Unwritten

by Kiki Hamilton

  “Well,” I mumbled with zero sympathy, “at least you have a job. What do you do?”

  “I’m an attorney.”

  “Uh huh,” I said, like I was only marginally impressed. “You look like an attorney.” Or a model pretending to be an attorney.

  “Something in the water, I guess. My dad, uncle and both brothers are lawyers. Family firm.” His gaze drifted to the front window of the cab. “I didn’t really have a choice.”

  I snorted. “Christmas in Paris. Poor you.”

  The cabbie screamed through another yellow light, his death-defying feat celebrated by the blare of several car horns from pissed-off New Yorkers. I shuddered and focused on the small TV in front of me with two newscasters talking without any sound. I’d grown up in Seattle and traffic there was crazy, but New York took it to a totally different level. Sometimes it was better not to look.

  “What do you do?” Split-second pause as he realized his poor choice of a “safe” question. “Uh… now.” He cleared his throat. “About that night—I’d like to apologize on behalf of my date. She’s a little possessive and had had too much to drink. She’s not usually like that.”

  “You mean vicious and bloodthirsty?”

  He grimaced. “It wasn’t your fault.”

  “I don’t know how my hair ended up in her dinner. That’s never happened before.” I tried not to look guilty. “It seems like I would have noticed.”

  He cleared his throat. “It wasn’t your hair.”

  “I’m not really a waitress, anyway—what?”

  He shook his head. “Not yours. Hers.”

  My mouth dropped on in outrage. “She planted her own hair in her dinner?!”

  “I’ll explain to your boss if you want.”

  For about half a second I imagined him trying to convince Richard that the new face of Chanel was really a witch who had poisoned her own food. I shook my head. “I don’t think that would work.”

  “I’m sorry. But what were you about to say—you’re not really a waitress?”

  “Oh.” Some of the self-righteous steam seeped out of my chest and I mumbled my answer. “I’m a writer.”

  “Really?” He sounded impressed. “I should have known. You don’t seem like the waitress type.”

  My brows pulled down as I wondered if I’d just been insulted.

  “What do you write?” He asked in a friendly tone. “Fiction or non-fiction?”

  “Fiction. Hey Cabbie—” I yelled through the little hole in the plexiglass— “how much longer to get to the airport?”

  “Are you published?” He sounded intrigued that I was a writer, but then, most people were. And why not? It was a cool job.

  I hesitated. “Pre-published. My agent is shopping my manuscript now.” Liar. Those last rejections were the end of list. As of today, I had no—

  The blare of a horn filled the cab. The noise was so loud it drowned out every thought in my head as the side of the cab exploded in a horrifying screech of metal against metal. I screamed as I was catapulted toward Oliver and my body became a confusing combination of fire and ice. I blinked and suddenly I was looking at the sky in a world that was a swirling vortex of white snowflakes. Somewhere close by James Taylor sang ‘Baby, it’s cold outside…’

  Then everything went black.

  Chapter Six

  I’d never have told the cabbie to offer the waitress a ride if I hadn’t recognized her. I’d thought of her more often that I liked to admit over the last two weeks—the guilt about getting her fired still heavy in my chest. And if I hadn’t shared the cab, then the cabbie would never have run that red light and been broadsided by the other car. If I hadn’t shared the cab, I’d be sitting in a café in Paris right now sipping wine with a gorgeous model. Not the nicest person in the world, but arguably one of the most beautiful.

  Instead, I’d spent the last twenty hours in Manhattan General with a knot the size of a golf ball on my forehead, a pounding headache, a sprained back and an ice storm raging outside that had paralyzed the city making escape impossible.

  I sighed and shifted in my seat trying to find a comfortable position, which didn’t exist. I gingerly pushed myself out of the chair and went to stand by Alexis’ bed again. She was on a morphine drip and had been out since they’d brought her back from surgery. Multiple machines continued to feed out information about her condition in the form of moving lines and blinking numbers. There was the occasional shush…ahhh, as if the machines themselves were breathing, to let me know she was still alive.

