A sharp intake of air whirls past his lips as our eyes meet for a second time, his growing wide as they scavenge around my face. Oh no. I must be worse off than I thought. He steps farther into me again, his hand cupping my jaw and tilting it closer to his for a better look.
His thumb brushes my cheek and I emit a stuttered breath.
“How bad am I?”
He doesn’t respond, his eyes growing pensive and cajoling. Almost as if he’s waiting for me to say something profound.
But there is something else about him. A recognition that hits me in the most ironic, ridiculous of ways. I stand here, staring up at him, into his eyes and all along his concerned face that’s growing darker and fuzzier by the second. “I was just listening to your song. I like it.”
I hear him bite out a loud curse just as my legs give out beneath me and my body falls into his. The last thought I have before my world goes black is that this is so much worse than I initially thought. I caused an accident with one of the world’s biggest rock stars. And there is no way that can end in anything other than disaster.
2
Maia
* * *
Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep. Goddamn, it’s like someone is playing tennis in my head. Whap. Whap. Whap. Over and over again. It’s incessant and never-ending and it takes me so much longer than it should to realize that sound is likely coming from me. From my heart. From the blood rushing through my ears.
From the sound on a monitor.
As in, I’m in the hospital.
I wonder if he called an ambulance after all despite my protests.
It makes me not want to open my eyes. It makes me want to linger a little while longer on the periphery of oblivion and consciousness.
Because really, what good has consciousness ever done for me?
Half the town I grew up in was addicted to either oxy or meth. That’s what poor folk in Appalachia do. Because we’re all poor. Even the ones with steady jobs not collecting welfare checks every month are poor. And there is no end in sight to that. All that poverty does is breed an infestation of hopelessness, which leads to drugs, and yeah, you get my schoolhouse special.
But right now, for the first time, I’m starting to understand the desire to feel something other than hopelessness. Other than poverty or despair. Other than pain. So, I keep my eyes closed and try to ignore that goddamn beeping noise as it reverberates through my skull.
Do they have to have it so loud?
It doesn’t matter. I’m awake. I can’t fall back to sleep the way I’d like. My thoughts are too wired. Too keyed up. Why does life have to suck so bad for so many? I once heard our preacher say God never gives us more than we can take. But I’m really starting to think that was his bullshit attempt at comfort.
Because this is more than I can take!
I had gotten out. I was one of the lucky ones.
And then absolutely everything fell apart on me. Or more like was taken from me. I had no options. No recourse.
A friend told me to go out west. That a girl who looks like me can earn some big money. So Los Angeles is where I ended up. In my 1989 Chevy Monte Carlo. A car that bespoke of exotic riches but lacked all luxury. A car without airbags.
Hence the fucking beep. Beep. Beep. And whap. Whap. Whap.
“I’m not understanding what is taking so long,” a strong, somewhat raspy male voice growls. He sounds like what I imagine whiskey to taste like. Smooth with a slight burn on the end that makes you feel nothing but warm on the inside. His tone is pure agitation. Why is he here? “You X-rayed her. You fixed her broken bones and X-rayed her again. You did a CT scan of her head and sewed her up. You’ve taken blood and given her medicines. So why is she not awake yet when you told me specifically that she would be by now.”
Oh boy. It doesn’t take a calculator to add up the sum of all those tests.
“Mr. Dawson,” a woman starts, her voice not nearly as annoyed as I would be if someone spoke to me that way. Suddenly that beep, beep, beep is turned way down. “Please, do not touch the monitors. You can see her heart rate just fine without having to listen to it. The noise was disturbing other patients.”
Keith is the one who turned it up? Why?
“You didn’t answer my question?”
“All of her tests came out clear. But head injuries are precarious and not exact. You just have to be patient.” Why is she being so gentle with him? “Give her time to wake up. Her body needs rest to heal and she has a long road ahead of her. I know you’re worried about your fiancée. But she really will be fine.”
Um. Say whaaaaat? Did she just say fiancée?!
“And her arm and fingers?” Fingers? “I ask for an orthopedic surgeon to come and evaluate them.”
I can practically hear the woman smirking as she responds, “It was a simple and isolated break of her ulna. X-ray confirms this. The bones in her fourth and fifth fingers were reset as well. No further evaluation is required. The break does not need surgery and there is no tendon or ligament damage. She has a good cast on her, but her injuries will take four to six weeks to heal.”
Four to six weeks?
It takes everything in me not to open my eyes and scream. But at this point, in the middle of this conversation, that almost feels weird. Like I’m the intruder somehow. I don’t know how to reconcile this. It’s impossible to have hope that things will get better when they’ve only ever gotten worse.
“You’re telling me the only thing I can do now is wait?” Again, he’s incredulous.
“Yes, Mr. Dawson. That is exactly what I’m telling you.”
He huffs out a breath, and I hear a door sliding shut leaving me alone with Keith Dawson. Drummer for the band Wild Minds. That thought elicits an unexpected and ill-timed flutter in my belly.
If I were the type of girl who swooned over rock stars or celebrities, which obviously I am not, I would right now. Because I am a fan. I’m not just talking a small fan at that. I’m talking I used to save up all the money I earned working at the Dairy Queen three towns over to afford tickets to one of their shows, fan.
Katy Fucking Perry “Teenage Dream,” panties wet, mind crazy, fan.
But like I just said, I’d only do that if I were that type of girl.
Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep.
Crap. Slow the hell down heart! You’re giving us away!
“Your eyes are twitching and slightly scrunched. Plus, your heart rate just jumped through the roof. How awake are you and how long have you been like that?”
Dammit. Busted.
“I hope you don’t mind that I told them I’m your fiancé. It was the only way they’d let me stay here with you, and there was no way I was going anywhere until I knew you were okay.”
I blink my eyes open because there is no point in pretending any longer. It takes me a few seconds to adjust but when I do, I lock in on Keith who is so much closer than I expected him to be.
He’s right here, directly beside my bed where my head is resting.
And unfortunately, with him this close to me, I realize he’s way better looking than I originally thought. Seriously hella hot. Adonis hot. His jawline is sharp and chiseled, and the two days-worth of scruff that line it appears rough and yet soft. The kind of scruff I imagine would feel incredible against my palms or, you know, between my legs. Not that I would know from that.