by Scott, S. L.
Dropping my napkin on my plate, I rest my elbows on the table because I’m classy like that. “So, since Vegas, you two haven’t really talked?”
“What’s there to talk about?”
“Oh, I don’t know . . . maybe your undying love for her?” I smile, completely amused.
“Undying love?” he scoffs. “Yeah, right. More like dying love.”
“The operative word there is love.”
He tosses his napkin onto his plate and laughs. “What do you know about love?”
I try not to go ballistic on him or explain exactly what I know about love. I wonder if he’d even hear me anyway. “You’re right. I fucked up and thought I was in love once. I wasn’t. I was enamored by a lifestyle.” I hate admitting it, but there it is.
I expect a barrage of questions, but he signs the check and then looks at me, really looks at me. To him, I’ve become a puzzle he’s struggling to figure out, a chess move he doesn’t know how to make. As if he’s carefully setting a landmine for me to step on, he lowers his voice and says, “I don’t hate Tulsa if that’s what you think.”
Maybe my thoughts are transparent. “Why are you telling me this?”
“Because I think you might like him. More than, you know, as a friend.”
We stand to leave at the same time, as we have probably done a thousand times before, but I know I need to answer his real question here. He does know me, and he knows me well. I love him too much to keep this from him any longer. As soon as we’re outside, I say, “I’m terrible at keeping this secret.”
“What secret?”
“I married him, Laird.”
His eyes narrow like it’s bright as day out here when it’s already night. “What? Who?”
“Tulsa. We got married in Vegas.”
“Wait, I don’t understand. What do you mean you got married? I’m your twin. Why the fuck didn’t I know about this until now?”
“We thought we could keep it a secret for the remainder of the tour, but we can’t, and frankly, I don’t want to. Not from you.”
“I can’t believe you did this. How could you, Nik? You barely know him.”
“No, you don’t understand. I love—”
He scowls. “I’m going to fucking kill him.” He takes off running down the street toward the hotel.
“Laird!” When I start to hurry after him, I’m reminded why I wear Converse on stage. These damn heels are useless. I want to take them off, but the streets are too dirty, so I rush but don’t run.
There’s no reaction from him, so I don’t think he can hear me over the rush-hour traffic. I try calling him again, “Laird?”
This time, he looks around and then back. When he sees me, I wave. “Wait. Please.” I run forward, stepping off the curb to cross an alley just as a car passes. I never see the next car, though, until I hear the tires screech, and then the sound of silence as I’m lifted from the ground. And then nothing . . .
* * *
“I swear I’m fine.” My head hurts like hell, but I don’t want to worry Laird more than he already is. He’s already called in the cavalry—my parents—who are en route as we speak. Everything just got a whole lot more complicated.
He’s been worrying his hands since I woke up—popping his knuckles and making fists. I know he’s beating himself up inside his head.
The nurse refills my cup with water, and says, “You need to try to relax so you can recover.”
“I’m fine. I really am. I’m ready to go.” I try to push up, but my head spins and waves pound down on my chest, so I sit back and take a breath.
With a sympathetic smile, the nurse replies, “We need to wait for the results from the earlier tests to make sure you’ll be able to perform. But it seems you might be staying overnight as well.”
“Perform? That’s tomorrow. Oh, gosh, I’ll be so fine, and I definitely don’t need to stay tonight.”
“I’m sure you will be fine, but the doctor would like to clear you of any danger to be on the safe side.” She pats my leg and then disappears out the door, not giving me time to argue.
The pain in my side is beginning to worsen. I imagine the drugs are wearing off. It’s been hours since we arrived, and I’m not only starving, but I want Tulsa to comfort me.
I have to be careful. He’ll not only blame Laird, but he’ll never forgive him for making me chase him. I don’t want them feuding. I just need to figure out how to handle the situation, but, damn, my arm hurts. Laird stands at my side. “How are you really doing?”
