IOU: A Romantic Comedy

by Kristy Marie

  “I’m fine.” He tries to wave me off, but he can’t even lift his hand.

  “Sure, and I’m a supermodel,” I agree, lifting my hand and placing it on his forehead. “You’re not running a fever. What’s wrong?” This is the craziest thing I’ve ever seen. “Should I call an ambulance?”

  He grunts out a firm, “No.”

  I should have known. “Tell me how to help you,” I plead. I’m scared he might die right in front of me.

  He shifts and casts me a worried look.

  I glare. “Now is not the time to worry about your fucking image! I won’t say anything, I swear. Please let me help you.”

  Maverick’s eyes close, and I put my hand in his. I’m just about to shake him when he says, “Breathe with me.”

  “What?”

  His face pinches. “I need to hold my breath, but I need you to count the beats, so I know when to stop.”

  He places his hand on his chest.

  “Is it your heart?” I ask, more afraid than I was thirty seconds ago when I thought he had a cold or something.

  “Please stop asking questions.” He groans.

  “Fine,” I agree, willing to do anything at this point to help. “Do you need me to just breathe normally? You don’t want me to do the pregnant-labor-y type breathing?”

  For just a moment, he tries to be the Maverick I know. “Do you know how to do ‘labor-y’ breathing?”

  “Well, no, but I could look it up if that’s what you need.”

  The internet has everything.

  His slow head shake is pitiful. “No. It isn’t what I need, but I appreciate your willingness to do what it takes.” It’s not a thank you for helping or talking or getting in his way, but it is an acknowledgment. He appreciates me and loathes asking for my help.

  “Okay.” I take a deep breath, not for his sake but for mine. I need one relaxing breath before I start. “Ready?” I ask him.

  I don’t wait for his nod. I’m already pulling in a breath and exhaling, hoping I’m doing it at the pace I normally would and not faster since I’m nervous.

  Maverick watches me for a few seconds, and then I see his chest rising with mine, but it’s too fast. He can’t pace his breathing with mine.

  “I need to hold my breath,” he grates out. “Count for me?”

  I nod hesitantly. “Maybe we should go to the hospital instead?”

  “No.”

  Okay, so he’s going to die on the floor. Check.

  “What do I need to count to?”

  His chest is rising and falling rapidly. “Ten.”

  I can do that.

  I start counting and watch in horror as Mav holds his breath, clenching his fist as if he’s bearing down. Finally, he lets go and exhales a burst of air. “I can’t get it to convert.”

  For the first time since knowing Maverick, he looks afraid.

  “I don’t know what you mean about converting,” I add, “but I think we need to call for help, Mav.”

  “Don’t call me that,” he barks between short pants.

  I scrunch my nose. “Why?”

  He manages, “Only my friends call me Mav.”

  I almost smile. We are friends. He can fight it all he wants, but friends don’t let friends lose a game of Millionaire.

  “Okay. I’ll rephrase. I think we need to call for help, Dummy.”

  In the midst of dying, he manages to roll his eyes before his head falls back against the footboard. “We can’t call anyone.”

  “Why?” I mean, what the hell? “The apartment is clean, and I can stash whatever you want to hide in my room. Please let me call someone.” I want to add dummy again onto the end of my plea, but I refrain. I am serious—this is serious. We need help.

  “I’ll go to the hospital if you will take me,” he says with horror-stricken eyes like he can’t believe he suggested such a thing. “Just you, though. You can’t tell anyone.”

  Of course. Whatever. “I’ll take the fact that you do actually have a heart to the grave,” I return, crossing my heart.

  I stand to get my bag and keys. “But, Mav . . .” I don’t care that he doesn’t want me to call him that. I don’t have time to say his whole name.

  His eyes are heavy, and he looks exhausted. “Yeah?”

  “You promise you aren’t going to die on me?”

  He’s still shaking, but he stares at me, locking eyes. “I promise I won’t die on you.”

