Dreamy Distraction (Quest for Love Book 1)

by Emily J. Wright

Now I feel bad for how I treated the hospital staff who saved my life. “Thank you, and sorry for threatening to slit your throat with a scalpel.”

  “It’s all right. On a bright side, you have a vivid imagination. That was quite a graphic description.” Dr. Maverick chuckles as he tries to lighten the situation but fails. “Is there anything else you want to ask?”

  “Yes.” I turn my head to Jeremy. “What’s my name?”

  “Brandon Bryce.”

  Chapter 5

  IT HAS BEEN A WEEK since I started physical therapy. It was difficult at first, like learning to walk all over again. I fell face first on the floor when I got out of the bed for the first time in two months. Jeremy did try to catch me but failed. My nose survived the car crash but got broken in the hospital itself. Talk about irony.

  Anyhow, I have shown some tremendous improvement in the last couple of days. The crawling period is over now; I have learned to walk using the cane. It wouldn’t have been possible without Jeremy.

  He is here with me in the hospital since the day I came out of the coma. Day in, day out, all the time, really—when I wake up in the morning, when I go to sleep, in the physical therapy, in the bathroom.

  Is that weird?

  It seems weird.

  It’s frustrating at times, but also nice to be taken care of.

  He is right here now, sitting on the chair beside me, peeling oranges while I am busy reading a business magazine in my hospital room, which I have turned into a library. There are books ranging from history to current events, magazines from the business world to gossip, and newspapers all the way back to five years. I need to feed myself knowledge. I need to know as much as I could about what’s happening in the world and what has already happened resulting in the present. I was in a coma for two months. It’s not a long period for the world to change, but for me everything is new.

  I finish the magazine and tosses it in the pile I have already read.

  Jeremy offers me a platter of oranges, saying, “Dr. Maverick said they are good for you. They have vitamin C, riboflavin, and calcium. Have some, sir.”

  “Would it kill you to not call me sir? It’s embarrassing . . . for both of us. How many times do I have to tell you this?”

  “Then what should I call you, sir?” he says, slicing the apples now.

  “Call me by my name! My name has a nice ring to it. Don’t you think? Brandon Bryce. Yep, I can hear it.”

  “I probably shouldn’t. I still remember the last time I said your name. And I don’t have the tendency to make the same mistake twice.”

  Oh, boy! What did I do to the poor guy last time? Should I ask? Probably not. I do want to know more about me. Maybe I should?

  “What happened . . . last time?” I say with my fingers crossed, hoping it to be not worse than yelling at him.

  “Well, if you must know, you tricked me into saying your name. You acted all friendly. ‘Come on, Jerry. You are part of my family. It doesn’t suit me when you call me sir in front of my friends.’ And then . . .”

  “What happened after that?” I ask when he abruptly stops, which shake him a little. He must be reliving that memory.

  “After that, you called me some curse words, dock $50 from my pay, and canceled my Sunday holiday. I am used to the yelling and occasional pay cut, but making me work on my day off was too much. You know, it’s difficult to find someone my age to go on a date with, but after two long years, I had gotten a date—thanks to Tinder. And somehow, you knew, and decided to ruin that for me.”

  Oh, God! I am a prick—was—maybe still am.

  I rub my hands on my face, and then, folds my arm in front of my chest.

  I wish I haven’t asked Jeremy to call me by my name. I regret knowing what I did to him. Cockblocking an elderly—what a cruelty? And he is still taking care of me like his own flesh and blood. If I were in his place, I would have poisoned my boss a long time ago.

  “Here, have some apples. I handpicked them from the farmers’ market today. They are very sweet. I know you don’t like the skin, so I peeled it off.”

  I am knee-deep in guilt, and he is trying to feed me fucking apples. No complaints. No altercation. Does he even know what I monster I was? Or still am? Why is he taking care of me? Is he in my will? Do I even have a will?

  “Did I ever apologize to you?” I ask.

