Nothing To Lose

1. Tyler

1

TYLER

"Tyler?"

I blink up at the voice saying my name. The woman’s face is blurry and her voice sounds like it's echoing through a tunnel. My eyelids clear the tears that build no matter how hard I try to hold them back, and I refocus on the nurse. I think she said her name is Aisha? Her name tag is turned backwards so I can't confirm, though I probably wouldn't be able to read it, anyway. I can barely open my left eye, and my vision is blurry without my contacts. She's waiting patiently for me to answer her, the same way she has for the past two hours, or however long it's been since I woke up in the emergency room.

My throat burns when I try to force more words out. I just want to be done already. To go back to sleep. To wake up and have this be some kind of twisted nightmare.

"I—I don't remember."

"That can happen sometimes with head injuries," she says gently. "But if you can tell us what you do remember, anything at all, it would be really helpful."

My eyes cut over to the police officer standing at the end of my hospital bed. He's wasting his time.

"It was dark. I was lost. He came up behind me and I blacked out," I say quietly, averting my eyes to my lap, where I've shredded the bandage around my hand.

"So it was a he ?" the officer says, making a note in his handy-dandy notebook.

What? I shrug, wincing because every movement hurts. It feels like I was hit by a truck, not a person who isn’t that much bigger than me. "I mean, I think so? I didn't see them."

The officer gestures to my hands. "Those are some gnarly defensive wounds you have there. You must have fought back pretty hard."

I tuck them beneath the pile of thin, white blankets piled on top of me. They were warm when the nurses covered me in them, but I'm shaking. I can't stop.

Officer What's-his-name sighs and pulls a card from the front pocket of his uniform shirt. "If you remember anything at all, give us a call. I'd like it if you came down to the station to give a proper statement once you've recovered from the shock."

"Okay," I say, but don't reach for the card.

He lays it on the pile of my belongings, sitting in a chair. What's left of my belongings, anyway. My clothes were cut off my body, some of them put into bags that said evidence before they started throwing questions at me. Mostly, I just stared and blinked until there were questions about whether I needed to be examined for a sexual assault. I managed to confirm that wasn’t the case. That’s not what he wanted. I don’t know what he wanted. To humiliate me, confuse me, hurt me… but why?

"Alright, well. Call me to set something up. I'm going to ask your friend some questions before I go, so I'll still be here for a few minutes if you change your mind."

The officer backs out of the room, leaving me with Aisha. She gives me a sympathetic look and walks closer, taking my hand in hers. Despite willing my body to calm down, I can't stop the shaking. It's distracting me from processing the officer's words.

"Friend?"

"Isaac. He’s outside in the waiting room.”

"I don't know an Isaac," I say quietly, thinking hard and worrying over who it might be.

What if he gave them a false name and followed me here to make sure I didn't tell?

"I’m pretty sure that’s what he said his name was. Tall guy, tattoos?"

Okay, not him then. A brief flash of a familiar face looking down at me, black eyes, ink crawling up his neck, flickers through my foggy memory. My name said in a deep, worried tone. The sound of sirens…

That can't be right. He doesn’t know me. It was probably a hallucination.

"He found you and called for the ambulance, then came here to be with you," she says, her tone confused as she looks at me with worry etched across her features. "He's been sitting in the waiting room this entire time."

The shivers racking my body get worse.

"I'm not cold," I tell her, unsure what else to say. I don't want her to feel like she has to keep bringing me blankets.

She gives my hand a tender squeeze. "It's adrenaline. It might take a while to come down, and then you'll be exhausted."

I already am. I'm ready to get out of here and sleep for days.

"Can I go home?"

"We're waiting for the results of your CT, and I still need to finish cleaning and bandaging the cuts that didn't need stitches. It might be a while longer," she says sympathetically.

Her gaze moves to the open door, cocking her head to see out. "You’re sure you don’t know an Isaac? He mentioned you don't know each other well, but now you've got me worried he's some kind of creep or the one that did this to you."

"It wasn't," I blurt without thinking. "I mean… I don't think he had tattoos."

She raises an eyebrow. "The he you didn't see, you mean?"

Swallowing, I avert my eyes and nod.

