#Superfan (7 page)

Toothless grins, cocking his head to the side. “Do I look like I hang out at Club Champagne?”

“You do now. Grab your coat and let’s go. Drinks are on me.” I attempt to stand. Dizziness grows tenfold.

Toothless touches my shoulders, directing me back on his wrinkled, stained coat. “I tells you what. You sit right here and wait on that ambulance. Get checked out at the hospital, and when you get better you can take me for drinks at Club Champagne, you hear? You ain’t acting right.” Worry lines his forehead.

This stranger, this complete stranger, is worrying about me. The up I felt earlier now drags me crashing to the ground. Tears swallow my eyes, and as the first sound of a siren breaks the chatter of pedestrians on the sidewalk, I begin to cry.

“You don’t understand.” I rub my nose with the back of my arm, potentially ruining Madi’s jacket. “This is how I always act. That’s what’s wrong with me. I’m a mess. And I nearly died, and if I had … I’d never …”

Be able to tell Eight I’m falling in like with him.

The thought hits me harder than the kid who rear-ended my car. For the second time tonight, I want to bounce off the ground and scamper away, but I’m frozen to the cold cement.

The police are the first to pull up, then the paramedics. They ask me questions, they poke and prod. Someone cleans the wound on my forehead and places a bandage over the laceration.

“She’s actin’ funny,” Toothless tells one of the paramedics. “But she says she always acts funny.”

His words snap me from my trancelike state. I bark in laughter, those tears returning again. The paramedics exchange a “she’s loo-loo” glance that sends me into more forceful fits of giggles.

“We’re gonna help you onto the stretcher, ma’am.” A blue-gloved hand touches my shoulder gently.

“What about my car?”

“The police will take care of it,” the paramedic assures me. “You can call the police department when you’re feeling better and they’ll tell ya where to pick it up.”

“Where’s my phone? My purse?” Some sense of normalcy worms its way inside my head. Madi’s probably flipping out right about now, wondering where I am.

Toothless clambers around inside my car until he finds my cell, keys, and purse. I try passing him what little cash I have inside, but he’s having none of that. He waves me away with his fingerless, holey gloves.

“You go on to the hospital.”

“Ride with me.” I fist his worn shirt, pleading.

“Gotta get home to the little lady.” Toothless points at the stretcher. “You go on and get on that stretcher for these nice folks. Don’t forget: when you get better, drinks are on you.”

I give him a nod and wave as he disappears into the growing crowd on the sidewalk. The paramedics assist my dizzy ass onto the stretcher. I close my eyes during the ride to the hospital, only opening them when instructed to do so by the paramedic. One hand clutches my phone, the other my purse. I should probably call Madi and tell her what’s happened, but the throbbing of my head worsens with the thought of staring at the bright screen of my phone.

I snap back into consciousness when I’m wheeled into the ER and placed inside a room. Still, I don’t open my eyes. Not until the molasses-thick voice of the doctor says my name. My eyes flutter open and meet those of Dr. Norris, or so his white lab coat claims. Dr. Norris wheels a short stool close to my bed and takes a seat.

“Ms. Hannah, I’m Dr. Norris, one of the attending physicians.” He briefly glances at my wardrobe and back to the clipboard in his hand.

I look down at my slinky dress, cringing at the sight of a long rip just below where my prized possession hides underneath a pair of silky drawers. My legs are dirty and scraped from the sidewalk. Dried blood cakes my forehead, making my skin tight and itchy. Resting on Toothless’ coat has left me smelling like cheap beer and off-brand cigarettes. Madi’s heels are dirty and scuffed up the sides, aging the new leather. I not-so-discreetly sniff my jacket. Toothless’ dollar store cologne swarms around me. And I’ve been crying, so I know my thick, smokey eye makeup has melted down my cheeks, giving me a sorrowful raccoon appearance.

Great, I look and smell like a ho.

“I’m not a prostitute, I swear.”

