by Emerson Rose
Unbroken
Copyright
COPYRIGHT 2016 PRISM HEART PRESS
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For Evan and Mia
Description
When the powerful and wealthy, Marcus Castillo, ends up comatose in a hospital bed, death seems inevitable. But for the rugged, alpha billionaire, whispers from the shadows begin to penetrate the darkness, giving him a sense of light--a sense of hope.
All ICU nurse Imani Jefferson wants is to help her patient regain himself, despite the rumors of his controlling and cold reputation. When Marcus finally awakens, he's more than Imani ever realized.
More intense,
More powerful,
More complicated,
More intelligent,
More successful.
And most importantly, more dominant.
He has the power and the will to make her dreams come true and destroy her in a second.
Apart they are damaged goods. Together they are Unbroken.
Part One
One
When I was nineteen years old, my little girl dreams of a husband, two kids, and a cute little house in the suburbs went up in smoke. I was attacked by three men outside a bar, kidnapped for three days, and this was followed by three years in hospitals recovering. Whoever said good things come in threes was dead wrong.
It was a life-altering experience that ignited a fire inside of me to help others the way my nurses had helped me.
I’ve been a nurse at Seattle Trinity Hospital for ten years. Ten years of being single and focusing on just my career and my family. My life has become one long cycle of work, sleep, rinse, and repeat, but that’s the way I like it.
I make my way down the corridor to the ICU where I work and prepare myself for the long shift ahead.
“Hey, Imani!” Courtney shouts from the break room. Courtney is one of my closest co-workers, and she’s also designated herself as my own personal cupid.
“I’ve got something special for you tonight!”
Oh, great, she sounds excited, that is not a good thing. She’s either found me another prospective suitor or she’s made one of her famous ass-augmenting chocolate fudge cakes. Neither of which do I need, at all.
“So, what’s up? A new patient?” God, please let it be an interesting patient with a crazy diagnosis she thinks I’ll be fascinated with.
“Yep, and you’re gonna love him.” Great, it’s a him. Courtney loves to try and set me up, but with a patient? That’s going too far, even for her. She doesn’t know about my past, nobody other than my family does. She has good intentions, but I have my reasons for not dating, and I don’t want to talk about them with her.
“So, is he crazy or combative?” I hope it’s one of the two, but I suspect it’s neither. “Let me have it, what am I dealing with for the next twelve hours?”
“The guy in bed eight was in a car accident this morning, his passenger was DOA, and he’s in rough shape. He has a fractured leg and a head injury, swelling of the brain, you know, the usual. He hasn’t regained consciousness yet though.”
“Yeah, so? Sounds like a typical patient for the ICU.”
“Oh, there is nothing typical about this guy. You’ll see when you go in there. I made sure he was assigned to you. His family hasn’t been here yet. The house supervisor found out he has a sister that lives out of state. We called her, she’s supposed to be on her way.”
“Okay, Courtney, I’m confused. What are we talking about here, Hunchback of Notre Dame or something? I’m curious why this guy is such a big deal?”
“I’m not saying another word, but I am going to stay until shift change. I want to see your face after you’ve gotten report on him and done your assessment,” she sings ‘assessment’ like a little kid.
I roll my eyes, “Alright, but don’t expect me to fall in love with a comatose patient. Even I’m not that desperate.”
“Mmhmmm, sure.” She pretends to turn a key on her lips and throws the imaginary key over her shoulder.
Working in a small private hospital has its advantages. All of our rooms are private, we have excellent staffing, top-of-the-line equipment, and we take care of elite patients who are wealthy and almost always famous. I’ve cared for professional athletes, movie stars, singers, and business moguls, so to say it’s not easy to impress me after ten years is an understatement.
You wouldn’t know you were in a hospital if the sign out front didn’t say Seattle Trinity. There are water fountains in the waiting rooms, and the walls are adorned with beautiful artwork made by local artists. Most of the time it feels more like a posh hotel than a hospital.
I sit outside room eight and listen to Lola, the day nurse, as she gives me report. When she’s finished, I’m wondering if Courtney’s lost her marbles. This guy seems like a typical MVA patient to me.
I walk into the large spacious room where the bed is placed in the center of the room surrounded by all of the equipment we need to keep people alive.
Monitors beep and hum as they read the patient’s vital signs and heart rhythms. Behind it all are floor-to-ceiling glass windows that look out over one of the many thick plush green forests of Seattle, Washington. It’s a breathtaking view, even if most of the patients here never get to see it. The mystery man in bed eight is named Marcus Castillo.
Being a veteran nurse, I begin my assessment the second I enter the room, but I pause midstep when I see his face. My breath hitches in my throat, and my mouth is parched. My pulse quickens, and the tips of my fingers tingle with a mind of their own that longs to touch him.
