How Sinners Fight

by Eva Ashwood

  “How long have I been here?” I ask, sitting up a little in the bed. I’m feeling a bit stronger than I did yesterday, and more mentally alert too. More like myself.

  “Just a couple days.” Her gaze scans my face. “I got the low-down from Gray on what the doctor said. It sounds like you’re on the mend physically. I’m so fucking relieved. I was really worried. Do you realize how shitty of a friend I’ve been? I should have been looking out for you better.”

  “Max,” I say firmly, “it’s not your fault.”

  She glances away from me, looking out the window. “Still. I could have helped. I didn’t think anything of it when you stepped away from the dance floor.” Her eyes dart back to me. “I remember seeing you go up the stairs to the second floor, but I don’t know how you ended up at the bottom of the stairs in the basement. It’s so fucking awful. You’re lucky to be alive.”

  “I guess so. Maybe it’s a good thing I can’t remember any of it.” I try to say it lightly, as a joke, but it falls flat.

  Max gives me a reassuring smile. “You'll remember soon, Sophie. I’m sure of it.”

  Fuck, I hope so.

  3

  The rest of the day is pretty low-key, and the next two days pass in the same way. Doctors and nurses come to check on my vitals every couple of hours, despite me assuring them that I feel just fine, and the guys or Max come to visit whenever they get a chance. I’m not really sure what’s going on over at the campus now that school is out for the winter break, but everyone seems to be keeping themselves busy.

  Fuck. I’m ready to go home.

  Whatever that means.

  The dorms? The McAlisters?

  I don’t really know where home is anymore.

  Glancing at the breakfast a nurse just brought me, I pick up my fork and poke at it. The food here is actually amazing, and it’s served on nice dishware instead of the plastic hospital trays I’ve seen before.

  At this point, regardless of the fact that I’m not having to pay for any of this, I’m ready to get out of here. Nothing against the team of people who are trying to make my recovery as quick and perfect as possible, but I feel good enough, and I’m not really sure why I’m still here at this point, other than to help Doctor Cohen afford a new car.

  I try not to think too much about what this breakfast costs, because I still can’t wrap my head around the fact that the guys are paying for all of this.

  I know that the costs are racking up. This hospital is obviously used to catering to the wealthy, and I can only imagine the astronomical number on the bill that’s going to be delivered to the guys and not me.

  I trust them, I do. But handing them my trust goes against everything I’ve known for the past eighteen years of my life—or the seven that I can remember anyway.

  So I guess even though I trust the guys are going to keep their word about helping me pay for all of this, I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop. Maybe it’s just the life I’ve lived that makes me think that, maybe it’s my inner realist, I’m not sure. I just still feel like I’m holding my breath, waiting for shit to hit the fan. Nothing good can last.

  Unless… maybe just this once, it can?

  Around noon, Doctor Cohen strolls in, laptop in hand. He usually checks on me twice a day, once in the morning and once in the evening, but he’s a little late today. Not that I’m complaining, since I know the exact questions he’s going to ask me and I have the exact same answers.

  He sinks down onto the little stool by the desk and then uses his feet to roll himself over toward the bed, holding the laptop in one hand.

  “Hello, Sophie,” he says, glancing down at his screen and typing a few keystrokes. “How are you feeling?”

  “All right,” I say, because I’ve learned that if I just answer his damn questions, he’ll leave me alone quicker. “My ankle is still a little sore.”

  “It’ll be sore for a while.” He types something else. “Do you want me to send someone over from physical therapy to help you go over some exercises?”

  “Thank you. But no, I’m good.”

  I fight the urge to roll my eyes at him. He’s just trying to help, but he already told me it’s just a sprain and should heal up fine in a few days. Physical therapy seems like overkill.

  “Just let me know,” he says, then looks up from his screen. “Has anything changed since we spoke last night? Any new symptoms or pain?”

  “No.”

