Fallen (13 page)

It looks like Lace is doing her level best not to cry. “Don’t you dare die,” she says. Her hands are clamped on the very edge of the table, not touching him. She wants to, I can see it in her eyes, but she doesn’t.

Zeth smiles. “I’m not dying. I’m fine.” He tries to prove this by shifting his body weight, attempting to sit up. He makes it, too, the stubborn bastard. Michael rushes to his side, offering out an arm to lean on but Zeth shoots him a look I’m sure has withered the balls of many men. Michael backs up, one eyebrow raised.

“You wanna eat concrete, that’s fine with me.”

I stand and watch all of this, the fingers of my right hand pressed against my lips, hugging myself with my other arm. I feel stupid. I feel so, so stupid. I mentally planned out everything I would need to do to help once I got here, and now that I’m here and my help isn’t apparently needed I feel…I don’t even
know
how I feel. Mostly four different kinds of scared. Scared that that doctor might have done more harm than good; that I’m going to get busted for taking that blood from work; that I’ve shown up in Zeth’s place without him personally bringing me here. But most importantly, I’m scared because there was a second there when I contemplated Zeth dying. And the sheer terror that thought inspired won’t be leaving me anytime soon.

When did this happen? When did I begin to need him so much? I’ve always made a point of never needing anyone. I feel sick to my stomach. Zeth looks up through the fussing he’s receiving from Lacey and Michael, and his eyes meet mine. His expression tightens, forming a deeply furrowed brow. “What happened?”

Oh, yeah. I’ve completely forgotten that I look like I’ve been street fighting. “Fender bender,” I whisper.

“One of Charlie’s guys nearly forced her off the freeway,” Michael helpfully supplies.

“They
what?
” Not content with the minor miracle of merely sitting, Zeth tries to go the whole hog and slips from the table, trying to stand. It’s a glorious failure. His legs don’t even pretend they’re fit to hold him up; they bow immediately, and he drops like a sack of stones. I rush forward—like I would have a hope in hell of catching him without getting flattened—but Michael’s already on the case. Zeth’s unconscious again, his skin a pallid, deathly white.

“How about that transfusion, Ms. Romera?” he suggests.

“Yes. Of course.” I go and grab the blood from my bag, feeling the weight of the fluid heavy in my palm. Before blood transfusions, people would die from wounds like Zeth’s. Hell, people still died from them today,
with
the blood transfusions. As I put a line into Zeth’s arm and watch the dark, almost black blood slowly make its way into his body, I can only hope I brought enough. And I can only hope Zeth wakes up again.

Four Days Later

Something tells me I’ve lost time. You tend to know these things when they happen to you—you can feel it in your bones. There’s that feeling of wakefulness when you rise from sleeping—a pleasant, mostly lethargic experience. Then there’s the sudden wakefulness of your consciousness resetting and switching back on, like you’ve been powered down while your body carries out maintenance work, and then having the reset button hit when things are tolerable enough for you to wake up again.

Waking right now feels like the reset button being hit. And it fucking hurts like a motherfucker. I’m working up to opening my eyes when I hear voices. The buzzing of a cell phone.

“Who is it?” Lacey’s voice, soft and hushed, speaking to someone else. Another buzz of a cell phone. A deep sigh.

“It’s Pippa. She wants to talk to me. We fought before your last session.” Sloane now. Sloane’s voice. I feel positively fucking tingly when I hear her speak. It’s like a huge weight being lifted from my chest. She was hurt. I remember that. Someone hurt her.

“Are you going to call her?” Lacey asks.

There’s a pause for a moment, and then Sloane says, “I just don’t have the energy right now. She’s not one to let something drop.”

“You should just be honest with her. That’s what she told me.”

Another pause, longer this time.

“And are you going to take her advice? Are you—you don’t think you should tell him yet?” Sloane’s tripping over her words like she’s skirting a very sensitive subject.

“I—I don’t think—No, not yet. It’ll be better—if I wait a little longer.” Lacey seems to be having problems getting her words out, too. I’m hit with the sudden memory of Sam saying that Charlie sent them to take her in order to protect her.

