Katana (4 page)

“Mm-hmm,” he murmured as he jotted notes down. “That’s perfectly normal.”

I glared at him as he stood and returned the chart to the foot of my bed. “Normal for who?” I paused to cough. “Reality-show skanks?”

He tucked his pen into his shirt pocket. “The after-effects of shock can feel like a bad hangover. I imagine you’re experiencing a headache? Maybe some nausea?”

I pulled the blanket up and closed my eyes. He wasn’t kidding. The throbbing in my temples was so powerful, I would swear at any moment the force would push my eyeballs from my skull.

“Can I at least check your pulse?”

I cracked my eyes. “If you make it quick.”

He placed two tan fingers on my wrist and counted the beats of my pulse under his breath. “Your vitals are great.”

“Then why are you still touching me?”

He let go with a chuckle.

From the hallway I could hear a rapid clacking of high heels as if someone were trying to attempt Morse code via Prada. I groaned. It had to be Debbie. She was the only woman I knew who ran as if her legs were plastic-wrapped together from her thighs to her ankles.

Debbie burst into the room and I tried to sink deeper into the bed to avoid the whirlwind of Oscar de la Renta clothing and Chanel perfume that made up my mother. She pulled her phone several inches away from her face and said, “My poor baby, you look like hell. I’m going to take care of this. I’m going to hire the best lawyer and—” She flinched and brought the phone back to her ear. “No, no, Marcy. I wasn’t talking to you. How would I know what you look like right now?” With a groan she plugged her free ear with her finger and twisted away from me and the slack-mouthed doctor. “It’s swimsuit season. If you’re that hungry, go suck on a Tic Tac!”

“That’s your mother?” Dr. Wendell whispered.

“Debbie Martin; agent extraordinaire,” I answered, pinching the bridge of my nose between two fingers.

“Good to know.” The doctor, with his eyes never leaving my mother, straightened his scrubs. “Rileigh, would you like me to send in the nurse with something to relieve the pain?”

“Oh, do you have a cure for mothers?”

“I’m sorry?” Dr. Wendell asked.

“I
said,
‘That’d be great.’” I flashed an innocent smile. “I had a headache, but all of a sudden it’s so much worse.”

Debbie closed her phone with a snap and turned back toward me, wrapping perfectly manicured fingers around my bedrail. From this close, I could see the dark circles around her eyes that concealer failed to hide. “Rileigh, baby.” She sighed and her body deflated like a busted water bra. “I want you to know I came as soon as I could. I grabbed the first flight out of LAX.”

“It’s cool, Mom. You’re busy. I get that.” And I did. Debbie had done some modeling in her youth, making the transition from print ads to runways at sixteen. But like Debbie always said, fame is fleeting. At seventeen, she found herself preggo with yours truly. With her career over she could have faded into obscurity. Instead, she returned home, finished her degree, and started her own talent agency. She barely scraped a living until she discovered a four-year-old-girl in a McDonalds PlayPlace who went on to become the hottest child actor in Hollywood. I haven’t seen my mother for more than a couple of days at a time since.

Debbie opened her mouth, but the words died on her tongue as she turned to Dr. Wendell. “How is my little girl, doctor … ?”

He smiled. “It’s Wendell. And your daughter is doing exceptionally well. But, as you can imagine, she’s going to need plenty of rest.” After a pause, he continued, “In fact, rather than disturb Rileigh further, why don’t we continue this conversation in the hall?”

Debbie’s acrylic nails clicked softly as they slid away from the rail. “I don’t know if that’s a good idea. I just got here. I’m sure Rileigh needs her mother right now—”

“Trust me.” Dr. Wendell gave a reassuring nod. “Rileigh needs her rest.”

If I didn’t know better, I’d swear Dr. Wendell winked at me, like he was doing me a favor or something. It didn’t earn him any points. I didn’t want or need his help.

Debbie frowned, never taking her eyes off my face. “Will you be okay by yourself?”