  “Okay. That’s good. Well, your vitals are looking good,” he says, lifting the laptop a little to indicate whatever he just read on my chart. “So we’ll probably have you out of here by tomorrow morning. As long as nothing changes overnight.”

  “Tomorrow morning?” I repeat, my heart leaping a little. That’s in less than twenty-four hours.

  Thank fuck.

  It shouldn’t affect me as much as it does, but I don’t do well with being stuck in one place or restrained. I’m ready to get out of this damn hospital where I’m wasting everyone’s time and money. I want to get back to my life, back to my art.

  Can I go back to the dorms?

  I’m assuming they stay open over the break so that anyone who doesn’t want to leave campus can stay. That was my original plan before my accident, since I’ve got nowhere to go for Christmas and no family to celebrate the holidays with.

  “Do you have any questions for me?” Doctor Cohen asks, bringing my attention back to him.

  I’m about to say no, since I see my opening to end this little visit. But instead of brushing him off, I find myself asking, “Is there anything I can do to help get my memories back?”

  Doctor Cohen’s eyebrows raise a little. Instead of answering right away, he rolls the stool back and sets his laptop down on the desk, pursing his lips.

  “You said they were likely to come back with time,” I say, swallowing. I don’t like the undertone of desperation in my voice. “But is there anything I can do to speed that up?”

  I want to know what happened to me—not just what other people have told me happened. I trust the guys and Max, but none of them saw me fall, so even with their input, I still only have an incomplete picture of what took place. I want to know all of it, and the only way that’s gonna happen is if I remember.

  “Well, there are things you can try.” Doctor Cohen steeples his fingers, tapping them against his chin. “But nothing is guaranteed. We have therapists who could help, but I don’t usually refer my patients to them unless they’ve had a more serious head injury, a more serious loss of information.” He considers me, and I’m not really sure what’s going through his head. “The brain is a complex thing, Sophie. Sometimes memories can be triggered when we least expect it. Give it some time, then come see me if you’re still worried about it.”

  There’s a dismissal in his tone, one that says it’s really nothing to get worked up over. I almost feel ridiculous for asking, but why should I apologize for it? It’s my own fucking memory. I’m sure if Doctor Needs-A-New-Car over here blacked out and forgot what he did yesterday, he’d want those memories back.

  “I’m really pleased with your recovery, Sophie,” he tells me. “I’ll see you this afternoon. Feel free to ask one of the nurses to page me if you have any questions for me.”

  I nod, my fingers drumming against the blankets. This whole ordeal has been frustrating, and I’m getting sick of it. I just want to go home, paint my frustration away, smoke, and hope the fractured pieces of that night come crashing back into my consciousness eventually.

  A few minutes ago, twenty-four hours was exciting. Now, it suddenly feels like twenty-three hours and fifty-nine minutes too long to wait.

  Tomorrow morning, I tell myself, taking a deep breath. You’ll be out tomorrow morning. No more doctors, needles, poking, or questions.

  As the doctor leaves, Declan comes strolling in, hands shoved in his pockets. My heart does a little skip in my chest at the familiar dark gaze that meets my own. A small smile at the corners of his lips as he approache
s my bed.

  “Hey, Soph. How you feeling?”

  For some reason, the same exact question feels entirely different coming from him than it did from the doctor. From Doctor Cohen, it was just routine, but from Declan… I almost feel like he actually cares.

  Does he? I hate that my mind is always at war with itself, wanting to push away anything that means feeling something. Always waiting for the moment when people disappoint me or hurt me.

  I shrug. “I’m… okay. I’m frustrated, but what can I do about it?”

  I can’t leave this fucking bed until I’m told by the doctor that I’m allowed to, and according to good ol’ Doctor Cohen, there’s really nothing that I can do about the memory loss—even though he’s so keen to assure me it’ll come back.

  Eventually.

  Declan narrows his eyes. But instead of giving me empty reassurances or trying to tell me everything will be better soon, he says something that actually makes me smile.