I feel like I’m one end of a life-sized magnet being pulled toward him. Mr. Castillo reminds me of one of the Greek Gods from the movie 300, all muscles and brawn smeared with dirt and blood from battle.
Abrasions cover his face and bruises have begun to show up dark and ugly across his cheek. A softball-sized knot mars his otherwise perfect forehead but the most disheartening injury is the cut that slices through the bow of his ample top lip. Whoever is lucky enough to kiss those lips will be sad to see it blemished.
During report, I learned that he drove his car over the side of the I-90 Bridge into Lake Washington. His passenger died before they could get the car out of the water. How this man survived is a miracle.
As far as nurses go, I am pretty confident. I can handle most personalities, but something about this man emanates power and danger. Even with a severe head injury and unconscious, something about him demands my attention and makes me feel uneasy.
I round the bed and attempt to stay focused on assessing just his injuries, but it’s not easy. I don’t know how I’m supposed to think about the well-being of this man when I’m
so distracted by his looks and something else I can’t quite put my finger on.
He’s athletic and lean, his powerful square jaw is covered with a five o’clock shadow. His hair looks like it’s thick and dark brown when it isn’t full of blood and glass shards. If I had to guess, I’d say he is of Latin descent. His skin is a deep bronze, and he has a Mediterranean look about him. Most impressive is Mr. Castillo’s size. He is at least six feet four inches of solid, lean muscle. His body fills the hospital bed from top to bottom and then some.
I shake myself from my stupor and lean over to assess his injuries as I would with any patient, although I know already that he isn’t going to be just any patient.
I press the blood-pressure button and stand for a moment drinking him in as the cuff inflates. The beeping of the machines, IVs, and his presence combined are hypnotizing. When the cuff releases, I can hear his soft, regular breathing as I fold the sheet down to his waist to listen to his heart.
I’m face-to-face with this godlike man, who somehow intimidates the hell out of me with his eyes closed. Though in a coma, the space between his eyebrows is pinched into a soft scowl, making me wonder if it’s part of a permanent expression. He must scowl an awful lot.
I’ve never ogled a patient until today. but there’s no other way to describe my unprofessional wandering eyes. It should be embarrassing, but there is no one here to judge.
My gaze drifts over his defined muscular chest covered with air-bag abrasions. The strong smell of lake water assaults my nostrils. In all aspects, he is a complete mess, but my body couldn’t care less. My heart is pounding in my chest, and my hands are slick with perspiration.
I’ve been a nurse for over ten years. I’ve seen it all. Why on earth is this guy making me feel so, I don’t know, weird?
I check him over once from head to toe and make sure his leg is aligned, as it should be in the traction. Everything seems to be in order, and for all intents and purposes I’m finished, but I can’t manage to pull myself away from him.
I’m cemented at his bedside with an overwhelming urge to communicate with him. And even though I know he’s unconscious, I lean down and whisper into his ear, “You’re going to be ok. You’ve got this.”
Nothing.
I’m not sure what I expected. He’s not Sleeping Beauty. Well, he is beautiful and he is sleeping, but not in the destined-to-wake-from-a-fairy-tale-spell-at-the-sound-of-my-voice kind of way.
When I take care of coma patients, I narrate my actions on the off chance that they can hear me and will know what I’m doing. I’ve always been well aware of my boundaries, and this is the first time in my career that I’ve ever come close to crossing them.
I pick up his well-manicured hand and hold it in both of mine. I stand there for several minutes staring at him until Courtney comes to the door, and I drop his hand like a hot ember. I jump and step away, snapping the invisible rubber band that was pulling us together.
“Ha, I knew you’d think he was hot,” she says, eyes bright and playful.
“Courtney, shush, he might hear you!” I move toward the door to nudge her out and close the door behind us.
“Can you believe that guy’s body? He has muscles that never quit. Did you check him out under the covers?” Courtney says, wiggling her eyebrows.
A sense of protectiveness surges through me, and I want her to stop talking about my patient.
“He’s not a piece of meat, Courtney. Give the guy a break; he’s been through a lot.”
“Oh, come on, Imani, you gotta admit, it’s nice to have eye candy to look at while you’re at work. Shit, it’s my favorite benefit of working in this hospital; hot, famous, rich people to gossip about.”
“Yeah, but he’s, I don’t know.” I shake my head. It’s hard to explain something to Courtney that I don’t even understand myself.
“Gorgeous, panty-melting hot? Yeah, duh, that’s why I had him assigned to you. I gotta get going. Ta-ta, enjoy your evening with Mr. Lover Boy,” she says making a clucking sound with her tongue while pulling the trigger of her air gun to shoot me.
