Seconds later, three or four gurneys are rolled in, lots of folks bloody and screaming. I don’t need to see that so wander to the waiting room. In addition to the regular set of sick people, it’s full of paparazzi, the two cops, and a group of young people in black, one with a guitar case.
A hospital guard eyes me so I flash a card at him, “Lawyer. Just getting some joe.”
After he nods, I put a buck into a vending machine. Beans grind, some kind of water pressure thumps, and steaming hot coffee pours into a thick paper cup that pops out of the bottom. I sniff, test for heat, and take a deep gulp.
Not bad.
I get another cup for the harried guard, drop it with him, then wander back to the bay where my client’s big blue eyes are wide awake.
“Hello?” Her voice sounds more normal than before. “Who are you?”
“Andrew Quinn, your lawyer.”
Her pretty face skews. “I’m confused. Sorry, things are a bit mixed up in my head. Do I know you? God, I feel awful.”
“What do you recall?” I need to know what she took last night and who witnessed it. If she has no history of abuse and pays restitution, I may be able to keep her out of jail.
She scoots up to sitting and quickly puts her head between her knees. “Owww. I’m pretty sure I had a gig last night.”
Rather than hover, I sit back down in the tortuous metal folding chair. “Were you drinking?”
She closes her eyes. “I’m not sure. I might’ve had a beer. I never have more than one.”
“Anything else?” I focus on her face, her body language, any clue to her mindset but she’s impossible to read. All I get is confusion.
“I usually eat a few wings between sets, why?”
“Drugs?” I shoot fast, hoping to catch her unawares but her stunning eyes widen and her mouth drops open.
“Never. Why?”
“You had opioids in your system and blood alcohol of point one five.”
“Oh my God. That’s impossible. I would never…” Her head thumps back on the pillow and she moans. “I am so screwed. You know who I am, right?”
“Sienna Giles. Married to the son of one of the richest men in America. Left penniless at his death.”
“Not actually penniless. I get by.” Her voice takes on a defensive edge as she juts out her chin. “I just don’t run around in the same circles you’re probably used to. What do you want from me, really? Publicity? Is that it? I assume the waiting room is full of vultures ready to pick at my remains?”
A small drop of water forms in the corner of her eyes and she wipes it away. “Shit. It never ends.”
Then, the tone of her voice changes again, this time cold and business-like. “Thanks for helping but I can take it from here. Sorry, but I really have to fire you.”
Stormy blue eyes catch mine and I’m astonished by how beautiful they are. I can see why Olafson was so into her but not how he could neglect to put her in his will.
“Maybe I’ll stick around a while. Pro bono.” I give her my most winning smile. While not my famous brother, I don’t usually have a problem holding a woman’s interest.
No doubt because she’s had a concussion, my charm is wasted. “I’m not a charity case.”
“You offered to pay me earlier.”
Chuckling, I lean back in my chair and her face turns bright red. “Oh shit. Listen, I’m sorry. I, ah, I’m not like... I don’t, ah… oh shit.”
While she stutters, I walk over to the bedstand, hand her the ringing cell phone, and duck outside the curtain. “Why don’t you answer your call. We’ll talk about my fees later, okay?”
Chapter 2
Sienna Giles.
Holy shit, Mr. Quinn is way too handsome to be a lawyer. He should be, oh, I don’t know, maybe on the cover of GQ magazine or on one of those phony reality shows. They could make up a new situation where there’s one lawyer who helps a houseful of desperate women.
I’m still smiling at my own stupid joke until I see the callerID on my cell phone. All of a sudden, a memory pops into my head.
It’s got no visual to back up the audio, just my dead husband’s disembodied voice. You fuck me over, you’re dead. Got it?
There’s no doubt in my mind this is the reason my friend is calling. Dahlyla was the insurance agent who investigated Peter’s accident and I vaguely remember calling her last night.
“Hi Dahlyla.” I scoot flat, my head sinking deep into the pillow.
“Oh my God. I just heard. Are you alright? I’m coming right over. I-”
“No. Don’t. I’m fine.”
