“She’s wrong,” Lydia murmurs.
“I know.”
“No, Xander. She’s wrong. They’re all wrong and… so, so stupid…” Her voice fades out on the last words, her hold tightening around me. “How could anyone who had you let you go?” she whispers.
Oh god. My heart rocks in my chest, my eyes clenching shut. “Don’t say that.”
“It’s true, Xander. It’s true.” She lifts her gaze, and I can’t allow myself to look. I know I don’t have enough to resist the temptation. “Xander?”
Her fingers brush my cheek, pressing in to turn my head. I close my eyes again. It’s my only defense.
“It’s because of Matty, isn’t it. You know what I’m feeling. You feel it too. But you can’t. Because Matty always comes first.”
She traces my lips, and I imagine her gorgeous blue eyes begging for the taste I’ve been dreaming about. I’m shaking from the effort of resistance. So is she. I suck in a breath when she hooks her arms around my waist and forces our hips together. Warm and firm, her form molds to mine in the perfect fit. My body responds, raging into flames. Can she feel me? She must because I’m a beacon right now. Calling, pleading for the siren that will destroy me. She releases a soft moan, pressing harder into me until my lungs burn for oxygen.
You have to stop this, Xander.
“And you can’t because you’re a professional,” I force out, finally meeting her gaze. It was supposed to be a protest against our rebellious bodies. The consuming blaze that’s made me weak. I need her to be strong right now and release me.
She doesn’t.
“Xander…” She breathes my name like it’s agony. How I imagine it in my head when I’m braced over her. Sheets in disarray. Clothing scattered. Heavy breaths and messy hair.
Her arms cinch tighter around my chest, her hips shifting into painful alignment with me. She sinks down with a slight roll until I can’t stop the groan. Shit, I can’t. I—
“You’re right. This would wreck my career,” she says. Her hands release behind me, but my relief dissolves into volcanic ash as her fingers scale down my back and tuck into the waist of my jeans. “A rift between the two of you would be catastrophic right now.”
“It would ruin everything we’ve built. A lifetime.” I can’t breathe as she skims the seam of my underwear. My own fingers outline the clasp of her bra through her shirt. “We’ve sacrificed so much to get here. You can’t even imagine. Besides, I can’t hurt Matty. I can’t, Lydia.” I shake my head, begging my arms to push her away. Please, please, please.
“It’s not fair,” she whispers, pressing her forehead into my chest.
I rest my chin on her head and close my eyes. It’s not. It’s also settled. Done. A confirmed no, absolutely not. Yet still our fingers dance, teasing the fires of hell with false promises of heaven. How long can we search for a line we both know we’ve crossed?
“Xander? You okay?” Lydia asks, pulling away suddenly. I gasp in a breath and stare at her in horror.
“Call Matty! Now. Tell him—” Her face distorts into a blur just as my tongue goes numb and stops my speech. What was I saying? It was important. Fuck! No, no, no. Not now! Who is…? Where…?
“Xander? Oh my god! What’s happening?!”
CHAPTER 12
LYDIA
Xander staggers toward his suitcase, frantically fishing through the contents.
“What is it? What’s wrong?” I ask, rushing to his side. He doesn’t look right. His face is pale, his eyes glassy and unfocused.
“Matty,” he slurs out. “Call.” His words are garbled, like he’s inebriated, but there’s been no substance use. He gives up on whatever he was looking for in his suitcase and lurches toward the bed. I reach him just in time to direct his collapse to the mattress instead of the floor. The left side of his body seems to go limp, and panic explodes within me.
“I’m calling an ambulance,” I cry, pulling out my phone.
He shakes his head. “Matty.”
Oh god, he’s having a stroke! Except, is he? He seemed to know what was happening before he went down. Like he had a warning? Has this happened before? I dial Matty. I can call an ambulance next.
I drop beside Xander who’s closed his eyes. His breaths are heavy but steady, as if he’s trying to control them. I lean closer to listen. Thank god Matty picks up right away.
“Hey, Lydia. What’s up?”
