False Facades (Best Sellers: Best Romance/Humor )

by Martha Greenwood

  Vincent stared at him blankly, eyes moving around the room restlessly.

  "She asked for you, you know." Tristan looked away. "You should see her."

  "I am going to see her."

  "Vincent . . ." Katherine warned.

  "I know!" Vincent glared. He turned back to Tristan. "The only problem is the matter of getting to her room." He glanced over at his mother again. "Can't you arrange for me to transfer over to her room?"

  Katherine narrowed her eyes. "I don't think that will be very proper, Vincent."

  "Oh, come on! What do you think we can do? Unless I manage to roll myself off bed, across the floor, up into hers, I doubt we can do more than –"

  "Alright, quiet!"

  Vincent ignored her and turned back to Tristan. "Then maybe you can carry me over to Sammy's room."

  "Excuse me?"

  "I'm just kidding!" Vincent's smile turned serious. "You, Jack, Will and Caine can all carry me."

  "What?"

  "It'll work! I'm not that heavy."

  Katherine threw up her hands. "Alright! Alright!" She folded her arms. "I'll get them to arrange a bed and move you over to Sammy's room as soon as possible, but I'll have you know, Vincent, that this is the absolute last time that I'll ever give in to your wish. I've really been spoiling you too much."

  Vincent tried to shrug in his reclining position, but it just scrunched up his pillow. "There, there, Mother Dearest. Now please hurry."

  Katherine's lips tightened, but she spun on her heels and walked out of the room.

  There was an awkward silence as Tristan walked over to sit by Vincent's bed. "So you're really okay?"

  "Just fine."

  "Good. Good."

  "So what happened to Frank Westlane?"

  "The police came and locked him up. From his state when he got hauled off, it seems like he finally went off the deep end. I expect his lawyer will plead insanity or that he's mentally incompetent to stand trial. If he does use the insanity defense and they rule that he's not guilty by reason of insanity or that he's guilty but mentally ill, then he'll most likely be committed to a mental institution. Either way, I don't think he'll be getting out any time soon." Tristan folded his arms and leaned back in his chair.

  The other boy's face was stony. "Whatever. He deserves to burn in hell anyway. Being locked up forever is lucky for him." He gritted his teeth. "I don't want to talk about him anymore. My stomach aches just thinking about that -" His fingers curled. "Wished I could have just ripped that moustache off his lip and kneed him a couple times more, disembowel him with my own bare hands, throttle him with – oh, ow. Ow." He pressed his fingers gingerly around his wound.

  Tristan smiled wryly. "Don't we all? But you have to start thinking before you act, Vince. One of these days, your impulsive nature will get you hurt – well, actually, it's already gotten you hurt, hasn't it?"

  Vincent groaned. "Not you, too. Everyone's already nagged and prodded me about this already so alright, I promise to be more reasonable and patient in the future."

  The two boys stared at each before Tristan snorted. "No, you won't."

  "No, I probably won't." Vincent agreed. They grinned at each other before Vincent blinked as if remembering something important. Jerking up, he immediately fell back against his bed in pain.

  Tristan furrowed his eyebrows. "Whoa there! What's wrong?"

  "Almost forgot, but the police just stopped by to ask some questions before. Did anybody bother Sammy?"

  "Both the police and several reporters came by a few times, but Mrs. Grenford gave them the evil eye and told them to come back when Sammy is in a better shape to talk."

  There was a knock on the door then and a nurse stepped in. "Mr. Grenford? Are you ready to be moved to your new room?"

  Vincent grinned and he suddenly seemed much rosier than just minutes before. Tristan's lips twisted in a dry smile as he clapped Vincent against the side of his shoulder. "Well, I guess your lady awaits you."

  The black haired boy reddened slightly, but he turned back to the nurse and nodded. "Yeah."

  * * *

  "Okay, Sammy, how many fingers am I holding up now?"

  Sammy smiled wanly, but she played along. "Three, Will."

  "What is our high school's name?"

  "Crestan."

  "Crestan what?"

  "Crestan High School, Will."

  "Oh, you're smart. You're very smart."

  "Will."

  "Wait. Wait. One more. When was our first kiss?"

