by Shari Copell
“You can’t! I’ll get fired!” I don’t know that it came out as the shout I intended, but I put as much force behind it as possible. Near-death experience notwithstanding, I didn’t want to lose my job. I’d made some good friends at Tapestries.
“Don’t upset her, Greg. We can talk about this later.” Mom smoothed my hair away from eyes.
Daddy scowled and moved out of my line of vision. “God, Barb, what would we have done if we’d lost her?” I heard my dad’s voice catch. I’m an only child, and I knew what he was thinking. “It’s inconceivable.”
My thoughts drifted to a different subject as they talked. “Where am I?”
“Presby hospital,” my mother said.
“How did I get here?” I knew very well how I’d gotten there. I just wanted to have it confirmed.
“That boy you used to date. Asher. The one that plays in the band. He put you in the back of his car and brought you here. It’s a good thing he did. The doctors said the ambulance would’ve been too late for you,” Mom told me.
I nodded, closed my eyes, and sent out my Asher-tingly senses. I couldn’t feel him in the room. Good.
“He was gone when we got here,” Dad said from the foot of the bed. “I’m going to buy that son-of-a-bitch the best steak in Pittsburgh the next time I see him.”
No. No. No, you’re not. We’re done with Asher Pratt!
I was too fuzzy to fight about it, and I could appreciate my dad’s enthusiasm. I was glad to be alive, even if the person I despised most on this planet was responsible for it. I had a lot of stuff I wanted to do yet.
A nurse came in and bent over to peer into my face. She was a stern-looking woman, with one of those old-fashioned, stiff white nurses’ caps pinned onto her graying hair. “How do you feel, darlin’?” she asked with a slight Southern accent.
I turned my head to look at her. “Not bad.” I was still talking with a croak. I wondered if my vocal cords had been damaged.
“Well, you certainly look much better. My name is Cathy.” The nurse smelled good and had a kind smile. She fussed at the blankets that had me immobilized on the bed. “I just need to make sure your core temperature is up where it should be.”
“When they brought you in, it was eighty degrees.” My father blew out a breath. “They couldn’t believe you were still alive.”
“Well, it’s ninety-five now. She’s going to be fine.” Cathy threw a smile at my father. He looked as if he were going to puke.
I was suddenly exhausted. My eyes rolled back in my head, and the voices in the room sounded muffled and far away.
“She’s tired. Let’s go home and let her get some sleep.” My mother kissed me on the cheek. Dolce Vita surrounded my nose. I felt the corners of my mouth tug up into a slight smile as I opened my eyes and said goodbye.
“Visiting hours are just about over anyway,” Cathy the nurse said. “We’ll take good care of her tonight. I promise.” I heard her fiddle with the wires on the machinery next to me.
My dad kissed me then. The stubble on his chin raked my cheek, and that made me smile too. I’d never take the simple things for granted again.
“Bye, baby doll. We’ll be back tomorrow,” he said. Then my parents were gone.
Cathy dug under the blankets and placed the little button to summon the nurse in my hand. “If you need anything, darlin’, just push this. I’ll be here all night.” With a pat on my shoulder, she left, turning the light off behind her.
I lay quietly for a moment, listening to the sound of my own breathing and the blood gushing in my ears. The soft hiss of the oxygen cannula I had in my nose was comforting. I like a little white noise to lull me to sleep.
I could hear the traffic down on the street below, horns honking, people calling to each other. I never paid much attention to any of it before. It was music to my ears now. I was alive. My eyes closed, and I let my body relax into the bed.
“Chelsea.”
I almost didn’t hear it—it was just a whisper. It melded with all the other noises I was hearing, yet it stood out as if it’d been shouted from the rooftop. My ears remembered. My body remembered. My nose remembered. Unfortunately, my heart also remembered.
I squeezed my eyes shut and stopped breathing. I heard footsteps come to the side of the bed.
Jesus. That’s it! He was wearing Paco Rabanne cologne.
“Chelsea, are you awake?”
