The Cowboy's City Girl - An Enemies To Lovers Romance

by Emerson Rose

  I focus hard and try to decipher what she is saying. Imani, her name is Imani. She wants me to wake up. I can't, damn it. Wake me up, Imani. If you want to do something for me, wake me the fuck up.

  I plead with her silently in the dark to wake me up, but she doesn't, she can't.

  After another commercial break in this fucking horror flick, I am aware of Imani’s presence again. Whatever she’s doing feels amazing. I can’t wrap my mind around the sensation, but I know I am missing out on something important.

  She's close, so close I can smell her. She smells like a mixture of cotton candy and clean linen. She’s touching me slowly, my face, my arms, hands, my chest. I want to reach out and grab her wrists and stop her. No one touches me without my permission.

  But another part of me longs to flip her over, tie her up, and put my mouth all over her.

  I need to wake up, why can’t I wake up? Fuck, will it always be this way? Is this how I'm destined to spend eternity? Paying for the sins of my life trapped in my body vulnerable and without control?

  Good call, God.

  This is the perfect hell for me. Marcus Castillo doesn’t do weak or controlled.

  She’s still doing whatever it is she's doing. I feel her working her way down my body to my leg and now my foot. Oh, lady, I love that. She’s getting me hard as fuck. I wonder if she’s going to take care of that part of me as well?

  I am grateful for what she's doing. I happen to be very particular about cleanliness, some call it obsessive, and maybe it is, but I would never admit that to anyone other than myself.

  I want her to stop, I want her to do more, I want control of her. I want to fucking wake up!!!

  It feels like I've been here forever. I can hear voices, but it's hard to make them out. They sound like they are at the other end of a long tunnel far away and muted.

  One of them is a woman, not my cotton-candy-laced Imani, but another familiar voice, my sister Elena.

  Shit, if she's here, this must be awful. She would never come unless I were dying. Shit, I'm dying.

  Terror rocks me, the idea of my life ending used to be appealing, but now… now all I want to do is see the woman attached to the voice of my angel. I want to keep feeling her fingers on my flesh, inhaling her sweet scent.

  I know without a shadow of a doubt, because of Imani, that I am not ready to leave.

  I have lived my life in such a way that if I die right now, I am going straight to hell. I need to fight. I want to give myself time for redemption, time to meet Imani, and see the face that belongs to that magnetic beautiful voice.

  Another voice begins to float through my brain fog. This one is a man. It sounds like Elijah. What the fuck is he doing here? And why is he talking to Elena?

  They sound so distorted and far away, I can't understand what they're saying. That fucker had better be taking care of my business while I’m wherever the hell I am or, so help me, I will kill him when I wake up.

  He knows working for me means his life is on the line if he doesn't. Ruling ruthlessly, that’s what makes me so successful, fear is a human's biggest motivator, and I instill it in everyone I meet.

  My theory is being proven correct in my current situation. Fear of death is motivating me, but the pain is distracting. I need to find a way out of this dark black abyss.

  Imani is the key that will unlock the gates of my hell.

  I have to keep holding onto her voice until she brings me back.

  She’s the one with the power.

  She's the only one I'd go back for.

  Seven

  It’s my third night in a row with Marcus, and I’m already stressing about being off the next few nights.

  At home, I won’t have the reassurance of his deep, even breathing or the ability to check on him regularly. But worst of all, I risk not being the first person he sees when he wakes up.

  In my experience, patients who have suffered trauma to the brain either start to come around a week or two into their recovery or they slip away forever. I'm not letting him slip away, and it's been almost two weeks, so the likelihood of him waking up soon is high.

  I pop a K-cup in my Keurig, wait the five seconds it takes to brew, and pour way too much creamer in my travel mug. To most people, I’m ruining the authentic taste of coffee, but I don’t care, I like it sweet. My drive to work is robotic. I stop at all of the familiar intersections, turn left and right multiple times down the dark roads of Seattle until I'm in my parking spot with no memory of the drive.

  I had a genius idea when I was dancing in the shower this afternoon.