"You know, a lot of crimes go unreported because the victim knew their attacker. Quite often, they don't feel safe reporting it when it's someone close to them…" She trails off, acting nonchalant, as though I can’t tell she’s trying to talk me into saying more.I don't say anything. Maybe she doesn't understand that if victims don't want to name who hurt them, it might be for a good reason.

Victim.

Aisha doesn't press, only goes about her business fixing the bandage on my hand before setting up a tray so the doctor can stitch up the gash near my temple and one on the back of my thigh. I'm covered in cuts and bruises, but those are the only ones deep enough to need stitches. My ribs ache, but not as much as my face. I can barely see out of my left eye, I've got a fat lip, and my cheek is swollen and throbbing.

"Whoever did this to you deserves to rot in jail," Aisha mutters as she finishes bandaging my cheek.

There's a tap on the door, and a head pokes in. "Um, hi?”

Oh. It is him.

“Officer Hendrick said you're awake and it was okay to come back. Is that…” His deep voice pauses and he looks from me to the nurse tentatively. “Is it okay?”

My mouth is dry. I must look horrified or surprised beyond comprehension because Aisha steps in front of me and gives me a questioning look. "Is he okay?" she mouths.

"Yeah," I croak, finding my voice again. "It's okay."

Truthfully, I don't want to see anyone. More than that, I don't want anyone to see me . Not like this. I haven't seen my face, but judging by the way every doctor and nurse has looked at me and the throbbing pain, I know it's bad. I'm going to start advocating for living in the moment, because all I can think about is all the chances I had to approach him but lost my nerve, and now this is going to be his first impression of me. No— second —because the first was me spilling my drink all over him and running away like an asshole.

Though he was the one to find me, I suppose he's already seen me at my worst. The look of pity on his handsome features hurts more than my busted lip when I try to force an awkward smile.

My tattooed hottie. Of course, it had to be him. I've been avoiding him, assuming he'd be pissed at me for making a mess of him that day. I mean, what was I supposed to say? Sorry I was distracted looking at your butt, then ran into you and threw my iced chai oat milk latte all over your chest! My bad!

To make it worse, I stood there like an idiot staring at the liquid soaking into the front of his henley for far too long, and how said henley was tightly stretched across his strong chest. Once I got a look at his strained expression, the way his inky black eyes bore into mine like he was trying to read my thoughts, I gaped like a fish and ran the other way.

In my defense, he's a bit scary looking. He's at least a few inches taller than my five-foot-ten frame and easily twice as wide as me. He's not bulky, exactly. Just not scrawny like I am. His forearms, hands, and neck are covered in tattoos, and he has piercings in his ears, nose, and one eyebrow. And if the tight, wet fabric of his white shirt wasn't lying to me that day, his nipples are pierced too.

There are a lot of thoughts and feelings vying for first place right now. Blushing is certainly not an appropriate response, no matter how mortified I am. There are so many more appropriate things to say or do. Should I apologize? Thank him? Stare blankly into the abyss to avoid making eye contact or having to answer any more questions?

He deserves more than that.But the only thing I can manage is, "You?"

"Isaac," he says, pulling his eyes away from the bandages and meeting my gaze. "My name is Isaac. Isaac Casey." His voice is soft, but deep. I have the ridiculous urge to press my ear against his chest while he speaks so I can feel the rumbling.

"You…found me?"

"Yeah," he says, running tattooed fingers through his messy hair. "You were— uh —it happened…" He doesn't seem to know what to say. "You were in the alley behind my building."

"Your building?"

"The old brick building down the block from The Nook ."

"Oh."

Isaac nods and looks around uncomfortably. I eye the chair against the wall near the hospital bed.

"Do you want to sit down?" He looks tired. My rattled brain wants to invite him to lie down and take a nap, but that would definitely be weird. Why did he stay?

I have so many questions for him, but I'm so tired, and my head is throbbing.

"I don't want to intrude or anything. I just wanted to make sure you were okay. The officer said you were awake, so…"

I sit up too fast and wince, my head and my ribs protesting the quick movement. "What did you tell him?"

"What?"

"The officer? What'd you tell him? I mean, w-what did you see?"

