The comment didn’t sit well with Layla. She had been dealing with her mother’s beratement on the subject for weeks and the fact that Layla was under the influence of drugs at the time of the argument certainly didn’t help matters any. Before another word could escape her mother’s juvederm enhanced lips, Layla entered the garage, grabbing a canister of lawn mower gasoline and proceeding to pour it around the circumference of her Mercedes.
“I’m so sick of hearing what you think!” she yelled at Emily, who watched with wide eyes and begged for Layla to come to her senses as she furnished a bright pink lighter from her purse, flicking it until she got a flame.
Layla reached down, rubbing her hands over the raw spots on her knees, flinching. If the gardener hadn’t tackled her to the ground, she had no idea what could have happened.
“Alright Robbie,” she said, taking a final look around her mother’s home for anything she might have missed, “see you later.”
She shut the door behind herself, punching back in the security code and leaving the large mansion as though she had never been there at all. Driving off was the last thing Layla remembered. The last solid memory she had before it all faded into black.
–
Layla had never been afraid of dying.
She had many fears, all of them rational, but death had never been one of them. Not as a little girl, when she fell off the edge of a swimming pool on the set of a summer camp themed movie and nearly drowned. Not when she was thirteen and came close to losing her life in a car accident on the way home from a wrap party. And not now, as dozens of paramedics paced above her, fluorescent lights washing out their worried faces.
"What's going on?"
Layla’s words were lost somewhere in a sea of panicked voices and sirens.
“What’s happening to me?”
The last thing she saw before she passed out was darkness. It was vast, endless even, and it scared her more than the idea of dying ever had. When Layla finally awoke, she was in a hospital bed, an IV in her arm and – she reached up, her soft fingers dancing over the flesh of her face – up her nose. A machine beeped beside her. She tried to focus her eyes but the strain associated in doing so was too much for her to handle. Instead, she shut them, feeling her chest heave as wetness surfaced in the corners of her eyes. Tears. She reached up towards her face, wiping at the wetness before it could brim over the surface.
Layla wanted an explanation but no one was available to give her one. Her hospital room was quiet but for the beeping machine beside her and she appeared to be somewhat isolated from the rest of the hospital. There was no noise leaking into her room from the hallway. Not even footsteps. Maybe they forgot about me, Layla thought.
The worst part was that she couldn’t remember anything. Not a single solitary detail that would explain why she was holed up in a hospital bed, connected to a machine by tubes up her nose and in her arms. Everything was a blur. Layla sat up, adjusting herself in the tiny bed as she was met by a sharp, mind numbing pain in her abdomen.
“Ow!” she cried out, gripping the edge of the bedframe for support until her knuckles flushed pink. Something’s not right, Layla thought. She was light headed and her tongue felt heavy and dry against her cheeks. She opened her mouth to speak but the words didn’t hit the surface. She could feel herself beginning to sweat as she gripped the fabric of her hospital gown. She bit down on her bottom lip until she could taste iron, pulling the gown upwards and bunching it up around her stomach.
Layla couldn’t believe her eyes. There was nothing there. No bruise. Nothing that could explain the source of the twisting pain she felt in her gut. She cursed under her breath, a single tear traveling down her cheek. She wiped at it in frustration, taking in her surroundings. The room was small, sterile and smelled of bleach. Layla was distracted by the view from the window, the only positive she could find in the monochromatic room, when the door opened.
A man in a white doctor’s coat and baby blue scrubs entered, whistling. He approached the sink in the corner to wash his hands, a brown clipboard pressed underneath his left arm. He looked up as he dried them off with a wad of paper towel, noticing that Layla had been watching him the entire time.
"Oh good!" he exclaimed, approaching the edge of her bed and adjusting it so that she was sitting up. There was a tiny nametag on the pocket of his jacket which read Dr. Dev Amar.
Layla began to open her mouth to speak but he silenced her.
“Your voice may be quite hoarse, that’s normal,” Dr. Amar said, inserting a thermometer into Layla’s ear.