  She arched an eyebrow tiredly. "First kiss?"

  "Yes."

  "We never had a first kiss."

  "Wrong!"

  "Oh, come on, Will. When did we ever –"

  He leaned forward and pecked her quickly on the lips before leaping backward in triumph. "Now! Hah! And Vincent will never know!"

  Sammy broke out into a smile despite herself. "Will, you're such a kid."

  Will's beam softened into a light grin. He wrapped his fingers around her hand, lightly tracing her skin. "It's good to have you back, Sammy. The real you and not the crazy, silent one who kept trying to wrap herself into a burrito with the covers."

  Sammy whispered. "Thanks, Will."

  Will darted a look over his shoulder. "Okay, Vince might pop in here anytime and he'd probably launch himself at me, bloody injuries not withstanding, if he sees me like this with you – but oh well. Can't resist. Besides, in his state, I can probably take him." He nodded. "Maybe." He shrugged. "Alright, I should go – but how about one more for the road?"

  He leaned down, puckering his lips, when the door opened.

  "Is Will there? I heard his voice! What's he doing to Sammy?"

  In the doorway, Vincent was sprawled on his back on a wheeling bed with his feet toward the hallway. Sammy caught sight of a black tuft of hair protruding above the pillow and her heart pounded. He tried to twist his head around to catch a view of the room, but the nurse promptly pushed him back down. "Please don't overexert yourself, Mr. Grenford."

  "I can't see shit! Roll me into the room and turned me around so that I can see Sammy. Tristan, is Will in there?"

  Tristan stood outside the door, peering into the room. Will shook his head frantically, cutting his hands through the air in front of him while mouthing "No! Tell him I'm not here! I'm too young and sexy to die!"

  Tristan chuckled. "I thought I saw Will attempting to kiss Sammy, but I guess not. He wants to inform you that no, he's not here."

  A growl rifted through the room and Will backed toward the wall, inching along it as the nurse rotated the bed around. Will curled his lips at Tristan.

  "And oh yeah, he believes that he's too young and sexy to die."

  Will threw up his hands.

  "I'm going to show him young and sexy, that little pervert – Sammy." The words melted away.

  Now that his bed was turned to the proper position with the headboard against the wall, he saw that Sammy's bed was just a few feet away to his left. Sammy nestled her cheek against the pillow and smiled. She was black and blue, obviously exhausted and drained, but she was right there in front of him. Smiling. "Hey there."

  "Sammy."

  Will had already tiptoed out of the room and after the nurse stepped out, the door was gently closed. Neither of the room's patients noticed.

  Sammy murmured, "So I heard that you rammed yourself into a knife for me and fainted from the loss of blood after running around the house like a banshee to look for me."

  "Who the hell told you I was like a banshee? Freaking bunch of bad describing liars."

  She smiled even as tears welled up in her eyes. "Oh, Vince."

  To his horror, his eyes tingled suspiciously and his vision blurred. "Don't cry, Sammy. Too many people have already cried and – ah hell, you're going to make me –" He cleared his throat. "What's this I hear about you not speaking to anyone?"

  Her eyelashes fluttered close and a tear spilled out from the corners of her eyes, trailing down toward
her temples. "Too many things have happened already. Too many secrets have come out into the open – some I – everything's just too painful."

  He kept silent, watching her.

  "Frank went too far. Too far. He – my parents – he –" Her eyes opened in a shocking blaze of anger and regret. Vincent blanched. "I want him to die. I want him to pay. He should have died. He should have." Her chest was heaving and he saw that her hands were quivering.

  "Sammy, calm down. Calm down. He's gone."

  "I know. I just can't –"

  "He can't hurt you anymore. He'll pay. He'll pay. Just don't torture yourself by remembering this anymore, alright?" he persisted. "How about we just put this behind us? Let's move on, Sammy –"

  "Just how the hell can I move on, Vincent?" Her voice lashed out into the air. "He killed my family. He's the one who made me live in absolute terror for so long. Move on? I don't think I can. I can't. Don't you understand? It's impossible." Sammy turned her head back to the ceiling and gnashed her teeth. "It's not fair. He should die. He should have." Her hands were tightened in fists, her thumbs along the outside.

