Chapter 23 Like a Cyclone
like a cyclone
Lorien
“Do not hang up. Do you hear me? I’ll be right back.” The line goes silent, and I sit wondering who to trust more, the car behind me with no front license plate and tint so dark I can’t see inside, or the tow truck driver who is positioned so I could never pass and will ruin my car trying.
My breathing is ragged and loud in the car, and if I don’t take steps to fix it, I’m going to pass out.
“Okay, Lorien. You can do this. You are an intelligent woman who can understand the context and build of the nuclear pore complex and structural dynamics. A car is a car, but your life cannot be forfeit, so do what you must.”
“Lorien?”
“It’s Cian. Ayla three-wayed me in. I’m on my way.” The Bluetooth in his car echoes in the air of his cab. “Where are you?”
“In the alley behind my townhouse. Liam’s motorcycle is around the corner on the street. I’ve never noticed it there before. And someone behind me is creeping up on me.”
Crash.
“What was that?” Cian barks.
“The car behind me just hit me and—”
“Do not get out of the car, Lorien.”
“He’s pushing me. His car is pushing mine.” My voice rises along with my panic.
“Hold the brakes.” Ayla chimes in.
“I’m sliding. He’s pushing me and the other end of the alley is blocked.”
“How blocked? And how fast is he going?” Cian is back, analyzing the situation.
“My car can’t fit through. There’s a tow truck on one side and the brick wall of a garage on the other.” My words flow fast. “My speedometer says almost fifteen.”
“Listen to me, Lorien. I want you to floor it. Put your body in the middle of the spot to do the least damage. The truck and house can be repaired. Protect your body. Ready?”
“No.” Why is all this happening to me?
“You can do this, Lorien,” Ayla says. “You’re strong and smart and this is the best option.”
“It’s the only option,” Cian echoes. “Go.”
I slam the gas pedal to the floor, gripping the wheel as my tires peel. I fishtail and close my eyes as metal rips and glass flies around me.
“What the fuck happened?” The familiar voice is far away, and yet, so loud.
“Don’t speak to her that way.” I don’t know that one, but it’s menacing and severe.
“I’ll speak to her anyway I—”
“Stop. Both of you. Stop right now.” Whoever that woman is, she’s fierce.
“Oh my,” a woman’s voice closer to me says. “It’s like a hot men of Denver calendar model argument out there. Damn.”
I didn’t know they made those calendars. I could use one of those. I don’t get to look at men anymore and the one I want to touch says that’s forbidden. The sigh that leaves me must be audible.
“Are you okay?” the voice says from seemingly closer.
“I want a calendar man.” Or is it a man calendar? My brain isn’t firing.
“Me, too, honey, me too.”
The door flies open and the scent of earthy and woodsy and something familiar hits me. “Yum.”
“Can I get an update please?” the voice says.
“Who are you?” the woman asks, her voice sounding breathy.
“I’m her husband.”
He sounds sweet. But I need a nap. And to dream about a hot calendar man. Maybe one with a beard.
I wake with a gasp, sitting bolt upright in bed. Everything hurts or feels like it jostled into the wrong place at an odd angle. “Ow.”
“Are you okay?”
My eyes adjust, and I look from the window side to a chair between me and the door. Liam is there, hands on knees, dressed in leather.
“Aren’t you hot?”
His lips twitch. “They didn’t tell me you hit your head.”
I scrunch my eyes trying to figure out what in the world he’s referencing. “Huh?”
“You called me hot, did you not?”
“You have on a leather jacket. In July.”
“And there’s the woman I married.” He lifts his arms, showing me the insides of the jacket. “It’s vented. Armor sucks in this chair, but they keep this place cold enough to hang meat.”
“With a few exceptions, viral viability declines with cooler temperatures. The denaturation of the proteins means viruses struggle to replicate. It’s strategic in hospitals to help decrease transmission.”
He tilts his head as if he’s thinking and a bandage on his right ear catches my attention.
“What happened to you?” I tug my own ear. “Are you okay?”
He scrubs a hand down his face before looking around the room. “You were admitted after being unable to stay awake, and you’re wondering about my ear?”
I nod.
“Stay awake, Wifey. I promise to tell you the story when we get home.”
Wifey? That’s the second time he’s gone with that term. A man so imposing and formidable calling me Wifey kind of cracks me up.
“Is your motorcycle okay?”
“I hope it’s where I left it. I haven’t been home yet.”
“Why not?”
His eyes bug and his neck jerks, and a sinister mask falls over his features.