Dr. Norris blinks. “I didn’t—I wasn’t assuming—”

“Just do your tests, okay? And let me go home.” My voice grows quiet, and those dumb tears threaten to make an appearance again. Nearly dying has turned me into an emotional basketcase, laughing one minute, crying the next.

Dr. Norris pulls out a pen light and blinds me with it, his deep voice directing me on where to look. Once he’s satisfied with whatever he finds or doesn’t find, he drops the pen light into the front pocket of his jacket and asks me the strangest questions. What is today’s date? What time of the day is it? What is my full name? Do I know where I am? Do I know who I am? After he’s satisfied with my answers, he sends me off to have a battery of tests.

A little while after getting my noggin scanned, Dr. Norris re-enters the room. He flips through a stack of stapled papers, a big grin on his face. He has nice teeth. White and straight. Someone paid good money for those teeth because no one has real teeth that pretty.

“Great news,” he says, sitting on his stool.

“I have a brain and it’s somewhat functional?”

Dr. Norris chuckles, his gaze remaining on my face a beat too long. Some poor nurse came in a few minutes prior and helped clean the ruined makeup from my face and the dirt from the superficial wounds on my legs. I probably don’t look much better, but compared to earlier I feel like a new Alex.

“There are no signs of any internal damage, but considering you have that head injury,” he says, nodding at my bandage, “I’ll need someone to look after you tonight. If you have any nausea, vomiting, loss of consciousness, an unresolved headache, you’ll need to return to the emergency room immediately.”

“But I thought my CT scan came back clear.” I shake my head. “Or negative. Whatever y’all call it.”

Dr. Norris nods. “It did, but I’ve seen a brain bleed not show up on a CT scan for hours, and sometimes it can even take days to show up. There’s always a chance when a head injury is involved. Although I believe you’ll be fine, we shouldn’t take that risk. Do you have a significant other at home? Someone who can be around in case you need to return to the hospital?”

His voice is softer on the end. Shy. It’s kind of cute, or would be if I didn’t feel as though I’d been shot in the head.

“Nope, no roommate, no boyfriend, no husband.” I fiddle with the hospital band around my wrist.

“Parents? Siblings?”

Guilt consumes me. “Yes to both, but they all live hours away.”

Dr. Norris nods. “Normally I don’t admit a patient I feel is ready for discharge, but under the circumstances …” His voice drifts away.

Under the circumstances. What circumstances? That I’m a total loser because I have no man and no family around to help me out?

“I have a friend. Madi. I was supposed to meet her tonight at Club Champagne. That’s where I was heading when …” I gesture at my general disposition. “You know.”

He smiles, relief soothing the anxiety from his face. “Call your friend. While you’re doing that, I’ll check on my patient in the next room and be back in a few minutes.”

Once he ducks out of the tiny room, I pick up my phone and scroll through the dozen or so missed messages. Each one is from Madi, and each accuses me of vamping out on her and our night of debauchery. Her accusations kind of piss me off. She knows I hate—no,
despise
—going out, especially clubbing, but I’m not the type of person to just not show up as planned.

My calls go directly to her voicemail. I send her a text. Then another. According to my phone, it’s two o’clock in the morning. I was supposed to meet Madi at ten. Either she’s still on the dance floor at Club Champagne or she’s snoozing in her king-sized bed beside Logan. Either way, she’s not answering, not even when I leave a message explaining I’ve been involved in an automobile accident and I’m at the hospital. There’s no response from their landline either, which leads me to believe they’re still out partying. Logan’s phone is broken. There’s no way I can get in touch with him.

“Any luck?” Dr. Norris leans on the doorway, arms crossed over his chest.

I press the cold screen of the phone against my forehead. “My friend isn’t answering.” A boulder of dread and excitement burrows its way inside my belly. “There’s only one other person I can think of to call.”

“Another friend?”

“No.” I sigh, pulling up Eight’s number. “My neighbor.”