“I can totally understand that you’re nervous about this, Lace,” Sloane says softly. “But you don’t think he has a right to know? I mean, you can’t keep it from him forever, right?”

My hands begin to clench into fists. I get this absurd image into my head—Lacey with a huge, round belly, and some schmuck who’s knocked her up standing right next to her. If someone’s gotten her into trouble, I’m gonna go on the fucking warpath. As far as I know, Lace has been steering clear of every single guy on the face of the planet bar me, though. Maybe she met someone at Sloane’s dad’s church camp. Some hippy dippy asshole who plays guitar and likes toasting marshmallows. The very idea…yeah it’s fucking laughable. Thinking about laughing makes me realize just how damn dry my throat is. I start to cough.

“He’s awake. He’s…oh my god, he’s awake! What should I do?” Lacey panicking.

Something cool and firm touches my forehead, and then my eyelids are being prised open and a bright light is being shone directly into them. I fight to get them closed again. “Mother.
Fucker
,” I groan.

“And there he is. So eloquent,” Sloane says. There’s a hint of amusement in her voice.

“You’re trying to kill me, aren’t you?” I growl.

“Not kill you. Merely encourage you to drag your lazy ass back into the land of the living.” I open my eyes of my own volition, and she’s there sitting on the edge of the bed, a small flashlight resting on her lap. “Headache?” she asks.

I could tell her that it feels like someone’s been stomping on my skull for the past god knows how long, but instead I just give a sharp nod. Even that sends a wave of nausea rolling through me.

“You’re dehydrated. I have you on a drip, but it’s probably not enough. Here.” She holds out a glass of water and my stomach fucking balks at the thought of drinking it. She’s right, though; I have to drink. I reach for it and my hand snags—there’s a cannula in the back of my fucking hand. No fucking thank you. I yank it out, and Sloane makes a half-hearted protest. I toss it onto the bed, saline leaking out onto the covers, and I take the glass of water from her.

It takes considerable effort to try and keep my hand from shaking as I drink. Fuck, it takes considerable effort not to drop the damn glass altogether. I may not have wanted it a moment ago, but as soon as the water touches my lips I can’t stop myself. The liquid tastes better than any beer or spirit I’ve ever drunk.

“Steady. Slow down. You drink too quickly, you’ll make yourself sick,” Sloane says.

I stop gulping down the water and place it on the small side table beside my bed. I have about thirty different questions slamming around inside my head and I’m determined to ask all of them, but as soon as I take a proper look at Sloane all of that changes. The sun’s shining down through the skylight above my bed, lighting up the haze of individual hairs that stick up around her head, escaped from the pencil that’s doing a half-assed job of holding her hair back. I just sit there and stare at her for a moment. I’ve nearly died a couple of times now, but I’ve never experienced this kind of fucked-up emotion before now. I’ve only been interested in getting up and moving so I can find the asshole that tried to end me so I could get revenge. This situation isn’t like that. Right now, I’m simply filled with relief. Relief that I get to see the woman sitting on the edge of my bed again. What the hell is wrong with me?

Lace is leaning against the wall, the cuffs of the sweater she’s wearing—mine—dangling way past her hands. She’s swamped in the thing. And she looks pale, too; way paler than she should be. This whole thing, me getting stabbed, it’s the stupidest fucking thing, and it looks like these women have been suffering for it. That makes me feel pretty fucking shitty.

“Your parents,” I say, glancing at Sloane.

She shakes her head, smiling softly. “They’re fine. I couldn’t handle leaving them at home, not with Charlie knowing where to get to them, so I paid for them to go on vacation. They’re soaking up the sun for two weeks in the Caribbean as we speak.”

Hmmm. Smart. That means I have two weeks to deal with Charlie before they’re in any sort of danger again. “How long? How long have I been out?” I ask.

“Four days.” Sloane bends and picks up a small plate with some dry biscuits on it. She offers it out to me, but I shake my head.

