by H. M. Ward
Chapter 3
Mari
I’m in a mental fog as I make my way to the hospital. It's a decent drive to the hospital from Katie and Seth's apartment—plenty of time to think nothing good. My foot is heavy, pressing the gas pedal as far down as it goes. I stare ahead, my eyes darting between cars as I think about things.
Life is too short.
It’s too brief to be afraid to try.
The thing is, I did try—it was Trystan who walked away, and I still don't understand why. Out of nowhere, he was done with me. It didn’t make any sense at the time, and I felt so hurt that I didn’t chase after him. I didn’t try to fix it. Shattered glass can’t be mended. No matter what I do, those fractures are still there. Pieces remain lost or missing. It’s not possible to regain what we once had, yet I still regret not attempting to mend things between us.
I wish things had ended differently, less anticlimactic. I wanted an explosion, a clear reason for the surprise end of our relationship. What I got was a pinhole in a balloon—a slow leak of air over weeks and weeks until there was nothing left—masking the cause of our destruction and hiding it from sight.
I blink and slam the heel of my hand on the horn. I’m flying down Sunrise Highway, trying to get to Montauk Highway. That’s the fastest route, but some nut in a junker cuts me off. I slam on the brake and swear.
“This can’t be happening,” I mutter to myself. I wasn’t even on call tonight, but I’ll get chewed out for being late.
I wail on the horn again. The jalopy moves back into the center lane. I floor it and don’t look back. A few moments later, I’m pulling into the hospital parking lot. As I press the brake and roll to a stop, I can’t believe what I’m seeing. News vans, reporters, and cops are crowding the ER entrance.
Crap. Some socialite totaled her car. The hospital is going to be a madhouse.
I pull straight up to the ER doors and jump out of my car. A cop starts to scold me. “You can’t park here. Hey! You can’t go inside!”
I text Mitchell, a friend I know is working the waiting room this evening.
ME: HELP. NO PARKING. LATE.
A moment later my phone buzzes.
MITCHELL: YOU OWE ME SO BIG.
ME: DONE. TY.
The police officer is scolding me. “You can’t park here. Get in your car and move it.”
I look up at him. “Do you know who runs this ER?”
“Not you.”
I ignore his response. “Dr. Jennings. He’s a bit of a hardass. I wasn’t on call tonight and yet here I am, responding to this emergency even though my best friend just heard her husband go missing in action over the phone. He's probably dead. I need to be with her. I don’t want to be here. You don’t want to be here dealing with this rich brat either,” I jab my thumb toward the ER doors and whoever is causing this commotion. “Let me do my job so you can do yours.”
“I.D.” He barks. I hold it up. He reads it, and his jaw tightens. “Dr. Mari Jennings, as in the only daughter of Dr. Jennings, the hardass? As in the doctor who was in the paper last week for saving that kid at Yankee Stadium?”
“Yeah, that one,” I say as I toss my keys at him. “A hospital employee in brown scrubs will be outside any second. Give the keys to him. He’ll move it.”
The cop shakes his head. “I can’t do that, Dr. Jennings. Your car will be towed.”
“Then tow it!”
Everyone around me is buzzing. It’s that manic hushed whisper, the one that’s so full of tension you know something bad is happening. The hair on the back of my neck prickles. I smooth it with my hand as I shove through the door and run into a mob of people. Every inch of the waiting room is full. I can barely move. I push my elbows out, and start shoving. These people aren’t sick. They’re here to see the rich brat.
I hear them talk as I make my way through the sea of people.
“How do they know it’s him?” A woman with wide hips and clingy clothing leans toward her friend. They’re both wearing sweat suits. It looks like they rolled out of bed and ran here.
“I heard his car was totaled. He’s already dead. They just don’t want to say it.” They continue whispering as I pass.
A few people away from me, a tall, thin man with dark skin laughs, his voice carrying over the roar of the crowd. “There are too many people in here to tell the truth. Imagine the shitstorm that’ll follow that announcement!” He laughs and then shakes his head.
