FIVE
We enter the hospital through Accident and Emergency, but the suits steer us to a back staircase, avoiding bleeding and broken patients in the main waiting room. I hear our progression narrated by one of them; he speaks into a radio at his ear like something from an action movie. Mr Nagano hasn’t said more than two words to me since we pulled up in separate cars, but he watches me.
I react to his gaze by straightening my shoulders. I’m suddenly conscious of how awkwardly my body moves.
On the third floor, we arrive at a private waiting room. White painted walls with the subtlest hint of green make the place sickly. The harsh blue fluorescent lights create waves of shadow and light, messing with my eyes and my stomach. I step into the small room behind Mr Nagano and Aiden, slumping into the nearest plastic chair, and close my eyes to the glare of the overhead lights. I suck in the scent of lemon and detergent through my nose, hoping to fight off nausea, but it doesn’t help.
“Has this room been swept?” I don’t need to see which of the suits Mr Nagano asks. We’ve accumulated three more since walking into the room. They are all the same; devoid of emotion, personality, or anything that marks them as individual people and not trained tools. All except Aiden.
“Yes, Sir. It’s clean.”
“Good. You can wait outside while I talk to Miss Feelan.”
Hearing my surname, I sit upright and search for Nagano, finding him instantly in the seats across from me. Instead of feeling bigger, the room shrinks with just the two of us. I fix my stare on him, taking him in, making him feel my suspicions through the sharp edge of my glare, but he doesn’t so much as flinch. Me? I’m almost shaking with a blend of fear and fury.
How does he know my name? Who has he spoken to?
I look closer, trying to discover what I can from the man himself. He is attractive and yes, it’s the first thing you notice, but there is something different too. His name clarifies his Japanese parentage, but there are other markers that identify a combined heritage. He bears smooth skin, without lines or scars on his face. There are no callouses on his hands, and no outward sign of the struggle or exhaustion that comes from living in Harrison Vale. But then, he’s likely a Heights man, same as his brother.
His light, hazel eyes don’t fit his face, or perhaps they fit too well because it’s difficult to tear my gaze away from them. Their soft bright green and ochre irises are almost translucent where the overhead lights reflect within them. It accentuates his copper-tawny skin and dark heavy-set brows. His nose, long and narrow, ends in soft curves and makes way to thick lips. The bowed upper lip pouts naturally and might be considered his most attractive feature if not for the allure of those eyes.
He is more than handsome; he is beautiful. But I know better than to be swept up in the charm of a handsome face, especially one that comes so well packaged.
And he is beautifully packaged.
His suit isn’t just smart, it is tailored; cut for his body alone. The material is light enough to flow fluidly when he moves but heavy enough not to crease. It’s as crisp now, as it would have been when he put it on this morning. He sits informally with his jacket flung open to reveal a sharp white shirt, tucked in at the waist, punctuated by a smooth leather belt with understated silver buckle.
Words like suave and debonair suddenly have meaning.
He is important too, or at least worth protecting if his personal swat team are any indication. But how the hell does he know who I am? How did he find out about me so quickly? How did he find me at the bar?
He clears his throat. I flick my eyes from his crotch to his face and catch the smirk that lingers there.
“Are you satisfied?” he asks abruptly.
“What?”
“You’ve been staring at me for five minutes; four of those spent below my belt. I assume you’re assessing whether I’m safe?” His lips twitch, ghosting his earlier smirk. His eyes flare, catching the hint of his smile and holding it there like a secret. “So, are you satisfied with what you see?”
My cheeks flush catching his meaning, but I cut across his question with one of my own. “How do you know my name?”
He points to the corner of the room. On one of the pink upholstered chairs stands a pile of books and beside those a limp, blue rucksack. Mine.
“You conveniently left your name on the library tag, Jules.”
Well, fuck. I’d scribbled on the old-school tag in a fit of whimsy not long ago. Took a strange sense of pride in seeing my name inked onto the page like a living tombstone, something to prove I existed. With everything being digital these days, it just felt sad to know I’d be erased. That my custodianship of these books would be forgotten.
