Wake for Me (Life or Death Series)

by Irons, Isobel

  I’m not going to hit on her, he remembered telling himself. That wasn’t his style, and she wasn’t his type. Usually, the girls Sam dated were the cute, girl-next-door type. Like Betty from the Archie comics his mom collected. Low-maintenance. The kind of girl who didn’t mind being taken out for a burger between shifts, because he didn’t have time for a sit-down meal. This girl looked high-maintenance and expensive. Filet mignon and a dozen roses expensive.

  And yet…there was something about her that made Sam desperate to talk to her.

  He couldn’t remember crossing the room toward her. It was like he’d just taken one step and arrived at the side of the table. Like some otherworldly being had teleported him there, in an effort to bring them together instantaneously. It was magic. Kismet. Fate.

  She’d hated him on sight.

  “Excuse me,” she said, without bothering to look at him or waiting for him to speak. “But you’re blocking my view of the door.”

  “Oh,” he’d laughed. Instantly, his confidence fled, leaving nothing but cheesy movie quotes and sweaty palms in its wake. “I’m sorry, were you waiting for someone?”

  When her eyes finally met his, Sam braced himself for the death ray blast.

  “No,” she’d said. “I just really love staring at doors.”

  Her words were strange and clipped, spoken much too carefully for someone who’d grown up abusing the English language, the way he had.

  “Ah, sarcasm. The universal language.” Even the Epic Fail Memory Reel version of his joke made Sam wince. If his head was any thicker, he could have offered it to her as a battering ram to destroy that pesky tabletop once and for all. “Sorry, I just thought…maybe you’d want someone to talk to.”

  “Someone to talk to?” She smiled politely, even as her eyes narrowed. “Are you sure you don’t mean someone to drag into a dark corner, fling against a wall, and sexually ravage until he begs for mercy or someone calls the police?”

  “Uh…” Sam had actually gulped, like a goddamned cartoon character.

  “Well, which is it?”

  That was the moment Sam became a temporary mute.

  With nothing but her words and those eyes, she’d shut down all but his most basic brain functions. As long as he lived, he would never forget the look on her face as she’d sized him up in that dim, crowded room. He’d never felt so transparent, so powerless. God help him, it was exciting.

  When she was finished staring him down, one corner of her mouth lifted in a tiny, triumphant smile. She opened her perfectly formed lips, and Sam held his breath.

  But before she had a chance to eviscerate him with a final word, her phone had blinked to life on the table.

  Sam hadn’t read the text message—that would’ve been rude, not to mention nearly impossible in such a dark space. But the picture that came up behind it was of a guy. Her guy, he assumed. It was bad form to hit on another guy’s girl, but he couldn’t bring himself to feel sorry about it. Not then, and not later.

  “Excuse me,” she’d said, and when her eyes met his, he thought she looked genuinely disappointed—though, maybe that was just wishful thinking on his part. “I have to go.”

  The expensive-looking phone had been whisked away into an even more expensive-looking bag. Her expensive shoes carried her swiftly toward the door she’d been so fascinated with a moment before. Sam braced himself for the feeling of loss that was sure to hit him after she was gone, knowing how unlikely it was that he’d ever see her again.

  But then, something happened. Her sure, confident steps faltered. She slowed, then stopped, and turned. From several yards away, Sam watched intently as she hovered for a moment, biting her bottom lip with perfect, white teeth. Her eyes locked onto his, and she smiled.

  So completely stunned by the force of that smile, Sam found himself helpless to do anything but watch as she quickly closed the gap between them. Her hands reached up to grasp his chin, and he bent down to her, not really knowing why he did it. It was like gravity, so natural that the compulsion was inescapable. Her heels helped.

  When she kissed him, every nerve ending in his body exploded into his awareness.

  No girl had ever kissed him like that. Hell, no girl had ever kissed any guy like that, at least not that Sam had heard. His brain screamed at his inert body, telling it to reciprocate—to wrap her in his arms, to press her against him, to show her that he somehow deserved this incredible and totally unexpected gift.

  But before his body could obey, she pulled away from him.

