Within These Walls (16 page)

Her eyes met mine and softened. “That’s awful. How does that even happen?”

“Well, it’s a long and complicated sad story.”

“I’ve got time.”

“Okay, but first, I need to explain something,” I said.

I reached down and grabbed my ID badge. It had the trademark dreadful picture with bad lighting and my blank expression slapped on the front. Underneath was my name—Jude C.

“I don’t even know your last name,” she said before covering her mouth with her hand. She looked mortified.

As I peeled her fingers from her face one at a time, I noticed she felt warmer than normal. “You feel hot. Are you feeling okay?”

“What? Yes, I’m fine. You’re just trying to change the subject!”

I let it go, but I made a mental note to check her later. “No one knows my last name. It was something I asked for when I was hired. My last name is…well-known.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Are you, like, a prince or something? Is this the part of the movie where I get to move to a castle? I don’t think I can walk in heels.”

“My last name is Cavanaugh.”

There was no reaction. She just stared at me, trying to put all the pieces together.

“Like the bank, Cavanaugh Investments in New York? The family who makes the Trumps look like paupers? They’ve been all over the news lately. You must get confused with them all the time. Don’t they have a son named Jude who—” Her hand went to her mouth, and her eyes widened.

“Hasn’t been seen publicly for three years,” I finished her sentence.

“They just keep saying he’s on vacation or too busy in meetings,” she said absently.

“My brother and father have always been very good at lying. God forbid that we have a family scandal. They get away with it because I wasn’t around much in the years prior to…me leaving. People barely remember what I look like anymore. I was away at college for so long that the public lost interest, and that left my brother, Roman, plenty of time to soak up the limelight.”

She looked at me, her eyes searching my face, as if seeing me for the first time. This was what I’d feared—that she would see me differently.

Am I still Jude? Or would I forever be Jude Cavanaugh—heir to a multibillion-dollar company?

She continued assessing me, her eyes traveling over my features, down the length of my inked arms, and back up to my messy tresses. I took a deep breath, closing my eyes, as I waited for the altered tone or the shocked gasp to come.

What I got was pudding on my face. I opened my eyes in amazement and found her giggling. Leftover pudding still clung to her pointer finger, and she was just leaning over to lick it off.

I stopped her, pulling the single digit into my own mouth and sucking it clean. Her eyes heated from the contact, and then they went round with unheard laughter when she once again saw the pudding smeared down my right cheek.

“You don’t look like him. You’re a little rougher looking,” she said, still giggling at her mess.

“Well, that was the idea. New look—”

“New life?” she finished.

I felt myself wince.

Screeching brakes, shattering glass, Megan screaming.

I can’t get to her.

Then, silence. Nothing but silence.

“Something like that,” I mumbled. “So, whom do I look like?” I managed, blinking rapidly to pull myself back from hell.
Stay in the present.

“Jude. Just Jude.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“So, are you going to help me out with this?” I pointed to the glob of pudding still clinging to my skin.

Her eyes traveled to where the direction of my outstretched finger, and I could see the hesitation. Finally, she leaned into me, her long strands of hair tickling my arm, as she nuzzled into my chest. I could smell the fruity essence of her shampoo as her warm, wet tongue darted out to touch my skin. I instinctively moved my hand to her waist, pulling her closer, and I reveled in the feel of her. She didn’t show an ounce of innocence as her body molded to mine. Her mouth moved lower, leaving a trail of wet kisses, until it found my eager lips.

I groaned, feeling the timid touch of her heated fingers brush against the fabric of the top of my scrubs. My hand slipped under her shirt as I lay back, pulling her with me. The instant my hand touched her bare skin, I knew something was wrong. My eyes flew open, and I stilled, startling her.

“You’re burning up.” I gently laid her back down on the bed.

“It’s just hot in here,” she replied, sitting up to adjust her shirt.

Her hands flew to the collar of her shirt, and I watched as she retreated back into her shell.
Was she afraid I had changed my mind?

I took a look at her cheeks. I’d mistaken the faint blush I saw earlier for nervousness or passion, but it wasn’t due to any emotion at all.

Lailah was running a fever.

I let out a puff of air as I prepared to be the bad guy.

She was definitely not going home tomorrow.

ANY SPECULATION AS to what was or was not going on between a certain CNA and me was made crystal clear when Jude’s dormant alpha tendencies came bubbling to the surface in a major way the second he felt my feverish skin. He’d flown out of my room and demanded the nurses call Dr. Marcus. I could hear him from my bed as he barked orders and expected immediate results.

The powerful surname he’d just revealed to me suddenly seemed fitting.

I should have been embarrassed. I should have been shrinking down in my hospital bed, rolling my eyes, and counting the minutes until the sound of his deep voice had quieted in the hall and I had the chance to chastise him for his overbearing behavior.

But I did none of that.

Instead, in my fever-induced fascination, I’d watched as he marched out of my room, his gait full of hurried purpose. I’d been listening as the deep timbre of his commands reminded me of the fight we’d had when I accused him of not caring. Then, I thought of the kiss that had followed.

He kissed me.

And now he’s taking care of me.

It turned out that over the next several hours, I’d need all the help I could get. The fever gave way to chills, which then transitioned into vomiting and cold sweats. I’d caught a virus that was aggressive and, of course, nonresponsive to antibiotics. The irony of living in a hospital was that it was actually one of the cleanest, germ-infested places to be. There were so many sick people all stuffed into one place. No matter how hard the staff tried to keep it clean, it was still a giant petri dish for bacteria and viruses.

Dr. Marcus told me this particular virus had to work its way through my system before I’d feel human again. Within a few hours of becoming feverish, I was convinced that it was trying to kill me.