"Not much, unfortunately. The guy ran, and I went straight to you. I'm sorry."

With a breath of relief, I relax a little. "Why would you be sorry?"

"I could have chased him down, caught him or at the very least gotten a better look at him."

After helping me settle back in a more comfortable sitting position, Aisha takes my belongings off the chair and gestures for Isaac to sit down. He glances at me warily, but takes the seat. The nurse pats him gently on the shoulder. "Well, I for one think you did the right thing. Might have saved his life."

"I don't know about?—"

"Thank you," I interrupt. "For what you did. And for staying with me. You don't have to, though. I'm okay." I’m a long way from being okay, but he doesn’t need to be worrying about some stranger he found outside.

"Have you called anyone yet?"

"For what?" I drawl, unable to hold back a yawn.

Isaac's brow furrows, making his eyes look even darker. "To be here with you. To take you home and take care of you?"

"Oh. Yeah. I’ll do that. Of course."

I hadn't thought of that. If I call my dad, he'll want to know what happened. I could give him the same story about getting mugged, but that'll just encourage him to try to move me back home. I live alone. Embarrassingly, I haven't made many friends this past year, so there's really no one for me to call.

"I'll be fine. You don't need to worry about me. You can go home if you like. I know you must be tired."

Part of me wants him to go so I can wallow without being watched so closely. I feel like he can see under my skin, read all my secrets like they're projected across my forehead. A bigger part of me wants him to stay, because I don't have anyone else. And I feel safe with him here. Logically, I know I'm projecting some kind of knight in shining armor fantasy onto him because he saved me. I'm not a damsel in distress, but I can't deny the sense of calm that has settled over me since he walked in.

"I'll stay a while longer." I think I hear him say as my eyes close and I drift off to sleep.

* * *

I'm not sure how long it's been when I awake to the blood pressure cuff squeezing my arm.

"Sorry," Aisha whispers. "I need to get your vitals before shift change. I hoped you'd sleep through it."

"That's okay. What time is it?"

"Almost seven. How's your head?"

"Fine," I lie. It's throbbing. "Seven in the morning?"

She nods. "You've been out for a few hours."

Stretching my neck to look behind her, I notice the chair Isaac was sitting in is now empty. A strange pang of something unsettling sits low in my stomach. Disappointment, maybe? Aisha looks behind her at the empty chair. Before she can say anything about my missing friend, I tell her I need to use the restroom. My bladder is killing me.

After getting my IV set up on a rolling stand, Aisha helps me stand slowly. The stitches on the back of my thigh pull and my limbs feel heavier than usual, but I'm able to stand without much difficulty. Thankfully, the bathroom isn't far. Exhaustion and my bruised ribs make every step difficult. I have to sit to do my business in a weird hat thing so they can collect my urine and check it for blood. Afterwards, I stand at the sink and try to avoid my reflection while I scrub at my hands. Dried blood is caked around my nail beds. I get too engrossed in the task of cleaning the stubborn stains from my fingers and accidentally look up, taking in my reflection for the first time.

My usually dark blond hair is matted with dirt and blood. It’s greasy despite having been washed barely twelve hours ago. My skin is mottled with shades of blue, purple, and red. The left side of my face is unrecognizable, my eye swollen shut. There are marks where his fingers dug into my neck, proof of his hands on me. I run my fingers over the dark bruises, closing my eyes against the barrage of images that slice through my mind like being stabbed in the brain with an ice pick.

Tightness around my neck. I can't breathe, and there's so much pressure, like my face might pop like a balloon. Something warm and wet trickles into my already swelling eye. My vision grows dark, blotting out the man putting all his weight on my neck, teeth gritted in determination. Anger. Finally, one of my flailing limbs hits something, jostling him enough to push him off me. Dizzy and sucking in breaths that feel like inhaling glass, I try to get up, run away, do anything.

My ribs catch his shoulder when I'm tackled into the side of a dumpster. The sound reverberates in my brain like a bell ringing.

"You think you're better than me?"

"Tyler? Are you okay in there?"