  With that, I race off and grab my keys and bag, snagging a pair of Mav’s sweats that ended up in my laundry—fine, I stole them—and one of my larger T-shirts, shoving them in my bag. When I get back to Mav, he’s standing, looking like a sick mess.

  “Lean on me,” I tell him, wedging myself under his arm. He looks at me like he’d rather fall down the steps and die before using me for help, but I grab his arm anyway and force him forward. He eventually goes with it, and it’s not that terrible. We hustle as much as one dying man can hustle, taking the steps excruciatingly slow until we reach the bottom and my car.

  I open the door to the passenger side. “Get in,” I order him.

  The frown I’m used to seeing makes its appearance.

  He doesn’t move.

  “Fine.” I put my hands up. “Be a stubborn ass.”

  I trot around the front end of the car and watch as Mr. I-don’t-need-your-help slams his door shut and opens it back up himself.

  I smile. He’s so ridiculous.

  When he’s finally in and settled, I speed off to the nearest hospital, trying to ignore his shitty remarks. “I would have been better off dying in the apartment. At least then, my family would have a body to bury. The way you’re driving, and your history with fire, we’re sure to end up a pile of ash.”

  “You were better off calling an ambulance about an hour ago, smartass. Why did you wait so long?”

  He doesn’t look so smug now. “I can usually convert the rhythm on my own.”

  I glance over, catching his sweat-soaked face still strained.

  “This happens a lot?” I ask.

  “Occasionally.”

  He would never admit exactly how often.

  “Do you take medicine for it?” Clearly, he knows what he’s supposed to do when this happens.

  “No.”

  “Why not? Do they not have medicine to treat”—I wave my hand between us—“whatever this is?”

  “I treat it conservatively.”

  My eyes narrow in his direction.

  He mimics me but adds, “I should have put you up in a hotel. What was I thinking?”

  He was thinking I was pretty fucking awesome, and he would eventually need my help.

  “All right, Maverick. We’re going to stop your heart for just a moment. You might feel a little weird, but everything is going to be fine.”

  Okay, so maybe I’m not much help to him. I might pass out.

  When we arrived at the hospital, Maverick was rushed into a room, his shirt cut from his body, and wires upon wires were stuck to his beautiful chest. I followed along in a daze, not sure what I was supposed to do.

  “Can we try the techniques again?” Maverick asks. His voice shakes with exhaustion.

  They’ve been doing different things like asking him to blow on his thumb and bear down, but nothing has worked. His heart is still beating too fast. The doctor called it supraventricular tachycardia. I don’t know precisely what all that means other than a spelling nightmare, but I gather it’s a faster than normal heart rate for us non-medical people.

  “How long has he been this way?” The doctor who seems to know Maverick looks at me.

  “You’re asking me?”

  He nods, pointing at Maverick. “This one only gives me half the truth.”

  I want to grin so bad. He nailed Maverick perfectly. But instead, I cast a wary look at Mav. He’s where my loyalty lies. He’s my genie in the apartment and . . . my friend.

  The corner of his lip twitches and his eyes beg me to keep quiet. “I can�
�t lie,” I whisper. “This is your life we’re talking about.”

  His eyes squeeze shut. Maybe they shut from acceptance or maybe they shut because he’s plotting my death. The world may never know.

  “At least half an hour,” I answer the doc.

  He frowns, nodding simultaneously. “I’m sorry, Maverick. It’s been too long.”

  Maverick doesn’t answer him. No one does. Instead, the doctor starts calling out orders, and everyone moves, including me. I edge closer to the door as the nurse draws up the medication. I’m not sure if Maverick wants me in here, especially since I ratted him out to the doctor.

  Maybe I should wait in the lobby. I think that’s a good idea.

  “Ains.” Maverick’s raspy voice stops me.

  I turn, expecting him to pull a card from his pocket. “Yeah?”

  He twists his head away, and I almost think he didn’t mean to call me, when I see his hand. Outstretched from the mattress, his palm lies face up, inviting me to him.

  Of course, I go.

