“I doubt it. You have to remember, it’s not just the cops who know. It’s also every firefighter and paramedic who came to the scene. People at the hospital. The people who were down there with you. Their families. We aren’t going to be able to control this story as much as we’d like. We’re trying to get ahead of it, but reporters are going to be rabid over this. They’re gonna want photos.” He gives me a look. “Which reminds me, you need to shave.”
“Who cares about the beard?” I run a hand over the facial hair I’ve gotten used to. “I’ll shave before I go back to my team.”
Lance shakes his head. “You look like a homeless guy, bro. And you’ve dropped weight. The less you look like you did before you disappeared, the more the media will want photos.”
“Fine, I’ll shave. But I’m not staying here for days without leaving. I need to go see Erin and Matias at the hospital.”
“I checked on the kid,” Lance says. “Apparently, he’s stable.”
“Good. And you arranged for his family to get here?”
My agent nods. “I set them up in a hotel and told them all Matias’s medical costs are being covered.”
“Thanks.” I stand up and pace across the room, restless. “Can you get me Erin’s number?”
“She’s one of the people you were trapped with?”
“Yeah. Erin Morrison. I’m pretty sure that’s her last name.”
“I’ll do my best.”
Dad stands up and looks between us. “Why don’t I make some breakfast? Anyone besides me hungry?”
I nod and Lance smiles.
“That’d be great. And Derek, we can go over contract details and give your coach a call.”
I rub the back of my neck and exhale as Dad walks into the kitchen.
“Yeah, I’m up for that,” I tell Lance, “but can you get me Erin’s number first?”
He just looks at me silently for a couple seconds. “You want me to get it right now?”
I nod. “That’d be great, man.”
“What’s going on between you two?”
I scowl at him. “Are you my agent or my mother?”
“Sometimes, I feel like both.” He rolls his eyes. “Jesus. You want me to dial the phone for you too? Get you a snack?”
“I pay you to do shit like this,” I fire back. “You got me that actress’s phone number when I asked you to.”
“Actually, you’re not paying me shit. I’m here out of the goodness of my heart.”
“Quit acting like a little bitch. You know I’ll pay you when…I’m alive again.”
I shake my head at how fucking strange that sounds.
“I missed your punk ass,” Lance says as he types out a text.
“Did you cry at my funeral?”
“You know it. You’re my highest-earning client.” He smirks.
He’s reading an incoming text, and I say, “Did you get her number?”
“For fuck’s sake, Derek, it’s been like a minute and a half. No, I didn’t get it yet.”
“Well, quit talking and get to work.”
“You know what…” He shifts in his chair and glares at me. “Does this chick have naked pics of you or something?”
“If she did, she wouldn’t be the first,” I admit. “But no.”
Lance nods toward the bathroom. “Go shave that shit off your face.”
I turn that way. “You better have that number when I get back, or you’re fired.”
I’ve threatened to fire Lance at least thirty times in the decade he’s been my agent. He knows I’m kidding. Lance is one of my best friends—one of the few people I trust completely.
“Go ahead, man. Let somebody else deal with the headache of bringing you back to life.”
I laugh. “We both know you’re loving this. How many agents get to call the NFL brass and tell them a dead player is actually alive and well?”
He grins. “Yeah, it is pretty cool.”
I shave and scarf down the bacon, eggs, and toast my dad serves up in his small, modern kitchen. Lance is buried in his phone the whole time, typing out emails and texts in between bites.
“Are you rebuilding the lodge?” I ask my dad.
He shakes his head. “I haven’t even thought about it. I’ve just been trying to get through.”
“I’m sorry about this whole mess.”
“It’s not your fault.” The corners of his lips turn up slightly. “I can’t believe this whole thing went down because you had a doomsday bunker built for me.”
“I thought you’d like it.” I grin at him.
“Hell yeah, I would’ve. I mean, I do.” He gives me a puzzled look. “Will you keep it? Rebuild on the same land?”
I shrug. “I can’t imagine building anywhere else. It feels like home. I’m gonna have the bunker fixed so it’s not possible to get locked inside.”
Dad crosses his arms, considering. “We’re gonna have a shitload of gawkers coming by.”
Lance carries his empty plate over to the sink and sets it inside, then thanks my dad for cooking.
“I got the phone number for you,” he says, turning to face me.
“Thanks, man.” I look around for a second, then remember I don’t have a phone anymore. Mine was blown to shit in the explosion. “Hey, can you go buy me a phone?”
My agent glares at me. “No. We’ve got more important shit to do first.”
“You want me to go instead?”
“Fuck.” He looks up at the ceiling. “You’re my most pain in the ass client, Heaton, you know that?”
“I’m gonna need to borrow the money for it, too.”
“Christ.” He scowls at me. “I’ll go buy you a fucking phone soon, okay? Right now, we need to call Tom.”
“Yeah.”
I’m looking forward to telling my coach his star quarterback is back from the dead. We’ve always mostly gotten along. I run my mouth on occasion, but he knows it’s my way of cooling off after a stupid fucking loss that should’ve been a win. Tom’s got a hot temper himself sometimes.