Asher. I’d have to face him. Chelsea the Human Pupa certainly wasn’t going to be able to flee. I didn’t feel very brave, but I opened my eyes anyway.
Asher Pratt stood above me, peering down into my face, looking like the child of an angel and a god. His electric sexuality was as strong as it had ever been. He was Brad Pitt, with equal parts of Rob Lowe thrown in for good measure.
I let my gaze drift over him. Asher was tall, but he was rock-star lean. He was the kind of guy that low-cut jeans are made for. His white shirt was unbuttoned halfway down the front. He leaned over, and it was all I could do not to shove my eyes down that tempting view. I knew what was down there.
Flat abs and pecs with just a hint of definition, always smooth and hairless under my tongue, except for that little line of dark hair that started just below his navel and disappeared down behind the zipper of his jeans…
I jerked my gaze back up to his face.
He smiled when he saw my eyes were open, and my traitorous heart went squish. He leaned over, rested his elbow beside my head, and stroked my hair with his other hand.
“God, you almost died. The planet almost had to spin without Chelsea Whitaker on it. That is just wrong on so many levels.” I could hear the catch in his voice, but I knew what a liar he was. I didn’t believe his concern was genuine
“Asher.” I nodded. “I really appreciate what you did for me. Now get the hell out.”
“What? Why?” He backed up a bit and stared at me.
My Asher-radar honed in on his mouth, then those sinfully gorgeous eyes. Goddamnit. I suddenly didn’t need the electric blankets anymore. I was pretty sure my core temp was near meltdown. Everything about this man pulled me to him. My moon, his planet. Fuckfuckfuck…
“Stop touching me. Stop it,” I hissed. I tried to struggle in my cocoon. “Get the hell out of my room!”
Should I press the button in my hand and have Cathy the nurse take care of him? Despite the kindness I saw in her face, I knew nurses had balls of steel. She probably had a black belt in something. I wanted to see her split Asher’s nut sack with the pointy toe of those white nurses’ shoes.
Asher pressed his lips together and looked hurt. “You still haven’t forgiven me, have you?”
Of all the things Asher Pratt could have said to guarantee a grade-A Chelsea Whitaker tantrum, that was it.
“Forgive you?” My eyes felt as if they were going to pop out of my head. I flailed around on the bed like some pathetic inchworm. “I’ll never forgive you, you son-of-a-bitch, whore-humping, fucking bastard! Now get out and leave me alone! I never want to see you again!”
Asher raised both hands up in front of himself and backed away. “Okay! All right. I’m leaving.” He stopped for a second in the doorway and ran his hands through that silky, light chocolate hair. “I’m glad I found you. I’m glad you didn’t die.”
And then he was gone, leaving the air in my room smelling like Paco Rabanne as a final insult.
CHAPTER THREE
My dad was still livid two days later when I got out of the hospital. Fortunately, the owner of Tapestries, Bob Dreyfus, was equally appalled by what had happened. He agreed to rip out and replace the old freezer in the back with a brand new one with better safety features if Dad agreed not to sue. Truthfully, I think Mr. Dreyfus would’ve done that anyway. He was as shaken up as everyone else about my near-death in such a senseless way.
I was supposed to stay home for a few days after I got out of the hospital—and I did—but I was itching to get back to work. I was patient through the next weekend, but I knew I
’d be back waiting tables the week after that.
I went back to work on a Tuesday, at the request of my mom. Tuesdays were light days at Tapestries. I think she was afraid I’d work myself into a relapse or something.
I suffered no ill effects from the time I spent in the freezer, except a little frostbite on my ears. Turns out plastic is a decent insulator. I had shoved my hands under my armpits at some point during my delirium, which luckily preserved my fingers. No harm, no foul, as far as I was concerned.
My best friend, Willow Harper, was waiting for me at the door of Tapestries that Tuesday with tears and hugs. I sometimes wished I could marry Willow. She was amazing. A high school classmate, she was the one who got me the job at Tapestries in the first place.
