Heartbreak Beat

by Elle Greco

  “Did I just hear—” Devlin barked. “Holy fuck! Get security!”

  From my vantage point on the ground, everything happened sideways and in slow motion. When security pulled Dion off, Jordan’s face was bloody and swollen. Dion shook the guard off of him and skidded to the ground beside me.

  “Hang on, Nik,” he whispered, cradling me to him. Someone was trying to pry the gun out of my hands.

  “You gotta let it go, kid,” Devlin said.

  “I’m fine,” I breathed, releasing my hold on the weapon. Dion ripped off his T-shirt and pressed it against my stomach.

  “What the fuck, Dion,” I groaned as the pain flayed through my belly again. “Am I getting your expensive clothes bloody?”

  “Fuck my clothes, Nik,” he said. “Come on, stay with me, babe. I need you to stay awake, Nik. I need you to stay awake. I love you.”

  “I love you too,” I murmured, closing my eyes. There were a lot of legs surrounding us, and the light coming from above was blinding.

  “Someone fucking call 911!” Dion screamed.

  Then everything went black.

  20

  The beeping was long. It was sustained. It was high-pitched. It was annoying.

  My eyes fluttered open. The bright white around me was blinding, so I slammed them shut immediately.

  Was I dead?

  I shifted my position, and a dull ache in my side became agony. I gasped—my throat couldn’t handle much more vocalizing than that.

  Nope, definitely not dead.

  “Nik?”

  At the sound of Dion’s voice, I opened my eyes, squinting through the bright white to see him slumped in an uncomfortable armchair.

  “You look like hell,” I croaked after clearing my throat.

  “You look beautiful,” he said.

  “You’re lying,” I replied.

  “So what you’re saying is that you’re fine,” he joked, but his exhausted eyes didn’t hold any humor.

  “Is there water?” I asked.

  He poured from the pitcher on the side table into a Styrofoam cup. He lifted it to my lips, and I took a sip, the cool water a relief on my ragged throat.

  “Where am I?” I asked. “And what the hell is that annoying beep?”

  “You’re at Cedars,” he said.

  “In LA?” I asked, pushing myself up on my elbows and immediately regretting it. I dropped back down, moving my IV’d hand around, looking for a comfortable spot to settle. “Weren’t we in Vegas?”

  “You were medevaced to Cedars.”

  “Medevaced? Like, in a helicopter?”

  “Nik, you were shot,” he said. “Don’t you remember?”

  I closed my eyes and tried to recall Vegas. I remembered the gig, the crowd going nuts, the encore with me singing. “Oh God,” I groaned. I’d sang. In front of, like, a zillion people. And Dion. He’d kissed me. In front of, like, a zillion people.

  “You remember?” he asked, sitting up in the chair.

  I shook my head. “Dion, I sang in front of all those people.”

  “That’s your takeaway from all this? I tell you that you were shot, and you’re embarrassed because you sang?”

  “Did I get shot because of my singing?”

  The tension around his mouth released when he smiled. He shook his head no.

  “What part of me was shot?”

  “The left side of your abdomen,” he said. “You really don’t remember what happened?”

  “No,” I said, watching his face darken. “Is that bad? Why do you look like that’s bad?”

  “It’s not bad, Nik,” he said.

  “Stop lying,” I said. “Did you beat up the shooter or something?”

  “Well, actually, yeah. I did.”

  “Well, crap,” I said. “And you need me to be a witness at trial or something, don’t you?”

  “No, the cops believe me. There was plenty of evidence.”

  I watched Dion get out of the chair and begin pacing the room, his brooding silence a little unnerving. “Dion, if I was shot in the gut, why does my throat hurt?”

  “They had you on a ventilator. It scratches the hell out of your throat when they remove it.”

  “A ventilator?”

  “You almost died, Nik,” he said. His eyes went rheumy, and he blinked in rapid succession.

  “I almost died?” I repeated.

  “Vince wanted you treated at Cedars,” he said.

  “Of course he did,” I scowled. “The nurses on Grimm’s payroll can feed the gossip rags information.”