  The docs had put two pins in her right leg and casted it below the knee. Besides severe bruising on her right side, she had a cast on her right arm too. The car had hit us with such force that my passenger door had popped open and another car, whose path we’d been shoved into, had cleaved it clean off the cab. We were both lucky to be alive. She’d landed on the snowy street—looking all crumpled like a rag doll. But the red blood that spurted from her leg had been all too real. As long as I lived, I would never forget the odd metallic smell that had permeated the air or how sticky and warm her blood felt all over my hands as I’d used my tie as a tourniquet until the medics got there.

  They told me I’d saved her life. I wondered if that made up for getting her fired.

  She groaned and tried to shift positions without opening her eyes. I reached over and smoothed a long piece of hair off her forehead. The hospital staff had been trying to get in touch with her family. Since I couldn’t go anywhere anyway, I’d decided to stay until one of them arrived. It was the least I could do.

  The ring of my cell sounded shrill in the silence of the room and I reached into my pocket to silence it. I walked across the room before answering though I was pretty sure World War Three wouldn’t wake the waitress right now.

  “Oliver? Where are you?” The voice on the other end of the phone wavered between annoyed and alarmed. “I thought we were having drinks tonight.”

  “I’m sorry, Simone, I left you a voicemail—didn’t you get it?”

  “I left my phone in Laurent’s bag and he went to London for holiday.”

  I imagined Laurent LaBelle, Simone’s manager, with his blond hair slicked back, and a brown leather messenger bag slung over one shoulder to match his brown leather shoes. Not for the first time I wondered if there was more than just business between them.

  “Well, in case you haven’t heard, there’s a huge snowstorm here in New York that has turned into an ice storm. My flight got cancelled when they shut the airports down.”

  There was a moment of silence. I could imagine the frown on her beautiful face. “Have you scheduled another flight?”

  I stared at the snow piled up on the ground outside, glistening with a heavy coating of ice. “I can’t get out until the airports open again.”

  “Oliver.” Her French accent always sounded so sexy, even when she was annoyed. “You have to hurry—it’s Christmas tomorrow. You don’t want me to celebrate alone, do you?”

  “No, but—” If I could get a flight to Paris, and that was a big if, then that meant the waitress would not only wake up injured in a strange hospital room, but she would be injured and alone on Christmas.

  “Call right now, bebe, and see if you can get a flight.” Her voice softened. “I need you, Oliver.”

  My back ached and I gingerly ran my fingers over the knot above my left eye, but that only made it hurt worse. The idea of sitting on a plane for seven hours did not sound appealing even if the destination and arrival committee did. “I’ll do my best, Simone.”

  Chapter Seven

  It was the Christmas bells that woke me. They kept jingling like the sleigh bells on the carriage rides we used to take at Hanson’s Christmas tree farm each year when we picked out our tree. But there was something wrong at the farm because a loud voice kept talking over the bells, often using the word stat.

  I SWAM UPWARD for a long time to get to the surface. I’d reach and I’d reach and I’d almost get there—I could s
ee the light shining above me—then something would tug my ankle and pull me back down into darkness and I’d drift away again.

  “SUZY Q – HOW are you?” A cheery female voice asked. “Want to wake up and say hello?”

  I looked around my nebulous world. I didn’t see a Suzy Q anywhere, so I closed my eyes again and went back to sleep.

  “DON’T YOU THINK you should get some rest?” A woman asked in a kind voice. “They said the two of you were just sharing a cab. You don’t have to stay. The subway is running again. It’s Christmas Eve—go home. We’ll keep an eye on her. Her family is supposed to arrive late tonight.”

  “No, it’s all right.” A male voice answered—kind of medium-range and smooth. “I’d rather wait.”

  I’d heard that voice somewhere before. I swam to the top and this time I opened my eyes. Never underestimate the power of my damn curiosity. I’d have to remember to use that in my next book.

