11. A Great News Anchor Name
A GREAT NEWS ANCHOR NAME
WILLA
I wake from a wild dream of flying saucers and talking squirrels with highways made of twisted licorice and wriggling rope candy to sounds and smells that are all wrong. The beeping is annoying as fuck, and the smell is too sharp. It scalds my nostrils and singes my throat.
The sheets are scratchy, and I hurt.
Everywhere.
I knew I’d be sore after my night with Exton Ranger. I also knew it would be worth it—and it so was. But this is different.
The headache pounds behind my eye sockets, down into my jaws, and over my ears. My teeth are sore, like they were when I first got braces, and my right elbow burns.
My throat is being squeezed, and all of a sudden, it’s suffocating. My chin is lifted at an odd angle, and I can’t move it.
My body is numb, or asleep, or too far away.
The beeping gets louder and faster and, when I try to speak, I can’t swallow over the sandpaper in my mouth. Panic ensues. I can’t connect with my body and I can’t communicate that I’m in trouble.
A door shoves open, and a man in scrubs enters.
“It’s okay, Miss Jayne. Calm down. You’re okay.”
My eyes go wide.
“How are you feeling?”
I use my left hand and motion to my mouth. It’s only then that I realize I have tubes and cords wired through Kulshedra’s flames inside my elbow.
“Thirsty?”
I nod, and the pain causes me to whimper.
“I’m Michael. Let me grab some water for you, and I’ll come right back.”
He leaves and returns quickly, water in hand, offering it to me via the straw he holds to my lips between his two fingers.
“Small sips.”
I want to gulp, but it’s cold and it radiates into my sore jaw.
He places his fingers of his other hand inside my wrist as he does. “Your pulse is strong. Heart rate, pulse ox, temp, vitals are good. How’s your head?”
“Half hot-air balloon. Half brick.”
He shines a light in my eyes and continues, “Sounds about right. Impressive dragon you have on your arm.”
“Thanks.”
“Amazing shading. Who’s the artist?”
“Are you asking who drew it or who inked it?”
“Inked,” he says, his conversation completely natural as he writes something on a tablet.
“A friend of mine from art school. I can connect you if you’d like.”
“Would you laugh if I told you I’m afraid of needles?”
I do laugh, but only briefly. “Hurts too much to laugh,” I say as we both lift our heads at a commotion outside the room.
He looks at his tablet, but says reassuringly, “No codes.”
“I don’t know what that means,” I say, closing my eyes to tamp down the headache.
“It means it’s not an emergency. There’s no one fighting restraints or dying or missing from their beds. There’s nothing for you to worry about.”
“Thanks for not doing medical speak to me. Aside from the effects of aspirin on blood flow and the effectiveness of ointment, I’ve got nothing. I take Tylenol for cramps and don’t even know the non-brand name for it.”
“It’s acetamin—”
The door opens to a round woman in burgundy scrubs. “Michael, Miss Jayne, the FBI is here and—”
The door swings wider and in walks Exton, a man on a mission, with two taller men who look similar enough I suspect they’re family. One of the other two men holds the door as the woman exits.
I try to sit up, but that’s a no-go. I’d fluff my hair or tidy myself up but, again, shit hurts. It hurts enough that it’s not worth it.
“Exton?” Uh… FBI?
He rushes to my side, sliding between Michael and me and kisses my forehead gently and then my lips, before pulling back and looking me in the eyes. “You okay?”
“I think so.”
“You think so, dragon slayer?” He slides his left hand into my right, cautious of the bandage there. “What’s that mean?”
“Well, I haven’t heard what’s going on yet. I just woke up.”
He nods and turns, keeping my hand in his, and extends his other to Michael. “Exton Ranger.”
“Michael Weiss.”
“Nice to meet you, Michael. What can you tell us about Willa’s condition?”
“Nothing, Mr. Ranger.”
“Exton.”
“Exton,” Michael echoes.
“Because…”
“Because of HIPAA, our hospital policy, and my code of ethics.”
“Right,” Exton says. “We’ll get to the bottom of that in a minute.”
Turning to me he says, “Willa, these are my brothers, Braxton and Layton.” They smile and nod one after another.
Braxton is wide and tall with a friendly face and a five o’clock shadow.
The other is built and has three-or-four days scruff and the attitude to match his attractive face.
Chances are the man has never been turned down for a date.
To them he says, “Brax and Lay, this is Willa Jayne.”
“Probably a household name,” I say. “It would be a great news anchor name. Live on the ten p.m. news, Layton Ranger and Flax McCoy.”
Braxton emits a low rumble from his chest.
I yawn, but whimper when I do, because it hurts.
“You tired, baby?”
I nod and immediately regret it. A slow tear forms in the corner of my eye.
“It hurts. I’m tired and I keep forgetting something I need to remember.” I begin to doze when I hear Exton’s voice far away, “Willa, where’s Jackie?”
My eyes fly open. That’s it! That’s what my memory has been stretching trying to find.