Who are they talking about? I need to get behind the doors and check in at the nurse’s station. Rose is up there. I can hear her stern voice. After over thirty years in this job, she doesn’t take shit from anyone. She snaps, “I’m sorry, but I can’t give you information on his condition.”
I’m too short to see what’s happening. A man steps on me.
“Hey!”
He doesn’t turn around. He’s an ogre of a guy—as tall as he is wide. He’s got rolls of fat down the back of his neck, clearly visible through the thinning black hair he slicked back and plastered to his scalp. He’s wearing sweatpants, a comic book t-shirt and a pair of flip-flops. “He totally smashed the car. There's nothing left—and I mean NOTHING. They’re saying outside that the cops had to cut him out, and he wasn’t moving.”
“Holy shit.” The man he’s talking to is enthralled.
“HEY!” I yell, elbowing him to no effect. The guy he’s talking to looks around his wide friend and inclines his head toward me.
“Yeah I know, right? There is no way they can patch him up this time. Trystan’s a dead man.” He’s smiling as he turns toward me. “Hey, girlie. I didn’t see you there.”
My eyes are wide. Trystan? He said Trystan. I blink, unable to pull the right words from my brain to my mouth. My mind is racing in a million directions at once, trying to make a rational connection—trying to think of another socialite with the name Trystan.
There aren’t any.
I suck in three little gulps of air. My eyes water and I blink rapidly, cocking my head to the side like I’m hard of hearing. “I’m sorry, did you say Trystan?”
He jabs his thumb back toward the ambulance bay and glances down at my badge. “You’re a nurse? Can you tell me if he’s dead? That’ll be news worth selling.”
Before I know what I’m doing, I have my finger in the guy's lower ribs—he towers above me—and I’m poking him. I laugh like my brain turned to Jell-O and melted out my ears. My words come out broken, jumbled, my thoughts moving faster than my mouth. “That guy in the car wreck—what is his name?”
This can’t be happening. Not tonight. My heart slams into my chest, threatening to burst. I stab him with my finger again, and he steps back.
“Yeah, it’s the rocker—Trystan Scott. He got wasted and plastered his brand new Pagani Huayra into a tree. That’s a two million dollar car. It crumpled like toilet paper.” The man suddenly stops talking. He touches my shoulder a moment later. Our eyes meet. “Did you hear me?”
I shake my head. “That can’t be true. He doesn’t drink.”
The guy laughs and rolls his eyes. “A fan, true to the end.”
“No!” I shove my way past them as they laugh.
My breath freezes inside my body, and my lungs won’t move. My heart is afraid to beat, terrified it might be true. My elbows connect with my ribs, and I no longer finesse the crowd. I race through the people, using my body as best I can, jabbing my pointy elbows as needed until I reach Rose at the desk.
“Get your skinny ass in here! Your father's going to tear us in half if you don’t get back there. Like right now.” She holds her hand under the desk and the door buzzes open. I push through, grab a clean pair of scrubs and shove myself into them in one continuous motion.
Another cop grabs me by my shoulders as he kicks the locking door closed. “Stop. I need to check your badge.” I lift it for him to see, noticing for the first time that I’m shaking.
It can’t be Trystan.
The cop scans my badge and lets me pass. �
�You can go. P4 rules, no pictures, no phones, no video. Talk to the press and you know the repercussions.”
“I know, thanks.”
I knew Trystan had a single drink after Tucker died. I saw him wrestle with one tumbler of whiskey for what seemed like forever before finally swallowing it. I don’t think he saw me that night. Everything happened so fast. One day Tucker was watching out for Trystan, managing his career. Then we blinked, and the young teacher was in a casket, disappearing into a grave.
I can’t do this again! I’ve already lowered two people I love into the ground. I can’t lose Trystan, too. Not like this.
My chest feels like it’s tearing in half as I race toward the board. Rose grabs me. “Room three, they’ve got him in there, and Dr. Jennings—“
As if bidden, Dad appears. “Mari, you took your time getting here.” He’s wearing an expression on his face that makes the rest of the staff wet themselves. I’m in for a verbal lashing.
“I wasn’t on call tonight.” It won’t matter, for some reason he wanted me here.