“I’ve been better,” I reply. I tried to be strong, but around my brother, all the emotions I was hiding from the nurse bubble up. “I’m sorry, Laird.”
“For what?”
“Everything.”
“You don’t have anything to be sorry for. I overreacted. I’m so sorry, Nikki. You’re here because of me.” From the way he looks away and exhales, I know he’s struggling, blaming himself.
“You didn’t get me hit. I just didn’t see it coming.”
“If I wouldn’t have given you a reason to run after me—”
“We can go in circles all night.” I cover his hand on the bedrail and give him a gentle smile, all I can conjure at the moment.
“The funny thing is I rehearsed my reaction to hearing you and Tulsa were hooking up. I went over it a million times in my head over the break. But I never thought . . . I don’t ever want you hurt, but here you are, hurt because of me.”
“It was an accident, nothing more. I know this won’t bring you any comfort, but Tulsa can’t hurt me any more than I can hurt him. We’re in this together. Truly.”
He lowers his head and straightens the sheet near my foot. “I think that kind of says everything.”
My throat feels thick, so I take another sip of water, and then say, “I don’t know where my phone is. Will you call him?”
When he looks at me, the reality of our changing roles plays out in his eyes. He replies, “What about Mom and Dad?”
“Can we wait a day or two?” I mess with the sheets, twisting them between my fingers. “I don’t want to add to their stress.”
“I haven’t told them about you and Tulsa.”
“Thank you.” Rolling my neck, I feel my stiff body creak. Although I hate worrying my parents, I want to see them. I want my dad’s hugs and my mom’s head kisses.
I rub my hand over a small bandage on my temple. My eyelids dip closed for a few seconds as exhaustion takes over. When I open them, I know I’m not going to be able to stay awake for long. My head feels clouded, and my body feels heavy from the drugs. But I still want to see Tulsa. “Call him, please. I need him.”
“You used to turn to me to comfort you.”
“You’re my brother, Laird. You’ve always been there for me.” I squeeze his hand to let him know I love him.
“But I have to let you grow up.”
“I’ve already grown up.”
He moves closer and pushes the hair off my forehead. “You have.”
“I’ll always love you. You’ll always be my favorite brother.”
The joke makes him chuckle. “And you’ll always be my baby sis.”
“Only by a few minutes.”
Shrugging, he says, “That counts.”
“Yeah, it does.” I laugh this time, not big and boisterous, but small and reflective as I realize the dynamic between us is changing. I knew it would eventually, but somehow, I feel kind of sad about it as if I’m letting my childhood go. “I’ll always need you in my life, Laird.”
Leaning down, he kisses my cheek. “You’ll always have me. I guess our roles are just changing a bit.” Moving to toward the door, he adds, “I don’t know Tulsa well, but I know he’ll take care of you. I’ve seen the way he looks at you.”
“How does he look at me?”
“Like you hung the moon. He loves you.”
He does. And, more than that, I’m so thankful my brother can see it too. I couldn’t do life without him, and I’
m so glad now that I won’t have to.
“Yes, he does. He loves me.”
36
Nikki
The light is too bright.
I squeeze my eyes closed and take a deep breath, but the desert in my throat makes me cough.
“Drink.”
My mind recognizes the voice; my muscles tighten in reaction. My nightmares are given life when I wake. Am I awake? Please be asleep. My breathing grows shallow and my heart races, the machine echoing what I want to hide inside. Never let the monster in again. Never.
“Nicola.”
The name rides on a smooth wave of a Spanish accent. I open my eyes, refusing to give Andrés an ounce of my fear. He deserves nothing less than my disgust and hatred. “That’s not my name.”
“Nikki,” he mocks my nickname with an over-exaggerated American accent, bordering more toward a cowboy’s twang. “Better?”
“Leave.” There’s no mistaking my intent, but my energy is fading fast as I fight against my stiffened muscles to come across stronger than I am. “A nurse will be here soon. Leave now.”