  “Don’t take it personally,” she’d said, with a smirk. “I’m having a terrible night.”

  And just like that, Sam’s mystery girl had turned and disappeared into the night, leaving him standing there like an idiot, bewildered and alone.

  Until forty-five minutes later, when his pager had gone off, summoning him to the ER. The attending physician on duty told him to scrub up and help with an incoming trauma, because they were short-staffed. It was snowing, and there had been a bus crash on the highway, as well as several smaller accidents.

  That was when Sam walked into trauma room C and recognized the brown curls and dark blue fingernails. She was lying on a gurney, soaking wet, not breathing.

  His mystery girl. His Sleeping Beauty. His best kept secret.

  His obsession with her had only grown since that day. It wasn’t because she was beautiful and mysterious, or because she’d rocked his world with a glance, and then stolen his breath with a searing kiss.

  It was because, no matter how many times Sam went over that night in his head, piece by agonizing piece, he couldn’t pinpoint the exact mistake he’d made that had cost Viola Bellerose the rest of her life.

  CHAPTER THREE

  “What is common in all these dreams is obvious. They completely satisfy wishes excited during the day which remain unrealized. They are simply and undisguisedly realizations of wishes.” –Sigmund Freud

  “How could you not have noticed?” I laugh at him, teasing as I walk backward toward the bed.

  Sam’s face is fuzzy, yet indignant. “I was too busy trying not to freak out about the peripheral neuropathy study. All I could think was, if I could get that spot, I’d be a shoo-in for a residency.”

  I unzip my dress and let it slide off my shoulders. It puddles at my feet. It’s so dark that I can barely see the floor. A single lamp is in the corner, casting a long shadow from where Sam is standing, all the way to me. I try to open my eyes wider, because he’s taking off his jacket now, and I don’t want to miss a thing. Still, everything remains frustratingly dim.

  “So you stood there,” I continue, “answering all of Dr. Chakrabarti’s questions perfectly. Meanwhile, you had this twenty foot string of gauze hanging out of your pocket.”

  “Yeah, but it looked like toilet paper.” He blushes, and the light turns pink. “I’m pretty sure it was Brady.”

  I grow impatient, and I reach for him, tugging him close. “It was totally Brady. But let’s not talk about that now.”

  He wraps his arms around me, and I bury my face in his shirt. He smells like Sam, that familiar mix of chlorine and cotton. God, I love that smell.

  “I’m so much better at this when I’m with you,” he says. “I wish I never had to leave.”

  “So never leave.” I kiss him, pulling him back onto the bed with me. I can feel his warmth, but it’s not enough. I want his weight. All of it, on top of me, crushing me into the mattress. He’s still fully dressed and I’m almost naked. It’s exciting, but disconcerting at the same time.

  “You need to lose some clothing,” I tell him. “I feel like we’re not on the same level.”

  He laughs, tickling my neck with the stubble on his chin. I close my eyes and focus every cell on the feeling of his lips trailing softly down my neck. Even his heartbeat is precious.

  “That wouldn’t be very professional of me.”

  “What?” My eyes fly open. The room has gone from dim to black.

  “I’m sorr
y. It’s my fault. I freaked out. …You deserved so much better.”

  His voice is distant now. No. No, no, no. My mind rebels, but there’s nothing I can do. I try to reach out for him, but my arms won’t move.

  The world shifts, and I’m back at Saint Catherine’s, standing on the lawn in front of the crumbling stone chapel. The sky is grey, just like the stone, just like my stockings and sweater. Across the campus, my dormitory pulses with warm yellow light, threatening to draw me into its deceptively homelike embrace. I hate it for everything it was and is, but mostly for what it isn’t.

  I wasn’t aware before, but I am now. I’m dreaming, and this is one I dread.

  Any minute, the girls will come pouring out of afternoon Mass in their hideously matched little plaid skirts, tittering like geese until they see me. When they do, they’ll begin to chant: Vi-o-la! Vi-o-la! Vi-o-la! I’ll climb up onto the fountain, and I’ll address the lemmings. They’ll coo and giggle in all the right places, until I announce the scandal of the day: “Midge Milton was seen sneaking into the showers with a Donahue boy.” Or maybe: “Betsy Garner’s father just got arrested for insider trading. Sell those stocks while you can!”