It was a ridiculous question. Before Nana got sick and died the previous year, she stayed at the house with me when Debbie went out of town. But now, every couple of days it was me alone with a drawer full of takeout menus. “I’ll be fine.”

Debbie nodded, though she didn’t look convinced.

“You must be exhausted, Mrs. Martin,” Dr. Wendell said. “If you like I can show you where you can grab a cup of coffee.”

“It’s Ms.,” Debbie answered automatically.

I thought I saw the trace of a smile on the doctor’s lips. “My apologies, Ms. Martin.” He held his arm out and gestured for the door. “After you.”

Debbie hesitated, studying my face. I closed my eyes, faking exhaustion, until I heard the shuffle of rubber soles move past my bed, followed by the snaps of Debbie’s heels.

It wasn’t more than five minutes until someone rapped lightly on the door frame. I opened my eyes to discover the red-haired nurse standing in the doorway. “Are you feeling up to a visitor?”

“Do you know who?” I pulled my hair over my shoulder and combed my fingers through the knots.

The nurse shook her head. “He says he’s a friend.”

Quentin! I smiled and nodded, sending the nurse away. Despite what I’d told Debbie, I wasn’t ready to be alone. Without someone to distract me I would be forced to face the memories of last night. It didn’t make sense. I should be dead.

My fingers trembled as I pulled apart a tangle of hair. The longer I sat alone in bed, the harder the shadows of last night’s memories pressed against me with needle-like claws. The snap of a bone. An agonized cry. A voice of calm detachment directing my next move.

“No.” I pressed my palms against my temples, begging the images from last night to stop playing like a horror movie marathon inside my head. I heard the pad of swift footsteps down the hall. Relief drowned the scream that threatened to rip from my throat.

But the relief was short lived. The stranger that strode into my hospital room was definitely not a friend.

5

T
he Asian guy who entered looked to be only a few years older than me. He wore a blue T-shirt that couldn’t hide the solid frame beneath it, and his black hair looked gelled in place strand by strand. “Rileigh Martin?” he asked.

“Yes?” My skin prickled. I stopped combing my hair and threw it behind my shoulder.

His eyes swept over me as if sizing me up. He frowned.

I pulled the thin blanket higher around my chest. “And you are—?”

Before he could answer, Quentin burst through the door like his shoes were on fire. He rushed up to my bedside and flung himself across my lap. “My poor, poor Ri-Ri,” he sobbed.

The stranger took a surprised step backward, glancing at me with wide eyes.

I sighed and rubbed the roaring ache under my temples with my fingers. Quentin and I had been friends for so long, I had grown used to his theatrics. Only this time his timing sucked.

Quentin’s shoulders heaved and I squirmed under the growing wet spot in the blanket where his tears fell.

“Q,” I whispered, nudging his shoulder with my hand.

“I’m a failure as a friend!” he wailed into my lap.

“Q!” I growled between clenched teeth. When he still didn’t move, I pinched the skin underneath his ribs.

“Ow!” Quentin scowled at me as he pushed himself off. “What was that for?”

I cleared my throat and rolled my eyes in the stranger’s direction.

“Oh!” Finally realizing we weren’t alone, Quentin dabbed his swollen eyes with a tissue he pulled out of his pocket and looked the new guy up and down. “Oh,” he repeated, showing off his chemically brilliant smile.

The stranger frowned. “There’s been a mistake—you’re not who I’m looking for. I’m sorry for the disruption.”

Quentin batted his lashes. “Going so soon?”

The stranger left without answering.

Quentin turned to me with an open mouth. “Who was that?”

I shrugged. “Some freak. I’ve been attracting them all morning. I think it’s this sexy hospital gown.” I tugged on the putrid green smock tied around my neck.

“I always heard a full moon will bring out the freaks.”

I swatted at him.

He laughed. “But seriously, that was one gorgeous freak.”

“Q,” I groaned. “Did you forget your Ritalin today? Focus.”

He shook his head, jumped up onto the side of my bed, and lay down next to me. “You’re right.” He put his arm around my shoulder and I snuggled happily against him. “But that guy just came to visit you, huh? I thought I was your only hot guy friend.” He swept a hand through his freshly styled hair. Only Quentin could track down hair wax in a hospital.

