Bringing It Home (The King Brothers Book 2) Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  COPYRIGHT

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  ALSO BY TEAGAN KADE:

  DEDICATION

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  EPILOGUE

  Teagan Kade

  * * * * *

  Published by Teagan Kade

  Edited by Sennah Tate

  Copyright © 2020 by Teagan Kade

  COPYRIGHT

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

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  ALSO BY TEAGAN KADE:

  THROW DOWN

  THE LIFEGUARD

  LONG SCHLONG SILVER

  LIFE SUPPORT

  TROUSER SNAKE

  THE ROYAL TREATMENT

  BALLSY

  HOT PANTS

  SAVAGE

  VICE

  RECKLESS

  PUCK BUDDIES

  FERAL

  WINTER MIRACLE

  ADAGIO

  BRUTE

  BLAZE

  HUSTLE

  LAWLESS

  LONG GAME

  DEDICATION

  To the real MVPs who have stuck with me through isolation and more, this one is for you.

  CHAPTER ONE

  TITUS

  I lick at the air. It tastes sweet. It tastes like victory.

  I bring the bat up and scan the bases.

  Fully loaded.

  My body’s tight, coiled, ready to deliver. I always deliver.

  It’s opening night and the place is packed. There isn’t a single seat without an ass.

  These folks have come to see me put on a show, and I’m not going to disappoint.

  That goes double tonight. I’m eyeing down Joe Pearson—pitcher for the Mules, wannabee playboy, and local soft cock. It would give me great satisfaction to slug his pitch right back into his ball sack, but we need a homer here. Personal vendettas will have to wait.

  I can tell by the smug curl of his lower lip he’s thinking the same. Our rivalry extends far beyond the field. It’s no surprise considering I dated his ex for a while… After she left him for me.

  It’s not hard to read ol’ Joe. He’s either lining up a two-seam sinker or a straight four-seam fastball, the hardest of all fastballs.

  Let him fucking try.

  He dips and rises, bringing his arm back. For a second, I think he might switch it up to a slurve, but when the ball leaves his hand it’s none of the above.

  It’s a fastball alright, but rising quick and…

  Shit.

  Approximately one second ago I was on top of the world, absolutely unbeatable, in my element. No one fucks with Titus King on the baseball diamond, but it seems Joe Pearson’s going to give it a red hot go.

  There’s no point trying to swing. I simply have to decide whether to move my head left or right.

  But there’s some serious stink on this ball.

  I have to decide, and I have to decide fast otherwise it’s going to take my fucking head off.

  Left, I elect.

  Wrong decision.

  When the ball strikes my forehead, I actually feel it deform and change shape, less of a ball and more of a puck as it drives against the bone of my skull.

  It’s kind of amusing, actually. Funny.

  And that’s how I hit the dirt—smiling.

  I’m still smiling as the curtains close.

  *

  I’m seeing stars when I come to. No, like literal stars in the sky because, it would appear, I’m on my back.

  A guy who I vaguely think is some kind of medical professional is leaning over me, flashlight in hand. Fuck me, it’s bright. He’s saying something. It seems important, but I can’t make out the words clearly now that my head has become a boat anchor.

  Said boat anchor drops sideways and I see an ambulance drawing closer and closer through a railing, or maybe I am the one who’s moving? Who knows.

  Someone else kneels in front of me, peering in like I’m a museum exhibit.

  Behind them, I can see others trying to hold a blurry figure back, a woman. She looks determined to get to me, but I can’t make her out clearly. She’s shadowy, fuzzy around the edges. I try to focus on her, but my head suddenly becomes heavier, dragging me down into the deep.

  “Stay with me, Titus.”

  That I can make out because the guy saying it is, like, an inch from my face. Any closer and we’re going to be heading up Brokeback Mountain.

  I’m too busy trying to focus, concentrating, squinting. It only makes things worse.

  God, I just want to sleep.

  “Titus… Titus?”

  I… can’t…

  I let the anchor drop completely and drag me down into blissful unconsciousness.

  *

  Water—it’s the first thing that comes to mind when I open my eyes.

  It feels like I’ve been chewing sandpaper for hours, my jaw aching when I go to stretch it.

  “Water,” I say, but what passes from my lips is so quiet and muted I’m shocked it’s my own voice.

  Things hit me fast. I’m in hospital. The white-on-white décor and incessant beeping give that away. I’m lying down, attempt to wiggle my toes. They comply, thank Christ.

  “Water.” I try to say it louder, but I’m getting nowhere here.

  I lift up my right hand and start swatting at what looks like a remote control on the bed beside me. My aim’s off, but I manage to hit something, because a beeping starts, far more incessant than the others.

  Someone wearing scrubs appears at the end of my bed, takes a nice, long gander at me.

  “Water,” I repeat, but they rush out.

