4. CHAPTER 4
I wince awake when Bridget’s lap dog, Scott, pokes and prods my injuries. As if having to deal with Bridget isn’t bad enough, now this lard is here, too. Why are they here? Where am I?
I blink slowly, the grogginess thick and messing with my vision. Following Bridget’s voice, my head lolls to the left. She’s talking to some man…no, a doctor. I lift my heavy, pounding head, turning left and right, taking it all in. The white crisp walls, the stiff bed beneath me, the baby blue curtains. I’m in the hospital.
Shit. I can’t afford this.
I cry out, leaning forward, wincing and squeezing my eyes shut, as pain flares through my side and leg. “Ahh! Fucking hell.”
My leg. There was a bar in my thigh. I was on a bus and then… My eyes barely squint open and my stomach churns, the harsh fluorescent light mixing with all my throbbing aches. My whole body aches. I feel like I’ve been run over then thrown down a gravel embankment. I clamp my lips shut, breathing deeply through my nose. I will not get sick.
After a few more deep breaths, the nausea subsides enough for me to fully open my eyes. Scott’s holding a towel to my thigh wound and my foot’s at a nasty angle. Bridget’s still talking to the doctor, but I can’t focus on the conversation at all. Scott moves to my fucked-up ankle, and I drop my head back to the pillow, clenching my jaw, bracing myself. He cracks it back into place, the tiny bone fragments shifting under his hands. At least I’m not human, they would need surgery for sure. But even without having to pay for surgery or this hospital visit, the cleanup bill will still be awful. I’m going to have to work so many extra shifts at the café.
I open my eyes and look down at my feet when a warm sizzle races through me. The doctor’s binding my ankle, his touch waking all my nerve endings. It almost feels good, until all the pain resurfaces, and I fall back to the bed as nausea crashes over me again. I keep my eyes squeezed shut while Bridget tells him to move onto other patients.
I want to look over. I want to see him again, but my eyelids droop heavily…
With my burning spasms and rolling waves of blackness, I only remember random bits after leaving the hospital. Small glimpses of a wheelchair, the backseat of a car, Scott struggling to carry me up a flight of stairs, all drowned in extreme flares of anguish.
I wake again as Scott deposits me onto the sagging couch I nabbed off the sidewalk last week. I would normally be embarrassed at my lack of furniture, but I couldn’t care less what these two think of me. I just want them gone. My give-a-fuck battery’s empty.
Bridget, with her permanent scowl, sets my crutches on the floor in front of me. She’s such a bitch. She places my luggage from the bus at the end of the couch. Someone must’ve retrieved them from the accident. Fuck! This bill will be outrageous. I barely have money to live off. How the hell am I going to pay for this?
Scott returns from my small kitchenette, setting a glass of water down next to me. Bridget arranges other items within reach on the floor. “Here are your pain meds, water, your phone, and our invoice.” Grunting with discomfort and squinting from the early morning light shining through the blinds, I shift and try to find a semi-comfortable spot. It’s almost impossible with all my injuries. “Do you need anything else before we leave?”
She’s so stuck up. This nice act is only for business, and of course, she would love to add more items to my invoice. I shake my head and immediately regret it when my face flushes and the thundering in my ears returns. “No. Thanks.”
I used their services one other time, while securing this apartment without a credit check. She’s the only Ambassador in the area. She helped blur the lines, fill the gaps in my paperwork, and then fix people’s memories. I wish I had stronger abilities, but I just don’t, and I can’t afford to have people sniffing around. She does good work, but personality-wise, she’s the worst Ambassador I’ve ever worked with.
“Call if there is. Bye.” She turns and heads out, Scott trailing behind like her shadow.
The door closes with a soft click. I should get up and lock it, but I simply don’t have the energy or will to move. Plus, if Patrick’s here for me, a lock would barely slow him down.
I also need to eat but just the thought of shuffling into the kitchen makes my stomach clench. Sighing, I roll my head, looking at the items grouped together in front of me on the dingy carpet. I’m not supposed to take another pain pill for four hours, but those recommendations are for humans. It won’t kill me. I reach for the bottle, moving as little as possible, and shake out two pills, chasing them with a gulp of water. I prop my wrapped ankle on the torn armrest and scoot down into the couch’s crevice, sleep already dragging me under.
