My veins flood with what feels like ice when I read the text. Please don’t worry, but I was caught in the middle of an armed robbery at my pharmacy. I got hit in the head, and they’re taking me to Henderson Hospital. I’m fine, but I wanted to let you know I won’t be making dinner tonight. I’ll call later to update you.
“Are you fucking kidding me?” I growl into the empty hallway. She’ll call to update me? She’s fine?
She thought a fucking text was appropriate to reach out to me?
I slam the patient’s file back into the folder. With long strides, I make my way to the reception desk. Three girls sit behind it. Before any of them can look up, I demand, “Where’s Dr. Aimes?”
“Number four,” one of the girls answers, but I’m already spinning away.
I make my way to the exam room, then take a deep breath before I knock. I’m bristling with rage, fear, and a weird, heavy weight on my chest.
Brandon opens the door, seeming surprised. Clearly the expression on my face concerns him as he immediately backs me into the hall, pulling the door shut behind himself. “What’s wrong?”
“Elena was caught in the middle of some type of armed robbery. She’s been injured, and I need to head to Henderson.”
“Go,” he says without hesitation. “I’ll cover your patients.”
That’s all I need to hear. “Thanks, man. I owe you.”
“I’ll think of something good,” he replies in an effort to make me smile. “Text me once you’ve been able to see her.”
I throw my hand up in a wave of acknowledgment.
♦
I know I’ve rattled the poor nurse who is leading me through the small emergency department. I’d come in demanding to see Elena, flashing my neurosurgery credentials like a fucking snob. It got me quick entrance, including the nurse leading me straight to the trauma doctor assigned to Elena’s care.
He’s just exiting a patient’s curtained room, and the nurse makes a hasty introduction. “Dr. Peele… this is Dr. Hewitt. He’s Elena Costieri’s boyfriend, and he just drove in from Vegas to see her.”
“She’s due back from CT any time now,” Dr. Peele says as he sticks his hand out to me. He doesn’t seem aggravated to see me.
“What’s her status?” I ask gruffly. “I understand she had a head injury?”
He stares a moment before replying, “You know I technically can’t give you any information as that’s a breach of doctor/patient confidentiality. However, as a professional courtesy, she’s stable and doing very well.”
“Can you at least tell me what her GCS is?” I ask with annoyance. The Glasgow Coma Score is the first testing they would have done on her upon admission.
When he opens his mouth, I can tell by the expression on his face he’s about to deny me, but then his eyes go to something over my shoulder. Turning, I see Elena being wheeled into a curtained room.
I don’t hesitate, merely stride that way with my cane tapping on the tile floor, Dr. Peele on my heels. When I enter the curtained room, she’s chatting with the attendant who had just transported her back from radiology. Her gaze slides over to me, widening with surprise.
“Benjamin,” she murmurs as if she’s seen a ghost. “What are you doing here?”
What am I doing here? Did she honestly just fucking ask me that?
I ignore the question, taking just a moment to observe her physical injuries. I can’t see much other than her temple is bandaged on the left side with blood seeping through. Her olive-toned skin is incredibly pale, but I imagine that’s just exhaustion coming down off the adrenaline I know had to have been fueling her body.
“Tell Dr. Peele I have permission to discuss your case with him,” I command, trying to ignore the hurt expression on her face.
No words of comfort. No hug. No sweet kiss. No concern for how she’s feeling. Just an order to let me in so I can make sure she’s okay.
Which is something she should have done from the start.
Elena nods at Dr. Peele. “You can talk to him about my medical situation.”
I give my back to Elena, and Dr. Peele starts blabbing. GCS was excellent at a fifteen. That meant she had spontaneous eye-opening response, has been verbally responsive, and obeyed all commands for motor response testing.