  “Now’s not the time, Nik,” he said. “Vince has been cool. Really.”

  “Okay,” I said, taking a shaky breath. “So, why don’t I remember anything?”

  “Trauma maybe? We can ask the doc.”

  “As long as you’re off the hook,” I said. “Jail isn’t all that friendly to pretty boys like you.”

  He didn’t laugh at my joke. “There were some things we said, just after. I wish you remembered.”

  “Like what?” I asked.

  “Doesn’t matter,” he said. “You’re going to be okay. No long-term damage.”

  “Did the song chart?”

  “What?”

  “Our song. ‘Ruined.’ Did it chart?”

  He gave me a small smile. “It’s holding at number fourteen.”

  “Damn,” I said. “Can’t catch a break. If I’d died, I bet it would’ve hit number one.”

  “That’s not funny,” he said.

  “It’s called gallows humor,” I said, trying to suppress a chuckle. It hurt my stomach.

  “I don’t like it,” he said, his voice quiet.

  We remained in silence for a moment, Dion standing over my bed like the world’s sexiest guardian angel.

  “Here, come sit,” I said, patting the space next to me on the bed. “You’re making me nervous with all the hovering.” He settled onto the edge of the bed, tentative around all the machines. “So, you going to tell me who shot me?”

  “Jordan,” he said.

  “He was kicked off the tour.”

  “Yeah, well, he came back. Looking for revenge.”

  “Didn’t see that coming,” I said.

  “None of us did.”

  “Why’d he shoot me?”

  “Because he’s nuts,” Dion said, as if that explained it all away.

  “And?” I prodded. I knew there was more to it.

  “And we’re pursuing legal action for his involvement in Kyle’s death.”

  “Kyle overdosed.”

  “We think he was supplying Kyle, maybe got him hooked in the first place, like he tried to do with you,” Dion said.

  “What’s Grimm say?” I asked.

  Dion’s jaw set. “He’s not getting involved.”

  “Oh.”

  Grimm’s employee was the one who dosed me and likely supplied Kyle, and he didn’t want to get involved. Nice leadership.

  We sat in silence for a bit. Dion’s fingers brushed up and down my arm while his eyes focused on the IV jammed in my hand.

  “My sisters are okay?” I asked to break the weird quiet between us.

  “They’re fine,” he said.

  “They’re not here?”

  “They were here earlier,” he said. “They’ll be back. They’re both mother-henning you.”

  I wrinkled my nose. “Even Presley?”

  “Especially Presley,” he said, this time giving me a small smile. “The two of them started bickering, so I kicked them out.”

  I glanced around the room. Dion’s clothes were half stuffed in a hospital bureau, and inside the open closet door, I could see his dirty laundry heaped on the floor. A blanket and pillow rested on the chair he had been snoozing in.

  “From the looks of this room, you’ve pretty much moved in.”

  “I wanted to make sure you were okay,” he said, getting up from the bed.

  I grabbed for his hand, but the IV tube yanked me back. “Dion, what’s going
on? You’re being weird.”

  He sighed. “I’m exhausted.”

  “Right,” I said, closing my eyes. “You may as well go get some sleep in a real bed. I’m okay. The doctors have everything under control.”

  “You know what, Nik? You’re a piece of work.”

  My eyes snapped open. “Excuse me?”

  “I saved your ass. I went out there and faced off with a dude with a gun. Dude with a gun, Nik,” he fumed.

  “Dion.”

  But he kept going. “Then I rode in the damn ambulance with you. I covered the wound with my Metallica T-shirt. There was so much blood, Nik. So much fucking blood. I flew in a medevac to LA with you. I’ve been by your side the entire time.”

  “Okay, Dion, okay. Sorry. I didn’t mean any offense. I’ll alert the press that you’re a goddamn hero, okay?”

  “Fuck, Nik, I don’t want to be a goddamn hero,” he snapped. “What I want is for you to realize that I’m not the guy you think I am!”

  The beeping on the monitor sped up as my anger rose. “Fine, hotshot. Tell me. Who do I think you are?”