But I’m not fine because more of my husband’s voice plays in my head. Screw you. Without me, you won’t get a red cent.
It takes me a second to return to the present and the woman on the other end of the connection. “Sienna? You there?”
“Sorry. What were you saying?”
“I said I was worried. Did they arrest you?”
“No. Someone got me a fancy-ass lawyer.” The curtain around my bed moves and Mr. Sexy-suit pokes his head in and winks.
Dahlyla’s voice distorts as I put my phone on speaker. “No way. If you need a lawyer, my company will pay for one. Stay put. I’m coming. And fire whoever the hell thinks you can pay an exorbitant fee.”
I’m pretty sure they’re not going to let her visit me but who knows? She’ll probably just flash her white teeth, wave her credentials around in the air along with her ample ass and security will let her through.
Dahlyla always gets her way.
“Who was that?” My soon-to-be ex-lawyer slips between the curtains as I set my phone on the tiny chest of drawers beside the bed.
“My friend.” It’s none of your business.
“Wasn’t Dahlyla Stevenson the insurance detective on your husband’s case?” His forehead wrinkles when his dark brows raise.
“Ding, ding. Give the man a prize… By the way, it’s really impolite to listen in on private conversations.”
“You’re the one who put it on speaker.” He scowls and his mouth opens as if to say more but I shut him down real fast.
“Oh, for goodness sake. Don’t look at me with that tone of voice. After the investigation ended, she and I stayed good friends.”
The frown lines deepen as he reaches into his suit’s inner pocket, taps on an expensive looking iPad, and stares into the screen. “It says here the hundred-million-dollar settlement got held up in court last week. You know anything about it?”
He puts the screen in front of my face and I try to recall but my brain is busy hearing voices.
“Damn it. I told you to stay clear until we got the money.”
“You fuck me over, you’re dead. Got it?”
“Screw you. Without me, you won’t get a red cent.”
“Well?” My lawyer’s persistent, I’ll give him that.
“What was the question again?” My headache throbs to the point where I think I may pass out so I press the little button by my bed in hopes it will bring a doctor.
The guy in the suit lowers down into this ridiculously small metal folding chair and rakes a hand over his short cut. “I was asking you if you knew anything about Peter Olafson’s insurance settlement?”
“Oh that. Why would I give a shit?”
The nice doctor whose name is a flower of some sort pokes her head between the curtain and asks, “What can I do for you?”
“Headache.” I point to a poster of pain levels, the second frowny-face from the top.
“That’s me.” I close my eyes and moan. When I put my hand to the back of my head, there’s a lump the size of an orange, maybe a grapefruit.
The nice woman puts a soft cool hand on my forehead, then holds my wrist while looking at a watch. “Until we clear the drugs from your system, I can’t give you anything. What if I get you an icepack? Would that be okay?”
No, it’s not okay. Nothing is okay, nor will it ever be again. My dead husband has come back to life like some zombie-apoca
lypse movie.
Suddenly, what they’ve been saying registers. “Drugs? What drugs?”
“Fentanyl. And alcohol.”
“Oh my God. I would never. I swear.” This is so fucked up. “I don’t do drugs. Why can’t I remember what happened?” I sit up, the room spins, and I lean over the bed, ready to puke.
The doctor quickly hands me a pan, just in case. “Don’t fret. After we move you upstairs, you’ll be able to rest, and I bet you’ll start to recall more.” She checks my chart, grabs a pen from behind her ear, and scribbles.
Then, she looks up and pats my hand. “We’ll take you up the employee elevator to avoid the crowd.”
Crowd?
Moaning, I close my eyes. I’d gotten used to not having paparazzi around, watching my every move, waiting for me to screw up.
“Eyes up here.” The doctor shines a tiny flashlight into my eyes. “By the way, a young man who claims to be your brother is demanding to see you but to be honest, he doesn’t look much like you. Dark eyes, dark hair, tats, beard?”
I smile at her description. “That’s Sam. He’s my half-brother. I’ve been texting him since I woke up. He must be worried sick.”