  A stranger sat in a chair near me, with mussed black hair and a black coat that looked like he’d slept in it. His head was turned as he gazed out the window but I was too tired to move my head to see what he was looking at, so I stared at his face, trying to decide who he was. He looked familiar but I was quite sure I didn’t know anyone so handsome. Two thin white strips stretched across a vicious cut on the bloodied skin of his cheekbone. A knot protruded from his forehead like he was Cro Magnum man and the skin around his eyes had turned purple and black. How odd. He didn’t look like the fighting type. Maybe he’d been mugged. It was New York City after all.

  “Sad.” My thought escaped my lips in a soft sigh, and he jerked toward me as if I’d shouted. He ran a hand through his hair and leaned closer.

  “You’re awake,” he said in a low, pleasant voice.

  Hello beautiful stranger.

  He reached over the silver guardrail and squeezed my fingers. “You had me worried.”

  I frowned, trying to place him when it all came back to me. Beauty and the Beast. Getting fired. The cab ride.

  “You,” I gasped. My attention shifted from him to me. Where was I? My gaze flitted from the silver bars that I now realized were attached to a bed I was lying in, to the wall-hung TV, to the white board with a name and something else scribbled on it. Warning bells started clanging in my head.

  “Whemy unblun mm?”

  “Don’t try to talk.” He smoothed a piece of my crazy hair away from my forehead in a practiced sort of way. “You’ve been in an accident.”

  At his words I heard a blaring horn, the sounds of a terrible crash, followed by a jumble of screeches and screams, but I was too tired to sort it out so I closed my eyes and let myself drift back into the black cotton.

  IT WAS HIS voice that woke me again later, but when I opened my eyes the chair where he’d been sitting was empty. I’d just decided he’d been a dream when he spoke again, his voice drifting in through the open door.

  “I know, Phil, I know. JFK, LaGuardia and Newark are all shut down because of the storm. I can’t get anywhere even if I wanted.” He paused. “No, she’s been out.” Another pause. “A mess. No internal injuries, but she’s got a pretty serious compound break in her leg, broken arm, and some bad bruising.”

  I wondered who he was talking about.

  “Fine. Just some scratches and one helluva headache.” His voice sounded further away. Maybe he was going to visit someone else’s dream. A young nurse, short and squat, with a halo of curly blond hair held back by a blue headband and dressed in a colorful blue smock, bustled in and glanced at me as she went straight to the monitor trees positioned next to my bed.

  “Hello there. So you finally decided to join us. How are you feeling, dear?”

  I tried to assess how I was feeling but discovered that much of my body had no feeling. How strange. “I…I can’t feel anything. What happened?”

  “That’s normal, we’ve given you some medication to help you sleep for now. You’ve had a little accident. All your vital signs look fine.” She typed some notes into a computer that was connected to the monitoring devices then pushed it to the side. “Can you tell me your name?”

  That was when Oliver walked in. I remembered his name this time. He stood behind the nurse with an encouraging smile on his face. He had two terrible black eyes with a knot above his left brow. A deep gash across his cheekbone had been stitched with black thread. He looked like a banged-up prizefighter. Except his nose was too perfect. I wondered who had hit such a handsome face.

  “Dear?” The nurse snapped her fingers in front of my face. “Your name?”

  I shifted my focus back to Curly.

  “Alexis.” My voice was scratchy and dry. “Alexis West.”

  For some reason Curly was looking at me from the end of a long tunnel and my eyelids weighed about ten pounds each. The bed had become very soft and I was happy to sink into its depths.

  WHEN I WOKE the next time I was alone with Oliver. He had taken off his coat and wore a black sweater that matched his hair and stitches. He was drinking something out of a Starbucks cup and I noticed how perfect his hands were—like a surgeon’s. He smiled when he noticed my eyes were open.

  “Ah, Sleeping Beauty joins us again.” He scooted forward in his chair to let his elbows rest on the silver bars. “And I didn’t even have to kiss you to wake you up.”

  I frowned. “Are you a prince?”

  He snorted a soft chuckle out his nose. “Not hardly.”