“Matty! Something’s wrong with Xander!”
“What?”
“I wanted to call nine-one-one but he said to call you and… oh god! I think he’s having a stroke. Everything was fine, then he started stuttering and couldn’t walk, and his face, it’s—”
“Fuck. Where are you right now?”
“In his room. Well, your room, I guess.”
“You’re alone in his room?” He quiets for a second, and I curse myself and this entire situation. “Okay. Just stay there. We’re coming back. Keep the lights off. Try to get water and ice. Did he take his meds?”
“Meds? He was looking for something in his suitcase but didn’t seem to find it. I’m going to call an ambulance.”
“No! Don’t. They can’t help him. It’s these weird-ass migraines he gets. He’ll be okay, but he’s gonna go through hell first. Don’t leave him alone. I’m on my way, but it’ll probably be an hour or so before I can get there.”
“Migraines? No. I get migraines. This is way different.”
“Yeah. They’re called hemiplegic migraines or something. You said it’s like he’s having a stroke?”
“Yes, exactly.”
“Yeah, fuck. Okay, see if you can get ice for his head and water for him to drink. Close all the blinds to make it as dark as possible. Oh, and a bucket or waste bin or something by the bed.”
“A bucket?”
“You’ll see. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
I call Kate next, filling her in on the details and asking her to track down ice and a bag to secure it. Apparently, she was aware of these strange migraines as well and assures me she’ll be there to help as soon as she gets the ice. I grab the waste bin from the bathroom, shuddering as I position it beside Xander’s bed. He hasn’t moved, still lying on his back with his eyes closed and one arm across his chest. I pull off his sneakers and do my best to position the blanket and sheets more comfortably around him. He mumbles something that sounds like “thanks,” indicating he’s conscious. I grab a water bottle and sit beside him on the mattress.
“Can you drink this?” I whisper. Matty didn’t mention anything about sound, but I’ve never met a migraine-sufferer who enjoyed noise.
He doesn’t open his eyes as he breathes out, “not yet.” But at least his response is more coherent than a moment ago. He’s flexing his left fist in slow repetition, the same side that went limp earlier, and I start to breathe a little easier. Pretty sure actual stroke victims don’t recover in ten minutes.
Xander clearly doesn’t want to be disturbed, so I situate myself on the other bed. I pull up the search app on my phone, shielding the backlight as much as possible. I have no clue how to spell whatever hemi-thing Matty had said, but when I start typing, the suggestions populate for me. I click on a link to a reputable medical site, and my stomach drops as I read. Is this for real?
I glance over at the shadow on the bed. How often does he have to deal with this? The more I read, the more I want to borrow the bin beside him. Blurred vision, numbness, disorientation, weakness in one side of the body. And all of that is typically before the pain starts, which means… when I look back over, his hands cover his face, his fingers threaded into his hair. Where is Kate with that ice?
I slip off the bed as quietly as possible and tiptoe toward the door. It sounds like a freaking dump truck dropping its load as I pull it open. These rooms literally exist for sleeping. Why wouldn’t you design their doors to open and close quietly? Once in the hallway, I replenish my lungs with a deep breath. I guess I’d been restricting my breathing as well, so as not to
disturb him. I text Kate for a status report, and she says she’s on the elevator. Making my way in that direction, I realize how desperately I need something to do. Anything to counter this powerlessness. I’m a fixer, and today I only seem to be breaking things.
“Got it,” Kate says, rushing toward me. In addition to a bag of ice, she also has an actual cold pack. “When I explained what it was for, they gave me this. Oh, and this.” She holds up a trial packet of over-the-counter migraine medicine. “How is he?”
I shake my head, needles streaming into my gut. “Not good. You should have seen him. I thought…” I can’t finish and reach for the ice pack.
“You thought he was having a stroke?”
“I thought he was dying.” Emotion I haven’t acknowledged yet wells in my throat. Did I? Yes. For ten horrible seconds I thought I’d be living in a world without Alexandre Silva, and it took my breath away. The panic of the moment sheltered me then. All I have now is a cheap ice pack to absorb the delayed stress. I crush it in my fist as we approach the door. At least I had the wherewithal to leave it open by flipping out the top latch.