The blackness ripples like silk moving with a light breeze. A slight chill cools my flushed skin. A foot in front of me, hovering green eyes blink open from under thick dark lashes, twinkling and shimmering. Barely anything is visible with the darkness surrounding me, but small parts are revealed the closer they get. Like the broad, tanned shoulders that make my hands twitch with the urge to feel those defined muscles shifting under my fingertips.
A wintergreen scent creeps into my senses, followed by the faintest smell of firewood. A warmth radiates from my center, heating my entire body and making my skin burn. I still can’t fully make him out, but all my other senses tune into every facet of him.
His large steady hand brushes against my cheek, moving my hair out of my face, and he leans closer. The squareness of his jaw and a cleft chin are faintly there and then they shift out of view again. I just want to feel him, taste him, but he’s not close enough. I breathe in deeply, pulling the crisp wintergreen smell deep into my core. My desire flares higher, tingling into all parts of me.
I feel safe. I feel cared for. Protected. When was the last time I felt like this?
Ha. Never.
His dark hair tickles my face when he glides the bridge of his nose up my neck. I suck in a breath, and he nibbles my ear. All my desire floods south. Grinding my hips forward, I try to feel more of him. I want more of him, need more of him. Whoever he is.
A light brush of fingers down my side arouses me even further. I arch into it…
“Fuck!” I startle awake, fiery pain lancing up my side from the arching movement.
It’s sad how turned on I am by a dream. And a very uneventful dream at that.
My growing discomfort douses my lust like a bucket of ice water. I groan and reach for the crutches. My teeth clenched, I push myself up to standing to hobble to the kitchen for nourishment. Every step is more painful than the last, but food will speed up my healing.
The smell of caramel makes my mouth water. Dark auburn hair brushes across my face. Her soft body presses closer to me.
Who is this? I’m obviously dreaming, but do I know her?
I reach up, pulling the curtain of hair aside, my eyes latching onto pert, rose-bud lips a second before they brush, light as a feather, against mine. My arms naturally wrap around this mystery woman, pulling her against my body. My lips part to the press of her tongue. She tastes like honey and caramel, and I’m desperate for more.
She breaks our kiss and giggles. I smile as she buries her face in the column of my neck. The movement pressing her chest tighter to mine, and I harden instantly.
I lift her chin up with my thumb. I need to see her. Slightly slanted grey eyes meet mine, and she playfully snags my bottom lip between her teeth. I don’t know this woman, but it feels too good to stop right now.
I slide my hands down the curve of her back, and she arches into me with a light moan. I kiss her deeply, my hands moving lower and squeezing her ass, securing her tighter to me. Our tongues touch as I thrust my hardness toward her warm center—
BEEP.
The feeling of her pressed against me evaporates. I try to hold on to her, and the dream. I don’t want to wake up yet. But I can’t feel her anymore, and her image is getting a little blurry.
She pulls back an inch, and I can still smell her caramel scent. Still hear her shallow breaths. But I can’t feel her. I want to feel her again…
The air rushes past my ears like the downward swoosh in an amusement ride… The darkness shifting my surroundings, and I clamp down harder.
I don’t want to wake up yet. A dizzying sensation twists my gut, my sight blurs, the scenery changing, spiraling and settling into focus. My head is still spinning as a bitter cold wind cuts through. Flashing, almost strobing lights demand my attention. Emergency vehicles? Where’s my mystery girl?
BEEP.
I’m waking from the dream. Stuck in the in between. Not fully awake, but no longer fully in the dream, either. But it feels so real. I focus on the scene as it becomes clearer, fighting against waking. There’s a huge accident spread out in front of me. Cars smashed, some on fire, people screaming and crying, a bridge broken and still crumbling, a flipped-over bus. The cool wind makes me shiver and sets a woman’s deep auburn hair blowing. Her body is folded over a busted window seal, blood dripping down her arms.
Hair the same shade.
Is that my mystery girl? My heart aches, and I step in that direction—
BEEP. BEEP. BEEP. The dream ends, and I fumble blindly, smacking all over my nightstand to turn the alarm off. I sit up, heart racing in a weird combination of lust and concern.
I haven’t had a sex dream in ages. That wasn’t a full-on sex dream, unfortunately, but enough to get the blood flowing. When was the last time I dated? Lana was years ago. There were a couple after her, but recently…
I’ve just been so head down at the hospital that I haven’t been looking for anything more. But now that I’m thinking about it, I can’t recall the last time I had sex. Two months? Three? More?
