Chapter 11
CHAPTER ELEVEN
SEAMUS
A few minutes after Emma and I saved the kitten from the wall, which we still don’t know how she got into, the ambulance arrived. It seemed dumb to get into it, knowing it would cost Emma’s mother thousands of dollars, but when I said so, Emma rolled her eyes. She argued the cost of litigation would be much higher if I died from an untreated head injury.
I doubted my brother and sister would drag Mrs. Rosings to court, even for something that was one hundred percent her fault, but it didn’t seem like the time to argue, plus my head was throbbing. So I went with the paramedics, and Emma insisted on following me in her car, leaving Shadow with Mrs. Rosings.
I told her it was a poor parenting decision and said we’d be discussing it in court, which got me another eyeroll.
And damn…when did I get addicted to the sight of a woman rolling her eyes at me?
Probably about the same time I started liking those breathy little Seamus, you’re a fucking idiot sighs. Or when I let her steal my lighter and flask, which she has yet to return. That should annoy me more than it does, but I don’t mind the thought of them being in her company. They’re lucky, getting to be with her. The flask is especially lucky, having her lips wrapped around it.
You know what? Maybe I do have a concussion. Those thoughts can’t possibly be mine. I know better than to let myself lose my peace over a woman.
I’m in my hospital room now, after a brief stay in the ER in a curtained off “room” that looked like the kind of place baby cows were sent on their way to becoming veal. I’m waiting for the doctor to come.
Emma said she’d be in the waiting room and would call my brother and sister to fill them in. I’ll be honest, I don’t at all mind the thought of her waiting on me, worried that her mother might have accidentally offed me.
I need to back off, obviously.
A couple of months ago, Emma was off limits because she’s my sort-of sister-in-law. That hasn’t changed, but now there are other reasons she’s off limits.
The last time I fell for a woman, I nearly destroyed my life. That experience taught me that I can be social and enjoy what women have to offer but still keep myself.
But there’s more…
I shouldn’t fuck around with a lawyer, given who I am and what I’ve done—what I lack in a criminal record, I make up for in a criminal past. A past I have alluded to before in Emma’s presence, possibly to keep myself honest, because even though I should know better than to pursue her, I’m not known for making well-thought-out decisions.
After what seems like an interminably long time, someone jostles the door handle and then opens it. A nurse with blond hair. Or at least that’s my first impression before she steps into the antiseptic-smelling room and closes the door behind her. “Well, well,” she says. “You really fucked up didn’t you?”
It’s Nicole.
I go to sit up, and immediately groan at what the jostling did to my head. Leaning it back, I say, “What are you doing here? Did Mrs. Rosings send you back here to finish the job?”
She rolls her eyes, which does nothing for me when it comes from her, and steps further into the room, pausing at the little side table next to me and popping a grape from the untouched dinner tray someone felt the need to put there despite the nausea rolling through me.
I’ve been hospitalized before, and from my experience, hospital food is a lot like dog food, only arranged in a handy, dandy sectioned tray—but they sent up what looks like a charcuterie board, with seltzer water in a fancy green glass bottle and a single flower in a vase. I don’t know what kind of fancy ass hospital this is, but I do know I won’t be eating any of it. I couldn’t hold down a dry cracker.
Nicole stops next to my bed. “I was in the waiting room with your brother, sister, Chuck, and Emma, and I’ll be honest. Waiting does nothing for me. So Damien helped make a distraction so I could sneak back here in the scrubs I keep in my car.”
I have lots of questions. For one, what’s with the security in this place? For another, why is she here? Emma, I get. My sister, I understand, too. She’s not really the worrying type, but she’d do anything for the people in her circle. My brother is definitely the worrying type. Chuck, yes, obviously he’d come. When Claire was a kid, he probably put fifteen Band-Aids on each of her scrapes and sent her to the ER if she tripped. But Nicole’s presence doesn’t make sense.
The bump on my head was bandaged, temporarily, by a nurse, so there’s not much to see, but Nicole leans in for a better look.
“She got you good, huh?”
“Is there a point to this?”
She rolls her eyes again. “Yes. I’m interested as your employer . How are you supposed to be Ellie Reed’s driver this weekend if it’s dangerous for you to drive?”
Oh, shit.
Ohhhh shit .
“I’m pretty sure it’s not illegal to drive with a concussion, and it might not be one anyway,” I say quickly, even though it feels like my head got knocked around like a pinata at a five-year-old’s birthday party.
