But opening the second e-mail gives me more heart palpitations than the first, and I swipe across the screen with my thumb’s sweaty pad, reading as my finger traces the words, disbelieving every one. My heart skips a beat and threatens to stop.
Vi,
I tried to call you. But I think you’re on DND.
It’s Marilyn.
There’s been an accident.
Come when you can.
She needs us.
Love you,
Elsie
I close my inbox, tapping the button to turn the screen on my phone black, my heart sinking as I re-read the words for the seventeenth time. My nerves are more than shot; they’ve been garroted, hung and left out to die.
But as soon as my fingers touch the glass, the phone goes flying, a sudden bout of plane turbulence making the whole cabin drop at a moment’s notice, my insides sinking with it as my nails clutch into the seat. I gasp.
“Whoa there,” the man an aisle away from me hisses from his seat, seemingly as startled as I am. “I thought we left the storm back in Chicago,” he whispers over the hand-rest.
I thought we did, too. But the sky doesn’t seem to think so.
In fact, I think the storm may just be starting.
The “Fasten Your Seatbelts” sign blinks ominously, and as my fingers fumble to tighten my safety belt, the plane lurches again, this time dipping faster than the last, the ice cubes of a nearby flier’s finished drink bouncing over the edge of the glass and into my lap.
I brush them quickly away, as the cold starts to seep into the fabric over my thighs. The cold is like a lightning bolt, awakening my senses, but then the plane tumbles a few feet, rotating with a sudden twist. The captain comes over the loud speakers as the excited passengers fill the quiet aisles with their sounds of shock, and with a reassuring, calm voice, he makes an effort to quell the rising calamity, his soothing voice doing little to appease my frayed senses.
Senses that were singed the moment I received Elsie’s message. My nerves are quickly seeping through an emotional shredder.
The plane dances for several more minutes, high winds pushing it to and fro. The yelps from the nearby customers finally settle into relieved sighs by the time we hit smooth air, and less than an hour and a half later, we land—at last—on La Guardia’s relatively peaceful runway, each of us worse for wear, a flurry of the winter season’s first snowfall there to greet us as we exit.
I breathe in the New York air the second I step foot on the bridge leading us to our exit gate.
The weather report warning of snow above our heads on the screens is a sign of things to come. I walk through the gate’s dark double doors, praying I don’t receive another message from Elsie—this one more ominous than the last.
I grab my rental car—a far cry from the car I left behind years ago in Chicago, speeding away from the airport, hoping I make it in time. My heart beats hard the entire way.
Chapter Two
HEATH
My heart beats hard the entire time.
Imitating a jackhammer without end, it nearly beats out of my fucking chest, sending my pulse swirling out of control. I can hear the blood in my ears—an interminable rush.
My bowtie flaps in the wind as I run over the banal white tile of the bland-looking halls, the flaps of my loafers adding to the beat of my strumming body.
I stop before the receptionist with barely a breath left. I look at her through a sheet of building sweat.
“Marilyn Daniels.” I shake my head, clearing it. “I’m sorry… Marilyn Sparrow’s room, please.”
She nods, clicking her pen over a brown clipboard. She checks the sheet with her eyes.
“Room 321.”
“Thank you,” I scarcely wave as I start sprinting.
Room 321 looms on the other end of the hall like a rainbow I’ll never reach. My throat threatens to close as I cut a path through the white-washed corridors, a film of perspiration dripping against my crisp collar. I turn the corner, storming through the open door.
My chest seizes as I almost collide with a pair of strong shoulders. My best friend turns, barely avoiding me as I barrel inside the hospital room.
His hand flies to my shoulder, squeezing, as I wheeze.
“Where—?” I huff, my lungs aching, mouth drier than ever. “Where is she, Brett?”
He moves his tattooed arms, motioning towards the bed, and there, I find Marilyn’s pale form, her figure half-hidden beneath a set of snowy white sheets with more color than her bruised face.
Swirls of purple and red decorate her delicate temples, and I walk towards her slowly, my eyes roaming over her motionless body—still disbelieving.
That’s not my sister. That can’t be my fucking sister.
But it is.
All five-foot-five inches of spunk. Spread out on a stale hospital bed.
Unmoving. Board-like.
Red scratches adorn her tiny hands, and I reach for one, afraid as fuck to hold it. I touch her slightly cold skin, my fingers wrapping around hers when someone clears his throat behind me.
I turn.
“Mr. Sparrow?” A man in a white coat leans forward, his dark brow pinched together. “May I have a word with you?”
Brett glances my way, and I nod stolidly, watching his back as he heads out, a blank stare reflecting in his blue-green eyes. He disappears, leaving me and the nervous doctor alone, the air thicker than the snow starting to build outside.
I exhale, closing my eyes. I open them before speaking.
“How bad is it?”
“Not as bad as it looks.” His quiet voice inspires no confidence. “She’s been through the worst of it, her body at last receiving some rest.” He sighs. “Her brain has swelling, her skull bruised. We managed to get to her in time to prevent a significant blood loss. Her leg is broken,” he continues. “Crushed by the dashboard which collapsed against her in the crash.”
My heart climbs further into my throat with each word.
The day behind me flashes behind my eyes, and I see myself as I was just hours ago, sequestered inside my Hollywood cocoon, caring of nothing…
Or no one.
The smell of rose champagne—sweet and decadent—is still inside my nose, and just ten hours ago, on the other side of the country, I stumbled headfirst into the backseat of my waiting limousine, tasting the metallic iron-filled flavor rolling around on the tip of my sluggish tongue.
The familiar taste of blood.
It was as intoxicating as the tequila still in my system, and I swallowed both as I landed on the leather seats, my thoughts spinning along with my vision.
The only items keeping me tethered to earth? The tiny hands that pulled on me. The same ones that had been pulling on me all night. Acrylic-tipped nails scratched at my skin and tailored tux, turning the twitch along my skin into a veritable crawl.
But this wasn’t what I was used to. At least, for the last year.
I was an LA boy now, drunk off its bevy of beautiful women and sin as far as the eye can see.
And the woman in front of me was all sin. Blonde and buxom.
Her buttery skin barely covered by the bits of silk that clung to her most intimate places, she pushed me backwards into the waiting black limo, crawling on top of me. With a shrill “Drive” to the chauffeur, we pulled away from the chaotic scene near the curb, leaving behind a cacophony of flashing photographer lights and drunk celebrities filtering outside of the silver-plated double doors of the Hollywood Roosevelt hotel, the tires skidding loudly as we peel away.