  If I don’t offer up one of my classmates like a sacrificial lamb, if I try to walk away, they’ll mob me like a pack of hyenas, ripping my hair out by the roots as they scream obscenities and chant my name. It’s happened before, and every time, I’ve deserved it.

  I wait for the bell to sound, but it never does. Instead, the crowd simply appears around me. I’m not standing on the fountain this time, but another girl is in my place. She has red hair in pigtail braids. I hate her, but I can’t remember her name.

  “This just in,” she calls. “I heard that Meghan in Telemetry slept with Dr. Brady last Saturday.”

  “That’s utter bullshit,” another girl scoffs from the edge of the crowd. Her name is Whitney, I think. “I happen to know for a fact that he was making out with someone else in the supply closet on Saturday.”

  “How would you know that?” The redhead has started doing cartwheels.

  “Because I was the one making out with him.”

  The mob of school girls giggles around me. I feel like I’m missing something important, but I can’t put my finger on just what it is. I start to back away slowly, but someone grabs me by the arm and pulls me back into the center.

  “Seriously, though, aren’t you worried that he’s going to mess up your reputation?” the redhead says.

  “What reputation?” Whitney laughs. “I find it really annoying that he can bang half the hospital and not get a second glance, but if I decide to take the stud for a ride around the block, I’m suddenly a slut. It’s ridiculous. This is why the world is such a messed up place.”

  Any minute now, these girls are going to attack me. I can feel it. But for now, all they’re doing is tugging at my arms and legs. I close my eyes, trying to shut out their inane babble. Why can’t I just go back into the Sam dream?

  “Still…Dr. Brady? If you’re going to mess around with interns, you should at least pick someone nice, like Dr. Philips.”

  “No way. I like my men manly.”

  “What? Dr. Philips is manly. He’s so…tall.”

  My hair is being tugged now, over and over again. It hurts, but not as much as it usually does. I take a chance and open my eyes. The girls are gathered around me now, in a circle. They’ve started braiding each other’s hair, while a few of them perch on the edge of the fountain, whispering.

  “Candace, you poor little thing. Manliness isn’t a look; it’s a frame of mind. You don’t want a guy who says ‘excuse me’ when he bumps into you in the hallway. You want a guy who tells you to shut your whore mouth while he bangs you, without mercy, up against a wall.”

  The strangeness of the situation has finally started to settle into my brain, as I realize that the girls in my dream are talking about Sam. How do the girls at my high school know about Sam? Fear tightens my chest. They’ve got something on me now. They know my weakness.

  “What in the hell is wrong with you?” This voice doesn’t fit with the others, and I crane my head around, searching for the source. Sister Magdalena, my sophomore philosophy teacher, stands at the edge of the circle, fists on hips, glowering at everyone. Her voice sounds funny, though. Different. “When I was your age, girls would claw each other’s eyes out over a nice, respectable boy like Dr. Philips. But not your damn, self-esteem warped generation. No, y’all want boys with mommy issues, covered in tattoos, working weekends at some no-benefits job.”

  Whitney laughs. “Throw in a drinking problem and I’d say you’re pretty much on track.”

  “Makes me sick,” Sister Magdalena continues. “Mark my words, Candace. If you know what’s good for you, you’ll stay away from doctors altogether. They’re all so full of themselves and their problems, you’d be lucky if they remember your name.”

  “Yes ma’am,” Whitney and the redhead intone in unison, solemnly saluting.

  “And make sure y’all are done in here before two. I need you at the nurse’s station in time for report.”

  There’s a moment of silence, as I lie on my back and watch the sun race across the sky. This gossip is confusing, and exhausting, and it makes my scalp hurt. My skin feels cold, and I look down to see that I’m bleeding from my wrists.

  Off to my left, the redhead—Candace, probably—whispers loudly in my direction.

  “Don’t tell Lucinda, but I kind of have a crush on Dr. Philips. You think he’d go out with me if I asked him?”