“We’re waiting on a plastic surgery consult for the laceration at her temple,” Dr. Peele says as he moves to a standing computer station in the corner of the room. With a few taps on the keys, he’s pulling up the CT scan results. “Looks like we’re still waiting for radiology to read these—”
“I’m a neurosurgeon,” I mutter as I push in beside him to study the digital pictures on the screen.
“Oh,” Dr. Peele says, taking a step back to let me examine it more closely.
I take a few moments, critically studying the digital slices of Elena’s brain. I always knew it would be a beautiful brain, and I’m relieved to see it intact with no evidence of swelling or bleeding.
“It looks good,” I tell Dr. Peele, but of course, he’ll need to verify it with the official review by the radiologist.
“I’m going to go check on the plastic surgery consult,” he replies, leaving me alone with Elena.
Now I can stop being a doctor and be a concerned boyfriend, but for the life of me, I’m not sure what that means. I’m now battling a mix of relief she’s fine with the terrorizing fear she could be dead right now.
I turn slowly, hating the look of distrust on her face. I’ve not behaved how she expected or needed.
When I take a step toward her, Elena’s eyes well up with tears and my heart shreds. I move to the side of the bed, taking her hand in mind. I bend over, brush my lips over hers softly, and whisper, “You’re okay. You’re going to be fine.”
And the whole time I do that, I have to restrain myself from fleeing. Because while part of me wants to comfort her, hold her, chase away all her scary memories, the truth is most of me wants to leave all this far behind.
The truth is it only took one bad thing happening to her to make me realize I could not survive losing her. Had he hit her a little bit harder, or had the gun gone off and she’d been shot, she could just as easily be lying in the morgue with me holding her hand.
I managed to pull myself back from that type of loss once, but I truly don’t think I could survive it again.
These past few weeks, the way I put up walls and closed myself off to love, devotion, and relationships had seemed so silly, but now it doesn’t seem stupid at all. Seems safe and secure to me.
I make myself stay, though, because I can’t abandon her right now in her greatest need. I’m not that much of a selfish dick.
“You’re going to be fine,” I say again stupidly, knowing damn well she doesn’t need my medical reassurances right now.
Elena nods, gives a tiny sniffle, and dashes the tears away with the back of her other hand. I reach behind me, grab a small chair, and pull it to the side of the bed so I can sit.
“How did it all happen?” I ask, dreading hearing the details.
Her voice is tremulous, unsure, and childlike. I’ve never seen Elena without her trademark confidence and sass. Right now, she’s the victim of a violent crime and she’s been reduced to it. I squeeze her hand a little tighter as she recounts what happened.
Christ… all for fucking drugs. She almost died so someone could get their fix.
“I thought he was going to execute us,” she says softly, but the impact of those words feels like a nuclear explosion within me. My ears ring as she goes on to explain. “Told us to turn away from him. To get on our knees. I knew that meant he was going to shoot us, but he didn’t have the fucking guts to look in our faces as he did it.”
“Jesus fuck,” I mutter.
“I wasn’t going out without a fight. I refused, and that’s when he hit me.”
“Christ, Elena… I’m so sorry. You did the right thing.”
Blinking back more tears, she nods. “Thank God someone walked in and
spooked him. He just ran. God was looking out for me.”
Those words don’t sit well because I don’t believe them. God doesn’t do that. He doesn’t save the innocent, at least not in my experience.
“Can you do me a favor?” Elena asks.
“Of course,” I reply automatically, just as long as it’s not to explain the myriad of fucked-up feelings I’ve got going on right now.
“Can you call my mom?” she asks, then nods over to her purse. “You’ll have to grab my phone. I’m ashamed to say I don’t even have her phone number memorized, and they don’t have a landline anymore. I didn’t want to worry her until I knew everything was going to be okay.”
“Sure,” I say as I stand from the chair. “But is she able to drive with her knee?”
“She’ll get one of my brothers to bring her,” she replies.