  “That’s funny.” He sniggers. “I see you are getting your sense of humor back.”

  Which is enough for me to know that I didn’t.

  “It’s not funny, Jeremy. From what I hear, I didn’t deserve you. You should have left the job way back.”

  “And go where? I am in my early 60s. There are not enough job opportunities left for me.”

  I take a deep sigh and grasps him by his shoulder. “I am sorry for the torture I put you through. From now on, I promise I will treat you with the utmost respect. And if I ever cross my boundaries with you, you have full right to slap me.”

  “And there is that humor again I was talking about.” This time he couldn’t control his laughter and have a hearty laugh at what I said.

  “I am not kidding. I wish you had taught me a lesson when I first cursed you. I am sure I wouldn’t have minded. You are like my dad—probably my granddad.”

  And he scoffs.

  Yup, I compared him to my dad, and he scoffs at me. It’s insulting. But can I blame him? Who knows how worse I was to my friends, my family, or for that matter my actual dad?

  Which reminds me. Why the hell nobody ever visits me here? I defeated death, and not a single flower. Not even a petal. Do I even have parents?

  “Jeremy, are my parents alive?”

  “Oh, yes. They are very much alive. Debbie and Larry are wonderful. When I first met them, I couldn’t believe they were your parents. They were so nice, and you were . . . you.”

  “If they are so nice, how come they never visited me? Don’t they know I am here?”

  I am hurt and very much disappointed with my parents. Here, I am practically learning to walk all over again, and they didn’t even bother to visit me once. Not even a phone call. How nice of them? If I have a will, and they are in it, I am striking them off.

  “If they were aware of your accident, I am sure they would have come.”

  “What?! You didn’t tell them?”

  I know I said I will treat him with the utmost respect, but he is making this very difficult for me. I am this close—this close—from biting his head off. I could have died, but he didn’t bother to inform my parents.

  “After what happened last time, I didn’t have the courage to call them. I am sorry.”

  Again, with the last time. I think nothing good starts with that in my life.

  “Give it to me. How bad was it?”

  I take a deep breath and prepare myself for the story I believe wouldn’t have ended well for my parents. I mean, how worse could it be? Nothing can top making Jeremy miserable.

  “It’s bad. Very bad.”

  Oh, no! Did I hit them? Did I cuss them out?

  “Last year, they visited you from Chicago at Thanksgiving to surprise you and you didn’t even open the door for them.”

  “That’s it!” I laugh. I thought it’s going to be another disaster, but it’s not even worth mentioning. “Of course, I didn’t open the door for them. I could have, but it was your job, remember? I am sure they wouldn’t have minded when you opened the door instead of me.”

  Jeremy shakes his head in a no.

  “You didn’t let me either. They waited for half an hour in the hallway. They knocked; they called; they rang the doorbell, but you gave them no answer. You left them a message later and broke all the ties with them. You said they were too clingy. I cannot imagine the shock they must have suffered on receiving that text from their only child they so much adored.”

  I look around the room to find something sharp to stick in my heart, but there is nothing in here that could get that job done. I pull the sheet over my head to hide my
embarrassment and closes my eyes.

  What in the world did I do that for? I broke up with my parents because they were clingy? Isn’t that every parent's job? Even if one day they forgive me, I would never be able to forgive myself.

  I told you earlier what I prick I was, remember? Yeah, delete that. I am an asshole—the biggest one, covered in hemorrhoids.

  “Is that why nobody visits me? Did I spite everybody around me?”

  “Not everybody. You are awfully good with your friends.”

  “Really?!” I pull the sheet down my face. “I have friends?”

  Finally—a beacon of hope. I was not a total monster.

  “Many high-profile friends.”

  “Wait! Then how come I have never seen anyone around here?”

  “I think you already know that these are the friendships of convenience. You scratch my back, and I scratch your, kind of thing. There is no real heart and soul in friendship these days like it once was in my time.”

  “So, no friends. Just some contacts.”

  “Yes . . . No, wait! I forgot about Mr. Grisham.”