“Oh, honey, I’m so glad you didn’t die,” she squealed in my ear for the fifth time as she crushed me against her. “I’d miss you so much!”
“I’m okay. Really.” I smiled at Marybeth Catalino over Willow’s shoulder. Marybeth was the head bartender at Tapestries. She was an older woman, but really cool, like one of us. Divorced, former biker chick, tough as nails. She mothered the younger girls. She was drying a glass, and I think she might’ve had tears in her eyes as she smiled back at me. I was surprised that Marybeth Catalino even had tear ducts.
I felt really welcome that day, like everyone at Tapestries loved me. Mr. Dreyfus took me back and showed me the work they were doing getting the new freezer installed. Everyone was all smiles except Scott Dreyfus, and no one gave a fuck about him.
My shift was over at 9:30 p.m., but by the time we cleaned up and whatnot, it was after ten. Cleanups are usually like a party, so I didn’t mind.
I said goodbye to everyone and slipped out the back door to the parking lot and my gray Nissan Sentra. I was just about to unlock the door when my eyes caught something flapping under the passenger’s side windshield wiper.
I had a bad feeling as I plucked it out from under the blade. I’m not psychic, but there are some things you just know before you know you know them.
I set my purse on the hood, put my car keys down beside it, and opened the note with shaking hands. I could barely see the writing on it in the light thrown by the street lamp at the back of the bar.
Talk to me. Love, A
I crumpled the note in my hand and threw it on the ground. Then I clenched my fists tightly at my side and shouted into the summer air, “No! Never!”
That night when I got home I took a quick bath and got ready for bed. I was just about to drop between the sheets when the phone on my nightstand rang.
I glanced at it. I had my very own phone number direct to my room, but it was unlisted. The only person who ever called me on it was Willow.
I picked it up, laughing. “No Willow, I won’t help you stalk your current love interest. Go to bed!”
“You’re not very nice.”
I went blank. The caller was male.
“Asher?”
“The one and only.”
“How did you get this number?”
“Your mom.”
I pressed my lips together and snorted. I couldn’t believe my mother was such a traitor.
“Lose it.”
“Wanna go for drinks? My treat.”
“When hell freezes over!” I slammed the phone down then yanked the cord from the wall for good measure. I didn’t get very much sleep that night.
The next several weeks were uneventful. Asher disappeared back into the woodwork, where all cockroaches belong, and I went back to my boring, uninspiring life.
Late July usually saw an uptick in the number of people who came to dances at Tapestries, so we ran a full staff every weekend during that time. Last hurrah before going back to classes and all that.
I arrived at Tapestries at 1:00 p.m. on Saturday, put my apron on, and just happened to glance up at the band chalkboard in the back room. Bee Bop Baby had been erased off the board, replaced by a hastily scribbled Dirty Turtles.
I turned to Willow as I tied the apron behind my back. “What the hell? Dirty Turtles tonight? No one ever cancels a gig at Tapestries!”
“Yeah, I guess the guitar player’s wife went into early labor with their baby, and they had to cancel. Dirty Turtles was free tonight, so they took the job.”
I snorted. “That’s just great. I’m working the dining area tonight, right out there in Asher Pratt’s sights.”
Willow knew my history with Asher. She was the one who had held my hair back when I threw up from bawling my brains out over him. She was the one who’d listened to me when I asked repeatedly, “Why am I not enough for this man?” She was the one who’d hugged me when I realized—after it finally penetrated through my stupid, lovesick brain—that nothing was ever going to change with him.
The big sigh I got from her was a clue that she was tired of hearing about it. “So what? Go out there and ignore the bastard. God, aren’t you tired of feeling like shit over him? Put him in the garbage where he belongs.”
She was right, of course. And I wanted to—I really did. What could I say? It had been five years, but I was still working on getting over Asher.
Despite shaking like a dog crapping razor blades, I think I did all right that night. If I had to serve drinks to a table that was near the stage, I turned my back to the band. If I felt as though I had to sneak a peek, I made sure I stood back in the shadows where Asher couldn’t see me.