“Just a second. I’ll have someone fetch him.” She turns to a young man in green scrubs, describes my brother, then squats to look in a cabinet, hopefully for my ice.
While she’s still here, I need to enlist her help. “Can you tell Mr. Sexy-suit he’s fired. I keep trying but he won’t go.”
For the first time, the doctor frowns as she stands and shakes a bag marked cool-pak. It feels awesome as she slides it between my head and the pillow.
“Mr. Quinn is here on account of me. I’m the one who called him.”
My cheeks heat because I guess I insulted her. “But I can’t afford him.”
The tall lawyer stands and glares. “Him is standing right here, by the way.”
The doctor pushes him back down into the chair, “I got this. Have you heard of CJ Quinn?”
“New York’s darling quarterback? Of course. I have amnesia, not brain damage.”
“Well, Andy here, is his brother and a really nice guy. He got me out of a jam and didn’t charge a dime. Hun, you need some help if you’re going to stay clear of jail. The police are itching to arrest you.”
Before I can reply, my brother’s voice saves the day.
“Knock knock?” Sam is known for the worst jokes on the planet and despite the throbbing in my head, I grin.
“Who’s there?”
“Kurt?”
“Kurt who?”
“Curtain’s closed, can I come in?” He peeks in his head, then rushes across the room and gives me a big hug. After, he looks me up and down with a frown. “My God, Sis, Are you okay? They said you were in a car accident.”
“I’m fine. I just can’t remember anything. Do you know what happened last night? Were you with me?”
“Jeesh, I was going to ask you.” He opens another folding chair and sits next to Sexy-suit, his voice full of concern. “How much time did you lose?”
“I’m not sure. I remember getting ready for the gig, then waking up here. Did we play last night?”
He takes my hands in his. “Sure, we did. At the Blue Note. You were great. After, we had a quick beer with the band and you left.”
“Was anyone with me?” I keep the part about drugs and alcohol to myself.
“Not that I saw, why?”
“Nothing. Just wondering.” Shit. If I don’t start to remember, I am totally screwed.
My not-lawyer adds, “The police say she had opioids and alcohol in her system. Not only that, there was an unregistered handgun in her glove compartment.”
My mouth drops open at his accusatory tone. “No way. I hate guns.”
This whole situation is ridiculous. Maybe, if I close my eyes. I’ll wake from this nightmare but no such luck. When I look up, both men are glaring but I only have to put up with one of them.
I glower at my brother and point to the lawyer. “Tell him to get lost.”
“Why? Who is he?” My brother turns and eyes the guy from head to toe.
“Some ambulance-chaser. Can’t you get rid of him?”
“I don’t know. If what he says is true, you might need a good lawyer.” He shoots his hand forward. “I’m Sam Spade.”
“Andrew Quinn. Your sister can’t remember but she asked me to be her lawyer and even signed my contract. Was anything off about last night? Even the smallest detail could help.”
Shaking his head back and forth, Sam rubs his chin. “No man, there was nothing out of the ordinary. We showed up for our gig, played a few sets, and left. It was a pretty good crowd for the middle of the week.”
The guy I probably shouldn’t’ve fired adjusts his tie and sighs, about to say something but my harried doctor interrupts. “The orderlies need to take her upstairs, now. You guys can go too, but you’ll need to leave once she gets settled. You’ll have to wait until visiting hours, okay?”
“Don’t go, not yet, please.” Panic strikes and I grab the closest hand which happens to belong to the man I offered to sleep with then told to get lost.
His face, for the first time, gets all soft and his eyes kind. “I got you, luv. Don’t worry.”
A bit embarrassed, I hang on tight even as my brother lifts an eyebrow. I got no excuse so shrug. Sam knows how I feel about suits so he shouldn’t worry.
I can’t let go of the warm, strong flesh. In a parallel universe, I could see myself falling for the guy who walks beside me, his thumb stroking mine. His gentle touch makes the lips between my legs twitch as he walks me down a long hall and into an elevator. Thankfully, the paparazzi are clueless and are left far behind in the waiting area.