I get her phone, have Elena unlock it, and then pull up her mom’s contact. Just as I’m about to dial, the plastic surgeon comes in. I step just outside the curtain while he examines Elena’s laceration, keeping one eye on her as I call her mother.
It’s not a pleasant conversation. Mrs. Costieri is hysterical at first, but I’ve dealt with many a patient’s over-emotional family before. I’m able to talk her down quickly by assuring her that Elena is medically sound. We cut the call short so she can work on getting a ride to the hospital.
Back in the room, I introduce myself to the surgeon. She explains how she’s going to stitch the laceration. It’s in the delicate skin of her temple, running just to the front of her hairline. It’s going to leave a visible scar, but hopefully one that’s hard to see after she’s done with it.
A nurse comes in with a tray, and I move to the other side of the bed while they work on Elena. She holds onto my hand tightly, particularly as they irrigate the wound. Once they apply the anesthetic, she relaxes, and I watch with a critical eye as the surgeon works to close the cut. Every delicate stitch she lays, I feel more despondent inside that this happened to the woman I’ve grown to care about so much.
It doesn’t take long. Once we’re alone again, I move the chair by her bed. I keep hold of her hand, sitting in silence with her. I don’t even know what to say.
“Are you okay?” Elena asks.
I try to look confident when I meet her eyes, not guilty for having such confounding thoughts. “Of course. Why?”
“I don’t know,” she replies hesitantly. “You just look… like you’d rather be anywhere other than here. And that’s okay if you need to go. I never expected you to leave work to come in the first place.”
There it is.
My out.
And she handed it to me on a silver platter.
I don’t even hesitate in fudging on the truth a bit. “I left in the middle of patient rounds. Brandon’s covering, but—”
“Go,” she says boldly, then pulls her hand from mine. “You shouldn’t have done that. If you had called me, I could have assured you I was fine.”
To my credit, I don’t bound out of the chair. I sit there, unsure.
“Go take care of your patients,” she says again, pointing toward the door. “My mom will be here soon, and I’ll text you once I’m settled in at home later.”
“Are you sure?” I ask, although I know she is. Elena doesn’t offer things she doesn’t mean.
“I’ll be fine,” she assures with a smile.
I push up from the chair, bend, and put my mouth against hers for a soft kiss. Closing my eyes, I memorialize the feel of her lips against mine, wondering if I’ll ever feel this again.
CHAPTER 28
Elena
“Want anything else?” my mom asks as she pops her head into the living room. I’m lying on her couch, flipping channels.
“I’m good, Mamá,” I say without looking her way.
“Tea? Juice?”
I give her my attention and a reassuring smile. “I’m good. I promise.”
Her return look is as worried as it was when she walked into the emergency room yesterday after Benjamin called her. But she’s a mom. She’ll never be reassured.
My mom insisted I come home with her rather than back to my house. Truth be told, I was really shaken up by the whole ordeal, so it didn’t take much convincing. She kicked my youngest brother Luis out of his room so I could sleep there last night, and he took the couch. After all of us kids moved out, our parents downsized into a small three-bedroom ranch house. The master is for our parents, Luis was currently occupying the guest room, and the third is Dad’s home office.
Luis didn’t mind. Rather than take the couch, he went to stay with a friend. He’d just recently moved in with my parents after a bad breakup with a girlfriend he’d lived with. I expect he’ll find a place of his own soon since he likes his space and privacy. I’m sure my parents will be happy as well, because while they love their six children dearly, they also like being empty nesters.
There’s a light knock at the door before it opens. Few people would walk in without an invitation, but I know who it is, and she’s always had an open-door policy here.
Tilting my head slowly over the arm of the couch, I smile when Jorie walks in carrying a huge vase of flowers. I’m not surprised when she hands them right to my mom saying, “Here you are, Mamá. To brighten your day.”
This is typical Jorie. First, she calls my mom “Mamá” just like I do, but she was practically raised in this household. Jorie’s mom died during childbirth and while her dad and older brother Micah did a good job of looking after her, she got “mom loving” over here.
