Chapter 3
Kat
There was so much fuckingpain.
I wasn’t dying. I knew that. Those bastards hadn’t damaged anything serious, and considering the way things could have gone, I had gotten off easy. My ear had been sliced by that man’s boot and was now stitched and bandaged, the blood cleaned up. I’d scraped off a healthy swatch of skin from my lower back when they’d dragged me across the concrete toward the car. That was bandaged too, and it stung like hell where they’d put antibacterial spray on the wounds.
But it was my left hand that truly hurt. The slamming car door had broken my pinky and ring fingers, and the skin on the side of my hand had been pinched in the door’s hinge so hard it had nearly ripped off. My entire forearm was throbbing, and though the X-rays said that my arm wasn’t broken, it was going to turn spectacular black and blue for a long time before it looked normal again. The punches I’d taken to the face meant that my cheekbones weren’t going to look much better.
I was lying on a hospital bed, wearing nothing but a hospital gown and staring at the ceiling. They’d given me painkillers a few hours ago, and the heavy throb in my arm meant that the pills were starting to wear off. I’d been out of it, but I’d been sober enough to give the police a statement about what happened to me. They had finally left.
I wasn’t hooked up to an IV or any machines—I wasn’t hurt badly enough for that. Because my head had hit the concrete so hard, the doctors said I had to stay here until ten o’clock in the morning, in case I showed signs of a concussion.
Except for an hour when the painkillers had made me doze, I hadn’t slept. Now, as the pills wore off and the pain throbbed through me, I stared at the ceiling and thought about who had done this to me.
It had been done to me specifically and wasn’t a random attack. I was sure of that. Those men had been waiting for me to come out of Knoxy’s and cross the street to my car. They had organized it between two guys, plus—I thought—a third guy driving the car. It had been me they wanted, not just any woman who happened to walk by at three in the morning.
But who were they?
I had told the police the truth: I didn’t know who had attacked me. I’d only dated one guy since coming to Nashville, and that was two months ago. His name was Nicholas and we’d gone out for three weeks before he’d dumped me to get back together with his ex-girlfriend. There had been nothing acrimonious about it, and he definitely wasn’t a stalker. As for me, when he’d ended it I’d been more than a little relieved. Nicholas had been really bad in bed. I wished his ex luck.
So that ruled ex-boyfriends out. There was never a shortage of creeps who liked to come into Knoxy’s and stare at my tits and my ass, but none of them had given me a would-be-abductor vibe. I hadn’t so much as scored a gram of weed since I’d been in Nashville, so that left drug dealers out.
Maybe I’d been mistaken for someone else—some other woman who was five-six, had long, black hair, worked at Knoxy’s, and was one-quarter Cherokee. Because there were so fucking many of us.
Still, maybe they had the wrong person. Maybe?—
Then I remembered.
When I did, my blood froze in my veins.
“Oh, shit,” I said, my voice rasping in the empty, curtained cubicle I’d been left in. “Shit, shit, shit.”
I struggled to sit up. I was woozy from the pills and the blood rushed from my head, making the room spin horribly for a second. I thought I might throw up, but I fought it down. If I was going to puke, it would be from fear, not from dizziness.
I had to get out of here.
A week ago, I’d been taking the garbage out behind Knoxy’s, dragging a black garbage bag to the dumpster in the back parking lot. It wasn’t my favorite task, and I’d done it quickly, keeping my head down. As I swung the bag into the dumpster, I’d lifted my gaze and noticed two cars parked there, one with its lights on. The trunk was open. Two men were standing there, staring at me. One had a duffel bag in his hand.
If there’s one thing I’ve learned after years in the restaurant industry, it’s that I do not give a fuck what two guys with a duffel bag are doing in a dark parking lot on a Thursday night. Curiosity is not a quality you want to have if you want to live to see forty. If I’d known these guys—whoever they were—were out here, I would have waited until they left. But I’d been trying to get this over with, and I hadn’t been aware enough when I’d stepped outside.
Now I was standing next to the dumpster, and I could see both of them. And they could see me.
“What are you looking at, bitch?” one of them said.
I didn’t want them to know I was scared. At the same time, I wanted them to believe that I didn’t care about whatever they were doing. “Go fuck yourself,” I said in a bored voice. I turned and walked back to the propped-open back door of the bar.
They didn’t speak as I made my retreat. I kicked the doorstop from under the door and let it close behind me. I was sweating, even though the night air was chilled. I felt a little ill.
Whatever that was, no one was supposed to have seen it.
For the rest of my shift, I wondered if one of those two men would saunter into the bar, his eyes on me, ready to deliver a message. Forget what you saw. I was more than happy to agree to it.
But no one came in, and by the time I went home that night, I had half forgotten about it. By the next night, I had almost completely forgotten about it. Those guys had concluded whatever business they had and had probably left town.
Which was what I’d continued to think, until two men tried to drag me into a car, presumably to kill me.
I looked around my hospital cubicle for my clothes, finding them folded and stacked on a chair in the corner. I untied my hospital gown and started to get dressed, my hand screaming, my arm protesting, my face and ear throbbing. I was going to get the fuck out of here, and as fast as I possibly could. Those men had meant to kill me, and they hadn’t succeeded. This wasn’t over. They would make another attempt, and probably soon.
Briefly, I considered calling the cops back. One of them had left his card. But even if they took me seriously, they’d send someone over in an hour, or two, or three. Or maybe tomorrow, or next week. Too late, all of it would be too late.
