Chapter 2
Loch
Wanting to savor my victory as well as finally drink the coffee I waited for long enough to grow a five o’clock shadow before four in the afternoon, I stop a few doors down from the coffee shop.
A woman’s scream catches in the wind just as I taste the hot brew. “No!” she yells louder as I search the area for the source of the sound.
Finally, I catch sight of the socialite when her coffee cup flies in the air. She swings her arm and tries to land a hit, but a man hovering over her blocks her. He then starts wrestling to free her bag from her grip.
I’m already running back toward her, glad people haven’t packed the streets yet from leaving work. “Excuse me,” I say, pushing past a few folks gawking nearby instead of helping.
She’s shoved against the exterior of the coffee shop. The back of her head bounces off the brick, instantly silencing her as her body crumples to the ground before I have time to help. I push harder. When I reach her, I glare at the man darting between people or pushing them out of the way.
I yell to a guy pulling his phone out, “Call 911!”
A bulky guy in a hoodie seems to be debating what to do, shifting uncomfortably. When his eyes meet mine, I say, “Go after him!” As if permission was all he needed, he starts running after the guy.
I kneel beside her unresponsive body, wishing I had paid better attention in that CPR class I took as a Boy Scout. Her eyes are closed as I check for a pulse in her neck. “Fuck,” I mutter under my breath, hoping she snaps back like she did earlier.
If I wouldn’t have been in such a hurry to leave or . . . guilt riddles me, knowing that guy wouldn’t have tried it if I’d been exiting with her. Finally, I feel a pulse. Although weak, I take it as a positive sign.
Glancing over my shoulder, I look for anyone ready to assist. The barista calling out orders earlier runs up just as I ask, “Has anyone called 911?”
“I did,” he replies, kneeling next to me. “Is she dead?” I don’t need flairs for the dramatic in this kind of situation.
“She needs medical attention as soon as possible.” Careful not to move her, I run my hand gently along the back of her head to check for bleeding.
Red scrapes across my fingertips, but fortunately, it’s not enough to worry about blood loss.
She’ll have a concussion, though, so that concern rightfully exists in the pit of my stomach.
An officer moves people back as his partner dips to the ground, eyeing her and then me. “What happened?”
“She was mugged. The guy pushed her, and she hit her head against the bricks. Then he stole her purse.”
“You her husband?”
“No.”
Sirens echo down the avenue, approaching at New York City traffic speed—too slow in an emergency. The officer looks at me and then stands. “Go ahead and step back. We’ll handle it from here, but stay close because you’ll need to give a statement.”
“Okay,” I reply, moving back enough to make room for the paramedics when they arrive.
The barista taps my shoulder. “Is she going to be okay?”
He’s young, no more than eighteen, but I can’t give him the reassurance he seeks. “I hope so.” It’s the best I can do.
The ambulance can’t pull close because of the cars already at the curb, but the paramedics park in the street, causing the car behind it to blare its horn in outrage. Typical New Yorkers. They’re the only ones with less patience than I have.
With a stretcher in their hands, the paramedics are finally able to maneuver through the fenders and set it beside .
. . Fuck, what was her name? Tuesday. Her name was Tuesday.
I move out of the way but stand close and say, “She has a pulse, but it’s faint, and there’s bleeding at the back of her head. ”
One of the paramedics turns to look at me over her shoulder. “Did you move her?”
“No. I only checked for her pulse.”
She nods and returns to the woman, checking her pulse for herself, and counting. After a pause, she nods. “Let’s move her,” she says to the other paramedic. In unison, they lift her onto the stretcher and start back to the ambulance.
With his arms held wide, the officer shuffles the onlookers back, including me. I owe her nothing. But seeing her—the same woman I was just bantering with—lying on the stretcher with a softness belying her earlier expression makes my chest tighten.
I’m known to be a shark in the courtroom and a total asshole to just about all the females I know, other than my mom and sister. But I have a fucking heart, even if it is frozen at its core. I can’t seem to walk away from this woman, though. I need to know she’ll be okay.
Fuck.
I look around, disgust settling in as I see all the people surrounding her, gawking like the attack happened for their entertainment. Acting on instinct, I follow close and approach the ambulance when the paramedics load her inside. One says, “Step back, sir.”
What am I doing?
Why do I care?