  Fuck me, I think. What do you have to do to get a drink around this place?

  A doctor appears now with the androgynous nurse from before. He looks like George Clooney—a discount, bargain bin Clooney.

  “Water.” I try it again, but Clooney’s more concerned with blinding me with his penlight.

  He pulls back smiling. “Welcome back, Titus. I’m Doctor Fiddler and
you’re in the hospital. You took quite a hit to the head.”

  Doctor Fiddler? I think. Maybe I’m still unconscious.

  “Water,” I get out, slightly louder.

  Clooney nods to the nurse, who returns with a glass of water, directing the straw to my mouth. I drink and just like that the sandpaper pit becomes an oasis. It’s far easier to speak after that.

  “How… long… have I… been here?” I ask, trying to sit up but slumping back into the pillow when it all becomes too hard.

  The doc places a reassuring hand on my shoulder. “Easy now. You’ve been in a coma. For four weeks, actually.”

  Waking up in the hospital was shock enough, but four fucking weeks? I can’t believe it.

  I tell Clooney this. “No,” I state.

  “Yes,” he replies, hand remaining in place at my shoulder, “and I know that’s going to come as a shock, but you’re awake now and that’s a very, very good sign. We’ll have some tests, of course, but this is progress.

  He smiles the fakest, gummiest grin I’ve ever seen and moves to the corner with the nurse, discussing something quickly, using his hands to illustrate his point. As long as they’re not gearing up for a surprise enema, or lobotomy, I think I’ll be okay.

  A few tests quickly turn into twenty. Thirst becomes hunger. I down what looks like nuclear waste in seconds. I manage to move a little, even try to get out of bed before Miss Androgynous warns against it, wrangling me back into place.

  I’m weak, hella lethargic and generally running at half capacity, but I’m more concerned about the fact I can’t remember what the hell happened to me. Clooney’s asking me questions, simple questions, about my life, but answers are few and far between. It’s like they’re hovering there in my head just out of reach. I remember who I am, things from the past, but more recent events escape me. I’m not sure I even believe him that I was knocked out by Joe Fucking Pearson.

  Clooney has returned to my bedside with a folder of papers, smiling his gummy grin. “Your brothers tell me you’re quite the mathematician.”

  “I am?” I question, genuinely surprised.

  He selects a sheet of paper from the folder and hands it to me. “Look familiar?”

  I take it. It’s a common geometry problem known as Langley’s Adventitious Angles. The solution involves drawing one additional line. I scribble out a rough answer, announcing, “And thus BEF equals thirty degrees.”

  Clooney smiles. “Wonderful. He points to the main triangle. Perhaps you can tell me what kind of triangle this is?”

  I’m tempted to tell him to fuck right off until I stare at the triangle and realize, much to my horror, I do not have a clue what it’s actually called. “I, uh…”

  “Take your time,” he says, his calm demeanor only infuriating me more because I just showed him how to solve ‘the hardest easy’ geometry problem yet I can’t correctly identify one simple triangle.

  “Fuck,” I stammer, shaking the paper in front of me hoping for what? That the answer’s going to magically tumble out of it?

  Clooney takes the paper from me. “It’s fine, Titus.” He tucks the paper away in his folder and takes a seat beside the bed. “I’m sure it’s quite obvious to you now, and certainly confirmed by our testing today, that you have amnesia.”

  “Amnesia?” I try to recall everything I know about it, but all I drum up is dumb plots from bad TV soaps.

  “Yes, it’s difficult to say how severe, or when—if—your memory might return, but it’s important you understand what is happening. Do you understand?”

  “That some asshole pitched a baseball into my head and knocked out half its contents? Yeah, I kind of got that part.”

  And now a real smile from Clooney. “Well, that’s one way to put it. From my observations it seems like your long-term memory is fine, mostly, but the last several months seem to be something of a blank. ‘Patchy’ is how I would describe it.”

  “In your medical opinion?” I taunt.

  Another smile. “That’s right.”

  Two people appear in the doorway, Clooney rising to greet them. “Ah, Mr. King, Mrs. King. I’ll let you have some time.” He turns back to me. “We’ll talk later, Titus.”

  He leaves and Dad and Alissa enter, the latter looking suitably overdressed for the occasion in heels so high they might as well be stilts. I guess when you’re wife number ten you’ve got to make yourself stand out. I’m surprised she’s lasted twenty-three months, especially given she’s only a few years older than me.

  You remembered, I tell myself. You’ve forgotten everything except good ol’ Alissa. Just dandy.

  They approach the bedside together, Dad leaning over and taking my shoulder Clooney style. “Son, it’s so good to see you awake. How are you doing?”

  “I can’t remember most of what happened in, I don’t know, three or four months, been sleeping my ass off while the world turned for the last four weeks… Guess you can say I’m doing peachy, Dad.”