  “I am not Vince Davis, screwing anything that moves,” Dion exploded. “And you are not some throwaway groupie to me.”

  I blinked at him. “What the hell does that mean, I’m not some throwaway groupie?”

  A nurse rushed into the room. “You’re awake! Mr. Davis, why didn’t you tell us she was awake?”

  He rounded on her. “Because we’re talking here.”

  “Mr. Davis,” she said, squaring her shoulders. Don’t mess with a nurse. “You need to calm down. Her heart rate should not be this high right now.”

  “But—” Dion started.

  “There are no buts,” the nurse continued, her tone sharp. “This woman was shot. Her heart rate needs to be steady.”

  Dion cast his eyes to his feet. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “We’ve given you a lot of leeway,” she said. “No more shenanigans or security will remove you. Understand?”

  Dion opened his mouth to answer, but her exit from the room was swift.

  Dion sank down onto the bed. “Shit. I’m sorry, Nik.”

  “Your Metallica tee? The one from their thirtieth anniversary show at The Fillmore?”

  He nodded.

  “Oh,” I said with a smile. That was an epic concert, and he ruined the prized souvenir he’d gotten to remember the night. “You did that for me?”

  “Of course I did it for you.” He sighed. “Fuck it, Nik. You could have died, and that scared the shit out of me.”

  “Sorry?”

  I wasn’t sure what to say. It wasn’t like I’d asked for Jordan to shoot me.

  “No. I should be the one apologizing,” he said. “It was my stupid-ass idea that got you shot. If I wasn’t going after him for Kyle, we’d be celebrating our Vegas triumph in a Hard Rock hotel suite.”

  “Partying like rock stars?” I asked.

  “I was thinking of something a little more private.”

  My eyes met his. “Dion—”

  “I’ve been an asshole,” he interrupted.

  I smirked. “You don’t say?”

  “And I’m sorry,” he continued. “You mean something to me, Nik.”

  “Dion, I’m your drummer,” I said. “I like being your drummer.”

  “It’s more than that, and I think you know it.”

  “What are you dancing around here, Dion?”

  He took my hand, his fingers carefully avoiding the IV. “I’m saying I want there to be an us, Nik. You and me. Together.”

  “Dion,” I whispered.

  “No, don’t argue with me about this yet. I have to get this out,” he said, his fingers squeezing mine.

  I nodded.

  “When I lost my mom,” he said after taking a breath, “I sat in a room just like this. Same hospital. I had just turned ten. I was pissed—she wasn’t there for my birthday and she’d promised she would be. But she was in the hospital, and…” He closed his eyes, and I gave him a moment’s peace. “Anyway, I laid down next to her in her hospital bed. I was on one side, Kyle was on the other. And I was angry, so angry. About my birthday. About how my dad was despondent. About how Kyle was crying all the time. About how she had no business dying when she had two little kids to look after and a husband who lived and died by her smile.”

  “Dion, you don’t have to—”

  “Oh yes, I do, Nik,” he said. “You said that I was like my dad, neck-deep in pussy. But he was never like that with my mom. She was it for him, and losing her undid him. It undid all of us.”

  He cleared his throat. I squeezed his hand back, to let him know I was still with him.

  “I almost lost you. And it felt exactly the same as it did that day fifteen years ago. But instead of hiding behind my anger, it woke me the fuck up. I am not going to risk losing you. Not now. Not when I know for sure. You are my Claudia, Nik. You.”

  My own breath caught, and the beeps coming from the machine behind me started speeding up again.

  Dion’s head swung around to look at it. “Shit, Nik, the nurse is going to kick my ass out.”

  I closed my eyes and took several deep breaths. When my heart rate leveled, I opened them. His blue eyes were pools of liquid as they held mine.

  “It’s okay if you don’t feel the same way—” he started.

  I pushed myself up with a grunt, the stitches in my stomach protesting. With my IV-free hand, I caught the back of his head and pulled him down to me. His mouth crushed mine in a kiss that electrified my body down to my toes.