“Because you were targeted this afternoon. Because I thwarted a break-in and then you were targeted in a place I promised you would be safe. Because, Lorien, you are here.” He enunciates every word as if he’s spitting projectiles.
“Oh.”
Liam
“Oh.” Staring at the ceiling, I count to three. “She says ‘oh’. Give me strength.”
“Are you praying?”
I am, in fact, seeking patience in this situation.
This woman is infuriating and wild and, apparently, drove into and through a brick wall as she removed the driver’s side door from its hinge, scraping it along a tow truck.
If Cian is telling the truth, and I don’t think the man knows how to lie, she chanted, “Oh crêpe, oh crêpe, oh crêpe,” until she stopped saying anything at all.
He arrived less than sixty seconds later, scooping her into his truck, having enough clarity of mind to grab her purse and keys, and took her to the ER.
He’s no expert, but there’s no way her ten-year-old import isn’t totaled.
So, car shopping is now on the agenda, after locking down her townhome like Fort Knox, adding more cameras, doing some defensive driving courses, and maybe a handgun course.
Maybe that’s overkill. But kill is the only word in that sentence that sticks in my mind.
“Why are you pinching the bridge of your nose? Do you have a headache? I have something in my purse for that.” She twists, looking around before uttering a low groan.
My wife’s in the hospital. I’d bet my life savings she won’t take kindly to being wrapped in bubble wrap, and she keeps worrying about me instead of getting better. “It’s been a day.”
“You can say that again.”
“Are you hungry?”
As if asking triggered her hunger, her stomach growls. She throws her hands over it, like that’ll make it quieter.
“Be right back.” I wander into the hall, asking the man at the nurse’s station the status of discharge and if Lorien is allowed to eat. While he’s checking, I update the group chat.
Me: Awake and ornery. No clue on discharge. Will keep you posted.
Sariah: Let us know when she’s up for visitors.
Ayla: Glad things are good. We’ve got to stop having these kinds of group texts. Let’s do babies instead.
Sariah: That’s on you. I’m tapped out for now.
Ayla: I meant Liam.
I choke on my own spit and throw myself into a coughing fit.
Cian: Leave the poor man alone. He’s had a heck of a weekend.
Ayla: But it’s his turn.
Cian: I heard the whine in your voice from here.
Ayla: Sorry. Not Sorry.
Christian: Good luck, Liam. Keep us posted.
Ayla: Look at you two getting along.
Sariah: Wait. What did I miss?
Cian: I’ll tell you in bed.
Sariah: On my way.
Ayla: No. No. No. La la la.
I literally said I’d keep them posted and all this started. Head down, I nearly bump into another staffer as I watch the back and forth of my family play out before me. “Sorry.”
Pushing open the door, Lorien stops what appears to be her sneaking across the room. She’s frozen like a deer in headlights.
“You know I can see you, right?”
“Uh-huh.” Nothing moves but her lips.
“What are you doing?”
She looks around. I swear the woman is searching her room to find an excuse or a lie.
I level her with my gaze and take two steps closer. “Lorien.” My tone brooks no argument.
Her chin tilts toward the bathroom and back to me, her face scrunching.
Ah, I see. “Come on then.”
“No.”
“Woman.” It’s damn near a growl, but I tame it just enough.
Her head tilts, and she stares at me. “Fine, but only because I’m not interested in breaking something.”
Why would she break anything?
Boot propped up on the wall near the bathroom door, I check my phone. No more messages.
Good. My family can be too chatty. And while it’s entertaining as fuck, it’s usually so because it’s someone else’s problem. When it’s mine… Well, what goes around comes around, and fuck if it’s not coming around like a cyclone.
“Cheesecake.” The word seems to be meant as an expletive.
Before I can wonder how I, of all people, married a woman who curses with dessert phrases, I ask, “Is everything okay in there?”
“Yes?”
“Why are you asking me?”
Silence.
Fuck it. This is ridiculous. “I’m coming in.”
“No,” she cries, quick and urgent.
“Give me one good reason why.” I stare at the ceiling. Everything about this woman tries my patience. Everything.
“Um. Because?”
I crack the door. I’m not interested in any bathroom venture that is full of worry and back-and-forth questions, and I’m loath to go when a woman says no. But I can’t be useless when I’m here and can help. “I need a reason, or I’m coming in in three, two—”
She growls. “Fine. I started my period, okay? As if the last few days weren’t stressful enough, I’m at the hospital and I have no, um… supplies”—she clears her throat—“in my purse. Are you happy?”