“I thought Cupid had a bow and arrow, not a gun,” I say.
She smiles and turns on her heel to head to the elevator.
I sigh, “Later, Courtney, see you in the morning.”
“Okaydoki Artichokie,” she says, and waves goodbye over her shoulder.
Okay, so she’s a well-intended dorky cupid, but she’s still my friend.
Marcus is due for some medication. When I return with it, that same irresistible pull consumes me. This guy is messing with my head. I have never had feelings like this for a man before. In fact, I’ve never had any good feelings for a man other than my father.
The last decade of my life I’ve spent running in the opposite direction away from men, avoiding relationships like the plague.
My attack left me broken and damaged beyond repair. Or so I thought until a complete stranger drew me in with his mysterious forces and caused me to whisper promises into his ear.
I push the medication into his IV and contemplate this stranger’s face wondering things like what color are his eyes and what might he be like when he wakes up.
Lost in thought, I’m startled when Sam pokes her head into the door.
“Sorry, Imani, I need some help in room seven, do you have time?”
“Sure, sure, I’ll be right there.” I shake my head to clear my thoughts and follow Sam to the room next door.
The rest of my shift is uneventful. Marcus lies still and beautiful in his room lit by the screens of his medical equipment. I sit outside his room watching through the window that separates him from my charting station. He holds my attention like a blockbuster movie on opening night.
Hours later I check the time, and I realize I don’t want to leave him when my shift ends. Any other day I am knocking people down trying to get out of here after twelve-plus hours of demanding work, but not today. Today the thought of leaving Marcus alone with no family to comfort him feels wrong.
I report off to the day nurse with an uneasy heart and stop to check on him before I go.
Without thinking, I whisper into his ear again, “I’m leaving, but I’ll be back for you.” I squeeze his hand and turn to leave.
What am I doing? He’s a perfect stranger, with an emphasis on perfect, but a stranger all the same. If one of my co-workers were whispering sweet nothings into their comatose patient’s ear, I think I’d have to sit them down and have a serious talk about professionalism in the work place.
Outside in the parking garage, the exhaustion of working so many shifts in a row hits me hard. Nonetheless, the further I travel away from the hospital the more angst I have about leaving. Maybe I should slow down on the extra overtime shifts? I think my judgment is being impaired by my lack of sleep.
That’s it, Imani, blame it on sleep deprivation. When I wake up this afternoon I will have forgotten all about the handsome captivating man in bed eight who has me losing my damn mind. Right?
Two
Sleep. It’s something so easy for most people, but it eludes me every time I slip between the sheets. Even though I’m exhausted, I have to medicate myself to avoid the night terrors that accompany the rest my body needs.
My past haunts me when I close my eyes. During the day, I’m able to press the memories of the attack down deep below the surface. But at night, the vulnerability of sleep enables the horrific experience to return and torture me all over again. Post-traumatic stress syndrome feasts on my fears and anxiety like a three-course meal.
My friends and family are my life. They have been my rock, and I wouldn’t be alive if not for their support over the years. They don’t judge me for not dating, and my mother has never once pushed me to do something I’m not ready for.
Those who don’t know my secret, however, are always bringing it to my attention. You’re such a pretty girl, why don’t you date? You’re so smart, Imani; when are you going to settle down?
I get so
sick of it sometimes I want to yell at them that I don’t want a fucking husband, so they will shut up and leave me alone. I even considered passing myself off as a lesbian until I realized that it would only change the gender of the dates my friends try to set me up on.
Being an aunt fulfills my maternal needs and living on my own isn’t so bad. At least when I set my toothbrush down I always know where it is, and the remote is mine for the controlling.
With a past like mine, I never expected to have a serious relationship. I’ve always known my mind and body would deny the ache in my heart for that kind of love, the all-encompassing powerful forever kind of love.
But I’m alive, independent, educated, employed, and, most of all, loved by my family. I make it a point to remind myself how lucky I am to be alive every day.
I swallow my pills and snuggle up with the only two things I’ve slept with for ten long years, my pillows. It isn’t long before I drift into a dreamless drug-induced sleep. My last thoughts are of Marcus, and if I could dream pleasant dreams instead of nightmares I would dream about him.
I have three nights off in a row after my four-night stretch and Marcus is never far from my thoughts. This obsession I have with my latest patient is making me crazy. Thanks a lot, Courtney.
I trudge through my days with the constant sensation that I should be somewhere else. It’s all I can do not to stop at the hospital and check on him. I called a few co-workers and used lame excuses to try and find out if Marcus had regained consciousness but he hasn’t.
I did learn, however, that his sister arrived and she has been sitting with him every day. Knowing he isn’t alone helps ease the unexplainable tension in my chest that I’ve had since my last night of work.
