4. Renne
Renne
Finding parking near Selnoa General is like winning the lottery.
Connor circles twice until a spot opens right in front of a new bakery that used to be Dina’s hair salon.
It’s the exact same space where only last year, Connor parked right after I vacated it.
Dina was with him, and they went into her hair salon to grab supplies.
Minutes later, the hair salon exploded. In the aftermath, Dina and Connor ended up in the hospital on the same floor where I was working.
Then they were held as hostages until Declan Crossbow singlehandedly rescued them.
I’ve only seen a bloodbath on that scale once before.
On the yacht.
Connor parks in the spot.
I stare at him, trying to see if he’ll acknowledge the significance of us parking here, but he steps out and goes around the car to get my door. I see him wince. I’m sure his hands hurt from hitting that man’s head.
An ambulance pulls into the ER. Connor’s watching the situation as I watch him. Strong, swollen jaw, prominent Adam’s apple, perfectly straight bloody nose.
He looks down at me.
I’m staring.
“What?” he asks.
“You shouldn’t park here.”
“Why not?”
“This is where you parked when you almost died.”
“Where I parked has nothing to do with dying.”
“That’s not true. If you had parked elsewhere, the timing would’ve been different. The car that rammed the salon would’ve missed you guys.”
“They’d have shot at us when we left.”
“Still, it’s bad luck.”
“I’ll explain. The statistical likelihood of my near-death experience happening in the same place is unlikely. There’s no such thing as bad luck.”
“Sure there is.”
“That’s just poetry. It’s best if I don’t go inside.”
“Wait, what?”
He points at the ER. “In there.”
I step out and tug his elbow. “Come on. Don’t be scared. It’s just a hospital.”
Connor smirks. “I’m not afraid.”
“You sure?” I start to cross the street.
He jogs until he catches up. “I’m sure.”
“Maybe you’re afraid of bad luck after all, and you won’t admit it.”
“If I were afraid of bad luck, I’d have shot you already.”
On the sidewalk, I stop dead in my tracks. “What?”
“What?” he parrots.
“Why would you say something like that?”
“Because it’s true. If I were afraid of bad luck, I’d have shot you already.
” He points at the parking lot. “I remember you were still pregnant and waiting to cross the street. I stopped for you, then waited until you left in a rented gray Joxil with the license plate SL245990. Dina told me not to be nasty when I called you Mamma. You started the chain of events that led to me ending up under the rubble, and then you sedated me, which you didn’t know doesn’t work on me, so you could put a muzzle over my face.
Would you say I have bad luck or is any of what happened to me partly your doing, the chief of police’s doing, or my doing?
Are we all going to walk around pretending we have no control over ourselves and it’s all bad and good luck? ”
“I don’t know.”
He shrugs. “Fair answer.”
We keep walking. “You remembered my license plate?”
“I remember everything.”
We’re almost at the ER. “Do you normally go around memorizing things?”
“It just happens.”
“That doesn’t happen to me. Or most people.”
“I know.”
“Wait.”
Connor stops. “What?”
“Exactly, what are we talking about here? Are you gifted somehow?”
“Yeah. Eight and a half inches. I’d say that’s gifted, but you’ve seen more dick than I have, so you tell me.”
“Forget it. Let’s get you cleaned up.”
He’s chuckling as he walks behind me, since I’m marching into the ER now, upset that Connor can’t have a normal conversation with me.
“How can we help you?” the woman at the front desk asks while reading the computer screen in front of her. From the corner of my eye, I catch Connor walking past the desk.
The security guard steps in front of him, just before he reaches the authorized area.
Serves him right. Can’t just walk in here. Even if he is a Crossbow twin.
“Mr. Crossbow,” the guard greets him, then he opens the door to the “authorized personnel only” area.
I walk after him while the woman from the front desk shouts, “Hey! You can’t go back there. Hey!” She leaps from the behind the desk and meets us in the hallway.
“That’s Connor Crossbow,” I say, because that seems to be enough in this city.
The woman pinches her lips. “Damn. I almost died shouting at him.”
Perhaps I should rethink Connor’s brand of educating people about their approach. It’s effective, if terrible. “I’ll take care of him,” I say.
She looks me up and down, taking in my blue scrubs. “Do you work here?”
“Shoot. I need to clock in.” I move toward the back of the ER, where the check-in station is located, but the woman gently touches my shoulder. “There’s a staff clock here you can use.”
She shows me where it is, and I swipe my card.
“Which floor are you on?” she asks.
“Cardiac.”
“You’re not from around here, are you?”
The damn accent. I’m working on it, but the native Selnoans know.