Layla nodded, allowing him to continue his physical examination. Once he had taken all of her vitals, he took a seat in a stiff armchair beside her bed. He hesitated, flipping through the paperwork attached to the clipboard in his hands. Every now and then, he looked up at Layla over his wire rim glasses, offering her a sympathetic smile.
“Okay,” Dr. Amar said in a heavy Middle Eastern accent. Layla braced herself for the worst. Did she have cancer? Had she been in a car accident? Was she dying? The reality attached to each question sent a shiver down her spine. She might not have been afraid of death but that didn’t mean she wanted it to come for her anytime soon.
She watched as Dr. Amar ran a hand over his thick beard, reading through the paperwork in his hands. Finally, he looked up.
“Ms. Carter, do you understand why you are here?”
Layla shook her head.
“Ok, well,” Dr. Amar continued, “I’m going to give it to you straight. You overdosed. On –” he paused, licking his fingers out of habit and flipping through his paperwork.
"Heroin, MDMA, cocaine, sleeping pills and –"
"Alcohol."
It was the first word to leave Layla’s lips since she had awoken and it carried a heavy burden.
"Lots and lots of alcohol."
Confused, Dr. Amar nodded, giving Layla an odd look as he cleared his throat to continue speaking.
How do you deal with someone you don’t know telling you that your life is out of control? As Dr. Amar’s dark eyes fell upon her own, Layla found herself unable to escape the reality of his words.
“So you remember?” he questioned her.
Layla shook her head. She didn’t remember anything after leaving her mother’s house, but assuming alcohol had been the final substance she overdosed on was as good a guess as any based on her past behavior.
Dr. Amar nodded, standing up.
“Alright,” he said.
“Short term memory loss is normal in situations like this, especially when drugs are involved.”
“If you've noticed – your stomach may hurt. That's because we had to pump it."
Layla exhaled a deep breath, running a hand through her matted hair.
“That…explains it,” she whispered.
Dr. Amar nodded, a sad smile etched across his full lips. He removed his glasses, folding them and sticking them in the pocket of his jacket.
“You’re a lucky woman,” he said, “If your fiancé hadn’t found you when he did, we wouldn’t be having this conversation right now.”
Layla’s heart dropped into her stomach. She could hardly process what had just been said to her. She opened her mouth to speak, accepting the plastic cup of water offered to her by Dr. Amar with shaking hands and taking a sip.
“I’m not…I mean I don’t have a fiancé,” Layla whispered.
Dr. Amar paused in the doorway. He looked down at the clipboard, then back up at Layla. He approached her bed once more, holding out the paperwork for her to look at and pointing to a name near the top.
Patient reported by: Leonardo Marsden. Fiancé.
“He filled out the paper work and everything,” Dr. Amar continued, “I believe he even rode with you in the ambulance.”
What the fuck?
The room began to close in around Layla. She could hardly string together two thoughts long enough to speak. She didn’t know this man. He wasn’t her fiancé. She had never even he
ard his name.
“If it wasn’t for him you wouldn’t be alive right now.” Layla heard Dr. Amar say, but he sounded muffled and far away even though he was standing right in front of her.
The word echoed in her head, pushing against the boundaries of her conscious.
Fiancé.
“I’m not engaged,” Layla finally heard herself say, “I don’t have a fiancé.”
FALLING
☼ ☼ ☼ ☼ ☼ ☼
Present
Leo had never seen a woman as strikingly beautiful as the redhead who was passed out in his bathtub. Her skin was soft and poreless and she had a natural blush to her cheek bones most women would kill for.
"Hey,” he said softly, reaching over to shake her awake. She was stark naked and her skin was cold and clammy to the touch.
Leo remained chivalrous, not staring at any one part of her body for too long at a time. After downing three beers in less than twenty minutes, he had just come into the bathroom for a piss. The woman's presence in his bathtub took him off guard, but only momentarily. As bad as it sounded, it wasn’t the first time Leo had stumbled upon a naked woman asleep in his bathroom, but those were stories for another day.
Sitting down on the lid of his porcelain toilet, Leo gathered up her clothing from the floor. It was soaking wet, a fact that explained why she had removed it.