  The sky turns the color of steel. An acid rain falls. I cover my head with my arms, but I can feel it eating away at my clothes and skin. A yellow snake slithers through the grass, stopping to curl up underneath my legs. I’m terrified of snakes, but just now I’m too tired to be afraid.

  Sister Magdalena looks down at me from the chapel window. My clothes are gone, melted away. I blink and it’s not Sister Magdalena anymore, it’s my mother. She puts a hand to her mouth and retreats into the shadows. All around me, the girls are laughing and pointing, impervious to the rain.

  The next thing I know, I’m standing on a stage. A sea of foreign faces stretches out in front of me. Music fills the room, but I don’t know the words. All I know is that I’m supposed to be performing. Frantic, I duck behind the curtain, only to realize I’m not wearing any clothes. I can’t go on without a costume. People will laugh.

  I spend the next few hours searching for the pieces of my costume. I can dance for the audience, I tell myself. I think I remember how to dance.

  Pink tights. Ballet shoes, of course. A diamond-studded leotard that fits me perfectly and makes my chest look fantastic. Even a matching tiara to cover my hair, which is a complete mess. I don’t have time to fix it, so I pull the tiara on over my wayward brown curls.

  By the time I’ve finally assembled the perfect costume for my impromptu recital, the music has stopped. I run out onto the stage, nervous but excited. I’m finally ready. I stand in the spotlight and strike a pose. But the theater is empty. The audience is long gone.

  I sink to my knees, defeated, as the spotlight sputters and dies.

  A voice comes booming through the auditorium.

  “Previously, on the Young and Relentless….”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  “He does not believe that does not live according to his belief.” –Sigmund Freud

  “Wow. You sir, look amazing.”

  “Shut up and get in the car.”

  After tossing a bag of donuts through the open window, and into Sam’s lap, Brady wrenched the door open and plopped down into the seat with a dramatic flail.

  “Easy!” The dark blue Camaro might have been two years old, with a few small dents and dings, but it was easily the nicest car Sam had ever owned. He’d rented one when he first moved into the city and had fallen instantly in love. For all intents and purposes, it was his baby—but instead of complicating his life, it simplified things with built-in GPS nav
igation and heated leather seats. Seats which wouldn’t last long, if Brady kept disrespecting them for the sake of a comedic entrance. “I swear to God, if you’re wearing those stupid, metal-studded jeans again….”

  Naturally, Brady ignored him, reaching over to reclaim the donut bag as Sam pulled back into traffic.

  “Ooh, you even smell amazing. What is your secret, Samuel?”

  “Showering.” Sam wasn’t sure what made him grumpier, the thought that they were going to be late for morning rounds, or the knowledge that he’d tossed and turned through eight hours of non-sleep while Brady had peeled his hung-over ass off the floor of some random girl’s bedroom less than an hour ago and still managed to be more awake.

  “Muchas gracias for picking me up, by the way. Your constant willingness to help out a dude in need is just one more thing that makes you so…a-ma-zing.”

  Sam scowled. “Let me guess, you finally slept with that girl from Telemetry. What was her name? Becky?”

  Instead of answering, Brady stuck his fist through the open window like he was about to joust an invisible opponent. “I am invincible!”

  “Great.” Not only were they going to be late for rounds, but Sam would also have to run circles around Brady all day. His friend was clearly on a testosterone high, and that could only mean one thing: he’d spend the rest of the day thinking with his downstairs brain.

  Luckily for Brady, they’d been doing this dance since the first week of med school. Sam would cover for his friend’s academic shortcomings, while Brady made sure that Sam didn’t over think…well, everything. It seemed like a pretty fair trade off, most of the time.

  But not today, when Sam felt like everything in the world was setting his teeth on edge.

  “Close the window, will you? It’s freezing.” He pulled onto the freeway and gunned the engine, watching as the speedometer crept to around eight miles an hour over the speed limit. It was something his brother had told him once, after Ben had gotten his driver’s license. As long as you’re less than ten miles per hour over the speed limit, most cops won’t bother pulling you over. As unrealistic as that advice was, it had sounded like doctrine at the time.