Flowers delivered to the proper person, Jorie turns my way, her eyes raking over me critically. I know I don’t look that bad other than the purple bruising at my temple and the line of delicate blue stitches along my temple. Still, she’s evaluating my body language, facial expressions, and general vibe I’m giving off. My bestie knows me that well.
Sauntering my way, she mutters, “Well… you could look worse, I suppose.”
When I grin, she’s sinks to her knees by the couch, then wraps me up in a warm, gentle hug.
“I can’t believe this happened to you,” she whispers, and I can hear the emotion in her voice. “If you had died on me, I swear I’d never forgive you.”
“I’d never do that to you,” I whisper back, tightening the embrace.
When she pulls back, she peers closer at my temple. “That bastard. Have they found him?”
I shake my head. Just that small movement hurts. They gave me some pain medicine at the hospital, but I haven’t taken it yet. I’m okay with good old-fashioned Tylenol to take the edge off, but the edge still has a bit of a bite. I was told I’d feel better in a few days, though.
I’d already told Jorie all the details yesterday when I called her after I got home. I waited until then so she wouldn’t rush off to the hospital. When it was late enough, I could feign being too tired to have her visit. I knew she’d want to come, but she hadn’t needed to. I was going to be fine.
Physically, for sure.
Emotionally might be another thing. I’ve found myself a little weepy this morning, and I can’t figure out why. I’m naturally a strong woman. The one who steps up in a crisis. Remains calm and collected. I’m the bearer of responsibility. The one who cares for people.
And yet… the slightest thing makes me want to cry today.
My mom fluttering all around me.
Luis being overly solicitous when he stopped by twice today to check on me.
My dad taking an earlier flight back just to assure himself his only girl was okay.
Jorie alternating between wanting to organize a man hunt for my assailant to wanting to break down into a puddle of tears on my behalf.
And Benjamin… I want to cry because he’s been very, very silent since he left the hospital yesterday.
I’m no fool. I could tell he was off-kilter the moment our eyes locked in the emergency room. He was beyond bothered over what happened to me. I could sense the anger, frustration,
and fear within him. The way he’d coolly assessed my medical condition without giving me what I needed—emotional support—really hurt. I could tell how bothered he was when I recounted my story, and then… it had hurt again when he couldn’t get out of there quick enough.
Sure, I let him lay it all on his job and the need to get back to his patients, but we both know he could have stayed if he wanted.
He just didn’t want to, and, yes, that’s what’s making me feel so sad most of all.
Jorie looks over her shoulder into the kitchen where my mom is making some chicken tortilla soup for me. It’s my favorite.
She then raises an eyebrow at me. “Where the fuck is Benjamin?”
Leave it to Jorie to be able to know exactly what’s bothering me the most.
I shrug. “He picked up an unexpected on-call shift this morning.”
At least that’s what he told me—via text. When he’d left the hospital last night, he’d given me a kiss on my lips and whispered, “I’ll try to come see you tomorrow depending on work.”
I knew it was a lie then.
It had been confirmed this morning when I’d gotten his text.
Granted, his text then went on to ask a bunch of questions about how I was feeling. Clinical, flat, unemotional questions.
I didn’t bother answering them other than to say I felt fine and not to worry about me.
That was over four hours ago, and I haven’t heard anything else from him. I get our relationship is new, but the way things have been going these past few weeks—particularly after our talk on the boat on the Fourth of July—I expected more of him.
And I’m not stupid either. I know what’s going on.
It’s not that Benjamin doesn’t have it within him to be supportive and caring in a situation like this. I know he does.
It’s that this entire situation has freaked him out and catapulted him backward, straight into the fear-based way he’d been living.
“I think it’s over between Benjamin and me,” I murmur, expressing the fear I’ve been analyzing all morning. The tears once again prick at my eyes.
Wicked Angel Page 18