“And that’s what I’m here to find out. Now, who was the thirty-sixth president of the United States?”
“I’ve never known that, and neither do you,” I guess.
She smiles for half a second. “Okay, so you passed the first question. Bully for you. Are you dizzy or lightheaded?”
Sighing, I admit, “Yeah. But I’m guessing that’s a normal side effect of getting clocked in the head.”
“Do you remember what happened before you hit your head?”
“No. But I’m told Mrs. Rosings threw a glass paperweight at me, so I feel lucky not to remember.”
“I’ll get Damien to drive.”
I should be relieved. I’d just been thinking I was in some danger with Emma—and Nicole’s gift-wrapping me a solution. They can handle Ellie and the asshole for her. I can park myself on Chuck’s couch for a few days, until existing stops being painful, and then I’ll start working at the garage, just like I was supposed to. So I’ve got no idea why I say, “Why don’t we switch roles? I’ll be the personal assistant, and you can be the driver.”
“You want to be Ellie Reed’s personal assistant?” she asks, her eyes full of mirth. She looks me up and down, splayed out on the uncomfortable bed on top of sandpaper sheets, pausing on my head wound. “You’re probably supposed to rest.”
“I’ve never cared what other people think I should do. You don’t seem like the kind of person who would either.”
She weighs this before nodding. She gives me an annoying-as-hell knowing look. “I see. Makes sense after all those stalkery searches you did on Emma. You want to be the one who does this for her. Big Hero Shay.”
Yes, dammit.
“No,” I argue. “I’m no hero.”
“I’ll agree with you there, but never say never.”
“You offered me a job and promised to leave my past alone if I agreed to this. Our terms stick. The job changes but nothing else does. I can do this.”
“You can go buy that woman perfectly chilled Perriers and coffees with foam art and special, limited edition scrunchies for her hair?”
“I’ll even peel Carrot’s carrots.”
Her eyes shine with mirth. “You’ve been watching her Instagram show,” she comments.
Yes, and it’s a mark of Jeffrey’s absolute lack of worth as a human being that he would choose someone as fake and saccharine sweet as Ellie over Emma.
Nicole sits down on the edge of my bed without being invited too. I scoot over.
“I believe in being thorough.”
“Sure you do.” She leans over, grabbing another grape from the tray and popping it into her mouth. “You know, those aren’t half bad.”
“Take it all. I’m nauseous.”
She laughs. “You sure you can handle Ellie Reed while you have a concussion?”
If it means I get a chance to fuck up Jeffrey Nichols? Hell, yes. But that must be another concussion thought. I have no expectation of being able to hit him, even if it would feel pretty damn good—the same way I could tell it did for Emma to sledge that wall.
My mind goes to the cat, to whom Emma has granted me joint custody. I’ve been making all kinds of messed-up decisions today. Well, my father always used to say, in for a penny, in for a pound.
Admittedly, my dad was hundreds of thousands of dollars in debt to his mobster brother when he died, which is how my brother, sister, and I got drawn into his sphere, so I guess I should take his advice with a few dozen barrels of salt.
Nicole’s still waiting for her answer.
No , is the answer.
I am far from sure I can handle this shit with a probable concussion, or even without.
But I’m not willing to back down. I may not fully understand my own motivations, but I want to play a part in getting Emma her revenge. I want to play a lead fucking role.
“I’m sure,” I say, just as a knock lands on the door.
I don’t say anything, but it swings open, admitting two people in scrubs—one a woman with tiny rectangular glasses that probably only allow her to see a single inch at a time, and the other a short, nervous-looking man with bright red hair and five thousand freckles. Both are wearing scrubs—hers white, his covered with baby kittens who look a lot sweeter than Shadow.
“What are you doing here?” the woman asks Nicole sharply, looking her up and down. “You don’t—”
“There’s something wrong with this food,” Nicole says, picking up the tray. “I’m going to bring it down to the cafeteria for a thorough investigation.” And she takes off with it without another word.
The woman in the rectangular glasses watches her for a second, then shakes her head and murmurs something about interns before turning to me with a bright smile. “Mr. James… I’ve heard so much about you. We’re going to take the very best care of you.”
The next couple of hours are boring as fuck.