“I traveled all this way to see you, mi amor. Three cities, and I finally find you here in a hospital.”
The heart monitor has settled, but the anger will send my blood pressure through the roof. “How did you find me?”
He holds up his phone. “Social media is a beautiful thing.”
If Andrés is here, where is Laird? Where is Tulsa? Where are my parents? I look at the window to check for light. It’s dark. Still night. “Where’s my brother?”
“The nurse said he went to the hotel.”
“How did you get in here?”
“So many questions, but you refuse to look my way. Look at me, Nicola.”
“Why are you here?” I finally force myself to look at the monster I once thought cared for me. His slightly curly, dark hair is gelled into place. His skin tends more toward golden after a summer spent yachting than the paler version before me. Sickly, matching his psychosis.
I need him gone.
“You look more beautiful than ever. Notoriety suits you.” I know he means fame, but he always loved to twist words for his own purposes.
“I’m warning you. Leave.”
“I’ll get your medicine. You prefer pills, as I remember.”
“Taking Xanax was the only way I could tolerate being near you.”
His laughter echoes around the stark hospital room. “You,” he says, shaking his finger at me. “My vicious barracuda.”
I always hated when he called me that. I never understood it, and my mind is too foggy to argue. “And you were nothing but bad judgment on my part.”
Standing at the end of my bed, he presses down on my ankles to the point I can’t move. My scream gets stuck in my throat, my fear taking over, making my skin crawl.
These drugs need to wear off; every move I make is sluggish and takes strength I don’t have in reserve. Not feeling myself leaves me at a disadvantage and weak in his eyes.
Instead of leaving, he remains, but all humor has left his once attractive features. He looks as if he’s aged beyond his years. He must have finally joined the family business—taking people and businesses down using whatever means necessary, legal or illegal. “You ruined my name.”
Is this the start of the speech that ends in my downfall, my death? I won’t die. My hands draw into fists, gathering strength. He may scare me, but he won’t hurt me. Never again. “I did nothing to you.”
“The beautiful gift I gave you.” His dark eyes pierce my chest, and his hands tighten around my ankles. “It’s gone.”
I suck in a harsh breath when my mind clears enough to know what he’s referring to—my scar. He knows it’s gone, which means . . . he looked at my body while I was sleeping. I’m going to be sick. He asks, “What did you do to my art?”
“You didn’t answer me. How did you get in here?”
Exuding pride, he polishes his nails on the cotton of his dress shirt. “As your husband, I have rights.”
“You lied your way in?”
“Mi amor, I want to visit my ailing wife. Who are they to refuse me access?”
His use of ailing makes me look at the IV bag I was told only had saline in it. Has he done something to it? Tampered with it? Shit. Please, someone, help me. The monitor warns of my racing heart, which brings a nurse running in. “Ms. Faris. How are you feeling?” she asks as she presses buttons on two machines next to the bed.
“I want him gone.”
Her gaze darts to Andrés. “Sir, you’ll need to step outside.”
“I’m her husband.”
“Stop saying that. You aren’t. I would never marry you.”
“But, mi amor. How can you deny me—”
Raising my voice, I say, “Get out.”
The nurse stands, moving her body between him and the bed. “Leave, sir, or I’ll call security.”
Swearing under his breath in Spanish, he moves to the door. “I’ve missed you, Nicola, but I’ll see you again.”
“You were the hell I escaped. I never want to see you again.”
He walks out, and the nurse touches my arm, startling me. “Are you all right?” she asks. “I’m sorry. He said—”
“I’m okay.” I close my eyes and then take in a shaky breath. “I don’t want him back in here.” Pleading as tears fill my eyes, I add, “Please.”
“Of course. I’ll make sure he’s removed from your approved visitors list.” Moving around me, she adjusts the blanket over my legs. “If you need help, I can send someone to talk with you. He’ll never know. We take abuse very seriously.”
Abuse. It’s too late to save me from that. “He’s not my husband.”