  Music.

  It’s healing and moving, and it brings me up when I'm down and calms me when I'm feeling anxious. I have a plan to help Marcus break through the membrane that's been separating him from the world and me for the past two weeks.

  I made a few playlists for Marcus, and I brought my earbuds so he can listen to them. It’s a risk since I have no idea what kind of music he likes. I struggled when choosing the music, but, in the end, I went with one classical playlist. One is of the relaxing sounds of nature and the last is a combination of all of my personal favorites. I listen to a wide variety of love songs, jazz, Latin, and alternative music. I hope there is something in there that will speak to him.

  I haven’t asked permission to do this, and I’m not going to; it just feels right. I have a strong, unexplainable urge to do whatever it takes to wake him up. It’s like the universe is nudging me, telling me to help him.

  It’s a slow night at work, just the way I like it. It gives me more time to study Marcus. I’ve memorized his skin, every scar, every birthmark and freckle. I will never forget the tiny crow’s feet at the outer corners of his eyes as well as a place on his cheek where I imagine a dimple might form when he smiles.

  He has a lifetime of scars spattering his skin that document fights, injuries, and possibly abuse. The scars he wears are threatening and ugly for such a perfect body. They are the only things separating him from complete perfection.

  He is in bad need of a haircut, but his face is freshly shaven as of a couple of hours ago. Elena brought his toiletries to the hospital today. He has the most delicious smelling shaving and hair products, not overwhelming but just good enough to make you want to be closer to him.

  He doesn’t smell like a typical hospital patient anymore. The fragrance of spearmint and eucalyptus fills his room replacing the simple smell of soap. The beautiful glass bottles are covered with foreign labels from France and Italy. I don’t recognize any of them, but I’ve never traveled overseas like my globetrotting patient, so I wouldn’t.

  I place my phone on the bed next to him and an earbud in his left ear and the other in my own to test the volume. I set the music low just in case he finds a way to communicate that he’s uncomfortable listening to it, then I remove my ear bud and place it on the bed.

  I move about the room, giving his scheduled medications and doing range of motion exercises with his arms and his good leg. I keep a watchful eye on him for any sign of pain as I work his muscles and monitor his heart rate.

  I also watch carefully for any reaction to the music. There is nothing obvious, but I swear his face looks more relaxed, less severe, and his scowl isn’t as pronounced.

  When I’m finished, I arrange Marcus’s covers and hospital gown until I’m satisfied that he is comfortable. As I’m about to move to my charting station, I swear I see a finger on his left hand move. I am not imagining this, am I?

  I watch closely for more, but there is nothing. I pull up a chair and sit with him, but before I do, I speak into his ear, “I know you’re trying. Don’t give up.”

  His hand twitches microscopically. A shiver runs up my spine, and my heart clambers against my rib cage.

  I should call his doctor or maybe I should keep talking to him. Should I turn the music up? Down? Shit, I don’t know.

  I’m nervous and excited and a little scared. I decide to wait and see if he does it again. I wait and wait
, but it’s over. Whatever I did to trigger him isn’t working anymore. He lies as still as the stone sitting in my stomach. I am disappointed, to say the least, but I still have a few hours left in my shift.

  Three hours go by, and it’s almost time to go home. I notified the physician about his progress. When I told him it only happened twice a few hours ago, he wasn’t impressed. “An isolated incident of nerve response,” he said, and probably rolled over in his warm bed to spoon with his wife.

  I refuse to believe that. I saw it with my own eyes, and it was no coincidence that it happened while I was playing music in his ear.

  It won’t be long now, and I’ll be able to meet my mystery man.

  Leaving him today is harder than ever. I wish I could crawl into bed beside him and sleep my day away cocooned in the smell of spearmint and eucalyptus, tucked under his strong arm. It’s going to happen soon. I feel it.

  The drive home is dismal and rainy as usual. Typical fall Seattle weather, it’s almost always raining here. I’m too amped up to sleep when I get home, so I stop at the glass blowing studio and pick up the light I made yesterday and the vase Dax gifted me.

