4. Yippee. #2
Hindsight, as always, was perfect, and I should’ve just returned to the hospital on my own like a sane person, as I ended up there anyway.
Unfortunately, I had no memory of going, which was never a good sign.
Another not-so-good sign was my hallucination of Chief Quinn beside my hospital bed wearing a button-up shirt and a pair of jeans he must have stolen from an incubus.
Instead of his normal, clean-shaven jaw, the scruff of a new beard turned him from pristine model to rugged and lethally sexy.
Only my twisted psyche would produce an illusion of my heaven and hell wrapped in one glorious package, present him in clothes I wanted to strip him out of, and leave me to wallow in my misery and guilt over my bountiful stupidity.
Stupid, stupid, stupid me.
My hallucination was a persistent little bugger, sticking around while I contemplated why I might be imagining him in a chair beside me, close enough I could touch him if I could move my arm.
It took me a long time to understand they had me hooked up to a ventilator, which explained the whole sexy hallucination thing.
Bummer.
I contemplated trying to say something, but the mask on my face made speaking difficult.
Not only did ventilators suck, they blew, too, and made it far too much work to do anything other than stare at the gorgeous imaginary Chief Quinn my twisted little brain had thoughtfully provided for me.
I gave up trying to do anything productive and decided to take a nap, hoping for a suit-clad model when I woke up.
I got the dress uniform model instead. Score.
He was talking to another cop, one in a regular uniform, and judging from the tone of Chief Quinn’s voice, the blurry figure had done something to deserve a scolding.
I knew all about needing a scolding—or a spanking.
Yes, I definitely needed a spanking from Chief Quinn.
Then again, if push came to shove, I’d be happy to be the one doing the spanking.
Imaginary Chief Quinn provided me with a spectacular view of his back, but he ruined it by leaving with the other cop. Far too late, I realized I hadn’t tried to apologize.
Damn it.
The next time I woke up, I was free of the ventilator.
My subconscious decided fake Chief Quinn needed to be dressed in a…
actually, I had no idea what he was wearing, except it resembled a gym uniform of some sort.
I didn’t approve of it, not one bit, and after a fierce battle with my own tongue, I told him so.
Crap. Why did I keep forgetting to apologize?
It could wait until he came back in better clothes. I promptly returned to my nap so I wouldn’t have to subject myself to his wretched attire for another instant.
My stupid subconscious decided I needed to be punished for my rudeness, so she inflicted an endless stream of gym model Chief Quinns on me. At least I recognized one of the jerseys as supporting the Lakers.
Wait a second. The Lakers? Why the hell was a proud member of the NYPD, a chief of police, wearing a Lakers jersey?
Unacceptable. “What the hell? Los Angeles? Gym model Chief Quinn sucks. Knicks or bust.” Every last one of my words was slurred, and gym model Chief Quinn stopped tormenting the other cop in my room. “Want suit model.”
I was whining. I decided I didn’t care. Hallucinations couldn’t tattle on me anyway.
Gym model Chief Quinn stepped to my bedside and looked down his pretty nose at me. “Do I want to ask?”
Yay! The gym model could talk, and he didn’t sound too pissed at me for once. “Ooooh. Never mind. Lakers gym model can talk, and he doesn’t hate me.”
I thought the occasion was worthy of a happy squeal. The Lakers fan version of Chief Quinn didn’t seem quite so enthused. Unsurprising, really. “What are you talking about, Gardener?”
Not only was he talking to me in a civil fashion with a curious tone of voice, he had asked me a question I could answer.
“Jeans model Chief Quinn brooded and didn’t talk.
Angry as usual, because let’s face it, you hate me because I’m a terrible person.
God help me, the dress uniform model might have lit my panties on fire.
Dear God, that view.” I giggled, then a thought struck me.
“Wait. Am I even wearing panties? Did the dress uniform model really light them on fire? Oh, bother. Bad dress uniform model.” I giggled again and tried to focus on the second hallucination my subconscious had so kindly provided. “Right, second hallucination person?”
“You’re so high right now, Gardener,” the second hallucination replied.
Oh. I knew the second hallucination. “Perky? Yay, it’s Perky. Hey, Perky! Perky?”
“This is going to be so, so good. What is it, you crazy woman?”
Confessing embarrassing things couldn’t hurt when I was talking to the hallucinations my subconscious provided, right? “I want the suit model or the dress uniform model for Christmas.”
“I’ll have a talk with Santa about that for you. How does that sound?”
