Chapter -2
Two
I collect his leather jacket by the closet door and inspect the back. It’s emblazoned with a large scorpion, encircled with the words ‘Logan’s Point Scorpions.’
How is it possible—my bubble is so small—I didn’t know there’s a motorcycle gang in close proximity to my home?
Fingers crossed, Trisha was exaggerating.
I sling the jacket over my arm and return to the nurses’ station. My eyes stay firm on room 1-12. I can’t fault Trisha for being wary. My first thought was he was here to steal.
Why didn’t it occur to me he could need medical attention?
My mouth runs dry as I edge around the counter, fingers twitching against the laminate. Although I can’t fathom what draws me to him, I’m dying for another glimpse.
‘Wuthering Heights’ sits by the computer keyboard, mocking me. I should move on and keep another patient company, but I’m cemented here.
There was something about his eyes.
Desperation.
Fear.
Resolve.
Have the medical staff been in the room for a millennium, or what? Finally, Dr. Harris emerges. He's focused on his ledger, and disappears down the hallway. Cindy leaves a moment later.
I gain her attention with a questioning stare.
“He’s conscious,” Cindy calls out as she moves into another room.
The pounding of my heart softens, and I inhale a renewing breath. I don’t know this boy, but the relief is exhilarating.
Trisha leaves the room, holding a container of blood vials. “Vanessa, can you please keep an eye on the room?” she asks, passing the counter. “Let me know if Dax Malone tries to leave.”
“Excuse me?” I say, taken aback. “How am I supposed to stop him?”
“I’ll be right back,” Trisha says in a rush. “I just have to get the bloodwork to the lab for Dr. Harris. He needs a tox screen ASAP.”
“Okay,” I reply weakly.
I fidget by the counter and crane my neck for another hopeful glimpse. Maybe I should go over there and say hi.
Without giving it more thought, I scoop up the leather jacket and march my way across the hall. In the doorway, I falter. All my thoughts vanish when I lock eyes with him.
“Ah… Ah…” I stumble, unable to spit out real words when he’s reclining, shirtless, on the hospital bed. There’s an IV in his arm, hooked up to a bag of fluids.
Dax’s eyebrow raises, watching me grow increasingly awkward in the doorway.
My eyes wander over his defined torso, spotting yellow and purple bruises running along his ribs.
They’re partly obscured by an eagle tattooed along the base ribcage.
My body heat rises when I spy Roman numerals tattooed on the right-hand side of his chest. I force my eyes away and land on the bed in the corner.
“Hello Mrs. Gibson,” I say, stepping into the room. “How are you today?”
“Good, dear,” she replies from her bed. “Have you come to read to me?”
“Yes, I… shoot.” I left the book behind. Now, there’s no cover for my awkward behavior.
The shirtless hunk in the other bed clears his throat, and I turn his way as if he called my name.
He motions to the jacket in my arms. “Is that mine?”
“Umm, yes,” I say, pivoting toward his bed. “You dropped it before.”
I place the jacket on the table by his bed.
“You were…” His voice is hoarse until he clears his throat again. “In the hall… you caught me?”
A nervous laugh puffs out of me. “I guess you could put it that way.”
His expression grows blank. “So, what? Am I supposed to thank you?”
I jolt, frowning hard. “Well, no, you don’t. I just wanted to help.”
“They just took my blood and want to keep me here,” he says in a sullen tone. “I was just looking for a quick out.”
His building aggression confuses me. Squashing the urge to snap at him, my mother’s voice enters my head. “Poise. Grace. Own the room.”
I clasp my hands in front, and my thumb flicks against my bracelet. With an arched back and steeled nerves, I ask him, “What does a quick out mean?”
“I just needed something to keep me awake,” he mutters. “Now I feel woozier after they drained me. How am I supposed to ride my bike now?”
“You were riding before you collapsed?”
He huffs and looks up at the ceiling with a stony expression. “Why am I talking to you about this? Don’t tell me you work here.”