I didn’t think about where I would go or what I would do. I only knew that I had to move. Whoever wanted me dead might know that the hospital planned to discharge me at ten o’clock, and they might be waiting outside. Or in my apartment.
I can’t go to my apartment.
Shit. What was I supposed to do? I didn’t know anyone in town that I could ask to put me up. That could be dangerous anyway. I didn’t have the money for a hotel for more than a few nights.
I wouldn’t think that far ahead. My next task was to get out of here, get a cab to my car, and start driving. If I made it alive to that point, I’d think about calling the police and what came next.
My purse was tucked under my clothes, and—thank God—it still had my phone and my wallet in it. I had a few thousand bucks in the bank—I was a saver, and I never blew my money on partying or alcohol. I mostly just worked and slept. You never know when you might need cash, was my motto, which was funny for a girl who came from a family as rich as mine. If I went begging back to them and ate enough crow, I could have plenty of money. But I wasn’t ever going to do that, and I earned my own money instead. And now the advice I’d lived by was going to pay off.
It hurt to get dressed. It really hurt. I had to slide on my scuffed-up jeans and ease into the black top I’d been wearing. My sore body couldn’t handle the thought of a bra, so I tucked the offending piece of black lace and underwire into my purse. Then, groaning, I slid my ankle boots on and pulled on my coat.
It all took too long. Time was ticking. I couldn’t have said why I felt the sudden urgency in my gut; I only knew I felt it, a panicked squeeze that said Get out of here now. Would someone actually try and attack me in the middle of the day, in a crowded hospital? Was that even logical? Was I just having a panic attack after what I’d been through? Logic had no part in how I was feeling. Part of me just knew.
Still, I had to try and think straight. I wouldn’t get very far from whoever was chasing me if I didn’t have money and the keys to get into my car. I double checked I had everything, and then I pushed the curtain aside and left my hospital cubicle.
Wincing, I slid my bandaged hand into my coat pocket to hide it. I made sure to walk calmly, with purpose, as if it was completely natural that I was leaving. As if that was what I was supposed to be doing.
A nurse glanced at me, but I kept walking. I was glad for my coat, because aside from it hiding my hand, underneath it I was sweating and covered with bruises. If I’d had to leave in just my sexy, sleeveless top from last night, I would have been turned around.
By the time I got to the hallway, not only was I almost shaking, but everything had started to hurt. Damn it, only sixty seconds and I felt like I needed to lie down. My broken hand was starting to scream from its place in my pocket, and even my feet were throbbing. I let my hair fall forward so it wasn’t so easy to see the marks on my face.
A little farther. Just a little farther.
“Miss Sloane?”
It was a woman’s voice, coming from behind the nurse’s station. I pretended I hadn’t heard and kept walking.
“Miss Sloane!”
The voice approached behind me, and a hand touched my bad arm. I nearly groaned in pain, biting it back as I turned around. “Yes?”
It was a nurse, a wide woman in her fifties wearing scrubs and a no-nonsense look on her face. She’d last checked on me an hour ago. “Miss Sloane, I don’t think you’re cleared to leave yet.”
“Oh, I am,” I said. I wanted it to come out confidently, but it came out more like a croak. My arm was on fire.
“The doctor hasn’t been by to clear you,” the nurse explained. “And he’ll have to prescribe you some pain medication.”
“I don’t need to be cleared.” Was the room moving, or was my head spinning? I had to keep it together. “I feel just fine.”
“But the pain?—”
“No pain, really.” I was going straight to hell for that lie. “I don’t need meds. Just a little rest.”
The nurse pressed her lips together. Jesus, why wouldn’t she just let me go? I was panicking more with every second that ticked by. I had to get the hell out of here. “It’s against the rules. I’ll have to check with the doctor before we can allow you to leave.”
“I have to go.”
She shook her head and put her hand on my shoulder. “Come with me.”
I couldn’t run; it would make a scene. The last thing I needed was for someone to call security. Then I’d never get out of here. I followed her reluctantly, my mind racing as she leaned over the nurse’s station desk and picked up a phone. She dialled a number and started talking.
In thirty seconds, I was either going to make a break for it or pass out with pain. I had no idea which one it would be.
“Please,” I said when she put the phone down, before she could say anything. I could feel sweat running down my neck. “I need to leave. Right now. Please.”
If she noticed how pathetic I sounded, she didn’t let on. “The doctor says you can leave, but only if you’re accompanied,” she said.
My panic and pain made me stupid for a second. “Accompanied? By who?”
“By whoever is going to take care of you for the next twenty-four to forty-eight hours.”
“Excuse me?”
“You can’t be alone,” she explained. “You hit your head extremely hard. You aren’t out of the woods for a concussion yet.”
I was going to scream. “The doctor said ten o’clock.”
She shook her head. She seemed to have no idea how close I was to slapping her. “Ten o’clock is when you can be released into the care of someone at home,” she said slowly, as if I were hard of hearing. “You can’t go home alone. It simply isn’t possible.”
“But I need to leave.”
She pointed. “You need to go back to that hospital bed until the doctor says otherwise, or until someone comes to get you. That’s final.”
I opened my mouth, and then a deep, familiar voice said, “I’ve come to get her.”
My heart stopped in my chest.
I knew that voice. I hadn’t heard it for thirteen years, but I would know it anywhere.
I turned slowly, and there he was. Standing two feet away from me, here in this hospital in Nashville, and not in his penthouse wherever the hell he lived. Tall and dark and dangerous and looking at me.
I wasn’t hallucinating.
It was Alex Blake. My ex-husband.