But look where whimsy got me
I scan the pile, searching for my notebook. Chances are he read that too but I don’t care as long as it survived. The blue cover peeks out from the bottom of the pile and I heave a sigh of relief. Still, a library tag doesn’t explain how he found me.
“And what about the bar? How did you know where I worked?”
“I didn’t. I had you followed. The second you ran out of the Tower, Aiden was on your tail.”
“You had no right!”
He leans forward in his chair. Staring penetratingly. Enjoying my incredulity. “I had every right, not to mention a duty. You were a trembling mess. Anything could have happened to you. I wanted to be sure you were safe.”
“You wanted to be sure you could question me at your convenience,” I huff, knowing better.
“Yes, that too.” I raise my brows at his admission. He raises his too. “What? You expect me to apologise for being honest, Jules?”
“No. I’m just surprised.” I hadn’t expected him to be straight about it. I’d been convinced his gentle persuasive chatter was bullshit designed to put me at ease, but this glimpse of honesty makes me wonder about him. I give in, though not gracefully. “Fine. I get it. You need to talk to me, so talk. I can’t stay all night. I need to get home.”
“Who’s at home?”
“I don’t see how that is any of your—”
His smirk grows wider. “The quicker you answer, the quicker you leave.”
I hate to admit it, but he has a point. There’s no harm in telling him, and he’ll find out for himself if he really wants to. “My dad, my mum too if her shift is over, the twins, and Casey my baby sister.”
“How old are you?”
“Twenty next week.”
“You study at the community college?”
I point to the books in reply. The college name is stamped on the inside cover of every book. “You read the library sticker, right?”
He nods and the smirk transforms into a grin. “So, you study, you work in a bar, and you live at home? In Olive Tower, right?”
“Right.”
“You’re a master at the art of conversation, Jules.” He rolls his eyes.
“Sarcasm is the lowest form of wit, Mr Nagano.”
“Touché, and you can call me Dax.” He offers me a small smile, tilts his head and runs his eyes over me before speaking. “Do you plan on giving me more than a sentence at a time?”
I answer him with a side smile of my own. He is sharp, intimidating, and striking, but he also has a sense of humour and a way about him that makes me feel both nervous and at ease. “I’m answering your questions. You aren’t asking anything that requires a longer response.” I lean back into my chair, reaching out to rest my arm along the backrest.
“Smart girl with a smart mouth, huh?” He nods like that’s a good thing, but I’ve heard those exact words a thousand times, and never spoken with an indulgent smile. Usually, they come accompanied with an open palm.
My smile vanishes. My stomach knots. My dad’s face flashes in my mind as my confidence wavers. “That’s what my father always says,” I whisper, drawing my arms down to my sides again.
“And he’s looking after your siblings?” If he notices my reticence, he doesn’t acknowledge it. He keeps asking questions with that soft smile perking up the corners of his mouth and the light dancing in his eyes.
This interrogation is confusing. Why doesn’t he ask about Tom? Why doesn’t he seem concerned about his brother or what happened to him?
I continue to answer his questions out of a sense of polite respect, but I keep my responses clipped. “Yeah.”
“And your mum?”
“Works all day and much of the night.”
He nods as though that explains things. Perhaps it does. Perhaps he knows the type of people we are; dirt poor and struggling. But, judging by that fine suit, he doesn’t know it from experience. I watch his face for any sign of distaste or sympathy, but I see neither. Just acceptance.
“Why are you asking me all this? Don’t you want to know what happened with Tom?”
“Of course. Do you feel ready to tell me?”
Am I ready?It’s what I’m here for and the sooner I get through it, the sooner I go home. Wasn’t that what he said? “I guess so.”
“Then I am all ears.”
He sits back and waits while I shuffle and try to figure out where to start. I suck in a huge breath and begin.
