Crybaby

  Crybaby

  Copyright © 2017 K. Webster

  Cover Design: All By Design

  Photo: Adobe Stock

  Editor: Ellie at Love N. Books

  Editor: Jessica at The OCD Reader

  Formatting: Champagne Book Design

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. This book contains material protected under International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by an information and retrieval system without express written permission from the Author/Publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Warning

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Epilogue

  Books by K Webster

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  To those who recently helped me through a very dark time…

  You know who you are.

  Thank you.

  “If you’re going through hell, keep going.”

  ~Winston Churchill~

  Warning:

  You don’t get a warning because you won’t heed it anyway, you curious little kitten.

  The Accident – Nine Months Ago

  The crowd cheers when I steal second base. One quick glance tells me Daddy is the proudest in the crowd. His eyes are on me as he sits on the edge of the bleacher seat. My friend Haley narrows her eyes at me from home plate. I know the look. I’ve seen it a thousand times. She’s going to bunt.

  I lead off the base a few steps, ready to tear off and steal third if she doesn’t hit the damn ball soon. Luckily, my hunch is right. Haley swings the bat out in front of her and bunts it like the pro she is and I’m already on my way to third. Their pitcher is quick though and hauls ass to the ball. She picks it up and lobs it for the third basemen.

  But I’m faster.

  I have to be.

  The scouts are here watching. It’s my time to shine.

  Sliding into third, my heart hammers in my chest. I know I’ll make it. Third basemen won’t catch the ball in time. I’ll be safe. My foot connects with the bag and a second later the ball slams into her leather glove with a slap as she hops on one foot for the catch. I don’t have a chance to revel in my glory—despite the roaring excitement of the crowd—because then she’s falling.

  Heavy.

  Hard.

  On me.

  With one leg stretched out over the other, still in sliding position, I know the moment she lands will hurt. I don’t have time to move or think. Just brace for impact.

  Crack!

  The instant she crashes onto me, something inside of me makes a sickening sound. Like a pop. A bone. Something important. Fire burns down my hamstring an instant later.

  My screams come next.

  Loud.

  Otherworldly.

  Pained.

  The girl manages to scramble off me and her eyes are concerned as she tries to assess my damages. Tears are rolling down my cheeks. I’m hurt. Badly. Oh, God. The wails won’t stop as I clutch my hip in pain. I don’t know what to do. It’s too intense.

  “Sophia!” Daddy is beside me in an instant, his strong arms hugging me to him. “Oh, my sweet Sophia.”

  I bawl against my dad’s shirt as he does his best to comfort me during the most painful time of my life.

  People crowd around me. Coaches and players from both teams. Umpires and parents. Everyone is trying to help me but nobody knows what to do. My head coach yells for another person to call for an ambulance.

  I’m blinded by the pain and tears for what feels like forever. Eventually, the paramedics arrive and gingerly put me on the gurney. The pain is overwhelming but the dark thoughts running through my head are worse.

  The scouts saw my fall.

  They know I’m injured.

  I burst into hysterical sobs when they load me into the ambulance.

  Why do I have this sick feeling that my life is suddenly over?

  Present

  “I quit,” James snarls the moment he pushes into my office. His face is bright red and blood trickles from his nose. What the fuck just happened?

  “Why?” My tone is dry and unimpressed. I pay my physical therapists well and the benefits are phenomenal. Everyone here is fucking spoiled. And yet…they keep quitting.

  “She’s psychotic,” he complains, his fingers spearing through his blond hair. “Punched me right in the nose.”

  With a lifted brow, I snag a tissue from the holder on my massive mahogany desk and extend my arm. He takes the tissue and dabs at the blood. His fury has dissipated some. I know exactly who she is. She’s the reason six of my other therapists left. This is becoming a severe problem.

  “Sophia Rowe?” I question, even though I know the answer already.

  He huffs. “Why is she such a bitch?”

  I’ve had the joy of getting to know her on a personal level over the past nine months because her sister is my best friend’s wife. The teenage brat is mouthy, mean, and a fucking crybaby.

  Which means James is a pussy for not being able to handle her. My mind drifts to the first time I met her at a backyard barbeque about a month after her accident.

  Everyone is laughing and having a good time. I’ve never seen my best friend Miles so damn happy in all my life. He’s finally got the girl of his dreams. They’re a good couple. I like his wife a lot and am pleased they found each other.

  “Stop staring at my sister’s butt.” The snob from the other lawn chair in Miles’s backyard taps away on her phone without even lifting a brow at me.

  “I wasn’t checking out her ass,” I grunt, my lip curled up. Best friends don’t drool over each other’s hot girlfriends.

  Olivia’s sister, Sophia, quirks up a brow and her green eyes bore into mine. I’ve known this chick all of ten minutes and she’s giving me shit. What is she? Like fifteen?

  “What’s this then?” she questions, a haughty tone in her voice. She turns the screen on her phone toward me so I can look at the picture she took. Of me. Staring at Miles and Olivia like I’m jealous. It irritates the fuck out of me that she took a picture of me looking like a love-struck dumbass.