“I was in a coma for four days?”

She laughs at this, offering the plate to Lacey, who takes one of the biscuits and dutifully bites into the brittle thing. Maybe they’re trying to lead by example but there’s no way I’m putting that dusty looking shit in my mouth.

“Not in a coma,” Sloane says. “You were running a high fever. Makes you incoherent. Sleep for long stretches at a time.” She smirks. “But you were in and out for a while there.”

I don’t even wanna know why she’s finding that so entertaining. I was probably clucking like a chicken or some shit. Hopefully Michael’s been busy or he’ll have recorded the whole fucking thing on his cell phone. Asshole.

As if on cue, the door to my room opens and the man himself walks in. His suit jacket’s missing and his shirtsleeves are rolled up to his elbows. “Finally,” is all he says.

“Yeah. Finally.”

“Sloane said you’d wake up properly today,” Lacey whispers, inching closer. She hovers for a second before obviously giving in and deciding the hell with it. She perches carefully on the edge of the bed on the opposite side to Sloane. “She hasn’t left your side,” she says, nodding to Sloane. “It’s all been very Florence Nightingale.”

Sloane shoots her an uncomfortable look, her cheeks turning red. “Yeah, well, you don’t leave sick patients when they need monitoring.”

A strange look passes over Lacey’s face. She regards us both, her gaze turning from me to Sloane, back and forth for a minute, and then she sighs. She sounds oddly content. “You two are really weird, y’know. You”—she pokes me in the leg—“care about her. And you”—she pokes Sloane—“care about him. Why the hell are you tiptoeing around it like high school freshman at your first dance?”

I could fucking throttle her. Michael clears his throat, scratches his jaw, says, “Right. Okay, then,” and walks straight out of the room again. We have a tacit agreement that we don’t talk about emotions and girly shit—it makes him as uncomfortable as it makes me. Which is pretty fucking uncomfortable. At least when it’s coming from Lacey’s mouth, anyway.

“You feel like giving us the room, Lace?” I ask. Usually that would be enough to set her off, but she seems content enough with the fact that I’m alive. She does as I ask and leaves, my sweatshirt so long on her that it’s almost down to her knees.

“She’s been sleeping in here,” Sloane says quietly.

Oh, god. Being in the same room as me while I sleep? That’s fucking dangerous. I could have hurt her. If I was delirious as well as half-asleep, I could have
killed
her. “Did I—” I don’t even know how to ask. Maybe Lacey’s wearing that giant sweater of mine because I laid my hands on her and she’s covered in fucking bruises.

“No, no. Don’t worry.” Sloane shakes her head. “You were too weak to even lift your head let alone throw anybody across the room.”

I fix my eyes on her, and I see that she looks tired. Completely worn out. “You been sleeping in here too?” I ask, though I know the answer. She hasn’t been sleeping anywhere. She barely looks like she’s slept at all. She shrugs.

“Like I said, a doctor doesn’t leave a patient that requires monitoring.”

I grunt at that. “So it wasn’t because you were terrified I was going to die and you were panicking like crazy?”

Her eyes widen a little. She should know by now that I don’t like guessing at people’s emotions. Particularly when I can see them plainly enough. I’ve never understood why people fucking hide what they’re thinking or feeling. It’s pointless. It doesn’t get them anywhere, and it doesn’t ever help me, either.

“Yes,” she says, lifting her chin. This whole being honest thing is so new to her that she still thinks it’s the hard way to do things instead of the easiest. “Okay, yes, I was worried. More than worried. I didn’t want you to die.”

“Good.”

“Good?” She laughs, shaking her head. “You have no idea the shit we’ve gone through the past few days, waiting to see if you were gonna be okay. I had to steal supplies from work. I could get fired if they figure out it was me. I had—”

I cut her off. “Was it worth it?”

Opened-mouthed, she just looks at me for a moment. “Was stealing from work worth you getting better?” she asks.

I nod—fucking headache—and ease myself up a little higher in the bed. “Yeah. Was risking your job and your reputation worth saving me?”