Compass (Siren Songs Book 2)

by Stephie Walls

  “Be careful,” I whisper to her. Her mouth meets mine in a tender but atmosphere appropriate kiss. I swat her butt as she walks away.

  Looking over her shoulder, she calls back to me, “Is your head feeling better?” Waiting for my answer she walks backward to see my face.

  “Yeah. I’m good.” I hope she doesn’t catch my lie.

  “Okay. I’ll see you tonight. Love you!” she sings as she exits the building.

  I shouldn’t have lied to her, but I don’t want her worrying. One of us doing that’s enough. She has plenty on her plate without thinking about how I feel. The truth is my head has continued to pound and has become a blinding migraine.

  I’ve never had a migraine before but based on what I just read on the Internet, I have to assume this is one. Sensitivity to light is an understatement; it’s more like piercing daggers in my eyes over and over. If I throw up one more time, I may find my stomach in the toilet, but I refuse to bail on my clients. I won’t allow Piper to carry any more of the financial load than she already does. If I’m not working with people, then I’m not earning any money. If I have idle time here, there’s no paycheck.

  I’m on staff, so I get a free membership as does Piper. That includes unlimited classes. I don’t use them, but she does. I also get health insurance, a huge plus because most gyms don’t offer those types of benefits to their employees, but Core does. They also don’t have many people on staff full-time, and we’re required to rotate our schedules through the different locations in town. I’ve been here so long the majority of my clientele are at this gym, so I’m only at other locations a few days a month. This is a gig I can’t afford to give up. I make great money doing what I love, but right now, I’d rather be home in bed with the curtains drawn in utter darkness—even the silence in my thoughts hurts.

  The last four hours of the day drag on as if time has stopped. When I finish with my five o’clock, I head to the showers. The echo of the spray hitting the tile grates on me until it hits my skin. I linger under the water longer than I should. The heat is soothing the ache in my shoulders and providing a little relief from the continuous drum in my skull. It’s the closest thing to a reprieve I’ve felt in days. I know the moment I turn off the faucet the pain will return full force and I’ve already taken more than the daily-recommended dosage of aspirin with zero relief. Reluctantly, I dry off to dress wishing I could stay under the stream of warm water.

  My phone chirps as I pull my jeans on but as I stand to reach for it, the world tilts on its axis, and my vision swirls. I steady myself on the lockers, and it passes as quickly as it came.

  Piper: Can you stop by the drug store on your way home?

  Me: Whatcha need?

  Piper: I’m getting a cold. Will you get me some medicine?

  The last thing I want to do is stop anywhere before hitting my couch at home, but she would never tell me no, and if she doesn’t feel good, it’s the least I can do.

  Me: What, nothing in the linen closet to pacify your needs? ;)

  Piper: Nope. I feel like crap. Please?

  Me: Sure Leaving the gym in a few. I’ll stop. Whatcha want?

  Piper: A nighttime formula to help me sleep. I’m wiped out.

  Me: Dinner too?

  Piper: No. Pot roast is ready when you get home.

  Me: See you soon. Love you.

  Piper: Love you too. How’s your head?

  Me: Better. Leaving now.

  Climbing into my truck, I’m painfully aware, I should not be driving. The spots in my vision are distorting my sight. There’s a shrill ringing in my ears so loud I can’t hear the radio over the racket. If it were more than a couple miles, I would call Joey to come get me, but there’s no sense in bothering him and having to deal with getting my truck back tomorrow to get to work.

  I get Piper some cold meds at the corner store, the pack with daytime and nighttime formula, so she has something in the morning if she needs it. Turning toward the pharmacist, I ask him if he can recommend anything for a migraine. He points me in the direction of the pain medications. Picking up the first thing I see with the word migraine on it I head directly to the checkout.

  “Your total is fourteen eighty-seven, sir.” The cashier is young, maybe sixteen or seventeen. Pretty smile. She vaguely reminds me of Piper, she’s beautiful in a natural way but doesn’t recognize it.