  When my genie needs me, I’m going to be there for him like he was for me.

  Interlocking our fingers, he turns his face, holding my gaze. And then, I hang on, gripping the hand of the man who pretends not to be my friend until his heart stops.

  Rumor has it he likes wearing women’s clothes.

  “This is escalating, Maverick. I thought the last time we spoke you had everything under control?”

  I watch as Ainsley paces the small ER room, on the phone with Fuckface. He had an extra shift open and knew she needed the money. She doesn’t, but I felt like I couldn’t interrupt since Dr. Kallay has been in my damn face for the past ten minutes.

  “Maverick?”

  This is all such a mess.

  “Everything is under control,” I promise, noting and discarding the disbelieving gaze of my cardiologist.

  “So this was random? You haven’t had any stress or lifestyle changes here recently?”

  I almost bark out a laugh and ask him to see Exhibit A pacing my hospital room animatedly. “No.”

  “So, what do you think triggered the tachycardia if not from your usual stressors?”

  Uh, let’s see.

  I had a great time with a girl last night playing a stupid fucking game that wasn’t poker. I might have been pissed off that I allowed her to see the real me. Then, I might have been so mad that I reacted and told Mike just to find her somewhere to stay ASAP, agreeing I would cover the additional rent just as long as she was gone sooner rather than later.

  But then she had to slide that fucking five hundred thousand IOU under my door. Fuck, what did it say again? Oh yeah, IOU too many favors to count—consider my life yours. Do with me as you wish.

  I read that damn IOU fifteen times before I finally realized the pressure in my chest was mounting. Not even a run after she left soothed it. Not that she caused the tachycardia. I’d been battling it for a few days now, but after last night—the night I realized I wanted Ainsley James and not just for the semester but for longer—that’s when all hell broke loose. For the first time since all this happened, I wanted to be selfish.

  “Have you continued working?”

  My gaze snaps to my doctor. Speaking about work is a no-go zone. “N—”

  “Yes, he has,” Ainsley interrupts, apparently finished with her call. “All the time. He’s on his laptop all the time.”

  My dick twitches, and this is so not the time.

  Is she seriously ratting me out again?

  I’m fucking speechless and not that it matters because I can always squash what she thinks with a few well-placed rumors, but how? How does she know? Better yet, what does she know? I’ve never given her an opportunity to see the truth of what I was doing. Granted, she’s seen me on my laptop, but I could have been fucking around on the internet. How does she know I’ve been working?

  The monitor I’m connected to starts beeping faster.

  Dr. Kallay frowns. “I thought you were going to tell your grandfather about it. We discuss—”

  “I know,” I cut him off. “He had a setback. I promise I’ll tell him.”

  Like when I graduate, and it no longer matters.

  “Maverick, listen, I know you’re trying to protect him, but you’re killing yourself. He wouldn’t want you to do this.”

  A quick look at Ainsley shows she’s listening to every word Dr. Kallay is vomiting out. She’s not even trying to hide it.

  Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

  I sigh, a deep, weighted type of sigh.

  Dr. Kallay gets the hint. “Get some rest. I’ll be back later, and we’ll finish this conversation.”

  Can’t wait.

  I nod tightly, considering leaving against medical advice as soon as he leaves.

  When the door closes, I make it a point not to look at Ainsley. The ceiling is good. It’s nice and plain and not gorgeous or concerned about me.

  “How are you feeling?” The bed shifts under her weight. So much for ignoring her. “Can I get you anything?”

  “No.” The answer is rude considering all she’s done for me today, but I feel exposed, and that’s not a place I like to be. I mean, why now? Why did she come into my life now instead of two years from now? I’d have my shit together by then.

  “How do you know about my job?” I probe, redirecting the conversation to something more productive than my health.

  She stands, folding her arms, and shrugs. “You left your laptop open in the living room.”

  Bullshit. No way does she know enough from me leaving it open. It’s locked. Who told her? Sebastian? But he wouldn’t dare speak to her outside of my presence. He’s crazy but not stupid. I cock a brow for her to continue.