I can't even feel it when his fist meets my face again. Kicking blindly, I struggle to put space between us. He crowds me against the cold metal. The smell of alcohol on his breath is more rancid than the garbage.My head flings back, cracking against his. He grunts and falls back, holding his face in his hands. Reeling, I stumble away, but I'm not fast enough, and my vision is tunneling.

"We're coming in!"

Something bangs against the door, louder than the bottle breaking against the side of the metal dumpster.

He swings, catching the side of my head. Pain shoots through my temple, and my knees buckle. He keeps slashing, my forearms catching the jagged edges of the broken bottle when I hold them up to protect my face and neck. I fall back, and he straddles me. He lets out a pained 'oof' as my fists connect with his stomach, but I can't do more than turn over and scramble a few feet away before he's on me again.

"Don't fucking ignore me!"

“Tyler!?”

“I fucking own you, Tyler. Your father wants to give you to me, you know that? He’ll give you to me, and I can do whatever I want with you…”

A sharp pain lances up the back of my leg. Heavy grunting breaths on the back of my head, an arm barred against my shoulder blades. Something pulls at the back of my pants, and panic rises like bile. It burns in my throat and leaves an acrid taste in my mouth. The surge of fear brings a dose of adrenaline, but he's too strong to fight off. I'm weak, and dizzy, and I'm going to be sick.

Laughter. "Oh, please. As if I'd want anything to do with this scrawny body. You're built like a twelve-year-old girl….”

“…Or is that what you want? Need a real man to show you what goes where? I guess I’d fuck you, just to show you who’s boss."

"Tyler!"

“I bet you’d take me like a bitch, wouldn’t you?”

The frozen asphalt digs into my cheek, there’s water and God knows what else in my eyes and nose and mouth as I gasp for breaths through the sharp pain in my ribs and the heavy weight on my back. Numbness tingles in my fingertips. Cold seeps into my limbs.

Blackness.

"Tyler!"

My eyes clear and I blink up into the same dark, troubled eyes that found me before. The haze clears, and I look around. The linoleum floor and walls are wet and dotted with little specks of red. My IV came out, but the tube is still taped to my arm, dripping blood everywhere. It's getting on him. Isaac . He doesn't look upset, or even the slightest bit put off by it. His tattooed hands are holding my biceps, firmly but gently, and he's bent down to look me directly in my eyes. His are full of concern and kindness.

"Are you alright?"

No, I'm not alright. My heart is beating a trillion miles a minute and I can't catch my breath. Hot tears are pouring down my face, stinging the raw flesh beneath my eye.

" Shhh . Breathe, Tyler. In and out, with me."

Aisha stands off to the side, watching us as Isaac coaxes me into taking a few deep, calming breaths. The more my head clears, the more mortified I am. Groaning, I push myself up to stand, all too aware of my bare ass hanging out of the back of my hospital gown. I angle my body away from Isaac so he can't see, but Aisha comes to my rescue, putting another hospital gown around the back of me like a coat, so I'm covered on both ends now.

"I—I'm sorry. I don't know what happened. I got dizzy, I guess." I don't want them to know the truth, that my brain got away from me and I was reliving the mess of things I’d rather forget. What if they make me stay longer?

"You're alright. It happens," Aisha says soothingly. "Let's get you back, and I'll clean you up before shift change."

I apologize again, but she waves me off.Isaac and Aisha each take a side and guide me back to the hospital bed. While she cleans me up and asks me questions, Isaac sits back down in his chair. I keep my eyes on him until Aisha is satisfied I'm not going to run off or have a fit of some kind. She leaves to find a janitor, leaving me alone with Isaac.

"You're still here," I croak, pointing out the obvious.

"Yeah, I just went to get some coffee. And I got you some toast and fruit. I’m assuming you're allowed to eat. I wasn’t sure."

"You can eat," Aisha says, returning with an orderly following behind her. I flush, embarrassed that someone has to clean up the mess I made. "I asked about your IV, and it looks like we can leave it out for now. As long as your checkup with the new doctor on call goes well, you might get out of here. It's shift change now, so rounds will be soon. Is there anything else I can do for you before I go, sweetie?"

I look down at my hands and the neatly wrapped bandages. I feel a swell of gratitude for the woman who has been by my side all night. "No. Just… Thank you. I really appreciate everything."