“I’m volunteering.” I gesture at the IV, attempting to ignore the scorpion tattoo on his forearm. “At least you’re getting fluids. They’ll make you feel better.”
“Yeah, whatever. I suppose the doc told you about how I blacked out on the bike,” he mutters. “It’s just lack of sleep, but they take one look at me and think it’s booze or drugs.”
“And it isn’t?” Oops. It just slipped out.
He gives me a heated stare.
I lift my hands in surrender. “Sorry. I didn’t mean it.”
He smirks, not buying it.
I can’t help looking down at his body, zeroing in on the dark bruise over his ribs. I jolt and suck in a ragged breath.
“You right there?”
I wince. “It just looks painful.”
He half-smiles. “I’ll live.”
Beside the bed, a dish holds an ice pack and a damp cloth. I lift the ice pack, offering it to him. “Don’t you want to use this?”
He shrugs in response.
I lower the ice pack to his ribs. “May I?”
His head moves, and I take it as a nod, because ignoring his injuries is impossible.
He winces and hisses when the ice hits his skin.
I keep the ice pack steady. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah, just cold. I hate the feeling of ice.”
“It’ll help, though.”
He grunts. “Mmm.”
I bite into my lip, peering up at his face. “You’re sweating.”
“I’m fine.”
I settle the ice pack on him and reach for the cloth. “Do you want me to…?”
He flinches. “Want you to do what?”
I hold the cloth closer to his forehead, and he recoils further.
“It’s not chloroformed,” I joke.
He whispers a laugh and eases on the bed. I seize the relaxed moment, dabbing the cloth across his clammy forehead.
His eyes narrow, inspecting me. “Why are you doing this?”
My hand trembles, pulling the cloth back toward me. “I thought it’d make you more comfortable.”
His eye contact intensifies. “So?”
I shiver, placing the cloth back in the dish. “Seeing you collapse was really scary.”
“That doesn’t mean you have to stick around. You could just walk away like the nurses did.”
I swallow the building saliva in my mouth. I can’t explain why it hurt me so much when Cindy and Trisha didn’t want to help him.
“Uhh… I…”
His intensity withers, and he fidgets with the ice pack against his ribs.
With my body flushing with awkwardness, I back my way toward the door. “I should really get back to the desk.”
Dax looks to the side of the bed. “Thanks, I guess, for bringing my jacket in.”
“That’s okay.”
Mrs. Gibson pipes up. “Umm, dear. Weren’t you reading to me?”
I tuck my hair behind my ears and blow out a shaky breath. “Oh, right. I’ll go get my book.”
Mrs. Gibson lifts a book from her side table. “I have one here, if you don’t mind.”
I compose myself and walk over to her bed.
“Trisha was looking through some boxes and found some old books,” Mrs. Gibson says. I take a seat by her bed, and she lifts a banged-up version of ‘Heidi.’ “I loved this book when I was a little girl. Will you read it to me?”
“Of course.” I take the book. “My grandmother gave me a copy of this book. I’m Swiss on my mother’s side, and it’s a tradition for every generation to read ‘Heidi.’”
“Oh, that’s lovely, dear. Have you ever been to Switzerland?”
I blush. “Yes, recently. I spent a few months over there, living in a chalet with my mother.”
“How wonderful.” Mrs. Gibson claps with joy. “I’m officially jealous.”
I give her a small smile. It’s better for her to imagine skiing and sledding, family nights cuddled by a roaring fire, and gazing out the tall windows with sinfully delicious hot cocoa. She doesn’t need to know the reality of how heartbreakingly lonely I was over there.
I open the book and wonder if I’ll be able to concentrate on the words when there’s a gorgeously brooding guy in the next bed.
Mrs. Gibson is four pages in. One of her symptoms is fatigue, and getting this far was probably an effort for her.
As I read aloud, my ears prick at the fidgeting and rustling in the adjacent bed.
From the corner of my eye, I watch him getting agitated, listening to my voice.
My mouth runs dry, and I try to quieten so he can’t hear me.
“Oh, dear. What was that?” Mrs. Gibson asks, curving a hand around her ear.