  I reach into my back pocket for my wallet, but the moment my fingers touch the leather, my head begins to spin, stars cross my vision, and little specks of silver light bounce around the air in front of me. I brace myself on the counter to keep from falling, feeling like my equilibrium is suddenly off-kilter.

  “Sir? Are you all right?” The panic in her voice brings me back to the present.

  “Yeah. Sorry, I just got a little lightheaded.” Reassuring her with a smile that hurts to give, I pull out the cash needed for the purchase and retreat to my truck. The comfort of the seat relaxes me just enough to feel confident I can make the remaining two-mile drive home.

  Pulling up in the dark, seeing the front porch lights on and some in the kitchen, brings a smile to my face. Even with an excruciating headache, I recognize how happy this makes me. Knowing I get to come home to the most beautiful woman I’ve ever known every night, to our home, her tucked neatly inside, dinner waiting…it’s more than I ever dreamed I would have.

  It’s the little things she does for me that remind me how much she loves me. It wasn’t dark when she got home after work, but she remembered to turn the light on outside to illuminate the pathway. I’m sure she’s set the table and when I walk in she will have lovingly made a dinner that meets my dietary needs and her foodie desires. She puts effort into everything she does to demonstrate to me she loves me. Another reason I couldn’t refuse to stop at the drug store—she’s sick, but instead of going to bed, she waited for me to come home, to have dinner, and go through our nightly routine together.

  Closing the front door behind me with a thud, I drop my gym bag in our bedroom on the floor. “Piper? Baby, where are you?” I call out. Each word an enunciated ache directly to the brain.

  “Kitchen.” The smell of the roast fills the air making my stomach turn. Pain knifes my eyes. I steady myself in the doorway, pressing the heel of my palm to my sockets. The pressure helps to ease the pain just slightly. “Dinner’s ready. How hungry are you?” Her voice sounds funny from the congestion. When she starts to cough, I hear the mucus in her lungs.

  “You sound horrible. Why didn’t you tell me you needed cough medicine? I would’ve gotten that, too.”

  I pull her close to offer her a little comfort. She brings her arms around my middle relaxing into me with her head on my chest. The scent of her lavender shampoo assaults my senses, suddenly searing my nostrils like a pungent stench. My lips kiss her dark hair only to find the top of her head hot and sweaty. I run my hand over her forehead. “You’re burning up. Do you have a fever?”

  She nods against me. All I want to do is take care of her, but I’m having a hard time staying upright myself and the overwhelming smells are throughout the house are making me want to vomit.

  “Let’s get some food and medicine in you. You need to get in bed.”

  She releases me and proceeds to make our plates before setting them on the table. I join her in pushing food around on the plate noting neither of us is interested in eating. “You not hungry either?” she asks with pain-filled eyes.

  “Not really but you cooked, I don’t want it to go to waste.”

  “Does your head still hurt? Normally you’re starving when you get home.”

  “I’m okay. Why don’t you take some medicine and lie down? I’ll clean up in here.” She nods her head in agreement telling me more than her words do.

  “Thanks, baby.” She kisses my cheek and releases my waist.

  She never lets me do the dishes. My wife convinced herself I do a shitty job so she won’t ask me to do them again. She also loves pot roast, and makes the best I’ve ever
had, pull it apart with a fork. Piper didn’t take a single bite.

  Frustrated with the cold medicine I bought her; she thrusts the little plastic covered pills at me.

  “Ugh, I hate these packages. Can you open this for me?” she sounds pitiful.

  I simply smile at her and hand her two of the little blue capsules, which she readily swallows. Piper disappears around the corner returning with a bottle of cough medicine. Taking a spoon from the drawer she measures out a dose, swallows it, and recaps the bottle, leaving it on the counter. I stare in disbelief—she never leaves anything lying around. Ever.

  She catches me eyeing the medicine with raised brows. “In case I need it later, I don’t want to have to rummage around in the middle of the night to find it.”

  “You don’t have to explain, baby. I know you don’t feel well.” I snatch a bottle of water from the fridge, and taking her hand, I lead her to our bed. I hate seeing her this way. It breaks my heart.