  Marcus will be awake soon, and his room is drab and void of color. The ICU doesn’t allow people to bring in flowers or balloons due to the risk of infection, but the vase will be perfect.

  At home, I dump my purse on the floor and plop down on the couch to listen to my voicemail. My girlfriends are getting together tonight, and I’m supposed to meet up with them for drinks. I’m usually excited to have a girls’ night out, but tonight I just feel like curling up on the couch and binge-watching a series on Netflix.

  My phone rings in my pocket as if on cue. It’s Lana, no chance of bowing out unnoticed now.

  “Hey, Lana,” I say turning to lie down and stretch out on the couch. I toe off my tennis shoes and wiggle my toes.

  “So where are we going first?” Lana says. Her excitement is contagious.

  “We could meet on my couch. I’m sure to be on time,” I say.

  She ignores my attempt to turn happy hour into a slumber party and continues to talk.

  “I just hung up with Clair and Trina, plan on being ready at ten. We still need to figure out where we’re gonna meet.”

  “I don’t know, how about Club Rain?”

  “Oh, yes, yes, good idea, Club Rain, perfect, we haven’t been there in ages! I’ll let the girls know. Dress up, woman, we’re going to party tonight!”

  “Calm down, Lana, you’re gonna give yourself a stroke.”

  “Nah, you’re just not into it yet. Get dressed up, do your hair, and get ready to shake that sexy ass of yours!”

  “Ok, ok. Keep your panties on. I’ll see ya later.”

  “Ok, Ciao, Bella!”

  “Bye, Lana.”

  She’s so dramatic. If I hadn’t known Lana all my life, I’d swear she was on something illegal. I’ve never known anyone as energetic as that woman, but that's what makes her who she is.

  After six hours of restless sleep, I’m awake and scrounging in the kitchen for something to eat. There’s no sense in tempting fate by drinking on an empty stomach, nothing good ever comes of that.

  I sigh and drag myself to the bathroom for a shower. When I’m dry, I spend what feels like forever straightening my long, stubborn curly hair with a flat iron.

  I dig out my expensive makeup that I save for nights out on the town and weddings. I’m not crazy about wearing makeup. I have good skin and I don’t feel like I need to cover it up, but wearing it is better than the alternative. If I show up at Club Rain without my face on, Lana will slap me with a lecture on how to attract a man.

  She’d die if she knew I’ve already got my eye on one.

  I blink my false lashes and check out my smoky eyes. I feel like a raccoon but Lana swears I look like a model in Vogue Magazine. I slide some gloss on my full lips and flip my hair behind my shoulders. I look a lot like my mother when I’m all painted up. She and I share the same light-brown complexion, jet-black hair, and whiskey-brown eyes. There is a little of my dad in the mirror as well, but my sister is the one who inherited his looks. His-and-Hers daughters, that’s what their friends call us. I have my father’s mannerisms and compassion, and Latoya got my mother’s drive and determination.

  In my bedroom, I rummage through my closet for something Club Rain worthy. When these girls say dress up, you better take them seriously.

  In the end, I choose a black mini with a sparkly sleeveless top in silver. The top has a sexy cut-out in the back that shows a little skin but not too much as I’m leery of drawing attention to myself.

  Last are my black boots with a stiletto heel. I’m a shoe person, which may have stemmed from being a foot person. I have superhuman feet. I’ve even been known to teeter around for hours in heels that would devastate the feet of your average woman.

  I’m going to freeze outside in this outfit, but the bar will be hot and packed. I grab a black cashmere sweater to cover my arms. My legs are just going to have to endure the cold evening air. With a small clutch instead of my suitcase-sized purse, I decide I’m ready.

  Once I’m outside, I immediately regret the mini. It’s even colder than I had anticipated. A gust of wind shoots up my bare legs and whips my previously perfect hair into my face. I rush to my car, hop in, and blast the heat.

  After a few minutes, my muscles begin to relax, and I welcome the warm air blowing on my feet. Oh, the things I do for these girls.