  “Who is he?”

  “Todd Grisham. Your best friend since childhood, and your business partner. He came to visit you a couple of times when you were in the coma. He had some previous business engagement, so he went out of the country. I left him a message that you are awake now, but I haven’t heard back from him yet.”

  Some friend!

  I am devastated to know that I have no one in my life. I had driven my parents away, my friends are opportunists, and the woman I dreamed of is not real. How will I ever recover from this?

  Jeremy must have sensed what’s going on in my mind as he says, “Sir, you touched death and returned back for some reason. Don’t think of your amnesia as a curse. You can now be the man you want to be. Your mind is a clean slate now. Make new memories. Write whatever you wish on it.”

  He is right. I am not the same person I once was. That Brandon Bryce is gone. He died in that car crash, hopefully never to be returned. Now, all I have to think is what should I do with my second life.

  Chapter 6

  ONE WEEK LATER

  HOW AM I DOING?

  Fine. Thank you for asking.

  I can walk again without any support. Though my muscles are still weak, Jeremy has assured me that his pork chop would take care of it. And he has thirty-six different recipes to prepare it. So, it looks like I will be on all pork chop diet from now.

  I am all packed and ready to leave. While Jeremy completes the formalities for my discharge, I sit on a couch at the waiting area with a newspaper spread before my face.

  “Is there some interesting news in there?” A sweet voice of a woman lands in my ears.

  I don’t bother to look up, and say, “Nah! Except for the news of a bank heist, there is nothing special. Just the usual shit. Who is dating who? Who broke up? Who patch up?”

  “Really? I see an interesting advert here. Brandon Bryce is looking for a beautiful blonde with long legs, mesmerizing eyes, and big boobs.”

  I pull the newspaper down and find her sitting next to me.

  She is here.

  After so many days.

  When I have started to believe that she was only a dream.

  I scooch sideways on the couch in excitement and glance in her beautiful, blue eyes. “You are real?!”

  “Of course, I am.” Her eyes narrow as she blows me a pouty kiss from those raspberry red lips I want to suck.

  “I thought you were just a dream. An erotic dream. You just disappeared like you never existed.”

  “I didn’t disappear. I have been coming here every day to meet you, but you were always busy. Sometimes with physical therapy, but most of the time with your head buried in books.”

  “Why didn’t you come to say hi?”

  “I wanted to. But your old friend is always with you like a shadow. I don’t feel comfortable with him around.”

  “Who? Jeremy? He is great. He nursed me back to health.” I catch Jeremy coming back through the corner of my eyes. “Speak of the devil, and he shall appear.”

  “Did you just call me a devil?” Jeremy is shocked—as he should be—on being called a devil after everything he has done for me.

  “Yes. But you took it out of context.” I explain, my whole-hand pointing her. “Jeremy, meet . . .”

  “Meet who?” he asks.

  “Her . . . She was just here talking to me.” I stand up, look around. But I don’t see her anywhere. “We were just talking about you. Didn’t you see her?”

  “Yes . . . Yes, I did,” he stammers. “But I thought she was just a stranger. Had no idea she was that girl, duh!”

  “We have to find her.” I hold on to Jeremy’s arms and shake him violently to instill some of my excitement into him.

  “Absolutely. We need to split up. Why don’t you look around in the hospital while I stay here and cover the exit?”

  “Good idea.”

  I love Jeremy’s idea of covering the exit. Very thoughtful of him. This way, she will not get out of my life again.

  The hospital building has seven floors, and I have thoroughly searched each one of them. Every general ward, children room, ICU. I even peeked inside the operating room and threw up in my mouth on seeing an open-heart surgery being performed.

  But she is nowhere to be found.

  There is, however, one place left where I haven’t checked yet. I believe Jeremy can help me with that, so I come back to the reception area.

  He is on his phone—probably chatting on Tinder. He takes a big gulp when he sees me standing over him.