  “Do you want me to get you some PJ’s?” It goes against my rule but if she has a fever I’m not going to force her to sleep nude.

  “Please.”

  I want to stop and watch as she shimmies off her slacks but neither of us is in any condition for foreplay, so I go to the dresser instead to rifle through her mounds of clothes. When I return with a flannel set, she shakes her head. “I’m too hot.”

  “Piper, you have to put on something warm, or you’ll get a chill. You have a fever.”

  She shakes her head in disagreement—or hell, maybe she’s just being childish. Fuck, I don’t know. I can’t think clearly and refuse to argue with her.

  I return the pajamas to her drawer in favor of a tank top and shorts. “Better?”

  “Thank you.”

  I watch as her lids grow heavy and droop with weariness. There’s no way the pills could be working already but she’s fighting sleep. With her sitting on the edge of the bed in her panties, I kneel in front of her to help her dress. She stands to allow me to pull the shorts up to her waist then wiggles into the tank top I offer her.

  “Lie down. I’ll clean up the kitchen.”

  She doesn’t argue or even put up a fuss. Climbing under the down comforter, she pulls it up to her chin, closing her eyes.

  “I love you, Moby,” she whispers into the darkness.

  “Love you too,” I reply with a kiss on her forehead, leaving her to sleep.

  My alarm blares through the silence signaling it’s time to start the day. If I could reach it, I would throw it against a wall. Unfortunately, I have strategically placed it on the other side of the room to avoid such incidents. By the time I get up and cross the room to silence it, I refuse to allow myself the comfort of my bed again.

  With Moby at the gym on Tuesday mornings, I’m here alone. There’s no one to ensure I don’t oversleep, and while Cam loves me, she does not approve of anyone being late to work for any reason. She’s a slave driver, but I love working with her almost as much as I love working at Healing Wings.

  Cam and Dax started the foundation after her attack. They wanted to provide a place for victims of sexual abuse to find the help they need for healing. It took them quite some time to get it up and running, but now the facility offers medical resources, mental health care, and music therapy to anyone regardless of their ability to pay. There’s very few of us actually on staff, most of the physicians volunteer their time.

  I never thought I could enjoy a job the way I do being there. Granted, I don’t do the real work with the kids, but I get to see them blossom and grow after horrible tragedies strike. Sometimes I get to see them smile again for the first time or laugh at something silly. So while all I really do is marketing, the patients bring a level of joy I never thought possible to my workplace.

  After turning the alarm off, I don my slippers and robe, noticing I feel almost human today. However, I still must have caffeine. I refuse to give it up even though Moby harps on me almost daily about how bad it is for my body. Putting my mug under the spout of the Keurig, I press start, impatiently waiting thirty seconds for my cup to brew.

  “Piper…”

  Jumping, I throw my hand to my chest and cry out, “Jesus Christ, Moby! You scared the shit out of me! What are you doing home?” He should be at the gym, not standing a few feet away in an effort to give me a heart attack before my first cup of Joe.

  “I need you to take me to the doc-in-the-box.” His voice sounds funny but I can’t place what it is that’s off.

  “Why? What’s wrong?”

  As he tries to come toward me, I see what’s wrong. “I don’t feel very good,” he mumbles. His left leg drags on the floor, his sock making a whooshing noise with each move.

  “Moby. What the hell? Why are you walking like that?” My heart races at the unknown.

  “My leg is numb, and my hand is tingling. I don’t think I should drive.” Left leg. Left hand. His voice muffled because the left side of his face is not functioning at the same level as the right.

  “I’m not taking you to the doc-in-the-box, Moby.”

  He doesn’t let me finish before interrupting me. “Piper, I really don’t think it’s a good idea for me to drive.”

  I shake my head at his misunderstanding. “You need to go the emergency room, Moby.”

  “We don’t have the money for that. Take me over to Doctor’s Rx. If they think I need to go to the emergency room, they’ll send me.”

  I can’t bring myself to tell him what’s happening. I’m not a doctor; I don’t have a medical degree, but I’ve been around enough to know the warning signs of a stroke. I hope I’m wrong.