After examining me, leaving, and then returning, all without any explanation, the doctor informs me that I likely have a minor concussion and tells me to avoid stress, physical activity, use of electronics, and driving. Finally, I am released, and the red-haired nurse, Paul, warns me that he has to wheel me out in a wheelchair, which is a rule, not a medical necessity. He apologizes at least four times and asks me not to let “her” know. I assume he’s talking about the doctor with the rectangular glasses, who didn’t seem like much of a hardass, but some people are good at hiding their true nature.
I don’t feel any great need to be a dick, so I sit in the chair and consent to being wheeled around by a man I could carry around in a Baby Bjorn.
My family and friends are gathered in the part of the waiting room closest to the entrance-slash-exit, because I texted Declan and Rosie to say I was getting sprung. Nicole and Damien are gone, but everyone else is present. Emma is in the back, looking a little pale and nervous. My gaze settles on her and sticks.
I’m okay , I try to silently convey.
But the second my sister sees me, she turns to Emma and says, “Holy shit, what did you do to him?”
Emma blushes— blushes —and a strange feeling washes through me. An inner warmth. It…delights me to see her blushing. “I didn’t do anything,” she hisses. “It was my mother.”
“Uh. Are you sure you want me to leave you with these people?” Paul asks.
“Yeah,” I say, laughing—and then not laughing, because it hurts. “Yeah, it was a misunderstanding.”
He gnaws on his lower lip, looking like he’s giving some serious thought to blasting my chair through the crowd and out into the cold night.
“It was Mrs. Rosings in the study with the paperweight,” Rosie says with a grin as I rise from the wheelchair. She’s acting light-hearted, but I can tell she was worried. Anthony’s holding her hand, as he should, and I nod to him, glad they still think they love each other. Hopefully, they’ll carry on thinking it forever, because I like seeing my sister happy.
“Thanks for driving me around,” I tell Paul, who says “thank you” in response, then looks embarrassed, and wheels the chair off with at least five backward glances at us. I give him a wave, and he nearly trips over his sneakers.
Huh. That doctor must really have him running scared.
“You’re okay?” my brother asks, giving me the worried mother hen look no man wants to get from his brother.
“I’m fine,” I confirm. “Just a little headache.”
Meaning my head feels like it’s going to cave in.
Turning to look at Emma, who’s still at the back of the group, near her brother and my sister, I ask, “Where’s our cat?”
“Oh no,” Rosie says, her eyes widening. “Are you sure they discharged you? Maybe you got hit harder than they realized.”
“We found a cat in the walls of my house,” Emma says, a spark of amusement in her eyes. “We’ve decided to share custody of Shadow.”
Rosie still looks like she thinks I lost my mind, not that I’m surprised. I’m not the kind of guy who goes around rescuing cats and co-adopting them with a woman he’s not even fucking. Maybe I’ll regret making the offer, but I don’t regret it yet. I like that there’s something else tying me to Emma Rosings Smith, beyond the flask and lighter.
“Well?” I ask Emma.
“Well, I’d better get home to make sure she hasn’t tried serving Shadow a gin martini. If you’re okay.”
“I am,” I lie.
Emma hesitates, and I wonder if she’s feeling the same way I am—like it’s strange to step back and leave each other after the afternoon we shared.
We saved that little cat together, and it felt good.
She sat on my legs, her perfectly round ass parked on them, and that felt better.
She ran her soft hands all over my face, and I felt it all over.
She told me a bit about her father—not much, but more than I’m guessing she’s told anyone in a long time—and that felt best of all. Because Emma’s like me. She’ll talk a lot, sure, but she doesn’t usually share.
I don’t want her to go, and I also do. Because I’m confused by the way she makes me feel. Since leaving Pennsylvania, I’ve only made decisions based on three metrics. Will I enjoy it? Will it help my brother and sister? Will it land me in trouble? But I’ve made at least two completely illogical decisions today. Both because of her.
Anthony pats me on the back, which makes me feel like I have to puke on top of the head-caving-in feeling, and he and Rosie leave. Declan and Claire fuss over me, but when I insist that the only thing I want is to return to the apartment with Chuck so I can have some peace and quiet—a laughable thought given his love for conversation—they leave too.
“Well, my friend,” Chuck says, pulling on a hand-knit beanie that looks like something Claire might have made him in middle school. “It looks like we’re the last two standing. Now, let’s get on home, and I’ll make you some soup.”
And I puke on him in the lobby of the hospital.