“I can take it from here. Thanks for your help,” Kate says quietly. I look at her like she’s crazy, and she smiles.
“Not a chance. In fact, I should be the one to sit with him. He needs total silence, and I have nothing pressing to do. I’m sure you have all kinds of crap to deal with from this. Matty should be back in forty minutes anyway.”
She glances at the door, then her phone. “You sure? Nursing duties isn’t in your job description.”
“It’s not in yours either.”
“Everything’s in mine,” she says with another quick smile.
I pull in a breath, suddenly cold at the thought of leaving Xander. “I really don’t mind. I’d just be sitting around worrying anyway.” I reach for the bag of ice, subconsciously cementing the decision.
“Okay, if you’re sure. I do have to move some things around and look into possible backup plans for tomorrow night if he’s not well enough to play.”
“Exactly. I got this.”
Kate squeezes my arm. “Thanks. Also, you’re doing an amazing job. I let Donna and Sam know how skilled and professional you are.”
I force a smile. “Thank you. That means a lot.”
“I call it like I see it. Keep me updated on Xander, okay?” She starts back down the hall, and I take one last full breath before pushing open the door.
Xander still hasn’t changed his position when my eyes adjust enough in the darkness. He’s awake, though. I can tell by the flinch when I lower myself beside him as gently as possible.
“I have ice but I’m not sure what to do with it,” I whisper, holding up my offerings.
“Thank you,” he says, wincing. He gingerly reaches for the icepack and positions it at the base of his head against his neck.
“They gave me migraine pills too.”
“No… point,” he says.
“Water?”
“In a… minute. Just…” He bolts up and reaches for the bin. I step out of the way, clenching my fists as I wait. “Sorry,” he gasps out when he’s finished. “I’ll… be okay. You should go.”
“No way.” I grab the bin when he puts it back on the floor.
“Lydia, don’t…”
“Rest. I got this.”
After cleaning it out in the bathroom, I wet a couple of towels and return to his bed. He’s resumed the same position as before, posed like a corpse. I hate everything about this scene as I return the bin to the floor.
“How about some water now?” I say, twisting the cap off the bottle.
“Thanks.” He lifts himself enough that I can tilt the bottle to his lips. After a few sips, I offer him the cool towel. He wipes his face, then drops it to the floor and repositions the ice behind his head.
“I thought this might help too.” I fold the other cold towel into a band and place it on his forehead.
“It does.” His mouth twitches enough to indicate he’s trying to smile, and I can’t stop my fingers from brushing a strand of hair from his face. Shit, he probably doesn’t want anyone touching him right now. I pull away quickly.
“Sorry. I just…”
“It’s okay. I… I have to close my eyes now.”
“Oh yeah. Of course. Sorry. I’ll just be over there if you need anything.”
If he heard me, he doesn’t acknowledge it this time. Because he can’t. Because this is what excruciating pain looks like. I read possible triggers include dietary, weather, lack of sleep, and most common: stress. It doesn’t take a neurologist to diagnose this one. Is this the cost of propping up a collapsing universe?
Watch. Chew on a nail or two. And empty garbage bins when the pain gets too much for them to manage. Turns out there’s not much you can do when someone’s brain is exploding. By the time Matty slips into the room, I’ve emptied the bin two more times and feel my own head on the verge of combustion.
Matty nods to me as he passes, but his focus is on Xander. “Hey, man. How you feeling?” he says gently, crouching beside him. Interesting that he doesn’t sit on the bed… probably to avoid rocking the patient suffering in debilitating pain. I kick myself.
“Never been better,” Xander mumbles.
Matty grins. “You ruined my lunch, ya know. We just ordered.”
“Sorry,” he says dryly. “Will… plan better… next time.”
“Eh, I probably didn’t need more fries in my system anyway. You take your meds?”
“Couldn’t find them.”