  “Delete it,” I snap.

  She rolls her eyes like the petulant kid she is. “Nope.”

  I stand from my chair and stalk over to her. She lets out a squeak of shock when I snatch the phone from her hand. I delete the goddamned idiot picture and replace it with a photo of me giving her the bird.

  “There. Better.”

  “Ass,” she mutters as she snags her phone back. “Whatever. I’m going inside.”

  I watch as she painstakingly climbs out of the chair and fumbles for her cane. I’d seen her walk in with it and wondered why she used it. Olivia mentioned she’d had a softball accident but I didn’t realize she was using a cane to get around. The physical therapist in me begs to help her but the asshole in me wants to taunt her for being a bitch.

  “Does faking get you attenti
on from the boys at your school, granny?”

  She jerks her head toward me and shoots venom from her gaze. “Fuck you. I’m not faking.”

  I snort. “Fine, maybe not faking but you’re definitely milking it for all it’s worth.”

  She glowers at me. “Go find someone else to terrorize.” Her face scrunches as she winces in pain when she takes her first step.

  I almost feel guilty.

  Almost.

  Then I remember she’s a faker drama queen.

  “I like terrorizing you, crybaby.”

  “Either reassign her or I’m leaving. I can’t put up with her abuse another day,” he says in defeat, dragging me from my thoughts. The kid needs this job. He’s fresh out of college and takes care of his sick mother. His income is needed which means his threats are idle ones.

  “Fine,” I grit out. “Have Johnna take her—”

  “Johnna is in the bathroom crying,” he grumbles. “Miss Rowe said some nasty stuff to her when she tried to help me.”

  I let out an exasperated sigh and scrub at my scruffy cheek. My desk is piled up with insurance shit I need to deal with and some résumés I should look at. I don’t normally take on patients anymore because I am usually too swamped being the boss of this busy physical therapy practice I own. Irritation flits through me.

  “Fine. Sort Johnna out and you can officially be free of Sophia Rowe. She’s my patient now,” I say, my tone annoyed. “What room is she in?”

  “The cave,” he mutters.

  The cave is a room in the back that we reserve for the loud, bitchy patients who scream when they do their therapies. Mostly, it’s people who can’t handle the pain well and cry. Sophia certainly fits well there.

  I rise from my desk chair and give James a nod before I stride out of my office. Everyone at the practice stares at me in anticipation. They want me to drop her as a patient. For almost a year now she’s been wreaking havoc on my staff. Well, the little monster has done it now. I’m not like the other therapists. I don’t put up with bullshit and she doesn’t scare me. I snag her folder from the tray outside the cave door and thumb through it before I enter the room.

  Dislocated hip.

  Torn hamstring.

  Softball injury.

  Nine months later, she should not be intimidating my staff over this. She should be healed. But from the notes in the chart, she hardly lets anyone touch her. She never finishes her exercises. And she complains all the time.

  I roll my eyes and push through the door. I find a scowling Sophia digging through her purse and cursing under her breath. She locates a prescription bottle and plucks a pill from it. Once she’s swallowed it down dry, her head tilts up to regard me.

  Venom and fury blaze in her brilliant green eyes.

  Frustration and sadness flicker just below all that fiery emotion.

  “Get undressed,” I bark.

  Her lip curls up and she shakes her head. “I think your people have done enough damage today,” she seethes as she stands.

  When she reaches for her cane—which I think is ridiculous for her to be using in the first place—I snatch it.

  “Take your pants off and lie down. I’m going to take a look at your hip and hamstring.” My voice is ice as I pin her with a glare. “Now, crybaby.”

  She grumbles and the sound might be cute if she wasn’t pissing me off. “You’re such an ass.”

  Ignoring her, I set the file down on the small counter in the corner and prop her cane against the wall out of reach. If she wants the damn thing so bad, she can walk her ass over here and get it.

  “I’ve got all day,” I lie, my back to her. She’s not making any moves to get undressed.

  After five long minutes of me studying the notes in her file, she lets out an exaggerated teenage huff before I hear the sound of the zipper on her jeans going down. I smirk knowing I’ve won this round.

  She grunts with exertion as she pushes down her jeans. The sounds she’s making are real. Undressing is difficult for her. Noted. I scribble down that thought in the margin beside today’s log sheet. As soon as I hear the paper on the table crunch, I turn to regard her.

  A scowl no longer mars her pretty features. And she is pretty—an exact replica of her older sister. Her fat bottom lip is jutted out in a pout. I’ve seen Sophia pissed plenty of times since I’ve known her but never so defeated. Tears swim in her eyes as she tries to cover her black panties.

  “I’m not here to look at your underwear,” I assure her as I stride over to the table. “Teenagers aren’t my thing.”

  Flames burn in her gaze and she bares her teeth to me. “Your bedside manner is impressive, Doc.”

  Ignoring her jab, I rub my hands together to warm them. Her green eyes watch my movements warily. “Move your hands and tell me where it hurts.”

