Wake for Me (Life or Death Series) (2 page)

After meandering around in Radiology for a good half hour, Sam finally located the department’s night-shift receptionist and realized that his page had been a wrong number. He thanked the girl for paging him accidentally—which really seemed to weird her out, since he didn’t bother to explain that he’d been grateful for the excuse to flee from a testy ICU nurse—and then plotted a sneaky course to the on-call room. Sleep would cure his idiocy, maybe.

On the way, he slipped his cell phone out of his pocket and turned it on. He hadn’t checked it in hours, but he wasn’t surprised to see that there were five messages from his friend Brady, and two from his mom. He ignored the ones from Brady, and pulled up the first one from Mom.

When can I tell Caroline you’ll be here next?

He thought about answering her with one word,
Never.
But that would’ve been rude. Instead, he ignored the somewhat repetitive question and went to the next message. Okay…a picture of a pot roast. And to the next message, right underneath:
You could come this weekend
.
I’ll make your favorite
. He’d only been avoiding his mother for a week this time, and she’d already progressed to food blackmail. This Caroline girl must be ultra-super girlfriend material.

Sam kept walking as he typed out a response.

I’m working back to backs all weekend. Remember?

As for the proposed set-up, it was probably best not to bring it up. Maybe he could just delete the text and pretend like it hadn’t gone through. Then, when he did eventually drive home for the weekend, maybe he wouldn’t have to deal with a modern—and more tearful—version of the Spanish Inquisition on why he wasn’t interested in dating a girl who lived four hours away, and was work buddies with his mom.

It wasn’t until he was standing in front of room 714 that Sam realized he wasn’t going to the on-call room after all. His sleep-deprived feet had led him right back to where he’d started, before he’d gotten paged away from Sleeping Beauty’s side. Oh, well. The empty bed next to hers was just as good a place to catch a few winks as anywhere else—provided he didn’t get caught. He probably wouldn’t, not this late, when staffing was low and most of the patients were either permanently unconscious or drugged into a hard core stupor.

Still, he made sure to check the hallway for short, irate nurses before he drew the curtain between the beds and lay down.

As usual, when he closed his eyes, his mind switched into hyper-drive. All of the mistakes he’d made that day—and in the weeks, months and years before—flashed behind his eyes like a gag reel of regrettable events. Questions he’d gotten wrong during rounds, words he’d misspelled on patient charts, and stupid things he’d said to the cute nurse on the fourth floor.

And of course, at the very end of the reel, there was his greatest and most secret mistake.

The shallow, rhythmic breathing from the next bed provided the soundtrack as Sam’s mind filled in the blanks.

The warehouse party had been a private gig, hosted by one of Brady’s friends from undergrad. Sam remembered Brady telling him to watch out for jail bait. Some indie rock star was doing a secret show, and underage college girls in short skirts had flocked to the dimly lit scene like…well, a flock of some kind. Brady was in his element, of course, which left Sam lagging behind and feeling awkward because he was a head taller than pretty much everyone else in the room.

“Dude, lighten up.” Brady’s voice repeated his usual shtick. “Find yourself a girl and bore the pants off of her, why don’t you?”

“No thanks.” Sam wasn’t in the mood. It didn’t help that he was on call, and nursing a Coke that he wished was a beer.

“Why? You still having PTSD flashbacks about Karen?”

Sam shook his head. “
Carrie
. And I just told her we needed a break.”

Brady laughed. “Dude, she changed her Facebook status to ‘in a relationship’ after two dates. You don’t need a break. You need a fucking restraining order.”

As much as Sam wanted to disagree, he couldn’t come up with a good enough counterpoint. Carrie had been a little
Swim Fan
-esque. Instead, he took another slug of Coke and gestured for his friend to make the rounds without him.

“Go ahead. Pillage and raid to your sick little heart’s content.”

Brady, of course, didn’t hear him. He was already several yards away, circling a pair of blondes with matching little black dresses like a mako shark with a surgically-implanted, hormone-seeking chip. The guy might not have been all that good-looking, but he made up for it with countless hours at the gym and a complete lack of shame.

After a while, Sam got tired of watching Brady strike out, and he let his eyes wander the room until they settled on something interesting. That was when he saw her.