Upstairs, where everything smells of hospital antiseptic, I’m lifted off the gurney and onto a bed with crisp sheets.
You’d think with all the goings on, I could stay awake but when my cheek hits the pillow, I fall into a deep sleep. It’s weird; half hallucinogenic, half reality and disturbing as hell. No matter how hard I try, I can’t wake. The dream feels like it goes on for hours while my subconscious brain does a narrative.
First, I’m at the Blue Note singing one of my own tunes. Sam is on guitar, Joe on bass, and Zig on the drum kit. The club is dark, the audience full, and yet all conversation has stopped.
It’s a great moment until a frigging forest grows, filling the space. That’s when things get real strange. Suddenly, I’m in my hospital bed in the middle of these trees with a gurgling brook nearby.
I hear voices but can’t see anyone but my husband who died in a plane crash a couple years ago. Unfortunately, he’s very much alive and shouting something I can’t quite understand. When he sees me, he grabs a gun from my glove compartment. Oh yeah, I forgot to mention how my car just appeared out of nowhere. Peter aims the gun and shoots directly at my forehead.
“Shit!!” Shaking, my heart pumping wildly, I wake.
All of the beeping things on the rack screech and a bunch of nurses run into my room. Someone even grabs paddles.
Crap.
A doctor arrives but it’s not my nice young one but an older grouchy man with gray hair. He growls at the nurses and takes my pulse. “Bad dream?”
“Yes, doctor.”
“To be expected given what you were on. Do you know what you took, young lady?”
Dammit. I am sick and tired of being treated like an addict. “No sir. I was poisoned and don’t remember a damn thing.”
Two gray fuzzy caterpillars raise over eyes about the same shade. “You should start to feel better in a couple hours. The worst is over.”
“Tell that to my throbbing head. Can I have something for the pain?”
“Not yet.” He motions to a nurse. “Can you get her another ice pack?”
Outside my door, a very broad man with dark hair is talking to the man who held my hand when I was scared, my ex-lawyer, the guy I fired.
“Who is the huge guy
with Mr. Quinn?”
My grumpy doctor purses his lips as he checks my pulse. “Your bodyguard, as I understand it.”
What? Hell no.
Chapter 3
Andrew Quinn
When the alarms screech beside Sienna’s bed, I almost lose my shit. When a nurse and a doctor race by, my thoughts jump straight to murder. What if someone poisoned her IV. How would I know for sure?
Adrenaline pumping, I stand in the doorframe so I can hear better. Obviously, I need to up my game.
“What’s going on?” Jack’s eyes dart up and down the hall, gun hand reaching into his vest.
“Wait a sec… It’s okay. Sienna just told the doctor she had a bad dream.” While my heartrate slows and breathing returns to normal, Jack grimaces.
“I didn’t know nightmares were life threatening.” Standing next to me, he peers into the small, private room where a doctor checks her pulse.”
“He said it had something to do with the drugs.” I motion to Jack we should give the doctor some space to finish his evaluation. He seems competent enough.
However, neither Jack nor I will leave Sienna unguarded so we do what we’ve been doing for the last six hours, we pace the long hall outside her room.
Whoever decorated this floor must’ve been trying for cheery but the yellow on the walls is so badly faded, the hallway feels rundown. We walk by the room next door which houses an older man, alone. The next is abuzz with family members holding flowers and get-well balloons.
I can’t help but compare it to my stay when I was a kid. My mom cried at my bedside for a week because I think they arrested my dad.
“Did I ever mention how much I hate hospitals?” I head toward the vending machines where a florescent light buzzes overhead. As we pass by their station, nurses giggle and nearby, someone moans
Jack’s assessing eyes rove the exit signs, the stairwells, and the long hall. “We need to get Sienna out of here. It’s not safe.”
I couldn’t agree more as I put a bill into the vending machine and press A3 for peanuts.
“Want some?”
“I’m good.”
In My Custody Page 2