Halfway through the night, with things going as well as could be expected, I started to relax.
Tapestries isn’t a very big bar at all, but we were packed to the gills that night. At least two hundred people had gotten in before they closed the doors, and there was still a long line waiting outside. When two or three people left, two or three in the line were permitted to enter.
Scott was grinning like an idiot as he worked the cash register. The booze was flowing one way and the cash was flowing the other. The noise was almost unbearable, but it was the sound of money. I was making a small fortune in tips, and it lifted my spirits. I knew I’d be able to pay off my Sentra with what I’d made so far, and then I‘d be able to get my own apartment. I wasn’t making enough money just then to do both.
Marybeth was working a double shift behind the bar. “Chelsea,” I heard her call over the noise. She held up a bottle of Rolling Rock and pointed at a table near the stage off to the left, nearly in front of Asher. By this time, we were so busy that I was just focused on doing my job.
I reached over the people three-deep at the bar, took the bottle, and delivered it to the table. The man paid me, and I turned to go back to the cash register. The Dirty Turtles finished a song at the same time.
I had only taken a step or two when I heard Asher say into the mic, “I wrote this song for a girl who means a lot to me, even if I can’t get her to talk to me.”
I stopped short, and my spine stiffened. It felt like someone had poured a pitcher of ice water down my back. The crowd quieted, as though someone were about to make a historic speech. I imagined every eye was on me. I looked up and locked gazes with Willow standing at the bar. All I could see was her round eyes and her mouth hanging open.
Oh no, you’re not.
Asher started a slow, gentle strum on his Fender Strat. I closed my eyes. Dear God, not a power-ballad love song.
He began to sing softly; it filled Tapestries with dulcet notes and me with dread. Asher has a great voice. He used to croon Feel Like Makin’ Love in my ear when we rode the roller coasters at Kennywood just to calm me down.
Goosebumps rose all over me. Don’t do this, Asher. Please. Don’t. I would’ve rather talked to him one on one than face this public humiliation.
She’s my fire, the air that I breathe.
My heart stopped in my chest.
When I wanna give up, she makes me believe.
I shivered, though it wasn’t cold.
I am ten feet tall with her by my side.
Lovin’ this girl is a wild ride.
I was
really struggling to breathe at this point. How could he do this to me? He didn’t believe a single one of those words he was singing. Not one.
Chelseeeaaa... come back to me.
I spun in slow motion, my gaze searching for him onstage. I knew looking into his eyes was a big mistake. They were caramel and chocolate, two of my favorite things, and I never could resist him when he captured me in a full-on stare.
I tightened my hands around the serving tray I was carrying. There was no way I was going to let him play with me like this. It was a game for him, but it wasn’t for me. I had to find a way to fight back. At that point, it felt as if my life depended on it.
My gaze fell on him. My jaw clenched as an electric charge sizzled across the distance between us. He was singing to me, only to me, watching me over the crowd, his gaze full of carnal promise.
I flipped him the bird and mouthed, Fuck off!
When I got back to the bar, Willow gave me a big hug. “I’m so proud of you, Chels. You really showed him!”
Marybeth watched me from the other end of the bar with a “wise witch” smile on her face. She reached into the cooler, pulled out a Corona, and popped it open. She shoved the lime down into it as she made her way to the end of the bar.
“I don’t condone drinking on the job, but it’s the end of the night, and you look like you could use this right now,” she said in her gravelly smoker’s voice as she set the bottle in front of me. “I don’t give a fuck what Scott Doofus says.”
“Thanks.” I watched the lime fizz in the neck of the bottle as I concentrated on getting oxygen into my lungs.
I wish I could say I felt like I’d just knocked Evander Holyfield down on the canvas. Instead, it felt like I’d taken a bite out of a live power line.
CHAPTER FOUR
Several more uneventful weeks passed. It was now mid-September. Clientele was light during the week this time of year, with everyone getting used to being back in class, though Saturdays were still busy. I put on my best pair of Reeboks in preparation for being on my feet all night.