“No, but maybe we can catch up over lunch. I have to go. Sorry.” I take off across the floor of the ER, looking between the curtained-off spaces for Connor, and find him sitting on the last bed in the hallway with his hands interlocked in front of him and his feet swinging.
Since people can’t help but gather around him as if he’s a zoo animal, I close his curtains. Now we’re enclosed in a very small space, and I work my way around his six-foot-something frame to gather the wound-cleaning supplies.
I begin with his face.
Connor stares at me.
My heart is thumping in my ears. I’m so close to him, standing between his legs, and when I lean in to clean under his jaw, his hands touch my belly. This close, I can see every minor line of his face. There are scars. Small ones. Crisscrossed under his jaw.
I swallow. “Can I ask you something personal? You don’t have to answer me.”
A smile. “I know I don’t have to answer you, but you have to ask now.”
“Did you use to cut yourself here?” I trace with my finger under his swollen jaw. Gently. I wouldn’t hurt him.
“Maybe.”
When Connor says nothing more, just looks away from me, I feel bad that I asked. “I had a friend who used to cut. She’s not with us anymore.”
“If you’re drawing parallels, I assure you I’m not like your friend.”
“You’re unlike anyone I’ve ever met.” I step back.
Connor licks his lips. “That’s not true. I’m like someone. His name is Declan Crossbow.”
“Only on the outside.”
“That’s the problem.”
I take his bloody hands. “Not to me,” I whisper, because I don’t have it in me to admit out loud that I find this beautiful monster attractive.
He pretends he didn’t hear me. Just as well. I focus on his hands. He has nice hands because, of course, he does. Long, masculine fingers with some calluses, as if they have, surprisingly, done some manual labor.
“My brother worked in construction.” I start with a story that’s not true.
“My dad did too. They wore jeans, boots, and gray T-shirts. Every Christmas, my mom would buy them a pair of black T-shirts because the gray ones would get dirty easily. They’d sit at the back of their closets because my dad and brother only wore gray ones. ”
My dad loved working on projects in the shed. He always wore a gray T-shirt. That part is true.
I miss my family. I miss them so much that sometimes I cry myself to sleep. My daddy would make such a wonderful grandpa for my baby. He’d teach her how to ride a bicycle, the way he taught me.
“You’re very good at your job, Nurse,” Connor says, putting me out of my misery of having to talk about and remember my family.
“Thank you. You don’t need stitches, so you’re almost done.” I wrap his knuckles in gauze and move to put the supplies away when Connor grasps my wrists and pulls me back to stand between his legs.
I keep my gaze down.
“I will hurt your feelings,” he says.
“I’m a big girl.”
I can’t look up at him because if I do, I might find him difficult to resist. I should stay professional and send him off with wound care instructions.
The curtains part, and I jump away from Connor as if burned.
Dr. Olton, the trauma surgeon, walks in. He looks from me to Connor, surprise registering on his face. Dark hair falls gently over his forehead. Brown eyes widen. “Ekatia,” he says. “What are you doing here?”
I swallow. “I…”
“She brought me in.” Connor lifts his hands, his eyes like ping-pong balls switching between me and Dr. Olton.
“I see. Mr. Crossbow, I’m Dr. Pete Olton. What can I do for you today?”
“Nothing,” Connor answers.
“I cleaned the cuts on his face and hands. He’s not complaining of a headache, so I think he’s good.” I open the curtain, gesturing for Connor to leave now.
“I think I will be the judge of that.”
“Of what?” Connor asks.
“Of your well-being, Mr. Crossbow.”
“Nah, I will. And the next time your staff tells you I’m in here and you walk in like I invited you into my space, you might catch something there’s no cure for. Don’t open that fucking curtain until I tell you that you can come in. You understand me, Doc?”
Face pale, Dr. Olton nods. “Absolutely.”
The three of us stand there awkwardly. “I have to check on my patients,” I say.
Connor hops off the bed. “When should I pick you up?”
There’s a mirror hanging above the sink. I’m as bright as a tomato. “I’ll take the bus.”
“Buses don’t go near my house.”
Pete’s bug-eyed expression would be comical if I didn’t understand what he was going through.
“I’ll grab a cab.”
Connor’s phone pings, and he reads the message. “Cabs don’t go up there either. Do you want me to bring the baby to your apartment?” He looks up as he pockets the phone. “I don’t have another option. Either I pick you up or drop the baby off at your apartment.”
“You don’t know where I live.”
“Not yet.”
I don’t know what to say. I’m tongue-tied. But Pete’s not.
“I can drive you wherever you need to go,” Pete offers.
Connor smiles. “You’re so helpful, Doc. Drop her off at my house.”