  “Then it wouldn’t have worked anyway.” If there was one thing I knew, it was my faerie tales.

  “What wouldn’t have worked?”

  “It’s the prince who wakes Sleeping Beauty, not the Dude-with-Two-Black-Eyes.”

  He smiled. “Well, I guess it’s your lucky day that you don’t have to be subjected to my useless kisses.”

  “Right you are,” I whispered as I drifted off wondering what it would be like to be kissed by him.

  Chapter Eight

  One of the nurses assured me Alexis was going to sleep for a few hours so I finally gave in and took the subway as far as I could then fought my way through the snow back to my apartment. A hot shower never felt so good. My head hurt and my body ached all over like I’d gone ten rounds with the inside of a cab.

  I had intended to come home, call the airlines and get to Paris in time for Christmas, but it was hopeless. Instead of snow, New York was now in the midst of an ice storm—rain that turned to ice as soon as it touched anything. The weight of the ice on top of the twelve inches of snow was causing trees and power lines to fall, making the roads impassable. The hold time just to call the airline was two hours.

  So, I turned around and went back to the hospital. I don’t know why the idea of Alexis waking up alone bothered me so much—but it did. I guess guilt is a powerful motivator.

  “BACK SO SOON?” Shelley, the night nurse, stopped in the doorway to Alexis’ room when she saw me sitting in the chair. She had a stethoscope hung around her neck and held a bunch of clean sheets slung over one arm. “You are the sweet one now, aren’t you? Um hmmm.” Her gaze shifted to the bed. “We cut her morphine so she should stay awake and start remembering things now.” She turned to go and glanced back over her shoulder. “And her parents are supposed to be here around midnight. Um hmmm.”

  A wave of relief washed over me. Once Alexis’ parent’s arrived I would be free to go. Any responsibility I owed to her would be fulfilled. Maybe I could still get to Paris, just a day or two late.

  Chapter Nine

  When I woke up again, Oliver had his head down, typing with both thumbs on his cell phone. This time I was coherent. And in pain. It was clear I was in the hospital and that something very bad had happened. My right leg and arm were immobilized in heavy casts and every inch of me hurt.

  I opened my mouth to speak but a weird croak came out instead.

  His head jerked up, a look of surprise painted across his face. He shoved his phone into his jacket pocket before leaning against the silver bars. “Hey, there y
ou are. I’ve been waiting for you.”

  I tried to smile but even that hurt. “Wha’ happen’d?” My mouth felt like a cotton ball jar.

  He hesitated for a second. “We shared a cab that ran a red light and got hit by another car.” He motioned toward the bed. “Your leg and arm are broken, but you’re going to be fine. There’s nothing to worry about. Your family is supposed to be here tonight.”

  I suddenly remembered—the blare of horns, the car exploding around me, the snowflakes and James Taylor singing about the cold. Like a wave, a new set of memories descended upon me: the mother and daughter in red coats walking hand in hand, the phone call I’d received right before I’d left my flat. The last three houses have passed on your project. Fitz grinning at me from behind the bar. A kaleidoscope of images cartwheeled through my mind. Oliver and his date at the restaurant. Getting fired.

  Reality plunked down on my chest like a giant elephant, crushing me.

  No book deal, no real job and now I’d been in an accident. The trifecta of disasters. Even in my drug-induced state I had the clarity of mind to realize this was the final straw that would force me to move home—which meant I’d have to face the past I’d run away from. I closed my eyes and tried not to cry.

  THEY MUST HAVE reduced the pain meds, because my body felt like I’d gone through the heavy duty cycle in the washing machine and I couldn’t fall asleep again, much as I wanted to.

  Oliver had scooted his chair so he was sitting parallel to my bed with his feet propped up on the bench by the window. His head rested against the back of the chair, tilted up to read the CNN closed captioning ribbon on the TV. His face was battered and bruised and when he moved, it was slowly, as if he were in pain, too.

  I licked my lips. “Why are you here?”

  Oliver rolled his head to glance at me. “Am I bothering you?”