She was sitting alone, at a table tucked into a dark corner. While everyone around her laughed and flirted and danced with reckless abandon, she was perfectly still, like the eye of a storm. Self-contained. Remote. Unreachable. She was beautiful too, but it was more than that. There was a sadness, a story behind her eyes that begged to be discovered.

Even from several bar stools away, Brady had noticed Sam watching her, and wouldn’t stop harassing him until he finally agreed to at least go talk to her.

The longer Sam watched her, the more interesting she seemed. In front of her, there was an untouched glass of wine. Her cell phone sat on the table, its case sparkling with what looked like actual rubies. It was weird, the unimportant things a person remembered. Her fingernails were painted dark blue. The way they tapped on the trendy cast iron table, it was as if she was trying to drum her way through it. She was agitated, he should’ve realized it at the time—but his need to unravel a mystery overpowered him.

I’m not going to hit on her, he remembered telling himself. That wasn’t his style, and she wasn’t his type. Usually, the girls Sam dated were the cute, girl-next-door type. Like Betty from the Archie comics his mom collected. Low-maintenance. The kind of girl who didn’t mind being taken out for a burger between shifts, because he didn’t have time for a sit-down meal. This girl looked high-maintenance and expensive. Filet mignon and a dozen roses expensive.

And yet…there was something about her that made Sam desperate to talk to her.

He couldn’t remember crossing the room toward her. It was like he’d just taken one step and arrived at the side of the table. Like some otherworldly being had teleported him there, in an effort to bring them together instantaneously. It was magic. Kismet. Fate.

She’d hated him on sight.

“Excuse me,” she said, without bothering to look at him or waiting for him to speak. “But you’re blocking my view of the door.”

“Oh,” he’d laughed. Instantly, his confidence fled, leaving nothing but cheesy movie quotes and sweaty palms in its wake. “I’m sorry, were you waiting for someone?”

When her eyes finally met his, Sam braced himself for the death ray blast.

“No,” she’d said. “I just really love staring at doors.”

Her words were strange and clipped, spoken much too carefully for someone who’d grown up abusing the English language, the way he had.

“Ah, sarcasm. The universal language.” Even the Epic Fail Memory Reel version of his joke made Sam wince. If his head was any thicker, he could have offered it to her as a battering ram to destroy that pesky tabletop once and for all. “Sorry, I just thought…maybe you’d want someone to talk to.”

“Someone to talk to?” She smiled politely, even as her eyes narrowed. “Are you sure you don’t mean someone to drag into a dark corner, fling against a wall, and sexually ravage until he begs for mercy or someone calls the police?”

“Uh…” Sam had actually gulped, like a goddamned cartoon character.

“Well, which is it?”

That was the moment Sam became a temporary mute.

With nothing but her words and those eyes, she’d shut down all but his most basic brain functions. As long as he lived, he would never forget the look on her face as she’d sized him up in that dim, crowded room. He’d never felt so transparent, so powerless. God help him, it was exciting.

When she was finished staring him down, one corner of her mouth lifted in a tiny, triumphant smile. She opened her perfectly formed lips, and Sam held his breath.

But before she had a chance to eviscerate him with a final word, her phone had blinked to life on the table.

Sam hadn’t read the text message—that would’ve been rude, not to mention nearly impossible in such a dark space. But the picture that came up behind it was of a guy.
Her
guy, he assumed. It was bad form to hit on another guy’s girl, but he couldn’t bring himself to feel sorry about it. Not then, and not later.

“Excuse me,” she’d said, and when her eyes met his, he thought she looked genuinely disappointed—though, maybe that was just wishful thinking on his part. “I have to go.”

The expensive-looking phone had been whisked away into an even more expensive-looking bag. Her expensive shoes carried her swiftly toward the door she’d been so fascinated with a moment before. Sam braced himself for the feeling of loss that was sure to hit him after she was gone, knowing how unlikely it was that he’d ever see her again.

But then, something happened. Her sure, confident steps faltered. She slowed, then stopped, and turned. From several yards away, Sam watched intently as she hovered for a moment, biting her bottom lip with perfect, white teeth. Her eyes locked onto his, and she smiled.