“The lift was broken…I mean, I was late for work and the lift was broken so I took the stairs.” I pick at my jeans as I speak, rubbing my thumb back and forth over a dark stain. “Near the bottom. I heard talking. There were two of them. Tom and someone else. When they caught sight of me, I ran,” I continue to explain but my words are empty, they lack description and emotion. Every fact I mutter makes me sound remote, but inside my head the opposite is true. The night floods back and, with it, all the sensations I’d experienced. The fear and the dread. “I hid. The other one came to find me but I tricked him with the mirrors on the corridor, so he left again. After a while I overheard bangs, but I thought they were from the fire door.”
“You think they might have been the shots?”
“I don’t know? Maybe? The timing fits, I guess.”
“Okay. So, what happened when you went back out?”
“Tom was on the stairs, alone, blood dripping from the step. There was a lot of blood even though it must have only just happened. Is that normal?”
“Sometimes.”
I nod. “I called you. He asked me to. Then he passed out, and I had to stop the bleeding.” The damn stain on my jeans won’t budge. No matter how hard I rub it. It’s ingrained. I lick my thumb and rub. The stain changes. I lick and rub again. Parts of it fleck away as the rest changes colour from brown to a deep red.
And just like that, I know what it is.
My breath catches in my throat, forming a lump that, try as I might, I can’t—won’t— swallow. Will I choke if I can’t swallow it? How long before I can’t breathe?
A hand falls upon mine, stilling my shakes. His fingers are long, slim, and lined with stories I might never know. Gently, he pulls my hand away from my jeans and places it on his knee. His fingers tangle with mine, holding me steady.
“Breathe. Take your time.”
I count a breath and then a second, but words fall from my mouth unbidden. The story seems determined to tell itself. “He revived a little after you hung up the phone.” My mind throws me visuals to accompany my words. I see Tom’s face, hear his groans, picture his attempt at smiling through the pain. “We spoke before he passed out again…”
And then came the visions of the blood. The way it dripped onto the floor.
Dax’s fingers tighten around mine, tethering me to him. The taste of metal burns my tongue.
“…He started coughing…and the blood…”
The way it bubbled onto his lips as the coughs shuddered his body.
The room shrinks around me. Darker than it should be with the strips of neon lighting permanently switched on. The darkness doesn’t stop the nausea. “…There was blood on his lips and…so much blood on the stairs…”
My mouth tingles as it numbs. I can’t swallow. Don’t swallow.
Seeing the hole; his insides open to the world…so dark where it pooled…so dark it was almost black…so black…
“Jules?” Dax sounds distant. “It’s okay. It’s all okay. You did great. You were brave. Breathe, sweetheart.”
He speaks through buzzing ears and a mist of blackness, and he calls me sweetheart. Of everything he says, that is the clearest. Sweetheart. No one has ever called me that before. Not my dad, or ex-boyfriend, or even my mum. I know the term is just an instinctual thing, a kind way to calm me, but the word sticks to me and burrows deep to rest in a part of myself that I tend to ignore; a sad place where I wish someone would call me sweetheart and really mean it.
I hate that version of myself as much as I grieve for her. She is the victim, the lonely, hollow part of myself that I refuse to be. Not because she’s fake, but because she is every truth I can’t bear facing. I know if I give into her, I’ll never escape. I’ll become her fully and be stuck. More than anything, I don’t want to stay in this life, so I lock her up tight and put on a brave face. I am the stronger version of myself, the one who can handle anything and survive it.
I am stronger than a little bloodstain.
I push back at the blackness. The ring of light before my eyes expands and the interior of the room swims slowly into focus again with my world tilted on its side. The buzzing dies away in my ears, but I’m immobilised.
“Are you back?” Dax asks. I try to sit up but the restriction around my arms tightens until I lay still again.
“Did I go somewhere?” I ask lamely.
“You fainted.” His fingers dance across my face from somewhere above, pulling my hair back and sliding it behind my ear. His skin warms mine where he touches, and I discover the world isn’t tilted.
I am.
Stretched out across Dax’s lap, with his arms holding me in place, he watches my realisation dawn. I twist to look up at him, my eyes flaring wide as the truth sinks in. He winks and I jerk to a sitting position, pulling myself roughly from his grasp.
“Shit, I am so sorry.”