The moment news of a fever spread, everyone entering my room slapped on a hospital mask, except for Jude.

For the remainder of his shift, he didn’t leave my side, and he stayed with me well past the time he’d clocked out. After his earlier heroic display, no one seemed willing to step up and argue with him about leaving, not even Dr. Marcus. Although, he didn’t look too pleased when he walked into my room to find Jude lying beside me on the bed.

I drifted off sometime around five in the morning after Jude had seen me at my absolute worst. He’d held my hair as I heaved and cried in the bathroom. Drying my tears, he had gotten me a glass of water and helped me back into bed, only to carry me back into the bathroom when the nausea and sickness started all over again. He never complained or seemed repulsed, but I guessed it was due to his job.

I just hadn’t wanted to be part of his job—or at least, not this part.

Vomiting mere hours after my first kiss wasn’t exactly how I’d pictured it.

Maybe an hour or two after falling asleep, I awoke, hearing the door snap shut. My eyes peeked open, and I peered over to find a sleeping Jude next to me. Sitting in the blue chair, his large frame was bent forward, and he was resting his head on his forearms.

Lifting my hand, I winced, remembering the IV that was now connected. Clear fluids were being pumped into my body to counteract the lack of food and water. I softly raked my hand through his hair, careful not to wake him. I heard a shuffle of feet, reminding me that the door had shut and awoken me moments earlier.

I turned to see my mother standing by the doorway, watching me. Her eyes were frozen on the man sleeping next to me while my fingers stood completely frozen in Jude’s unruly hair.

“Dr. Marcus didn’t call me until this morning,” she said softly, her gaze still fixed on Jude.

“It’s just a virus,” I said. “Rough night though.”

I watched as she took him in—his scrubs, the scrolling dark ink on his arms, and back to the place where my hand was resting in his hair. I started to pull my hand back, but I stopped myself.

You are an adult, Lailah
, I chanted, as I willed my fingers to continue their previous path through Jude’s thick hair.

“And who is this?” she asked, her tone clipped and formal.

She wasn’t wearing a mask as well. Apparently, she wasn’t afraid of catching whatever I had either.

Jude stirred under my fingers, his hair falling into his eyes as sleep drained away. I turned away from my mother’s rigid stance by the entrance to see soft moss-colored eyes staring back at me.

“Good morning,” he whispered.

Even though I felt like I’d been run over by a Mack truck, then dropped off the side of a bridge, and stomped on, I couldn’t help the grin spread across my lips.

“Morning.”

My mom made a sound in her throat, and I snapped back, sitting up further in bed. I cleared my throat and took a deep breath.

“Mom, this is Jude…” I looked at him, asking for permission.

He gave me a single nod as a go-ahead.

“Cavanaugh. He’s a nurses’ assistant here in the hospital, and we’ve become quite close,” I said, trying to muster up as much maturity as possible.

Speaking up to my mother was something I’d never mastered. Having her in front of me always made me feel small and weak.

As I’d expected, Jude’s last name was lost on my mother. Her nose was usually buried in a textbook, or she was standing in front of a classroom. Either way, she really only paid attention to current events if they had to do with religious conflict or medical research. Everything else—politics, fashion, celebrity gossip, or business reports—was filtered out and forgotten.

Being the gentleman he was, Jude rose from the tattered old chair and went around to the other side of the bed to formally greet her. Standing over six feet tall, he dwarfed the petite frame of my mother.

“Very nice to meet you, Ms. Buchanan,” he said cordially, offering his hand to her.

She glanced down, and I bit my lip, waiting for her to take it.

“Likewise,” she finally said, taking his hand.

“Jude stayed with me and took care of me all night,” I said with as much enthusiasm as my frail state could manage.

By the way her lip tightened into displeasure, I would have thought I’d said,
Hey, Mom! Jude and I had wild-monkey sex right here in this very bed! Want to see the video?

“Well, thank you very much, Mr. Cavanaugh. I’ll be able to take it from here.” Her voice was liquid ice. She’d lost control of things, and she didn’t like it. To her, life was always about control.

“With all due respect, Ms. Buchanan—” Jude started, that deep commanding Cavanaugh tone returning to his voice.

It sent shivers down my spine and made me wonder what he had been like in his alternate life.

“Jude…” I said softly, cutting him off, before he had the chance to give my mom the lashing she deserved.

As much as I wanted to see someone finally dish back what she’d been serving for as long as I could remember, I didn’t want my mother to hate him. The bad-boy thing wasn’t very appealing when I counted on my mother to manage most of my life. I needed her to like my boyfriend.

Boyfriend…mmm…

Warm fuzzies.

“You’re tired. You were up all night. Why don’t you run home and take a nap, shower, and then meet me back here for lunch?”

I could see the turmoil in his eyes. He didn’t want to leave. Last night, as Jude—the nurses’ assistant—had barked orders to those who earned double and triple his salary, I’d figured out fairly quickly that he had a driving instinct to protect others. Or maybe it was just me.

Yep, more warm fuzzies.

“Okay,” he relented.

He walked back over to my bedside, not caring that my mother’s eyes were shooting virtual laser beams of death at him, and he bent down.

“I’ll be back in a few hours,” he said.

When I nodded, he followed up with a list of instructions, “Try to drink some water. Have your mom use that cool washcloth on your forehead, and try to sleep.” He squeezed my hand and gave a quick kiss to my forehead. Then, he was gone.

I looked up at my mother looming in the empty space by my bed, glaring at me as if I were a deviant teenager, and I huffed out a frustrated breath.

Mother—One.