Lance and I go into the living room and sit down on two armchairs with a small table between them. He dials Tom and puts the phone on speaker.
“Lance,” Tom clips in his no-nonsense tone. “What’s up?”
“Hey, I’ve got some news for you.”
“Yeah…?”
Lance gives me a quick glance before continuing. “It’s probably gonna come as a shock.”
“Nothing shocks me, kid. I was a combat Marine.”
Damn, I missed him. Tom pulls no punches, and I respect the hell out of him.
“Hey, Coach,” I say.
There’s silence on the other end of the line.
“Coach?” I repeat.
“What the fuck? Who is this?”
“It’s me. I’m alive.”
After another silence, Lance says, “Can we set up a meeting sometime soon?”
“This afternoon.” Tom’s words are a statement, not a question. “My office.”
“We’re trying to avoid the media storm that’s about to hit.”
“My house, then,” Tom says.
“Great,” Lance says. “I’ll text you a time after I set up a flight.”
“That video,” Tom says, his tone awestruck, “that was really you?”
“Yeah, it’s me, Coach.”
“You looked like shit, Heaton. Where the hell you been?”
Lance smiles at me across the table between us.
“We’ll catch you up on everything this afternoon.”
He ends the call and stands up.
“Still waiting on that phone,” I say.
“I’m going.” He gives me the finger. “What’s the deal with this woman, anyway? Why are you so set on reaching her?”
Because I miss her. Nothing seems right now that she’s not with me all the time. And I’m pretty sure I’ve never wanted to talk to someone so much in my whole damned life. I’m not telling Lance any of that, though.
&nbs
p; “Just get the phone, asshole. And hurry up.”
He doesn’t protest this time—he just walks out the door, middle finger in the air.
Chapter Twenty-One
Erin
The closer I get to the Denver hospital I’m driving to, the more worried I get.
Matias has been on my mind constantly since leaving the bunker. I know he’s in good hands now, but he was so sick when we were rescued. I need to see him with my own eyes.
This early-morning solo road trip was a welcome break from the nonstop action of the past few days. My family swarms around me, still marveling that I’m alive. They all want to feed me and ask questions about the bunker and the people I was stranded there with—particularly Derek.
Derek sparks the most curiosity because he’s a famous pro athlete, I know that. But every time I talk about him, I feel like my flushed cheeks must be giving me away. I can’t think of Derek without remembering how it felt to have his warm body wrapped around me, or the way his mouth felt on my skin.
I miss him. I’d gotten used to our little underground world, and having so many people around now is overwhelming. It’s good to be near my family, but there’s always some curious neighbor or family friend knocking on the door to come visit, and their phones have all been ringing steadily.
I didn’t get my phone back when we were rescued. I never knew where Kenna put it before we went into the bunker, and I didn’t care enough to wait around and find out. Not many people have my number, anyway. I’ll just get a new phone when I can.
From the look of things, though, that may be a while. There have been half a dozen news vans parked at the end of the long driveway to Morrison Farms since I got home three days ago. Uncle Cal let them all know anyone who trespasses will have the police called on them, so they’re staying off the property.
The couple times I’ve left the farm, reporters and cameramen have chased my vehicle in their vans. I went to dinner with my family at a local diner and had questions thrown at me the entire walk from the car to the diner and back. Cameras were flashing, and reporters were blocking my path. I couldn’t wait to get back home.
The other time I left was to go to the local sheriff’s department for questioning. Again, a caravan of reporters followed me.
I wouldn’t have left the property again anytime soon, but I have to see Matias. So, early this morning, my cousin Logan helped me leave the farm undetected by the reporters. I curled up on the floor of the passenger side of his truck, and once we were out of sight, he had me drop him off at his house and take his truck for the day.
I was released from the hospital right away, but Matias was admitted. Since I don’t know how to reach anyone, I’ve had no information about how he’s doing. It’s making me crazy.
When I reach the hospital and have to drive into an underground parking deck, I only pause for a second before doing it. The old Erin would have turned around and found another, aboveground parking place, no matter how far away I had to go to do it.
I thought about the old Erin as I drove and looked out at the horizon this morning just after sunrise, and as I admired the mountain view in the distance. Before, I would have longed to be free of the city traffic and the hustle of everyday life, wishing instead to hike into the wilderness for a solid week.
But now…I feel different. Not just different about that particular thing, but about many things. I’ve never had close friends. Trusting people has always been hard for me. My aunt, uncle, and cousins are the only people who have never let me down, and they’re the only people I’ve ever completely let my guard down around.
Until Derek.
With Derek, I laughed until I snorted, cried, and shared my deepest anxieties. He saw me—and liked me—in all my completely unshaven glory. No makeup, no sexy dresses and heels, no efforts to impress.
We walked miles around the bunker, talking about everything from politics to eighties music. That first day I walked down the steps into the bunker, not having any idea what was about to happen, I didn’t give Derek Heaton a second thought. I assumed he was an arrogant, playboy athlete.