“Whoa, take it slow!” Dax’s hands sail up to reach for me but it’s too late, a wave of dizziness consumes me. My stomach churns and my temperature plummets with the clammy coldness that creeps over my skin. Before the blackness swells again, I clamp my eyes shut, stick my head firmly between my knees and suck in sharp, shallow bursts of air.
“Slow down. Too much oxygen and you will feel a lot worse. Just breathe slow. You’ll be fine.” His large hand strokes my back in a steady sweeping motion that really doesn’t help to calm me. The opposite in fact; the longer he keeps physical contact with me, the more nervous I become.
His connection to me, the physical weight of his hand sweeping back and forth, sparks a craving. I want more than a friendly hand. I want to be wrapped in powerful arms, secure and hidden from everything and everyone. I want sanctuary from this night and every night that came before it. I want another human being to offer me a physical lifeline.
I want a goddamned hug.
I’m the saddest idiot I know.
An ear-splitting bang rebounds around the room, bringing with it a wave of disinfected air, this time laced with something floral. I glance up from between my knees and see the door wide and the handle wedged into the wall from the force of the hit. Eclipsing the hallway is a woman, a little younger than me from the soft set of her features. In a pretty white floral dress—which starkly contrasts against her jet-black hair—she storms into the room on three-inch heels and slams her matching white handbag on the nearest chair while relentlessly hissing curses at a second person—someone I hoped never to see again.
My whole body stiffens. I drop my head lower and just listen.
His footsteps squeak a beat after each of hers clack into the room. They argue back and forth at each other, so consumed in their dispute that neither pay any attention to us until Dax clears his throat and makes us the main attraction.
“Who’s she?” The girl’s voice is sharp. Her words carry accusations.
“She is the girl that saved Tom’s life. You need to watch your tone, Sylvie,” Dax snaps at her. Her heel scrapes the floor as she moves away.
The man speaks next. He’s just as waspish; except I understand his reservations. “She’s the one that found him? I thought you said she’d run away?” His voice is unmistakable, I’d have recognised him without needing to look.
He is the other guy from the Tower’s stairs. Mr Glacial-blue-eyes.
I don’t know how clearly he saw my face earlier, but I’m betting he’ll figure me out soon enough and if he does…what then? He knows what happened on the stairs in the Tower tonight. He has the answers. So why is Dax questioning me? Unless he doesn’t know the man standing in front of us is the same one that was with Tom. If that’s the case, then this guy hasn’t come clean. Why keep it a secret? Why hide his involvement unless he’s guilty? I lower my head further, allowing my hair to fall in a dirty blonde curtain obscuring me from view.
“She did and now she’s back. Jules, this is Sylvie and Ben. Friends of Tom.” I grind my teeth. I don’t want to know his name and I certainly don’t need him knowing mine.
“You can do better than that, Dean,” the girl teases, her sharp tone replaced with a little girl voice. The shift from irate bitch to demure princess puts my back up. I’m betting she’s a practised manipulator and clearly has some kind of relationship with Dax. She even called him Dean. Assuming that’s his real name, she has to be pretty important to even know it.
And let’s not forget she wants me to know she knows it.
“We have more important things to worry about than how I introduce you, don’t you think?” he snaps.
“Yeah...sorry,” she mutters, without remorse.
Dax no longer rubs circles into my back, but his hand stays in place. I crush the fingers of his other within mine. Did he grab my hand, or did I snatch up his? I’m not sure, but I guess it might have been me. I loosen my death grip. The instant I do, he squeezes reassuringly. I try to sit up, hiding won’t help anything, but when I try to lift my body, I meet with resistance. Dax splays out his hand and presses me down firmly.
“Guys, Jules isn’t doing too well. Can you just give us a minute so she can get her breath back without an audience?”
I don’t hear their response to his request, only the squeaks and clacking of their shoes followed by the crack of the plaster wall and the click of the door closing behind them. Dax waits a moment before lifting his hand from my back and extricating his fingers from mine. I sit up slowly and risk a glance in his direction. He seems pissed.
“I think you’d better explain why you freaked-the-fuck-out when Ben walked in, don’t you?”