  “That’s a waste of time and we aren’t doing it. Put some clothes on so we can go. I need to call Cam and tell her I’m going to be late.” Cam isn’t my only phone call, but I’m not divulging that to Moby. He’ll hit the roof if he finds out I called anyone else. I can tell by his nonchalance he thinks I’m overreacting, but I’ll be damned. I’d rather have two thousand dollars in hospital bills for an ER visit and a husband who’s fine, than a fifty-dollar bill for the doc-in-the-box and a dead spouse.

  “Piper!”

  “I’m not arguing with you, Moby. Go.” I never tell him what to do. It’s not who we are. We willingly please the other, so for me to put my foot down and demand he do anything my way gets my point across.

  Frantically, I try to find my cell phone to call Cam when I hear the shower in the bedroom start. Losing my train of thought, I go the bathroom to find him struggling to get his shorts off. “What are you doing?” He dumbfounds me. Moby can’t truly be this daft. Surely, he knows what’s going on with his body. He doesn’t have time for a damn shower.

  “Taking a shower so we can go.” He looks confused, perplexed by my inquisition.

  “You don’t have time to shower. Are you insane?”

  “I’m not going anywhere looking like this.” He ignores my pleas stepping into the stream of water.

  “Oh my God, Moby. I’m going to strangle you. Please hurry!”

  “It won’t take me five minutes, baby. Go get dressed.”

  So, apparently I can go out without showering, but my dear husband has to look his best. For fuck’s sake. Uttering a grunt, I leave the steam of the bathroom. Seeing Moby’s phone charging on the counter, I grab it instead of hunting for my own. I dial as I walk, needing to dress quickly while trying to call Cam and Dax first. With no luck, I leave a message on Cam’s phone then dial Dax. Straight to voicemail; I leave a message.

  Next, I try his parents, both phones ring but no answer. Jesus. It’s six in the morning, and every one of these people goes to work by eight. Fuck! Answer the damn phone—anyone! Panic starts to overtake me as I continue dialing. None of the Fish answer. My parents, nothing. His brothers, nada. For the love of all that’s holy, someone needs to answer the goddamn phone. In sheer desperation, I try my parents one more time. Again negative. Realizing I’m on my own, I drop the phone and put on clothes.

  As I finish pulling my h
air up into a ponytail, Moby comes dragging out of the bathroom. In the twenty minutes that have passed, he’s visibly worse.

  “Do you think you can make it to the car or do I need to call an ambulance?”

  “I think you’re being overly dramatic.”

  I understand the words, but it sounds like he has rocks in his mouth. He tries to smile at me, but only the right side of his lips turn up in a grin. Moby doesn’t realize it, so I don’t bother to point it out.

  “Are you ready?”

  He nods as I grab my purse and throw a jacket at him.

  “It’s cold outside.”

  The wind whips around us, instantly chilling my fingers and stinging my face. While helping him into my SUV, my phone starts to ring in my pocketbook. Not sure why I didn’t think to look there other than my morning has been a tad chaotic. Shutting Moby’s door, I grab my phone to see my dad’s name on the screen. I hesitate to answer knowing how irritated Moby will be when he finds out I called for reinforcement, but if this is what I think it is, I’m going to need someone by my side.

  “Hey, Daddy,” I coo into the phone trying to downplay my panic.

  “Hey, sweetheart. What has you calling so early this morning?”

  Not having gotten in the car, I weigh whether I should brave the weather and tell him standing in the driveway or get in the car and let the chips fall where they may. As in, I’ll have to voice my fears in front of Moby. Since I’m wasting precious time, I opt for the latter.

  Moby looks at me funny when I slide into my seat, the cold leather quickly awakens my sense, so I choose to ignore his silent inquiry. “We’re on our way to the hospital.”

  My dad simply asks if I’m all right, when I confirm I am but don’t offer any additional information he asks which hospital we’re going to.

  “Regional.” I love that my dad has always been able to recognize my needs, even when they’re unspoken. We disconnect with a promise from him to meet us there.