  Parking sucks, but after driving around the block several times I luck out and find a place not too far from the door. With my arms wrapped tight around my body, I scan the street up and down twice from the seat of my car and then hurry inside.

  I spot the girls at a table across the dance floor and start toward them.

  “Hey, girl!” Lana shouts when she catches sight of me.

  “Lana, keep it down,” I say, mostly to myself, and, as always, my request is promptly denied.

  “You’re looking HOT, mama!”

  “Thanks, Lana. Hi, Clair, Trina, can’t you two keep her under control?”

  Both women roll their eyes as if to say that’s the stupidest question they’ve ever heard.

  “Hey, Imani,” Clair says, “What do you want to drink?”

  I consider for a moment just how intoxicated I’m willing to get tonight before deciding that a martini is as safe as anything.

  “How many have you guys had anyway?” I ask, raising my eyebrows with the question directed mainly at Lana.

  “She was here first, I have no idea how many she’s had,” Trina says, holding her palms up and shaking her head back and forth.

  “We just got here, this is our first,” Trina says.

  “Oh, good, I hate being behind. Things are more fun when we keep the same pace,” I say.

  “Agreed,” Trina and Clair say together and look at Lana.

  “Hey, I’ve only had three or four drinks, and you know I can drink all of you under the table any night,” Lana says.

  “Yeah, she’s got a point there,” I say.

  A cute, petite waitress arrives to take our order and quickly moves on to the next table. The place is packed for a weeknight. The poor waitress has her work cut out for her, but she surprises me when she returns in a couple of minutes with our round of drinks.

  “So, Imani, any hot dates lately?” Lana asks. She has spent every waking moment of the last ten years trying to get me into the dating scene. “Yeah, Lana, sure. I’m getting married next month, did I forget to tell you?”

  I think her eyes actually just lit up for a second. Incredible. She’ll never learn.

  “Such a waste, Imani, you’re a catch, girl. You got that little Miss Hottie independent, creative thing going for you. You just need to get out there and find your prince charming.”

  “I’ll get right on that, Lana.” I’m starting to get irritated.

  I throw back my drink in an attempt to loosen up and not let this crap bother me.

/>   “Oh, look at her go!” Lana yells over every voice in the bar.

  “Lana, keep it down, or they’re going to throw us out of here,” Trina hisses. She’s always been embarrassed by Lana’s boisterousness.

  Trina is my quiet bookworm. She has a boyfriend and out of the four of us, she’s the most challenging to drag out on girls’ night, which makes her the most intelligent in my opinion. She’d rather stay in with Jack, and if I had a man, that’s exactly where I’d be right now.

  Clair is the member of our little clique that I haven’t known as long as the others. We met a year ago, and I’m still not sure what to think of her.

  She doesn’t have a boyfriend per say, but she does spend time with a man regularly. She refuses to claim him as anything serious and sometimes when we’ve had a lot to drink she makes references to a lifestyle I’m not familiar with.

  I think she might be into something dark, but I don’t pry, I’m not sure I want to know anyhow.

  My phone vibrates in my clutch on the table, but I’m with everyone that would be calling me at this time of night unless it’s the hospital needing help.

  I get out my phone, and, sure enough, it’s the hospital. I stare at the screen and consider my options until it stops ringing.

  I can’t work after having a drink, but the opportunity to see Marcus is tempting. The magnetic pull of that man is so strong that I would actually trade a night on the town with my girls for a shift at the hospital.

  As soon as I lay the phone down, it buzzes again, what the hell? Something feels wrong. I punch the answer button, and my co-worker, Sheila, is yelling at me, “Imani! We need you to come down here right away, please. The patient in bed eight is awake, and he’s freaking out. He’s screaming for you!”

  Marcus is finally awake.

  Eight

  I knew it would happen on my night off, damn it.

  “Imani, can you hear me?”

  “Yeah, what’s going on?” I’m up and moving off of my bar stool when I hear a man yelling my name in the background of the phone call.