“He lied? I need to report this to security immediately.”
A rush of frustration fills me. Security. Tulsa was right. Until Andrés is locked away, with someone else—or dead, I’ll never be safe from him. Even then, I’m sure he’d find a way to haunt me. I want to scream until my hands stop shaking and my heart regulates, but I know it won’t do any good. “Please keep him away. He’s attacked me before. He’s a stalker.”
Horror widens her eyes while her hand covers her mouth. “This is terrible. I’m so sorry.” She nods and apologizes again.
I can’t stay here any longer. I need Tulsa. Does he even know I’m here? Has Laird told him? I’m sure he’s worried, and since my phone’s gone, I need to reach him some other way.
I push up as my head starts to clear. I think it’s more the drugs holding me back than the pain or any injury. I look at the IV and make a decision. “Can you take this out for me?”
“We need to leave it in while—”
“No. That man was in here when I was asleep. I don’t know if he’s tampered with the IV, and I’m not waiting to find out. I’m leaving.”
“I’ll change the bag, but I think you should wait the night.”
Lowering the side rail, I swing my legs over and slip off the mattress until my feet land on the cold floor. “Do I have a concussion?”
“No.”
“Internal bleeding?”
“Fortunately, no.”
“Then I’m leaving.”
I touch the IV tube, but she rests her hand on mine, gently stopping me. With one last look at my eyes, she relents. I’m not sure if it’s because she sees how frightened I am or that she can see I really don’t need to be here. “I’ll do it. Hopefully, there will be less bruising.”
“Thank you.”
After removing it, she leaves to get the paperwork ready while I get dressed. When I see the black dirt from the street along the side of my skirt and the shredded threads, I get pissed. But it’s not because the skirt is ruined.
Holding my hands in front of me, I see the subtle shake, exhale a long, slow breath to try to release the fear that’s balled in the pit of my stomach.
He touched me, put his hands on me. He held me down, and caught up in fear, I let him.
My
stomach churns, and when I taste the bile rising in my throat, I turn my gaze to the ceiling. But there are no stars to be found inside.
As I catch myself from slipping into a daze, I smile because all I see are dirty ceiling tiles.
I’m not on a playground. I’m not lying in pain, bleeding his name.
Despite him lying his way in . . . I’m okay.
I’m more than okay. I’m alive.
When I close my eyes, all I see is Tulsa—his smile, those cute dimples, the possibilities shining in his eyes. His laughter fills my ears, and his love fills my heart.
Our hands joined together at the altar. I do’s—forevermore.
In addition to the vow I made to him, I make one to myself: Andrés will never control my life, me, or my emotions again. Never.
I know the call I need to make when I get back to the hotel.
I pull on my skirt under the hospital gown, moving a little slowly, but I don’t feel bad enough to stay. The nurse comes in, and says, “They’d already started the discharge forms after the MRI results came back. A nurse will be in shortly with those for you to sign, and then we’ll get a wheelchair to take you down to the carport. Do you have a ride scheduled to pick you up?”
“I don’t have anything set up, but I can’t stay here. I’ll make arrangements.” A phone sits on the side table. I’ll finish getting dressed and call Tulsa.
“Please don’t leave. We have procedures in place that must be abided by.” She backs to the door. “I’ve been notified that another man has been waiting to see you.” Her sadness fills her sigh. “The other man claims to be your husband, so security won’t allow him to come up. I feel awful. I’m not sure how this happened, but I’ll be filing a report to make sure it doesn’t happen again.”
“Who is it?”
“The man who tried to sneak up? He tried twice.”
“What’s his name?”
“Mr. Tulsa Crow.”
“Oh, thank God. He is my husband, and he’ll be livid I was alone with that man you let in. Please, I need him.”
“Yes, right away.”
I have just enough time to dig my shoes out from the slim closet and slip them on before Tulsa comes around the corner into my room. I’m in his arms before we have time to speak, my heart racing because he’s here and holding me again.