“Huh. Santa’s never visited me before. It’s probably his fault I turned out so bad. He never gave me any coal. He should’ve. It’s not fair. If you tell Santa, he’ll agree I don’t deserve the suit model or the dress uniform model,” I wailed.
“Good job, Perkins,” the Lakers fan version of Chief Quinn muttered. “She was happy for all of ten seconds, and you just had to go and ruin it.”
Perky shoved his way to my bedside, pushing the complaining gym model out of his way. “I’ll make sure the suit model shows up in time for Christmas, okay? Just please don’t cry. Please? I’ll beg. If Santa tries to tell me you don’t deserve it, I’ll kick his sack.”
I sniffled. “Promise?”
“I’m going to hell for this, aren’t I?” Perky sighed. “Yes, Gardener. I promise. You’ll get a suit model Chief Quinn in time for Christmas.”
“You’re so going to hell,” the gym model muttered.
“I should tell you to shut up, but you’re the only model who talks to me.” It was a stupid thing to cry over, but I did it anyway.
Stupid, inconsiderate subconscious, providing me with equally stupid hallucinations determined to make me cry. Damn them all.
While I was fairly certain the satyr nurse and my doctor were real, they interacted with my hallucinations to screw with me.
The oversized pixie doctor with a dust complex and a general inability to cope with my immunity was the worst offender, but I understood why.
Happy patients healed faster, and most of the Chief Quinn models made me cry within ten minutes.
I wanted to blame the drugs Dr. Valleychime kept insisting on dosing me with, but it was my fault.
Every time I had tried to apologize to Chief Quinn, it came out wrong. The last time, I had told him he’d look better naked, and he got so mad at me he left. I had thought he’d blushed, too, but then I had decided I was just seeing things.
To my disappointment, the dress uniform and suit models didn’t make an appearance.
The Lakers model showed up with Perky in tow, and I sighed. “Aren’t you supposed to be one of New York’s finest?”
“I am.” Chief Quinn dragged over a seat so he could sit beside my bed. “What do you have against the Lakers?”
“Nothing, except that’s a Los Angeles team. We’re in New York.”
“He’s doing it to piss you off, Gardener.
He’s got his regular clothing in a bag just outside the door.
” Perky peered at the monitor near the head of the bed.
“Jesus. They still have you on the crazy stuff. Do us all a favor and get better already. Sir, please put on something nice for her so she doesn’t blame me when she believes Santa hates her. ”
“No.”
It was my turn to sigh. “But Santa does hate me. So does Chief Quinn. It’s okay, Perky. This model talks to me.” I gave my crappy thin blanket a flick with a finger. “Dr. Valleychime hates me, too.”
Chief Quinn stiffened in his seat. “Why?”
“Pixie dust.” How could one stupid substance bring me so much misery? “I’m sorry,” I mumbled.
There. After countless hallucinations, I’d finally managed to choke out an apology.
Perky cleared his throat. “I think it’s because Dr. Valleychime is a pixie doctor specializing in long-term recovery and the mental and emotional well-being of patients in this hospital, sir.
He gets sensitive when he can’t just flutter his pretty little wings and make most patient satisfaction problems go away.
Considering he’s packing the good stuff, she’s probably stung his pride a little.
She’s good at that. She’s a rose, but she’s all thorns. ”
I couldn’t argue with him. “I’m sorry.”
Hey, I got out two apologies in one conversation. Maybe there was hope for me after all.
“For once in your life, could you just be quiet, Gardener?”
The Lakers model hated me, too, and I bit my lip so I wouldn’t cry again.
My doctor fluttered in through the door, took one look at my imaginary visitors, and sighed. “If you can’t stop triggering depressive episodes with my patient, sir, I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”
Great. Dr. Valleychime was talking to my hallucinations again just to mess with me.
Chief Quinn snorted.
My doctor glared at the police chief before turning his attention to me. “Do you want me to have him removed, Miss Gardener?”
“I’m pretty sure you can’t just make a hallucination disappear, but if you could get him to take his shirt off, I’d be totally okay with that.”
At the rate my doctor was sighing, I worried he’d have an aneurism. Lifting his hand, he rubbed his temple. “What did I do to deserve this? Miss Gardener, Chief Quinn is not a hallucination, and neither is Dr. Perkins.”
I squinted at Perky. “You’re really a doctor? I thought you were some kind of awesome super geek who just happened to know a lot about forensics stuff.”
“I can’t tell if you hate me or like me, Gardener, and that’s really screwing with my perception of reality.”
“You don’t have a perception of reality. You’re a figment of my overactive and drugged imagination.”