  “No, sir,” she scolds, appearing quite cute with a dainty scowl on her face. “You are in no position to demand. We’ll negotiate.”

  I scoff, but she ignores it.

  “For every one of the answers I give you, I get one in return.”

  No is right on the tip of my tongue, but so are other words like thank you and come—“Fine. What’s your question?”

  “Were you scared earlier when they gave you the medicine?” She looks down at her hands, wringing them tightly. “The one that stopped your heart for a moment . . .”

  It was a weak moment on my part and exactly why I stay with contracts and IOUs. I don’t do owing people anything, especially explanations. And especially explanations to Ainsley.

  “Yes.”

  I’m not explaining. She was there. I reached for her hand, for fuck’s sake. No way am I talking my way around that one. I was fucked-up when they gave it to me. “It was the first time they’ve ever had to convert my rhythm with medicine.” Hence the reason I’m here for longer and not already back home, pouring beer through the deck of the balcony.

  “How did you know about my job?” I ask again.

  She grins smugly. “I didn’t. But I tried to silence your notification earlier, and I may”—she drags the words out like she’s proud of herself and finally has something on me—“have read the preview of an email you received about IRAs, CEOs, and such. Are you like The Wolf of Wall Street guy?”

  I let out a sigh of relief. Good. She doesn’t know everything.

  “Is that your question? Am I like The Wolf of Wall Street?” I want to laugh so bad, but I hold it in, maintaining her seriousness.

  She nods, never moving her arms. Weird.

  “No, I’m not. I’m not a stock trader. My grandfather owns an investment company that I help out with from time to time. You could say I’m a part-time broker.”

  Partial truth and her eyes narrowing to slits tell me she knows it.

  “My turn.” I can already feel my mouth twitching at the corner. “What’s going on with—” I tip my chin in the direction of her folded arms.

  “With my arms?” she suggests.

  Yep, that’s exactly what I mean. Let’s get off the topic of me. “Yeah, your arms. You cold?”

  A
faint puff escapes her lips.

  She won’t give me the satisfaction of admitting why she’s standing there, suddenly stiff and awkward when she had no problem bossing me around earlier.

  “I’m fine,” she lies.

  I nod, feeling a tiny, baby grin tugging at the corner of my mouth. “You can turn the air up if you’re cold. The thermostat is on the wall.”

  She won’t, though, because then she will have to drop her arms.

  “Thanks, but that’s not necessary. I’m fine.”

  My eyes never leave hers. “Did you hurt your arm fanning the smoke detector earlier?”

  She can’t contain the eye roll. “Funny. But no. I just happen to find this position comfortable.”

  She shrugs, but it’s forced and still blocked with her folded arms.

  “Really?” I challenge, the monitors going off again.

  Settle down, Maverick. No one needs to come in here and realize the reason the monitors are going off is because your roommate is turning you on.

  She cranes her neck to look at them. “Are you okay?”

  “Fine. Answer my question.”

  Now isn’t the time to admit that bantering with her excites me.

  “I did. I told you it’s a comfortable position. You should try it. You might find it’s more comfortable than keeping that scowl on your face all day.”

  A hearty chuckle bursts from me. “Is that so?”

  She nods. “Yep. It must be hard forcing a frown all day.”

  “How do you know it’s forced?”

  She shrugs one shoulder. “Science. It’s been proven you use more muscles in your face frowning than you do smiling. You would know that if you went to class.”

  Again with the class attendance. “I go to class.”

  She nails me with an annoyed look that makes me laugh.

  “Sometimes,” I amend. “Happy? I go to class sometimes.”

  “How do you get away with that?”

  Easy.

  “Maverick shows up.”

  It’s not actually that hard. Most professors do not care what body calls out “here.”

  Her mouth drops open in an O. “Who would voluntarily go to class for you?”

  I arch a brow. We’re wading into forbidden territory. “Who says they volunteer?”