As the days passed, though, I got to know him for who he really is. No football, no fame, no fancy million-dollar lodge. And I didn’t just like him—I was slowly drawn into him until it felt like we were one. He became the beginning and ending of every day for me. The one I went to when I needed to talk or cry or just lose myself in something more than the sadness for a little while.
That was a different world, though. Down there, I was one of only two women he could turn to. Now we’re back on the outside, and he’s a football star again. The media interest in me is nothing compared to what’s happening to him. News hosts spend hours speculating about where Derek is and how he ended up in a doomsday bunker.
I wonder where he is too, even though it doesn’t matter. Our lives are separate once again. Eventually, he’ll fade from my thoughts, even if I can’t imagine that happening now.
I park and get out of the truck, then pull my Rockies baseball cap down, hoping to keep a low profile here. News vans are also camped out at the hospital, but only because they’re hoping for news on Matias. No one has been given the full story on what’s going on with him, and reporters are speculating about whether he was injured while in the bunker.
The hospital is huge. It takes me a while to find an information desk, and when I do, the woman sitting behind it glares at me over the rim of her glasses.
“No information and no visitors allowed,” she says as soon as I say Matias’s name. “If you’re a reporter, you’ll have to call our communications manager for a condition report.”
“But I’m—”
She puts up a hand. “I can’t help you.”
I turn around and head for an empty bench, sitting down. Logan loaned me his cell phone in case I needed it for anything, and I take it out and key in the passcode: 6969. He’s a real comedian, that one.
With a quick internet search, I find the webpage for the sheriff’s department heading up the investigation into the explosion and our captivity. There are two detectives on the case, and one of them told me I can reach out anytime, even if it doesn’t seem like something they can help with.
“Hi, I’m calling for Detective Harris,” I say to the voice that answers.
“Hold, please.”
After a few seconds, he picks up, saying, “Ryan Harris.”
“Hi, Detective Harris, it’s Erin Morrison. From the bunker?”
“Erin, hey. It’s Ryan, remember?”
“Ryan, right.”
There’s an awkward pause before he says, “It’s good to hear from you.”
“I was actually wondering… I mean, you said to call if anything came up, even if it didn’t seem like something you could help with…”
“Sure, what is it?”
I sigh softly. “I’m at the hospital in Denver. I want to see Matias, but I can’t get past the information desk. The lady thinks I’m a reporter.”
Ryan laughs softly. “Gotcha. Yeah, let me make a call. Can I reach you right back at this number?”
“Yes. It’s my cousin’s phone, because I never got mine back.”
“Oh. I actually have a couple phones we recovered from the scene. Do you want to come by sometime and see if one of them is yours?”
“That would be great, yes. Thanks.”
“Okay. Just sit tight, and I’ll call you right back, okay?”
“Sure. Thanks.”
I watch people walking through the bright, massive lobby from beneath the brim of my hat. There’s a couple holding hands, and it makes me think of the way Derek would reach for my hand sometimes when we were walking on the track.
The same hands that pressed me against the bedroom wall and coaxed me into coming so hard I had to bury my face against his shoulder to muffle the cries of pleasure were the ones that wiped away my tears. Derek’s hands are big, with prominent veins and dark hair near his wrists.
Just thinking ab
out his hands is making my heart pound and my body warm up.
My phone rings, and I’m jolted back to reality.
“Hello?”
“Hey, it’s Ryan. You’re all set. Go up to the eighth floor and look for the security guard by the door once you get off the elevator. He’s got your name, and he’ll tell you where to go.”
I’m taken aback. “Wow. That was fast.”
“That was an easy one. Anything else I can help with?”
“No, I think that’s it. Thank you.”
“No problem.” There’s a pause. “Hey, I was thinking… Why don’t I come pick you up this evening and take you out for dinner? I can bring the phones with me, and you can see if one of them is yours.”
“Oh.” Now, I’m really taken aback. Is he asking me out or just being nice?
“It’ll be painless, I promise,” he says warmly.
“It’s not that, it’s just…there are reporters waiting for me to leave so they can follow me. I had to sneak out this morning.”
“Don’t worry about that. We’ll figure something out. Pick you up at six?”
“Okay,” I say, mostly because I want my phone back. “Just dinner?”
“Just dinner.” There’s a smile in his tone. “See you then, Erin.”
“See you then.”
Ryan seems like a cute, nice guy, but I’m not up for dating yet. Not so soon. The memories of Derek are still so close. I still wake up at night and reach over in bed, expecting to find him there.
Maybe this dinner will help get my mind off Derek. Because when the media frenzy dies down, he’s going back to his old life. His real life. He’ll have more than two women to choose from then, and his mind will be a million miles from what happened between us in the bunker.
I swallow hard, tuck Logan’s phone back into my bag, and walk toward the elevator.
In plain, dark skinny jeans and a gray, long-sleeve T-shirt, I’m hoping I look completely inconspicuous. The eighth-floor security guard just gives me a nod and a smile when I give him my name, and then he points me toward the entrance to the ICU.
My heart sinks. Matias is in intensive care. I’m not surprised, but I was harboring a secret hope that the doctors would know how to make him better right away.
Buried Page 12