She filled part of my day with irritation. Why would I sacrifice more of it to her whims?
A law professor of mine once told me I needed to forget the small-town manners I grew up with and own the life of the big-city lawyer I am now. I needed to harden up.
I’ve had no problem following his advice.
Until now . . .
Considering no one else has stepped up to claim a relationship of any kind with Tuesday, she’s obviously alone. I contemplate how I would react if my little sister, Marina, or my mom had been mugged. I know, without a doubt, that I would never leave them alone.
But why am I making this random lady my priority? What about her makes me second-guess my ability to walk the fuck away from this situation?
I stand there like a creeper, making sure she’s being taken care of when I’m shot a stern look. “I said step away from the ambulance.” The paramedic’s tone matches her glare.
“I’m her boyfriend.” What the—
“Get in.”
I don’t have time to settle on the bench across from the paramedic before the doors are closed.
I hold on as soon as the vehicle veers forward into traffic with the sirens blaring.
Staring at the blonde, I note her hair has fallen from its tightly twisted knot, and the ends hang down around her shoulders, some curling around the gurney.
Dragging my gaze away from her face and the peaceful expression on her face, I start to wonder if she’s worse off than first suspected.
“It’s not good that she hasn’t woken up?” I ask, glancing across from me, needing an expert to weigh in.
“Her vitals are steady. That’s good.” The paramedic looks through the small back windows. “We should reach the ER in a few minutes.”
I nod, noticing blood droplets on her shirt and what looks to be dirt from the street.
Her coat lies on the bench next to the paramedic but appears no worse for wear from where I’m sitting.
With her hands resting across her stomach, I can’t help but notice the rings on her fingers, and a single diamond dangles from a necklace off to one side.
Matching earrings pierce each ear, but nothing else gives me any indication of who she is.
And I have a feeling any identification disappeared with the bag.
What am I going to tell them when they ask her name? Or her age? Her address or her insurance coverage? I need to snap the hell out of this. I’m trained to think on my feet.
I run my hand over my hair and lower to rub my neck. My eyes return to her face, and silently, I ask myself, “What am I doing?”
“Sir?”
My gaze trails up to the paramedic across the ambulance from me. “Yes?”
“I asked her name. What’s her name?”
Without hesitation, I reply, “Tuesday.”
“Last name?”
Uh . . . what do I say that won’t have them shoving me out the doors of a moving ambulance? “Westcott?”
Not the best plan I’ve ever devised . . . Lying never is.
As an attorney, I can attest that lying in most cases will indict more than vindicate. Under this circumstance, though, it got me inside her room, at least for a short time. I’m standing beside her bed, unsure of what to do.
I’m also questioning whether I have a concussion myself. Because what the hell have I gotten myself into?
A nurse peeks in and then comes in when she sees me. She’s pulled her hair into a ponytail that’s given way throughout the day and loosened at the nape. Giving me a tight smile before turning her attention toward the e-pad at the end of the bed, she says, “I’m Nurse Belinda. How is she?”
“I was hoping you’d be able to tell me.” I keep my voice low like hers. The darkened room and sleeping patient warrant it.
She starts to check her vitals on the heart machine. The steady beeps have kept me company for more than an hour. They’re quite soothing in their rhythm and had me settling in as if I belong here.
The nurse replies, “I think she’s doing well. The doctors expect her to wake any moment.” She sticks a temperature clamp on her finger and looks up at me. “I’m sure you’re anxious to talk to her, but I’d caution you to take it slow until the doctor examines her.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” I reply as if I’m here for the long haul. Again, I’m not sure where this is coming from, but I won’t leave her. I know it to my core.
Emails are piling up, along with text messages from my assistant. But I can’t bring myself to care enough to get to them. I take a step back from the bed and sit on the vinyl sofa. The springs give way, creaking under my weight and causing the nurse to glance over at me.
“I hear you’re her boyfriend.”
“I’m Loch.” How long do I go on with this charade? Tuesday is in good hands. That should be my cue to leave, but I sit on this sofa and nod like I have a vested interest.
Her shoulders fall, and she peeks over her shoulder at the door.
“You seem like a nice guy, Loch, making sure she got to the hospital, and concerned for her well-being, so I’m going to be frank with you.
” Turning, she rests her hand protectively on the bedrail as she does her hip.