"Who are you?" Leo whispered, reaching for the designer leather purse sitting perched on his bathroom sink. He opened it up, rummaging through it. He was looking for a wallet. A phone. Anything he could use to help identify her.
It was stuffed full of pill bottles. Leo read each label. The names were long and complicated but their intention was simple. Finally, his hand grazed against something he thought could be her wallet. He pulled it out, opening it up and sliding out her license. It had expired years ago but it gave Leo the answers he was looking for. Her name was Layla Carter. She stood five feet eight and was a hundred and ten pounds. Her eyes were brown, her smile was perfect, and she was beautiful.
But Leo still didn’t recognize her. Not by a long shot. The address on her license was a Hollywood Hills one. Whoever this Layla Carter was – she was about twenty miles outside her boundaries.
Leo lived in south Los Angeles in an area called Watts. It wasn’t as dangerous as Compton, but it was hardly the Ritz and Carlton that a girl from Hollywood Hills would be used to. This Layla Carter, Leo decided, was a long way from home. He held her license up to the light, squinting harder at the picture. There were a few noteworthy differences between the picture and Layla's current appearance. For starters, she looked much younger and healthier in the photo.
Leo slid her license back in her wallet, setting her purse back on the sink. He looked at Layla, his eyes glued to her face. The natural beauty that radiated in the picture was still there. She had the angles of a model. Hell, Leo thought. She probably is one.
But then – what would a drop dead gorgeous model be doing passed out naked in a forty-five year old bikers bathroom? Stranger things might have happened, but Leo couldn’t think of what.
It’s then that he noticed the yellow foam bubbling from her mouth. Her lips were parted and it ran down her chin. She wasn’t sleeping. This was something else entirely.
Leo jumped to his feet, taking action. He pushed back his shower curtain, lifting Layla's naked body by her armpits and sitting her up. He felt for her pulse with a shaking hand. It was weak but it was there. He wiped at the foam bubbling from her mouth but more surfaced, pushing through her teeth.
Leo paced. He knew he had to get her to a hospital before her condition worsened, but he only had his bike. His truck was in the shop having the brakes changed. He’d have to call an ambulance. Typically, it wouldn't have been an issue as much as a minor nuisance but tonight, Leo was having a party. It was his younger brother Aiden's thirty-eighth birthday and Leo had invited all of his friends for an impromptu gathering.
Alcohol was flowing by the gallon from a kegger in the living room. Substances – some controlled and some not – were littered all throughout the apartment. The small place was packed from wall to wall with guests – way past capacity.
Leo looked back down at Layla's limp body. She wasn’t in good shape and the decision wasn’t a difficult one. He fished in the pockets of his distressed jeans for his phone, knowing full well what he had to do. Leo couldn’t risk the death of a wealthy Hollywood Hills girl being on his hands, let alone his conscious. If she died in his bathtub, the blame would fall on him. He had to do something and fast, even if it meant a few of his buddies spending a night in jail for partying too hard.
He dialed the number.
"911 what is your emergency?" the operator asked after two momentary rings.
Leo cleared his throat, reaching over to turn on the water and adjusting the nozzles so that the shower kicked on. It was a last ditch effort, but Leo braced himself, hoping Layla would stir awake.
"Sir?" he heard the monotone female voice repeat.
Leo sighed.
"Yeah, my uh," he paused, glancing at Layla's unconscious body. He wasn’t sure what to call her so he said the first thing that came to mind, "my fiancé– she overdosed.” he continued. "At least I think so."
Two police officers and an ambulance arrived at Leo's apartment not even twenty minutes later. The paramedics pushed through crowds of people, making a beeline for the bathroom. Leo could hear commotion from the hallway and opened the door as the paramedics rushed past him, pushing their way inside.
"Where is she?" one asked and Leo pulled back the shower curtain, revealing Layla's naked body.