  Vincent suddenly recalled their Training classes together, where she learned how to defend herself. "You could break your thumb if you tuck it under your fingers like that." Had Tristan or he taught her that? Eons ago. He no longer remembered.

  He clenched his jaw and his eyes fell away from her, tracing the pattern of shadows along the wall. He whispered lowly, "Had I known you would be in so much pain, I would have prayed –" He swallowed hard. "I would have prayed that you would have forgotten everything."

  Her eyes flew toward him, startled. He maintained his stolid gaze on the ceiling above him. Her eyes softened with tears and her words tumbled out in a jumbled mess, "Vincent. Vince. Oh, when I first woke up and realized – everything – it was so overwhelming. I did – I did almost wish that I had amnesia – or something - anything. I wished – wondered why it didn't happen like the movies – like the books – why I didn't slip off into a coma or – or forgotten everything – why I was cursed to remember every single detail so vividly, so – so right there – clear in my mind. Vincent. All I wanted was to just forget."

  Vincent closed his eyes tightly and his voice was hoarse. "Sammy."

  "But – but then I realized … that had I actually forgotten what had happened, then there might have also been a great possibility that I would have lost all memories of my escape – of you. You and your violent tendencies."

  Vincent swallowed and smiled weakly even as he blinked frantically, willing himself not to bawl like his sister. "Gee, thanks."

  She smiled back through her tears. "The point is – is that perhaps it was a blessing after all. Had I – had I forgotten you as well, then – I – then – well, that wouldn't have been a good thing, would it?"

  His lips parted and he looked away for a minute, licking his lips and pressing his fingers against his eyes. The corner of his lips tipped up in a lopsided grin when he finally glanced back at her. "No," he murmured. "No, that wouldn't have been a good thing at all."

  She laughed and cried at the same time while he cursed fluently. "Damn it! I can't even get myself up into a vertical position. Maybe – maybe if I just roll myself off the bed – and you kind of leaned down?"

  She knitted her brows. "What? Why?"

  He sent her a feral grin. "Eh. I just really want to kiss you right about now."

  She turned pink, but she pressed her lips tight to prevent a smile. "Oh. Is that all?"

  "What do you mean, is that all? It's a very important all."

  "What? You're not making sense again."

  "I make perfect sense. All's important in kissing you."

  She blushed hotly. "Stop it."

  "You know you like it."

  She covered her face. "Stop making me laugh. My ribs can't handle it."

  "Oh. Speaking of ribs, I'm kind of hungry."

  "Excuse me?"

  "What? I haven't been eating much in a while since I was too busy worrying about you."

  "That's what the IV bag is for!"

  "What? This little bag of fluid?" He scoffed. "At least give me the jumbo size or something. Hey, do you think I could call the nurse and ask her to maybe super-size it?"

  "You must be joking. It's not McDonalds, Vincent."

  "Well, I can't help it. It's not working for me. I'm still dreaming about a nice juicy cheeseburger, crispy French fries, velvety chocolate cake, pizza with everything on top, and oh! Oh! Sushi. Haven't had that in a while."

  "Stop it. You're giving me cravings now."

  "Cravings, eh?"

  She narrowed her eyes. "You've been hanging out with Caine too much, haven't you?"

  "Yeah. Sorry."

  He smiled at her, then reached his hand out toward her.

  She eyed him weirdly. "What?"

  "Well, if I can't hold you, I'll just have to be satisfied with holding your hand instead, right?"

  She turned pink again, but reached out to slip her hand into his. He entwined his fingers through hers and pressed their palms together. Their hands dangled in the space between their beds as they stared up at the ceiling.

  Vincent sighed. "Okay. Not working at all. Now I'm half tempted to just yank you out of bed."

  "What?" She tried to wrench her hand out of his and he snickered, tightening his grip.

  "Kidding, kidding." His voice rumbled low in his chest, lilting softly. His fingers caressed her knuckles and she settled down, still eyeing him out of the corner of her eyes. Then she started with a loud gasp, pulled her hand out of his, and tried to sit up, clapping her hand to her forehead at the same time. "Oh -! Owow!" She fell back in agony.