  “I had one eye at the door all the time. No tall blonde has passed through,” he says hastily as he puts his phone away.

  I am getting somewhat suspicious of him. I raise a brow and ask him with authority. “Are you sure?”

  “Absolutely,” he exclaims.

  “Then, she must be there,” I mumble. “Come on, follow me. I need your help.”

  “I CAN’T GO IN THERE. So, you have to.”

  “Excuse me! And I can?”

  Jeremy and I are outside the ladies’ room. I thought he would be supportive, but he is not ready to get in.

  I tap on his shoulder and cock my head at the bathroom door. “It will be fine. Just go in, take a quick peek, and come back.”

  “You do realize that I am a man? Old, but still a man.”

  “I know, and that is your superpower if you ask me. If someone in there objects, play dumb and tell them you don’t know where you are. The women in there will think you have Alzheimer.”

  “I rather not. Women are empowered these days—not like in my days when the dumbest one was the most desirable.”

  “Just get in! Oh, for God’s sake!” I open the door and shove him in there. And I put my ear on the door to listen to what’s going on inside.

  “No, you don’t have to call the security . . . I am just an old man . . . I don’t know how I came here . . . I forgot to take my medication . . .”

  Jeremy is doing well in there. No problem at all. He was worrying unnecessarily. No woman in the world would lay her hand on the sweet-looking Jeremy.

  Slap

  I hear a loud noise, like a firecracker exploded in there.

  And then it starts coming in series.

  Slap

  Slap

  Maybe I should check in on Jeremy. I fear for his safety. The noises are getting wilder as if a hunting trip is going on in there.

  Before I could open the door, he opens the door himself and comes out in a terrible condition. His hair is messed up, clothes are out of place, cheeks are red as a plum, eyes puffed up.

  He clears his throat and combs his hair with his hand. “They didn’t believe I have Alzheimer.”

  He doesn’t have to say more. I can see what they did to him. Animals. Savages. They didn’t hold back and slapped him around like the dummy of a self-defense class.

  “Did you see her?” I as
k.

  He looks at me with surprise—perhaps thinking how ungrateful am I.

  “No . . . ,” he says, grinding his teeth.

  “Let’s go to the next one. I have a good feeling that we will find her there.”

  “No!”

  He is behaving like a three-legged pony. Very uncooperative. I literally drag him to the next lady’s room, but he cleverly turns the tables on me by shoving me inside.

  Every head inside spins in my direction.

  Oh boy!

  I try to push the door open, but no luck. Jeremy must be holding on to it tightly—too tightly for my recovering body to kick open.

  I see a woman the age of a grandma washing her hands. Maybe it won’t be too bad if I just explain to her that I came here by mistake. She is mature enough to make other young ladies stop from bringing havoc on my poor self. As the grandma begins drying her face and hands, I gather the courage to go ahead and speak to her.

  But then . . . she gives me a wink and blows me a kiss.

  I am definitely not safe here. I take a gulp and starts knocking on the door.

  “Open the door, Jeremy. I command you.”

  That didn’t come out right. Jeremy is my butler, not Djinn.

  The door of a stall springs open, and steps out a woman wearing a red bandana, black leather jacket, and dusty brown zipper leather shoes. She is about 6’2—same height as me—but has arms the size of my thighs with many disturbing tattoos on it.

  She spits on the floor, looking at me, and then pops the knuckles of her hand, which I can assume is used for driving no less than eighteen-wheeler.

  “Get him!” she says to the rest of the women in the lady’s room.

  I am told I was a womanizer once, but right now, I don’t even know how to talk them out of giving me the same treatment Jeremy received earlier. Women are unchartered waters for me. I don’t know what they like, I don’t know what they dislike. And how accurate is their aim if they kick me in the balls? Speaking of which, I should cover up my balls.

  “For the love of god, Jeremy, open the door.” I repeatedly slam the door with an open palm when I see myself getting surrounded by women, marching forward in what I can only think is some sort of warfare formation. “There is too many of them. They are coming my way.”