***

A bubble of anticipation builds inside my chest with each minute I sit waiting for him to arrive. Dr. Norris hated banishing me from the examination room and into the lobby, but he had no choice. After all, it’s Atlanta, a city of never-ending chaos and crime. People need my room. People with life-threatening injuries. Nothing like mine.

Only fifteen minutes pass before Eight pounces into the lobby. He must have sped the entire way here, because it’s a good thirty minute drive from our apartment complex in our small town on the outskirts of the ATL to this hospital in the city. His frantic eyes search the crowd of patients and families until they land on mine. He slinks across the room. Lithe, like a cobra.

“What the hell happened to you?” He shrugs off his jacket and drapes it over my shoulders.

It’s soft and warm and smells like him. All jasmine and citrus. I sniff the collar, way past caring what he or anyone else thinks at this point.

“There was this kid on a skateboard, and this SUV jumped the curb …” I’m on the verge of crying again, but I’m all cried out. No tears left inside my head. I lick my parched lips and stand. “Can we go?”

“Yeah, of course.”

His hand is on my elbow, leading me out of the ER. Once we step outside, his arm makes its way around my waist. I lean into him. The stiffness of his shoulders gives way, wavering against the heat of our joined bodies. We climb a short flight of stairs leading to an upper level of the parking garage, foregoing the elevators.

I’ve never seen his vehicle, so I’m lost as to where we’re going until the headlights blink on a sleek black car. The car isn’t him, although I’m not sure I can even begin to picture the type of vehicle Eight would drive. The sweetness of his thick, country accent contradicts the yuppiness of the modern car. I don’t realize I’m standing still as a statue in front of the car until he puts pressure on the small of my back, guiding me to the passenger door. I climb inside, praying my dirty dress doesn't ruin his interior.

“Something wrong?”

“This isn’t you,” I say. “This car, this isn’t you.”

Eight chuckles and leans on the open door, staring down at me. “You’re right, it’s not. My ex picked it out. Said my bike was too impractical.”

“Bike,” I say, but any further words are cut off by the gentle click of the door.

Within seconds he joins me. The small space inside the car heats with our two bodies, dizzying me more than any head injury ever could. My finger touches the button to lower the window, but I make no move to press it. There’s something enticing about the heat, and it has nothing to do with the chill of winter outside. Warmth tickles my belly, the sensation climbing over my skin. Nerve endings stand on edge, wishing he’d touch my skin again. And he does. He cranks the car with the touch of a button, places one hand on the steering wheel, and shifts into gear before dropping his hand on top of mine.

“Funny how you know me better than she ever did.” His voice is a whisper. Quiet and sad.

“Who?” My mind’s gone fuzzy again, but it has nothing to do with the cut on my forehead and everything to do with this man beside me.

“No one.”

Closing my eyes, I lean back against the seat, allowing the tips of his fingers to stroke the naked flesh on the back of my hand. Each caress leaves me wanting more, praying his fingers will further their exploration away from my hand, up my arm. To dance along my collarbone and dip into the front of my dress.

Surely the bump to my head brought about this staggering yearning. I’ve thought about him before. Thought about kissing him. Thought about falling for him. Thought about loving him. But nothing like this, nothing so heated and raw and pure.

Nearly dying puts things in perspective, remember?

His fingers graze the inside of my wrist and pause. I know what he feels. He feels the intensity of my pulse, the hammering strum of a burning desire coursing through my veins. My thoughts are beginning to sound like one of the battered romance novels resting on the bookshelf inside my room. I don’t even care. I’m in that deep.

“Alex.”

The sound of my name leaving his lips jolts me, not only because he’s never said my real name, but because of the grittiness of his voice.

“We should talk about what happened between us.” He glances at me in the darkness. “When we were interrupted by your friend.”

I shake my head, forcing him silent. Not now. Not while we’re in this car, trapped in this heat where I can’t think straight. And if he doesn’t stop driving like my grandmother and get me back to my apartment where I can properly think, I’ll kill him. Kill him dead.