So completely stunned by the force of that smile, Sam found himself helpless to do anything but watch as she quickly closed the gap between them. Her hands reached up to grasp his chin, and he bent down to her, not really knowing why he did it. It was like gravity, so natural that the compulsion was inescapable. Her heels helped.

When she kissed him, every nerve ending in his body exploded into his awareness.

No girl had ever kissed him like that. Hell, no girl had ever kissed any guy like that, at least not that Sam had heard. His brain screamed at his inert body, telling it to reciprocate—to wrap her in his arms, to press her against him, to show her that he somehow deserved this incredible and totally unexpected gift.

But before his body could obey, she pulled away from him.

“Don’t take it personally,” she’d said, with a smirk. “I’m having a terrible night.”

And just like that, Sam’s mystery girl had turned and disappeared into the night, leaving him standing there like an idiot, bewildered and alone.

Until forty-five minutes later, when his pager had gone off, summoning him to the ER. The attending physician on duty told him to scrub up and help with an incoming trauma, because they were short-staffed. It was snowing, and there had been a bus crash on the highway, as well as several smaller accidents.

That was when Sam walked into trauma room C and recognized the brown curls and dark blue fingernails. She was lying on a gurney, soaking wet, not breathing.

His mystery girl. His Sleeping Beauty. His best kept secret.

His obsession with her had only grown since that day. It wasn’t because she was beautiful and mysterious, or because she’d rocked his world with a glance, and then stolen his breath with a searing kiss.

It was because, no matter how many times Sam went over that night in his head, piece by agonizing piece, he couldn’t pinpoint the exact mistake he’d made that had cost Viola Bellerose the rest of her life.

CHAPTER THREE

“What is common in all these dreams is obvious. They completely satisfy wishes excited during the day which remain unrealized. They are simply and undisguisedly realizations of wishes.” –Sigmund Freud

“How could you not have noticed?” I laugh at him, teasing as I walk backward toward the bed.

Sam’s face is fuzzy, yet indignant. “I was too busy trying not to freak out about the peripheral neuropathy study. All I could think was, if I could get that spot, I’d be a shoo-in for a residency.”

I unzip my dress and let it slide off my shoulders. It puddles at my feet. It’s so dark that I can barely see the floor. A single lamp is in the corner, casting a long shadow from where Sam is standing, all the way to me. I try to open my eyes wider, because he’s taking off his jacket now, and I don’t want to miss a thing. Still, everything remains frustratingly dim.

“So you stood there,” I continue, “answering all of Dr. Chakrabarti’s questions perfectly. Meanwhile, you had this twenty foot string of gauze hanging out of your pocket.”

“Yeah, but it looked like toilet paper.” He blushes, and the light turns pink. “I’m pretty sure it was Brady.”

I grow impatient, and I reach for him, tugging him close. “It was totally Brady. But let’s not talk about that now.”

He wraps his arms around me, and I bury my face in his shirt. He smells like Sam, that familiar mix of chlorine and cotton. God, I love that smell.

“I’m so much better at this when I’m with you,” he says. “I wish I never had to leave.”

“So never leave.” I kiss him, pulling him back onto the bed with me. I can feel his warmth, but it’s not enough. I want his weight. All of it, on top of me, crushing me into the mattress. He’s still fully dressed and I’m almost naked. It’s exciting, but disconcerting at the same time.

“You need to lose some clothing,” I tell him. “I feel like we’re not on the same level.”

He laughs, tickling my neck with the stubble on his chin. I close my eyes and focus every cell on the feeling of his lips trailing softly down my neck. Even his heartbeat is precious.

“That wouldn’t be very professional of me.”

“What?” My eyes fly open. The room has gone from dim to black.

“I’m sorry. It’s my fault. I freaked out. …You deserved so much better.”

His voice is distant now.
No.
No, no, no
. My mind rebels, but there’s nothing I can do. I try to reach out for him, but my arms won’t move.

The world shifts, and I’m back at Saint Catherine’s, standing on the lawn in front of the crumbling stone chapel. The sky is grey, just like the stone, just like my stockings and sweater. Across the campus, my dormitory pulses with warm yellow light, threatening to draw me into its deceptively homelike embrace. I hate it for everything it was and is, but mostly for what it isn’t.