“And you took your time to enforce your point?” He snaps his fingers and points to the floor next to him, indicating he wants me to walk with him.
Rose’s eyes go wide, and she slams her mouth shut. She wants to tell Dad off like you wouldn’t believe. We all do, but he has a right to be this arrogant—he’s the best. That’s why he’s here. He never makes mistakes, and he runs a tight ship.
“I’m sorry, I—”
He flips through a chart that’s attached to a clipboard as he walks. His white coat billows behind his long legs. “I don’t care. When we have a crisis, and I want you here, you come. End of story.”
“Yes, sir.”
He scans the papers he’s holding and grunts. “This isn’t the correct report! Damn it, Rose! Where is it?” He rounds and slaps the clipboard down on the counter then keeps walking. He snaps his fingers in the air. “Get it. Now.”
He barks orders at people, as we pass. The janitor sees him and quickly walks the other way, taking his mop with him.
“Mari, I’m sure you’ve heard about your idiot ex-boyfriend by now. He’s lucky no one else was on that road. What he did was incredibly stupid.” Dad continues talking about Trystan, but I tune most of it out. I learned to do that a long time ago, but it doesn’t stop my stomach from churning like I’ve swallowed a bucket of acid. After everything that happened between us, it can’t end like this.
But it seems it already has.
Chapter 4
Mari
Nine Years Ago
I’m sitting on the bed in my dorm room with Trystan next to me. His dark hair is long, and he tucks part of it behind his ear. He balances his guitar across his lap, smiling at me as he sings. His voice is mesmerizing.
He’s working on a new song. His fingers slide up and down the neck of the guitar creating the music drifting through the air.
Leaning back against the pillows, I smile. For the first time in my life, I’m truly happy. I’m in college, loving my classes, and dating the perfect guy.
Trystan stops suddenly and looks over at me. He doesn’t say anything.
“What?” I laugh at the curious expression on his face. It’s like he’s hoping I’ll buy him a puppy.
“You’re beautiful. Everything about you is beautiful—your face, your body, your soul.” The intensity of his words is palpable. I can feel them wash over me and connect inside me. That connection we’ve always shared is there and growing stronger.
Trystan’s lashes lower as he watches my mouth. He keeps one hand on his guitar and leans in toward me. My pulse races faster as my body heats up. His kisses consume me, lighting me up from the inside out. I don’t move. I let him come to me, pressing his body against mine. His free hand traces my lower lip with the pad of his finger before cupping my cheeks and pulling me close enough to press his lips to mine.
It’s hard to keep things light with Trystan. Every kiss is heated, making me want more. I’m almost there with him, but I wanted to be sure. I want to be certain he loves me. I want to know he’ll stay. He has a reputation that worries me, but he can't fake this, can he? What guy would go through what we’ve been through together for a quick tryst? I push the worry away. It’s been too long, too much has happened to continue worrying about being a notch in his belt at this point.
The kiss ignites and soon my skin tingles all over wanting his hands touching me. I trace his jaw with my finger before dropping it to his waist. I slip my palms under his shirt, wanting to feel him, to slide my hands up his back.
Trystan’s kiss deepens. The guitar slides off his lap and lands on the pillows where he’d been sitting on the floor earlier. It makes a musical thud. My eyes fly open, and I pull away, worried he’ll be upset. “I’m sorry.”
His eyes lock on mine. He doesn’t give the guitar a second thought. Taking my face in his hands, he leans in close enough to kiss me, but doesn’t. He licks his lips slowly, and I swear I can feel his heart beating. “Don’t be sorry. I’d rather hold you.”
I want this. I want him. I don’t want to wait anymore. My lips press together a few times and tremble. He sees it. He knows what I’m going to say. There's always been a connection between us—as if he could read my mind.
He kisses my cheek and whispers in my ear, “We don’t have to, Mari.”
Wrapping my arms around his neck, I pull him down, so his body presses mine into my mattress. I play with the hair that’s falling into a frame around his face. “I know, but I want to. I want you. I’ve always wanted you. Be with me, Trystan?”