He felt embarrassed. He should have dressed her, but the men didn't seem fazed. They quickly went to work, hoisting Layla up and onto their stretcher. Leo entered the hallway, giving them enough room to work. Officers were escorting guests one by one out of his front door. They asked a few people who the homeowner was but most of the guests shrugged, others shaking their head. The party had gotten out of control fast and Leo only spotted a handful of people in attendance that he recognized.
When the paramedics asked him if he wanted to ride in the ambulance with his fiancé, Leo was taken momentarily off guard. Then, he remembered what he had told the 911 operator.
Before he can contemplate what he was doing, Leo climbed in the back of the brightly lit vehicle, taking a seat beside Layla’s stretcher. They had her connected to a bunch of machines already, which beeped loudly, muffling the noise of the rowdy guests who scattered out of Leo's apartment in hoards.
It was 2001, a few days after September 11th, when Leo last rode in the back of an ambulance. He had entered his father’s small ranch style home in Los Santos to find him passed out on his kitchen floor. The doctors told him that his father had suffered a grand Mal seizure. He died less than twenty four hours later.
Leo would have been lying if he said he had mourned his father’s death. The truth was, he despised him. He was a mean, brutish man with a bark worse than his bite, but the things he would say to his children carried just as much of a punch as his fists could. When he died, Leo and his brother Aiden were invited to the funeral. They sat in the back, watching as the people who sat in their father’s congregation every Sunday gathered around his open casket, feigning sadness.
"Man," Aiden said, "can you believe this?"
Leo shrugged. His father was quite good at making sure his public image always sparkled. These people, they mourned the man they knew. Not the knifing bastard who made it his mission to ruin Leo and Aiden’s childhoods.
Leo reached for Layla's hand as the ambulance bumped along the road, sirens blaring. He grabbed it out of instinct, as though he wanted to make sure she was still alive. It was warm and clammy and relief washed over him. Once inside the hospital, Leo followed the paramedics though the emergency entrance. He felt an odd sense of obligation for Layla. He didn’t know her – but it didn’t matter.
Leo took a seat in the waiting room as a nurse handed h
im a clipboard with a piece of paper and a pen attached. His hands were sweaty. He read over the white sheet of paper, unsurprised by the fact he couldn’t answer a single question on it.
The only information Leo knew about her was what he had saw on her expired license. Her name was Layla Carter. She was twenty-three, moderately tall, petite and a natural blonde. At one point, she had lived in Hollywood Hills and she wasn't an organ donor.
Leo wrote down the information he did know, handing the clipboard over to an exasperated looking medical assistant who shuffled past him.
The next few hours passed in a blur. He made three different trips to the vending machines in the hall, using up all the change in his pockets. He drank cup after cup of coffee, lingering by the sliding glass doors of the exit. He thought seriously about leaving. Multiple times, actually. But nothing ever came of it.
Finally, a doctor appeared. The nametag on his jacket read Dr. Dev Amar. Leo stood up when his name was called, approaching the man and shaking his hand.
"You’re the fiancé?" he asked.
Leo nodded, clearing his throat.
"Ok," Dr. Amar said. "We have her stabilized if you would like to follow me."
Leo followed the man through a set of swinging doors and down a small hallway. They entered a dimly lit hospital room. Dr. Amar reached forward, pulling back a curtain to reveal Layla's unconscious body.
"You saved her life you know," Dr. Amar said, patting Leo on the shoulder.
Saved her life. The words echoed in Leo's ears as he stared at Layla's face. She really is beautiful, Leo thought. Even like this, with tubes up her nose and her mascara running down her face.
It's then that Leo understood what it was about her that he found so captivating.
She reminded him of someone.
–
Past
It was a scorching hot grey Saturday in 1991 when Leo first met her. The intense heat felt warm against his neck as he drove along the abandoned stretch of asphalt road, picking up speed and veering onto a dusty highway. He was dressed from head to toe in black, his leather cut and denim jeans sticking uncomfortably to his skin as sweat dripped down his body. Leo pressed down harder on the throttle, a heavy jolt of horsepower kicking in the engine as his bike picked up speed. He could feel it vibrating against him, a familiar shudder that he had adjusted to years ago.
Save Me (Disciples MC #1) Page 2