  “I don’t care if people think it’s weird,” he said when we broke apart, his forehead resting against mine. “Or if Rafe gets all shitty about it. And I don’t care about Lindsey Buckingham and Stevie Nicks. Or Meg and Jack White.”

  I blinked back tears. “Or Sonny and Cher?”

  “Especially not Sonny and Cher,” he said, rubbing the tip of my nose with his. “I care about you. And me. And us. Together. And if that means Rogue Nation gets kicked to the curb, well, Rafe’ll be pissed, but I’m not going to risk losing you.”

  “Dion—”

  “No, don’t argue with me,” he said. “I know you feel the same way. You have to feel the same way.”

  “Dion—”

  “You don’t feel the same way?”

  “Dion, shut up and kiss me again,” I said.

  “Seriously?”

  I nodded. He leaned over, and his lips touched mine, gentle at first. The kiss lingered, becoming stronger, more forceful. He teased my mouth open with his tongue. Catching the back of my neck with his hand, his mouth pressed into mine harder, his tongue probing my mouth with more urgency. Then his hand moved down, tracing the curve of my breast through the thin hospital gown. I trembled when his hand swept over the bullet wound.

  “You okay?” he asked. “Does it hurt?”

  “A little,” I admitted.

  He pulled back, but I grabbed his hand. “Where do you think you’re going?”

  “I don’t want to hurt you,” he said.

  “I trust you,” I whispered, curling my body into him.

  We’d traveled a long path to get here. We lost each other—and a bit of ourselves—in the process. But I believed him when he said he didn’t want to hurt me. And now I trusted him with my heart.

  “I love you, Nik,” he whispered into my ear.

  “I love you too, Dion,” I whispered back.

  He took me in his arms, careful not to dislodge the IV line or bump up against my wound, and he held me. I fell asleep in his arms.

  21

  “Nikki, wake up.”

  I felt a rough shove against my shoulder.

  “Come on, Nik, wake up.”

  Another rough shove, then music that was playing low in the background suddenly blared out of the speaker.

  I opened one eye. Dion hovered over me. His non-shoving hand held a remote, his finger pressing the volume button.

  “You don’t want
to sleep through this,” he shouted above the music.

  “Dion, Mrs. Roper is going to call the cops,” I said, referring to my caftan-wearing downstairs neighbor. Her name wasn’t really Mrs. Roper, but she reminded me of the crazy landlord from Three’s Company. Devlin used to let me watch the 1970s-era sitcom on DVD while we waited in the van for my mom and Vince to finish their “alone time” on the tour bus.

  I made a groggy reach for the remote, but Dion was too quick for me. He held it above his head.

  One song ended, and the DJ started prattling off a rundown of the nine songs he’d already played in this week’s top ten. I waited, ears cocked and breath held. Rogue Nation wasn’t mentioned.

  I worried my lower lip with my teeth while Dion sat beside me, his expression a mix of nerves and anticipation. Before the DJ announced the song that had landed in this week’s number one spot, a familiar chord progression began.

  I bolted upright. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

  Dion bounced up and down on the bed, unable to contain his excitement. “Ruined” thundered out of the speaker.

  “Number one?” I asked, kneeling on the bed. “Number one?”

  He grabbed me and swept me into his arms. “Number-fucking-one!”

  We twined our arms around each other in bed and listened to our song hit number one on the Billboard Alternative Songs charts. He turned the speaker off with the remote when it was over.

  “You think we’ll break the top forty on the pop charts?” I asked.

  “Who gives a shit about the pop charts?” he asked. “The pop trend is preteen boy bands, of which we are not.”

  “Maybe we can break the trend, get real rock and roll back in the top forty.”

  “I like your spirit,” he said. His hands began to wander over my body. “And your tits.”

  I playfully slapped at his hands and laughed.

  “This is no laughing matter,” he said. “How should we celebrate?”

  “I can think of a few ways,” I said, settling back into my pillows and letting him kiss me. Just as we were getting to the good stuff, there was a rat-a-tat-tat from the other room.

  “That sounded like a knock,” I murmured against his mouth.