He remains slightly above me, holding me with one arm while leaning on his other elbow. The dark gray t-shirt he wears clings to his skin. There’s a tiny hole near the neck on the right side, showing a soft spot of skin—a place I want to kiss.
Trystan's smile fades and his expression grows serious. “I love you.”
“I love you, too.”
Our eyes lock, igniting the rush of emotion flowing through me. He’s nervous, but he wants this as much as I do. Threading my fingers through his hair, I pull his face toward mine. “Kiss me, and don’t stop.”
“Anything you want, my little kiss ninja.”
His lips press to mine once more, and the floor of my stomach goes into free-fall. This is happening. I’m not going to say we have to wait anymore. I know him. I’m confident he’s in love with me, no matter what the tabloids say—no matter what Dad says.
I push the thoughts away and reach for his shirt, tugging it over his head. He pulls it off the rest of the way and tosses it to the floor. When I reach for his jeans, he stops me, grabs both my hands and shakes his head. “Slow down. I want us to take our time. I want to learn every inch of your body, every curve.”
Trystan slips his hand under my back and lifts me off the bed. Once I’m sitting up, he takes my tank top by the hem and lifts it up. After it's over my head, he tosses it on the floor with his shirt. His hands reach for me, and I suck in a sharp breath on contact. My eyes close as my head sways.
I love his touch. It’s perfect, firm and possessive, but soft and gentle. It makes no sense, and yet it’s completely divine.
His palm covers my breast as he leans into me. With one hand, he reaches around my back and unhooks my bra. My heart hammers harder at the thought of him finally seeing me, anticipation competing with uncertainty. My body isn’t anything magnificent. I’m average everything, with mud-brown hair and matching eyes.
That’s the last thought I have on the matter. When he presses his lips to my skin, I gasp. My back stiffens and I fall back into the pillows, pulling him down with me.
Trystan’s kisses feel like he’s worshipping a goddess. His mouth is all over me, tasting, teasing, and caressing me until my hips are bucking against him.
“Trystan, please.” I call his name, begging him in a sultry voice that can’t possibly be mine.
“Slowly, love. Slowly.” He hooks his thumbs over the edge of my shorts, tugg
ing them and my panties off with one swift move.
I lie back on my bed with him above me. His eyes trace my curves slowly, savoring them one by one before his hands do the same thing. He traces patterns on my stomach, forming swirls that lead to the tip of my breasts. He leans in and kisses me before doing it again and again.
I’m so hot. Parts of me scream to be touched. It’s hard to be quiet, hard not to beg him for what I want. I press my eyes closed and bite my lip shut as he kisses my breast. His hand slips down my thigh, resting at the point where my legs meet.
My eyes fly open, and we watch each other. I’m breathing hard, trying not to make a sound when he strokes a finger over me. I can’t keep quiet. I cry out, calling his name.
He grins. “There’s my girl. Stop trying to be someone you’re not. If you’re into it and say things—beg, talk dirty, or whatever—I like that. I want to be with you, with Mari, with the woman who is all passion and promise. Don’t hide her from me, okay?”
I nod and keep my gaze locked on his. He touches my face, gently pushing curls away from my eyes. He leans in and kisses me once more, before reaching for his jeans. He unbuttons them and slides them off quickly, tossing them to the floor. His boxers fall next, and soon, it’s just us, skin on skin.
I let myself feel and love him the way I want. I don’t worry about what I sound like or what he thinks. Trystan encourages me to take what I want, so I do. My timidity vanishes and, for the first time, we’re together. I feel him inside me, as he presses against me, slowly until I can’t stand it anymore. I feel wound too tightly, and every inch of me is on fire.
We’re slick with sweat, and our bodies fit perfectly together. He pushes into me harder, faster. He’s losing control, and I want to see his face. I want to watch those beautiful blue eyes flip from lusty to sated.
His hair is damp and sways as he rocks. My nails dig into his back as I try to hold us together, tighter. I thought I could outlast him, but I can’t. The pulsing within me begins, releasing waves of lust. They wash over me, again and again, bringing Trystan to his climax.