“Shit. It’s too late now, huh.”
“Yeah. Just… can you get the patches? They’re… in the front section.”
“On it.”
Matty gets up and moves to Xander’s suitcase where he starts searching the front pocket.
My heart hurts and melts at the same time. I feel like I’m watching twenty years of time summarized into one moment. I also feel like an intruder.
“I’m gonna go now,” I say to Matty.
He nods with a quick smile. “Thanks for taking care of him. Sorry I wasn’t here.”
“It’s fine. I’m glad I was.”
His expression pinches a bit before he recovers with another smile. “See you later.”
“Let me know how he’s doing.”
“I will. Have a good afternoon.”
No chance of that either.
I’m not sure what to do with the rollercoaster of the last two hours. My head is a mess, my body drained. As I stare at the ceiling of my room, one urge keeps pushing to the front. It flashes bold and heavy until I can’t deny it anymore and pick up my phone.
“Lydia, great to hear from you,” my father answers on the third ring.
I close my eyes at the sound of his voice. How long since we last spoke? Weeks? A month? “Hi, Dad. Guess what? I’m in northern Jersey with a client for the next day or so.”
“Really! Wonderful. Right in my backyard.” He sounds legitimately positive. How well do I really know the man I’ve always taken for granted?
“Yeah, so I was thinking…”
Emotion closes around my throat. I was thinking about how blessed I am, how we may have drifted but you’d never kick me out and try to blackmail me. I can’t stop wondering how much time we’ve wasted not knowing what we have.
“Look, I’d love to see you if you’re available, sweetheart,” he says. “Can you do dinner or cocktails tonight?”
I clench my fist, my lips trembling. “I’d love that, Dad. Where and when?”
In addition to relieving a weight on my conscience, my impromptu meetup with Dad also provides a much needed distraction from what would’ve been an evening of worrying. Other than a brief, “still down, but he’ll be fine” response from Matty to my inquiry about Xander, I haven’t heard anything. Even Kate has been absent all afternoon as she scrambles to sort logistics. I would’ve been completely on my own to suffer through my concern.
After taking the train into
Manhattan, I hop on the subway to Midtown. I agreed to meet my father at the White Flame corporate headquarters, and my heartrate picks up as we close in on my stop. It’s been a while since my last visit to “Dad’s office,” a place that had been filled with the mystique of a museum to my child’s perception. I haven’t visited since I joined his industry as my own professional entity. What will it be like to walk through the glass doors as an equal? I always assumed his unforgiving expectations meant I was never good enough. What if I’d been wrong about that too?
I slip off the subway car and join the procession toward the street. Stepping into the light, I can’t stop my smile at the familiar sounds and scent of the city I love so much. Although L.A. is now my residence, N.Y.C. will always be my home.
I pick up my pace, settling into a brisk walk through the crowded streets of Midtown. It doesn’t take long to reach White Flame’s building, and after getting through security, I hop on the elevator to my father’s floor. My foot starts tapping in steady increments. One-two-three-four. One-two-three-four. Like a drummer bearing down on the kick. Does Xander hear constant rhythms in his head? I always see his fingers moving while he’s thinking or working.
Stop thinking about him. I check my phone anyway to see if there’s an update. Nothing, and I tuck it back in my purse to resist the urge to type “how about now?” to Matty. I’m afraid he already suspects my concern is disproportionate to my role in their lives. After all, it happened while we were alone in a hotel room. I shudder as I recall Matty’s tone when that was revealed. Does he suspect something? How do we explain away my presence in their room if I can’t tell the truth about why I was there? My own head starts to pound, and I force away the dilemma for now.
I exit the elevator and approach the reception area, smiling brightly at the assistant behind the massive curved desk.
“May I help you?” the older woman asks.
“Hi, yes. Lydia Carmichael here to see Stocker Carmichael.”
“Really? Mr. Carmichael is… wait… Lydia?”
Falling North: A Turner Artist Rocker Novel (The Turner Artist Rocker Series Book 2) Page 10