  She grits her teeth but moves her hands to her sides where she fists them. The tears that had been pooling in her eyes escape their dams and roll down her temples wetting the paper below.

  “Everywhere.”

  I snort. “Be more specific, Soph.”

  She brings her shaky left hand to her hip and splays out her palm. “Here. It radiates though. Sometimes it locks up. I can’t move very well.”

  “What about your hamstring? Still give you trouble?”

  “Occasionally, it flares with pain, but mostly it’s my hip.”

  I peel her hand away from her hip and replace it with mine as I gently prod the area. “Your file says your orthopedic doctor advised against surgery. The ligaments were damaged, but those should have healed up by now.”

  She doesn’t answer, but when I put pressure on the area, she screams. Her elbow on her right arm swings out and hits me in the stomach. I swat away her hand.

  “Stop moving, crybaby. You have got to stop hitting when you’re in pain,” I grit out at her. I press into her muscle and she screams again. This time when she swings, I sidestep her assault. “You can’t wound me, Soph.”

  “Please stop. You’re hurting me,” she begs tearfully, switching tactics on a dime. Her green eyes are so fucking sad.

  Letting up on the pressure, I continue to massage the area but gently. “You can’t live like this,” I tell her, my voice low. For a while there, I’d assumed she was being dramatic. She’s in a lot of pain though, I can see it in her eyes. “I want you to go back and see Dr. White. I want an MRI and new x-rays done.”

  She sniffles and nods.

  “I want you to start doing some exercises at home. I’ll show you—”

  “No,” she cuts me off. “I won’t do them. James and Sarah and Tabitha…they’ve all tried to get me to do them. My body doesn’t move the way they want it to. I can’t do those dumb exercises.”

  I slip my palm under her leg behind the knee while keeping my hand on her hip to stabilize it. “Then I’ll have to do them for you.” When I start bringing her knee upwards to her chest, a bone-chilling scream belts from her. Her back arches off the table as a loud sob rips from her. I ease her leg back down and frown. With my hand gripping her thigh, I begin pushing outward toward the wall and get the same reaction that has her gasping for breath. “You have hardly any range of motion or mobility.”

  “No shit, Sherlock,” she chokes out.

  Frowning, I try and figure out what’s got her so locked up. Either the ligaments are still destroyed or scar tissue is to blame. Dr. White’s tests will yield more results. Until then, I need to get her range of motion back.

  “What are you doing tonight?” I question as I go back to probing the flesh around her hip.

  She glares at me. “Soaking in a hot bath.”

  “No, you’re not,” I bite out. “I usually leave here around seven. I’ll give you my address and I want you to come over around then.” When her eyes widen in surprise, I laugh. “Jesus, Soph, this isn’t a date. I don’t fuck around with teenagers.” Embarrassment causes her cheeks to heat. “I have a pool.” When her lip curls up, I shrug. “It’s heated. You’ll be
fine. Besides, it’s not that cold yet. I’m thinking we can incorporate some water exercises that could help your movements. Bring a swimsuit. Now, put your jeans back on. Session is over for today.”

  I step away and walk over to the sink. As I start washing my hands, I don’t miss the pitiful sounds coming from her as she sits up and pulls her jeans back on.

  “I think I’m going to pass,” she bites out, her voice hard. “Give me my cane.”

  I pick up the cane and hold it out to her but don’t let go. “It wasn’t a request. Show up or I’ll come get your ass. I know where you live.” She jerks at the cane but I keep it in my grip. “Don’t test me on this, Soph.” I release the cane to her.

  If looks could kill, she’d slaughter me right where I stand.

  Unfortunately for her, I’ve had enough bitchy girlfriends over the years to have mastered ignoring the wannabe look of intimidation that she wears so well. She doesn't rile me up like she does my staff. I’m not afraid of her. Hell, she’s a good six inches shorter than me and can barely move. James is a fucking wussy if he lets this little thing beat him up.

  “I hate you,” she snaps and stabs me with her goddamned cane in my nuts.

  I stumble away gripping my junk and glare at her. “The feeling’s fucking mutual, crybaby,” I hiss, my voice shaky from the pain. “See you at seven. And if you do that again, I’ll whip your ass.”

  She blinks in shock.

  I don’t give her a chance to recover before I snag her file and bolt out the door.

  My hip screams in pain for the rest of the afternoon. I don’t know how I’ll even go to school tomorrow because I can barely move. That asshole has another thing coming if he thinks I’m going swimming with him. Drew Hamilton. Prick nearly killed me earlier.

  I scowl through dinner and ignore my dad and his girlfriend, Dorian. When my friend and old teammate Misty texts me, I don’t respond. And even when Olivia calls, I send the call to voicemail.

  Seven comes and goes.

  Dad has gone to a movie with Dorian but I stare at the television in the living room in disgust as I watch a college softball tournament on TV. The girls are intense but happy. Like I used to be. I’ll never play ball again. I’m feeling all kinds of sorry for myself when my phone buzzes.