  And there’s that signature King concern my father’s so famous for. He usually reserves it for the sidelines. It’s far less effective here. “You don’t remember anything before the accident?”

  “Bits and pieces.”

  That much is true. I’m getting fragments of memories, but they’re broken and jagged and do not want to fit together no matter how much I will it. To say it’s intensely frustrating would be an understatement.

  Dad shares a look with Alissa, though I’m not sure exactly what her blank, goldfish stare back is supposed to communicate other than ‘Did you say something?’

  Dad returns to me. “They say you can come home tomorrow if you want. You’re physically fine, that lump on your head looking a hell of a lot better than the grapefruit you came in here with. So, what do you say?”

  “We can hire him a nurse,” Alissa pipes up. She sounds almost excited by the prospect.

  Both Dad and I stare at her.

  “I don’t need a damn nurse,” I protest. “I’m fine.”

  I can see the cogs ticking over in her head. She’s so eager to please, to be something other than an ornament at my father’s side. “What about a tutor?”

  “A tutor?” Dad and I ask in tandem.

  She’s beaming, thinks she’s stumbled onto the World’s Best Idea. “They can help with your college work, maybe help you get your memory back too?”

  I want to cut her down, but I don’t have either the energy or an actual good reason why a tutor would be a bad idea per se.

  I can see Dad’s caught in the same conundrum. “We’ll see.”

  Alissa won’t let it go, determined to help and please her sugar daddy. She’s actually tugging on his shirt like a toddler. “We have to go back to the city, he’ll have company, someone there to talk to, help him catch up on what he’s missed, and there would be a lot, right? The doctor said he’s been struggling.”

  I have no idea why she’s so damn determined to see this through, but I can see Dad slowly giving in, the cracks starting to show. He’s a sucker for this shit.

  “Mmm,” he mumbles, kissing her forehead. I’m half tempted to signal Ms. Androgynous for a spew bag. “Maybe.”

  God, Alissa genuinely thinks she’s helping the situation here.

  I let Dad fill me in on what’s been happening at Crestfall, how the baseball season started, even though I’ve got no recollection of it at all.

  “Who did you say was pitching?” I ask, surprised I can’t recall the name when I’m sure I knew it this morning, but that’s my head for you—useless as a one-legged man in an ass-kicking competition.

  It’s just Dad and me. Alissa flitted off to the vending machine and has been gone for close to an hour. “Joe Pearson.”

  “Who?”

  I have a vague idea who he is, but I can’t drum up a visual picture of him in my head. It’s insane.

  Dad almost laughs. “Pitches for the Mules, your mortal enemy and all that?”

  “We don’t get along?”


  Now Dad laughs. “Fuck no, you don’t. And don’t worry. He got into a whole world of hurt for that little stunt.”

  “Joe Pearson,” I say aloud, trying to flesh him out.

  “Do I have a girlfriend?” I ask.

  “Onto the important questions, huh?”

  “Well?”

  Dad shakes his head. “Not that I know of. Better to ask your brothers.”

  I sit up straight. “I have brothers?”

  A look of shock fills Dad’s face until he sees the smile breaking on my lips.

  He reaches up to tousle my hair. “Real funny, kiddo. Let’s see how funny you think it is when you’re holed up with them again twenty-four seven.”

  I look to the plate of sludge beside the bed. “Hey, as long as there’s Uber Eats and Netflix, I’m good to go.”

  Dad smiles. “But no girls, got it? I don’t want some Crestfall hussy looking to lay claim to those missing months of yours.”

  “Give me a little more credit than that.”

  He stands and goes to walk off. “Stick to Pornhub, son. It’s a lot safer,” he says, turning back to me with a grin, “and cheaper.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  MAYA

  It’s a crisp summer’s day outside, a sky so blue above you’d swear it was upturned ocean. This marks the fourth time I’ve tried to see Titus and the fourth time I’ve been blocked by the Robocop who runs the nursing desk.

  ‘Family only.’ I’m getting sick of hearing that.

  I think back to the first time we met at Erin and Peyton’s engagement party. Erin and I go way back, but I hadn’t spoken to her in a while, never expected an invite. In truth, I thought I’d be escorted out by security, but it was Titus who answered the door. Took him about thirty seconds before he could actually speak, and that was that.

  “You understand, don’t you?” I tell the pigeon sitting on the bench seat beside me. Its head shifts left and right, so no, I don’t think it does.

  I take a deep breath and try to channel Chrissy, my roommate. She’d know how to keep calm at a time like this. She’d dial up some hippie yoga mindfulness hoodoo voodoo her folks taught her and instantly be the picture of peace. Me? I’m anxious at the best of times. With Titus up there in a coma for weeks now, unable to see him, it’s been the cruelest form of torture.