  "Wha -? Ack!" Concerned, he jerked up as well before promptly collapsing backward, clutching his stomach in anguish. "Shit, mother–"

  She heaved between breaths of pain. "How could I have almost forgotten?"

  "What? That your ribs will puncture your insides if you try to sit up? Yeah, same goes for me and my stupid cut." Beads of sweat dotted his forehead as he checked to make sure he hadn't completely split his stomach wide open.

  "No. Terry."

  Chapter Thirty

  "Red." Frank Westlane's head lolled back and forth. He rubbed his cheek against the wall. "Red. Red. Red. Red." He tried to tug his arms free, but the shirt they gave him didn't seem to have any openings. His limbs felt like an entangled mess. The red swept over him. He jerked his head back and gurgled. "Get it off me! Get it off! I'm suffocating!"

  Keys jangled and the door flew open. A man in all white stood in the doorway while two others rushed in and tried to hold Frank down. Frank thrashed. "Help me! The red!"

  The man didn't blink, merely clasping his hands in front of him. "Mr. Westlane, take a deep breath and calm down. The room's all white. Your clothes are all white. There's nothing red."

  Frank's eyes darted around and he craned his neck, swallowing hard as he scrutinized his clothes. They were spotless. "But – but it was just here a second ago. I –" His eyes burned and he squinted. The glare of the white walls, his white uniform, the man in white – it was blinding. Whining softly, he squeezed his eyes shut.

  "Father, you won't believe how much I made for you –"

  "Claire gave birth today. James is the father of another beautiful baby," Terrence Westlane beamed from his desk.

  "Oh. Well. Congrats to the happy little family. Now Father, did you know –"

  "They named him Terry – after me. A little twist on my own name. Frankly, I've always thought having multiple names running through generations is kind of old-fashioned and corny, but they said they really wanted to call him Terry so of course, I had no choice but to give in to their wishes." He coughed gruffly, running his hand over his reluctant smile. "Though if they really wanted to name him after me, they should just take Terrence. I think it's a much more solid name than Terry, don't you think?"

  Frank forced a smile. "Well, then when I have a son, I'll name hi
m Terrence –"

  "Nah, that won't do. There's already Terry. It'll be confusing –"

  "But I want to, Father."

  "It's a small matter, Frank. Just pick another name. You don't have to copy your brother all the time."

  "Me? What are you talking about? Oh please, Father. If anything, it's James who's always – hell, he even took Claire away from me!"

  "Now you're being delusional."

  "I'm not delusional! Why must you always take his side? Why can't you ever smile at me? Be proud of me? What does James have that I don't?"

  Terrence stared at Frank. "It's not a matter of picking favorites, son. James might not be as ambitious as you or as rich as you, but if you're talking about happiness and about truly living life, then James has always had his priorities straighter than you do."

  "So what? Are you calling me a failure in life?"

  "For crying out loud, I'm not saying that –"

  "I'm a failure. That's right. The idiot son who blindly slaves away for you while James frolics away, making babies and kissing your ass."

  "Frank –"

  "If you love them so much, why don't you just up and die and leave them all your money then? Give good little James and his brats all the money you've hoarded away – that I helped you work for! I certainly don't need you! I don't need anything from you!"

  Frank's hands jerked in a spasm, his palms sweaty in the enclosure of his shirt. "Wait, no. I need the red. I need it. It's mine. I need it."

  The man in the white stared at him. Frank swallowed as he looked around the room. No color. Nothing.

  "What did you do to me? Where's the red? Where is it? Why did you take it from me? Why did you leave me –" Beads of sweat dotted his forehead as he tried to jerk free from the men's grasp.

  The man in the doorway spoke calmly. "Mr. Westlane, why do you want the red?"

  Frank blinked and he tried to lean into the wall, his legs curling and folding underneath him. "Because it's the only thing I've ever had." Shakily, he pressed close into the soft walls. "It's the only thing he's ever given me."

  "Who? Mr. Westlane, who are you talking about?"

  Terrence Westlane stared at him in shock and blatant disgust. "How can you even say such a thing? You're starting to be right, Frank." He shook his head. "You've become such a disappointment."