“I’m guessing you aren’t really who you say you are.
You seem like a nice guy, but we have to take precautions here, so an officer is coming to escort you out of the room. ”
Fuck. This is not happening.
Getting arrested for falsifying information could be detrimental to my legal career. With that said, I know I could win a jury of my peers over if I risk being disbarred.
“I’ve given you a pocket of time by holding them off so I could speak with you first,” she says.
I square my shoulders, much like I do when I enter the courtroom, but I don’t speak. Only the guilty start rambling. I’m guilty of what? Being concerned about a woman who gave me a hard time and told me to have a nice day?
“Tell me the truth,” she starts again. “You’re not really her boyfriend, are you?”
“A friend.”
“A friend who doesn’t know her last name?”
Nurse Belinda hits hard. I study her unflinching gaze.
She’s tough and would make a great witness on the stand.
Unfortunately, I’m the one she’s interrogating at the moment.
I’ve stalled about as long as I can. Like she said, she’s given me a short window of opportunity.
Why? I have no idea, but since I’m on borrowed time anyway, I say, “I’m not one to bend the truth—”
“Good because I’m not a contortionist. Give it to me straight.” Nurse Belinda came loaded with jokes.
“We recently met, hung out a bit, and got coffee together. Nothing scandalous.” Though I feel guilty for how brusque I was with Tuesday after what happened.
Her head tilts just as her brows pinch together. She’s an older woman, older than my mom, and a kindness entered the room with her that has me trusting she’s being level with me. But she grins as if she knows I’m stretching the truth. “Listen, Loch, stick to that story. Kelly backed you up.”
“Who’s Kelly?”
“The guy who works at the coffee shop. He said you two were hanging out in the corner together, and it appeared to be a date.” Clearly, the kid is blind. He couldn’t be further from the truth, but it’s a good alibi that keeps my nose clean.
“Nice try.” Leaning in, she whispers, “I’m not naive. Give me the real scoop, or I’m calling Officer Langley in to arrest you.”
“The truth?”
“The whole truth.”
Feeling like I’m on the witness stand, I ask, “Has anyone ever told you that you should be a lawyer?”
“Yes,” she replies straight-faced.
She’s very good.
I glance at Tuesday on the bed, still sleeping. “We made small talk about the complexity of coffee, and then we parted ways. It was that simple.”
It’s never that simple, and she knows it.
“If you’d parted ways, why were you the first on the scene?”
“I wasn’t the first on the scene. I was just the only one who helped her.”
Belinda’s shoulders fall as does the pointed glare. Her whole being softens, and she exhales. “I knew you were a good guy. I’m a great judge of character.”
I’ve been honest both times I answered, but tackling the question using two different tactics buys me a little time. “What are you going to tell the police?”
“The truth.”
Saved by a sigh.
Tuesday takes a breath and releases a quiet hum that attracts our attention. The nurse jots something on the e-pad while I move to the opposite side of the bed from her.
A small smile embeds into Belinda’s cheeks. She glances at the door and then to me again. “You did the right thing by helping her. Timing is critical with a head injury.”
“What will happen to her from here?”
She sets the e-pad on the rolling station, then heads for the door. “As I mentioned, the doctor will examine her once she wakes up. We’ll keep her overnight for observation for the concussion, though. If all is good, she’ll be released tomorrow morning.”
“That seems fast.”
“We have a shortage of beds.” She shrugs, opening the door. “If all is good, there’s no reason to keep her here longer.”
When the door closes and we’re left alone with the sound of her beating heart, I peer down at Tuesday.
Her lipstick has been wiped away, and her hair hangs loose in gentle waves around her shoulders.
Otherwise, she appears to be sleeping. My mom always said we do three things when we sleep: grow, recover, and renew.
I’m sure Tuesday will be as good as new when she wakes up.
I take one last look at her, reaching through the bedrail to brush my fingertips against the top of her hand. “Guess this is goodbye.”
Walking away, I have no regrets. From choosing her over chasing down the mugger and saying what I needed to make sure she was taken care of. Even my confession to the nurse felt right when I did it, and it sits right in my conscience.
So I don’t understand why my chest grows heavier and each step pulls at me to stay. I push through the hesitation and hail a cab outside, leaving the hospital and Tuesday in the rearview mirror.