I sigh and repeat the line at a louder volume.
As I reach the next chapter, the shifting from the next bed stops.
Maybe he’s asleep?
Before I can turn my head to check, Nurse Cindy marches into the room.
“Your blood work will be back soon,” Cindy tells the shirtless hunk. “And Dr. Harris wants to organize X-rays.”
Dax groans and sits up on the bed. “Nope. No way. I’m outta here.”
Cindy leans forward, pushing him back down. “You’re not going anywhere. You need to build up your strength.”
“I’m fine. I don’t need this.”
“You fell off a moving motorcycle and hurt your ribs,” Cindy says. “We need to identify the extent of the damage.”
Dax smirks. “And if I do have broken ribs, what then? Do you wrap a bandage around it?”
“What’s the problem here?” Dr. Harris asks, making me jolt as he enters the room.
“He doesn’t want the x-rays,” Cindy tells the doctor.
Dax gives Dr. Harris a skeptical look. “Can you do anything for broken ribs?”
“Well, no, they mostly heal on their own,” Dr. Harris replies. “But if you know the extent of the injuries, you can take preventative measures so they heal better and faster.”
Dax places a palm on his side and exhales slowly. “I think I’ll be fine on my own.”
“Even so, you should stay overnight for observation,” Dr. Harris replies. “Plus, I’m getting your blood work back and can hopefully identify the cause of your blackouts.”
Dax pushes his legs off the bed, woozily sitting up. “I don’t need those results. I know there are no drugs in my system besides whatever the nurse gave me.”
Dr. Harris sighs and turns to Cindy. “Give us a minute, will you?”
Cindy nods. She turns to me, gesturing for me to leave the room with her. A chill runs over me, and I set the book down on Mrs. Gibson's table. I give her an apologetic smile and hurry out of the room as Dr. Harris pulls a curtain around the Dax’s bed.
When I reach the nurses’ station with Cindy, concern colors her face. “Everything okay, Vanessa?”
“Oh, umm, I…” I blink hard, taking my attention away from the room. “Yeah, I’m fine. I just feel bad about leaving Mrs. Gibson.”
Cindy swats a hand. “Don’t worry about that. I need to give her another dose of medication. She’ll be out again soon.”
Cindy moves on to another patient, and Trisha approaches the desk, writing in a patient’s file.
I gesture at room 1-12. “Do you know much about the boy in that room? Do you think he’ll be okay?”
She nods, keeping her head down as she continues to write. “Yeah, he’ll be fine.”
“And you already know him?”
“His name is Dax Malone,” she says through gritted teeth. “The Malones run The Scorpions.”
“And is it just a club? Or something more sinister?”
“I’d say it’s closer to organized crime.”
Queasiness grips my stomach. “Oh.”
Trisha huffs, looking down at the papers in front of her. “Why in the world did he need to walk in here?”
“But he collapsed,” I reply. “He needed help. Didn’t he?”
She looks up with consideration. “Those bruises didn’t just happen. If he’s been having multiple blackouts, I’d suspect he has an illness. We’ll know more when the lab results come in.”
A weight sits on my chest. “Well, I hope whatever he has is treatable.”
“This job is taking it out of me.” She wipes her brow. “I’m losing my empathy.”
“Don’t be tough on yourself. It’s been a long day.”
She winces. “All I see in that bed is a young thug. I don’t see the sick boy.”
I step away, unsure how to reply.
Trisha hugs the file. “He has something wrong with him, but I’m just terrified of treating him. Part of me wishes he’d stolen medication and left.”
My mouth falls open at her words.
She walks away with disdain dampening her posture.
I exhale hard, staring at room 1-12’s doorway. I can’t imagine trying to steal medication when on the verge of collapse. Even if he’s part of a crime-riddled family, he deserves better care than that.
A small voice inside my head begs me to let this go. I stand taller, willing my mother’s voice to stay on mute. She’d tell me to pay no attention to this boy. But there’s something about him.
Something both exhilarating and terrifying.
Something I can’t ignore.