  “You wanna go smoke?”

  “Fuck, yeah.”

  I speak so quickly that he laughs, his full lips parting around the sound. “Thought you might.”

  Smoking with Declan sounds just about perfect. I’ve missed our little joint and deep shit meetings on the stairs in various buildings around campus, and something a little normal might do me a world of good right now.

  Declan’s eyes gleam warmly as he helps me out of the bed. They finally took the IV out last night, so I’m free to move around, but after not walking much for a couple days, my thighs are a little wobbly.

  “You okay there?” he asks, steadying me with his hand on my forearm.

  I grip him for support and give a small nod. “I’ll be good once we start walking,” I say, despite the fact that my head spins a little.

  “You sure?”

  “Yeah, of course.” I don’t want him to change his mind or get all protective, so I prove my words by heading toward the door.

  Okay, so I’m a little slower than normal. But it’s probably to be expected after an injury like mine, then being in bed for nearly a week. As we head out of the room and down the hallways, my steps become a bit more steady, but Declan still hovers close by. My sprained ankle has been improving quickly, and I only favor that side a little as I walk.

  I can feel the heat of his body when he brushes up against me, and it sends a shiver through me. Funny how that happens—the physical reaction to his heat is a delicious chill over my skin.

  I like it.

  When we step onto an elevator, Declan pulls a card out of his pocket and inserts it into a reader above the elevator buttons. He presses the top button, and the doors close before the elevator starts to rise. When I catch his gaze, I cock an eyebrow.

  “What?” He shrugs, shoving his hands in his pockets and looking only a little guilty.

  “Where did you get that?” I gesture toward the card. I know enough about rich people by now to know those cards must be the only way to get access to certain floors, one of which we’re probably going to.

  He grins. “I can get whatever I want around here by dropping the Windham name. My dad’s a big donor to the hospital.” He shoves the key back into his pocket. “Don’t worry, you’ll like where we’re going.”

  As long as it’s not my sterile little room, I think, I’m sure I’ll be happy anywhere.

  A moment of silence passes as the elevator slides smoothly upward, but it’s a comfortable sort of quiet—the kind I only feel when I’m around him. There’s something between us that requires no small talk, no conversation at all, to feel at ease. I’m not really sure what it is, but I also know I don’t need to figure it out. I’m content with just knowing I feel okay with him. Chill.

  I’ll never forget that Declan was the first of the Sinners to make me feel comfortable, even welcome, after my arrival at Hawthorne. Those stolen moments on the stairs when it was just me and him helped me get through all of the other bullshit in the beginning.

  When the elevator doors open, much to my surprise, I catch a beautiful expanse of blue sky with fluffy clouds scattered about, seemingly endless miles of fresh air and sunshine. Judging by the fact that we step out onto concrete and tastefully hidden cables running along the roof, I know this place isn’t formal access for elite clients. It’s just the fucking rooftop, with access probably intended only for maintenance, but I love it.

  I’m not even sure how he knew he could get up here with that card, but as the cool breeze brushes over my skin and plays with the blue strands in my hair, I’m sure as hell not complaining. This is exactly what I didn’t know I needed.

  “Over here,” Declan murmurs, showing me to a spot on the edge of the roof where a brick wall makes a little alcove and we can dangle our feet over an edge that looks down on the real elite status rooftop garden. It’s currently empty, and I’m glad. I want us to have this moment just to ourselves.

  “I found this spot the other day when I was poking around. You were asleep,” he adds.

  I grin. Of course Declan was poking around, looking for places like this.

  He sits down with his feet hanging over the edge and pats the spot next to him. I sit too, tucking my stupid hospital gown around my legs to ward off the slight chill in the air. As I settle in, my slippered feet dangling next to his, he pulls a small bag out of his pocket and quickly rolls a joint. He produces a lighter next, then hands both items to me, presenting them with a flourish. I laugh as I take them.

