that with all your money and power, you can't buy me,” he said, calm despite his shredded nerves and the adrenaline pinging over them.

His father narrowed his eyes at Shane, but whether it was in defense or anger, Shane couldn't tell. He forced out a contemptuous smile of his own and continued, undaunted.

“The irony is priceless, really. Your only son was born and bred to take over your prestigious law firm, only he'd rather be a shop jockey like your old man, working on cars instead of court cases.” Momentum coursed through Shane so hard that he felt almost dizzy with it, but he refused to stand down.

“You need to come back to the city, son,” his father said without moving. “And do what's right.”

All that was left of Shane's restraint unraveled like a hot, angry thread. “I
am
doing what's right. If it takes me the rest of my goddamn life, I'll pay back your fucking money, but I'll do it as a mechanic, not an attorney, because that's who I am. And speaking of who I am, don't call me ‘son.' I'm not coming back to the city—
not ever—
so don't go holding your breath for that one.”

The silence between them felt like fog, cold and thick, and it stretched around them in a haze of tension until Shane's father broke it.

“Do you feel better? Now that you got that out of your system?”

No
, Shane wanted to scream, but instead he stood silent, anchored to his spot on the ugly floor tiles. His pride wouldn't let him drop his father's gaze, although the emotions banked in the man's gray eyes made Shane want to look away.

His father's expression was as blank as his stare. “I don't either. Go get some sleep. I'll see you in the morning, son.”

 

 

Bellamy lost count of how many times she'd been emotionally sucker punched in the last twenty-four hours. Jackson, having sensed something wrong when Shane and Bellamy failed to appear outside the ER to go home, had come inside just in time to hear the entire exchange between Shane and his father. The ride back up the mountain had been full of stiff, uncomfortable silence that crashed against Bellamy's ears, clotting her already muddled thoughts as they dropped off Jackson and Shane pulled up to the cabin and wordlessly got out of the truck.

Twelve hours ago, she'd have been more likely to believe that Shane was the man in the moon than the son of Philadelphia's most high-powered attorney, with his name all but stamped on the letterhead right next to dear old dad's. He was a mechanic with a simple life—hell, he was the one encouraging
her
to be true to herself.

Just went to show how gullible
she
was. Right about now, Shane might as well be the man in the moon for all she knew him.

“You should get some rest,” Bellamy said, her voice stilted, as she raked a hand through the snarl of curls around her face. Holding out for much longer wasn't going to be an option for her, and she'd be goddamned if her pride would let Shane see her cry.

“I wanted to tell you,” Shane said, although his hollow tone suggested otherwise. “But it's complicated. Obviously.”

Bellamy's eyes fell on the sink full of dirty dishes, the now-cold, murky water a stark contrast to what had happened in front of it just a handful of hours before. She felt her composure snap and start to unravel, and she pinned him with an angry stare.

“How do you figure lying to be any less complicated?” she asked, cursing the honesty as it rolled off her tongue.

He flinched, but still didn't look at her. “I didn't mean for it to happen this way.”

“Did you mean any of it, period?”

Shane's eyes flashed to hers, wide and roiling with emotion. “Yes,” he protested, but she barreled on, realization thick in her chest.

“God, it all makes perfect sense now! No wonder you hated me at first. I'm a city girl, head to toe, from my freaking Ivy League degree to my cute little sports car you keep turning your nose up at. I'm like the ultimate reminder of everything you can't stand. And here I was, buying into all of your crap about being true to myself, taking these huge risks and letting you encourage me to change when you just didn't want to see your past every time you turned around. Jesus!”

“None of that is crap, Bellamy! It's why I'm
here
. I left my father's law firm because I
hated
it. You left your job because you hated it. I'm with you even though you come from the city. You can't be any more true to yourself than that!” he exploded, bracing himself against the short stretch of kitchen counter.

If Shane thought she was going to go the shrinking violet route at a little yelling, he had the wrong girl. Bellamy's pulse hammered through her, ushering out her anger. “Yeah, you were so true to yourself that you lied through your teeth to me about who you were! I don't even know you, Shane. I don't know anything about you!”

He winced. “Okay, fine. So I let you believe some things about me that weren't necessarily true, and yes, I kept some things from you. But you know exactly who I am. I never flat-out lied to you.”

Bellamy's heart bottomed out as her next words tumbled from her lips.

“But you never told me the truth, either. You were never going to come see me in the city, were you?”

Shane exhaled as if she'd punched him in the stomach, and the tears that had been threatening her with their presence rimmed her eyes, ready to fall.

“No. I wasn't.”

A traitorous sob worked its way up from her chest, and Bellamy used every ounce of her willpower to swallow it whole. Shane had intended to let her walk out the door with her head full of delusions. She'd believed him, thought she was in
love
with him, for God's sake, and the whole thing had been a total farce, based on a man who didn't exist.

And didn't that just make her the biggest jerk on the face of the planet.

“I see. Well, then, I think it's time for us to end this little charade, don't you?”

“God damn it, Bellamy, you don't understand—”

Everything that was left of her resolve crashed down around her. “Really?” she snapped, her nerves beyond frayed. “Then explain it to me, Shane. Explain how you lying to me every step of the way should make me trust you.”

“It's . . . it's complicated . . .” he stammered, pulling his arms over his chest in a tight fold.

“Yeah, you said that.” Her chest fluttered with adrenaline and sadness and something else that she couldn't quite pin with a name. The silence between them was covered in nails, and Bellamy stood, stock-still on the scuffed floorboards, torn between hating Shane for playing her for a fool and wanting him to grab her and hold her and tell her the whole thing was a big misunderstanding.

Or was it more like a big mistake?

A muscle ticked beneath the stubble on Shane's jaw. “I just . . . I need to get out of here. I feel like I can't even think.”

All the breath in Bellamy's body left her in a soundless rush, sucked out into the cold air with finality. “Don't let me stop you.”

“I'm sorry,” Shane whispered as he made his way to the door. “I really am. It's not you.”

Bellamy cursed his name until the sound of his truck faded into the deep folds of night. Only then did she sit down on the floor and start to cry.

 

 

Shane autopiloted his way to the garage, thoughts pressing against the sides of his skull like a nasty hangover. Getting elbow-deep in a car was his only hope of getting his head semi-straight, and he was suddenly grateful for the pain-in-the-ass job of replacing a tranny. He stood in the frame of the side door for a minute, the cold wind and dark night conspiring against him at his back. His heart twisted in his chest as he flicked the fluorescent lights on, and all of the night's events threatened to flash back over him in vivid detail, making his stomach churn with bitterness and bile.

The cordless phone, still flashing a dull green in a pile of socket wrenches on the floor, snapped Shane's glazed-over stare back into focus. Grady must have dropped it there after he'd called 911. He should put it back on the hook, in case anyone tried to call the garage. Yeah. It wouldn't do to leave it off the hook like that.

Having that one small purpose steeled Shane's nerves, forcing his boots to move over the buffed concrete floor toward the lift. Okay. He could do this. He could figure out a way to deal with his father, to help Grady get better, to fix everything. After all, fixing things was what he did.

Who the hell was he fooling?