She squeezes my unbandaged hand gently. "You've been through a lot. Promise me you'll be gentle with yourself, and patient. And," she says, slipping a card under my palm. "You think about calling Officer Hendrick. Whoever he is, you deserve to know he's being dealt with."

I nod, even though I know I'll never call him. It wouldn’t matter.

The nurse taking over for Aisha comes in to introduce himself. He's a short, older man named Tim with a no-nonsense attitude and a kind smile. He keeps looking from Isaac, who hasn't left his post again, back to me. I understand his confusion. Isaac is model gorgeous, and the tattoos and permanent broody set to his jaw give him a bad-boy edge that definitely doesn't mesh with my overall aesthetic. Then again, it's not like I look like me right now. But it wouldn't help if I did. I'm a scrawny nerd, and not someone a guy like that would ever want. Not to mention he's probably straight. He definitely gives off macho straight guy vibes.

It's another two hours before the new doctor on shift makes it in. If her frazzled appearance is anything to go by, Saturday morning is giving her a run for her money. She barely looks over my chart, asks the obligatory questions, and flashes a penlight in my eyes. A lot of instructions are thrown at me, but she's talking too fast for me to process all of it. Tim seems to notice and says it'll all be in my discharge paperwork. The most important things to watch for are increased dizziness, nausea, severe or persistent headaches, or any changes to behavior or memory. Tim says all of this to Isaac, who sits stoically, cutting his eyes to me when Tim asks him if he has any questions.

Tim leaves and comes back with a stack of folded linens that turn out to be scrubs. "They'll be a bit big on you, but it's better than having to wear the hospital gown out since your clothes were trashed during your accident. Do you need help dressing, or should I leave you two to…?"

"Oh. We're not, um—he's not my—" I'm at a loss for words. My cheeks are inexplicably hot. "We don't know each other. He found me. Like this," I say, gesturing to my overall messy state. Technically, he found me in a lot worse condition, albeit fully clothed, but Tim doesn't need to know the entire story. I'm tired of telling it, anyway.

"My goodness, I'm so sorry. I just assumed," Tim says. He looks back at Isaac. "How nice of you to stay all this time for someone you don't even know."

Tim isn't the first person to praise Isaac for being a good Samaritan, though Isaac doesn't seem to appreciate it. He seems a bit angry. But, it's better than them thinking he was the one that did this to me. He’s been questioned more than once, and each time he's held his breath like he was trying to hold himself back from exploding.

"So, do you have someone else coming to pick you up, then? Is there anyone at home? You're going to need someone around for the first twenty-four to forty-eight hours."

"W-what?"

" Mmhmm. You need rest and supervision to make sure you don't have any dizzy spells. Can't have you making things worse by knocking your head again," he jokes, like I had a slip and fall accident and that’s how I got here. "I'll help you get dressed, then you can make some calls. You're gonna want to limit screen time, even your phone, as much as possible, but making a call here and there is okay."

"I don't have my phone, but I’ll be fine once I get home. I can get a cab or something, right?” They’re looking at me expectantly, so I add, “I’ll have someone there."

It’s a lie. I don't have anyone to call, really. I don’t have a lot of friends outside my study group or online. I’ve had lunch with Sam a few times, but I don’t think we’re good enough friends that I could ask him to stay over for a few days. I definitely wouldn’t feel comfortable asking to stay at his place. I’m pretty sure he lives in the dorms, although I can’t remember him saying if he has a roommate or not.

More than that, I don’t want anyone to see me like this. I don’t know how I’ll avoid it, but there would be too many questions. And I don’t want it getting back to my father, of all people.

Do I even want to go back to my apartment? Guy knows where I live. Would he try anything? I really don’t want to go home, but what are my choices?

Maybe I can tell them I'm going home, then get a hotel for a few days until this is easier to cover up? The throbbing in my temples increases. Ugh, thinking hurts.

"I've got him."

Isaac's deep voice cuts through my panic. What did he say?

"I'll make sure he gets home," he clarifies.

That's enough for the staff at the hospital. An hour later, I'm wheeled out the front door of the emergency room.