Well, that explains the morning wood. I could ease the tension, but I don’t have time. With how late last night’s shift went, I skipped my workout for extra sleep today.
Ugh. After rolling off the mattress, I head for a cold shower to douse the arousal.
My shift’s already dragging. I’m moving around, helping patients, but I can’t focus. Images of the mystery woman keep resurfacing, and I’m getting a little concerned. If it was just a pleasant dream turned bad, then why did it feel so real?
I’ve learned to always follow my gut. I didn’t that night with Hope, and I’ll have to live with that for the rest of my life. Ever since then, I don’t question it. No matter how odd or insistent, I always follow my instincts. And there’s something concerning about my dream.
Is it a memory? The accident last night was real. As was the flipped-over bus. But was my dream girl there? Or is all of this trying to lead me to something else?
I sigh and pour my second cup of black coffee as Nate walks into the breakroom.
“Hey, Dr. Keane.”
“Hi, Nate.” Pot still in one hand, I chug my freshly poured coffee before topping it off again. With a lifted gesture, I mutely ask if he wants any.
“Yes! I’m so beat from last night.” He takes the pot from me. I head toward the door, but his question makes my steps falter to a stop. “Any update on the bus lady?”
I set my drink down on the counter, afraid I’ll drop it, my arms suddenly numb. My eyebrows raise and my mouth dries as I turn back to face him. “The bus lady?” My voice is lower than normal.
How does he know about her? Unless the bad part of my dream was, in fact, real… But then why can’t I remember anything else about her? Or about treating her? What happened?
Tiny hairs raise on my arms and my hand trembles. I push my glasses back up my nose. He isn’t looking at me, though, too busy adding creamer and sugar to his cup. I rake my hands through my hair and take slow, steady breaths, trying to regain my composure.
“Yeah. The girl we pulled from the window with the bar in her leg and all the wounds.”
He moves to put the creamer back in the fridge.
I’m swarmed with images. Bones protruding. Blood and cuts. Bar embedded. Matted hair from a head wound. And then I see her auburn hair, rosebud lips, slanted grey eyes… The girl from my dream. My gut clenches so painfully, I grab the counter to stay upright. I can’t form words as the images slowly click through my memory like an old carousel slide projector. One after another, in order, but with sizable gaps missing. While foggy, I remember the accident. I remember pulling her from the bus, the ambulance back, and then…nothing.
I startle at the touch of a hand on my shoulder.
“Hey, you okay?” Nate’s right beside me, his brows furrowed.
“Yeah, I’m fine.” I release my death grip on the counter and turn to him, his hand sliding from my shoulder. “Just didn’t sleep well. Need more coffee. And um, I’m not sure. I’ll follow up on her and see.”
“No problem. I was just curious because she was really messed up.” He grabs his coffee and leaves the breakroom. “Take care, Dr. Keane.”
I need to check the charts from last night. Maybe they’ll shed some light on what happened. I snatch my mug off the counter with shaky hands, spilling a good amount on the counter. “Shit.”
Maybe someone else treated her? Grabbing napkins, I hastily wipe the mess up. Why is she on my mind if I didn’t treat her? And I don’t remember treating her. Did I miss something?
I slam the file cabinet shut, the receptionist flinching, and pace the short distance behind the front desk. Her shoulders scrunch up to her ears every time I pass behind her. I’m snippy and everyone who can avoid me is doing so. I know I’m being a dick, but I’ve lost all my patience. I can’t find her charts, paper or digital, and nothing matches. Of course, it doesn’t help that I can’t remember everything. Hell, I don’t even know her name.
I’ve checked every area of my ER and even gone up to the ICU to look around. There’s no current patient with her hair or eye color. No charts matching her description and injuries either.
I drop into an empty chair and tap my fingers on the desk. I’m obsessing. She’s probably fine and got discharged. But there aren’t any damn matching discharge records either. And…from what I recall, she was too injured to be discharged. But then, where is she? I sigh and rub the back of my neck. And why can’t I just let it go?
I leave a note for the day shift team asking if they know where the misplaced charts are before I head home. My mind’s replaying everything in an endless loop, mainly drifting back to the mystery girl’s eyes and lips. This nagging obsession growing by the minute.