  With the joint tucked lightly between my lips, I flick the lighter and take a long drag. The smoke fills my lungs, and I tilt my head back a little as I hold it before exhaling.

  I pass the joint and the lighter back to him. “Thanks.”

  I needed this.

  “Yeah, of course. Not a problem, Soph.”

  Declan looks out at the endless blue sky, his gaze going slightly distant, and for the next couple of minutes, we pass the joint back and forth between us, sitting in silence. The restlessness that’s been lingering in me for the past couple of days slowly fades until I’m left with just the feeling of his thigh against mine, his fingers brushing against mine every once in a while.

  What would I do without him?

  I don’t know what I’d do without any of them, honestly. They’ve changed my life so much that it’s almost hard to remember what it was like before they were a part of it. Or maybe I just don’t want to remember.

  What would’ve happened if I fell down stairs the first week of school?

  No one would have been there to help cover the bills, that’s for damn sure. And more than that, no one would’ve been there to watch over me, to hope that I’d wake up and to keep me company when I did.

  This—this moment right now—means more to me than the money. It means fucking everything.

  When Declan starts humming a tune under his breath, a small smile plays at the corners of my mouth. I know his singing is a side of himself he doesn’t show many people, and I count myself lucky to be one of the few.

  “I’ve never heard that one before,” I say, glancing at him. “Is it new?”

  His shoulder bumps into mine. “Something I wrote recently.” He gets the little half smile on his face that only comes out when he’s talking about his music, the faintest blush coloring his cheeks.

  “You’re writing again?” It’s been a while for him. Or at least, a while since he’s shared anything new with me.

  Declan takes the joint from me. “I write when there’s shit to get out of my system, you know?” His hand slows, pausing with the joint halfway to his lips. “Just like you paint to get those things out. I had some things that were… making me a little fucked up on the inside.”

  His eyes darken a little as he looks at me, and there’s something about his tone that betrays more than just his words do.

  He was worried.

  About me.

  I suck in a breath. “Yeah? Stress and stuff?” I don’t trust myself to say anything more than that.

  “Yeah.
”

  I don’t know how to deal with the warmth that blossoms in my chest at the realization that he cares more than he’s letting on. It makes my heart ache in a good way, and that pleasant thrum scares the fuck out of me.

  “Could I hear it?” I ask, instead of lingering on what exactly it was that was fucking him up. “The words?”

  He doesn’t respond, just passes the joint back to me and starts… singing. Almost a little shyly at first, but as he grows confident, his deep baritone sends chills down my spine. He catches my gaze as he sings, and I know he’s not giving me the raw version, the version where he lets himself completely feel all of the words he’s saying, but I can still feel every emotion, every pulse of his heart in the lyrics.

  His voice dies to a hum again, his song coming to an end as a smile creeps over his face. It’s an almost boyish look on his face, and it’s one of the most gorgeous things I’ve ever seen.

  “That was beautiful,” I blurt, fighting the urge to blink back tears that prickle behind my eyes. “I wouldn’t say it if I didn’t mean it, but that was really… it was lovely.”

  He kicks his dangling legs, looking down at them instead of me. “Yeah, it was okay.”

  I frown. “No. It was good. It was amazing. You should put it out there. Record it and post it somewhere. It’s not fair to create something that beautiful only to keep it locked up. It deserves to be shared with the world.”

  His gaze darts to mine, and something in my chest constricts. I’m not quite sure what it is that I see lingering behind his eyes, but I don’t have to think about it long—not when he palms the back of my head a second later, his lips finding mine in a kiss I feel through every atom of my body.

  Maybe it’s the drugs that make my head spin a little.

  Or maybe it’s just Declan.

  And when he reaches up with his other hand to cup my face between his palms and deepen the kiss, I know it’s not the drugs that are making my body ache and my heart pound. He lets out a groan that rumbles in his chest as his tongue slides out to taste me, tracing along the seam of my lips.