I laughed at him. “You
are
my only hot guy friend.” I lifted my head and kissed his cheek. “I’m so glad you’re okay.” Aside from a little purpling on his left temple, Quentin looked like his normal self.

“Yeah.” Quentin nodded, his tone serious. “About that … I feel awful about what happened … leaving you on your own … not that you
needed
my help. I was interviewed by the police … ”

I moaned and buried my head against his chest.

“Ri-Ri, there was this footage on the news … the mall surveillance video … it was fuzzy, but it looked like you went all Chuck Norris on three different guys.” He shrugged his shoulders, as if unable to find the right words for what he wanted to say next.

“On the news?” I could feel the blood drain from my face. There was now physical evidence of the one event in my life that I hoped to put behind me. Which meant, of course, that all of my friends knew about it and would want a first-hand account. But how could I explain to others something I didn’t understand myself?

“What happened after I was knocked out?” Quentin asked.

I sighed and let my head fall against the pillow, at the same time wishing for the floor to open up and swallow me whole. “I wish I knew. It’s hard to remember. I was scared and—” I didn’t know how to explain the voice in my head without sounding like a crazy person.

“I think it has something to do with adrenaline,” Quentin said.

Adrenaline. That made perfect sense. I’d heard stories on the news about men lifting cars off people when pumped up by adrenaline. Maybe the voice in my head had something to do with that as well.

“I’ve read articles about it,” Quentin continued. “People can do incredible things in stressful situations. One time when I was on vacation, I accidentally sat on my Fendi sunglasses. I actually had to go into one of those souvenir shops and buy some cheap plastic shades.” He shuddered. “Can you imagine? Without adrenaline, I never would have made it.”

I laughed until the hard knot of fear, confusion, and anxiety that was lodged inside my ribs broke free and I began to sob. Quentin didn’t say a word; he just squeezed me against his chest until I went limp with exhaustion.

“My parents were here earlier,” he said. “They brought me my car. Wanna go home?”

I could only nod.

“I called Debbie when you were in the ambulance. Did she find a flight in?”

“Here and gone,” I answered.

Quentin nodded. He’d been my friend long enough to know the only way to get Debbie to stay in one place was to Super Glue the floor of a Starbucks. “All right, sweets.” He kissed the top of my head and gently pried me off of his chest. “I’ll text Debbie and let her know I’m taking you home. Then I’m going to go see what we need to do to get you outta here.”

Quentin’s dad was a plastic surgeon, so Quentin knew his way around a hospital. He left my room and returned moments later followed by the red-haired nurse and two uniformed police officers. It turned out that all I needed to do was give the police an official statement and have Debbie sign the discharge papers. Debbie’s signature was not a problem. With the occupants in the room focused on me, it was nothing for Quentin to quickly forge Debbie’s name on the release papers. He’d perfected the signature signing the many report cards and permission slips that Debbie hadn’t gotten around to. The police statement concerned me, for the simple fact that I still couldn’t process what really had happened last night. My pulse raced as I recounted the night’s events. I left out the part about sensing danger and hearing voices. I felt a little guilty, but I couldn’t think of a way to explain without sounding like a nutcase. I could just imagine it:

“Hey officer, it wasn’t me beating up those men. I was possessed by a voice inside my head.”

The first officer would put his pad away and cast a sideways glance at his partner. “Okay, sweetheart, you just relax while I get the doctor. He’s going to give you something to make you sleepy, and then you’re going to go away for a while. By the way, what size straitjacket do you wear?”

Not for me. Luckily, I didn’t have to worry. The officers seemed to think the whole thing was hilarious. They cracked jokes about having me join the squad while they half-heartedly jotted down my answers to their questions. They informed me that all three men had been placed into police custody after being treated for their injuries. And despite the muggers’ claims, between the mall surveillance video and the elderly couple’s statement, what I did to the men could only be construed as self-defense.