All of Me (4 page)

Intrusive images
and thoughts of the woman he’d nearly arrested the night before weren’t helping
matters either.  Dark gypsy eyes, wild hair, and that mouth…

Focus, damn it!

Nathan opened his
eyes a sliver and eyed Christy in an attempt to get his bearings.  She was very
pretty:  highlighted hair, nice complexion, and light blue eyes.  She smelled
like perfumed lotion and had a lithe, athletic build from doing – as Danny had
phrased it – a “shit load of running.”  Christy was nice, even-tempered, and
easy going.  The perfect girlfriend.

So why do I
feel like I’m falling into a huge, black pit?

Nathan squeezed
his eyes shut tighter and thrust like you were supposed to when you were having
sex with a woman.  Her hands barely skimmed his skin and she didn’t make a
peep, which was exactly why he was able to finish at all.  That, and the
flashes of the gypsy’s lips and scent and deep, dark eyes.

And as Nathan
came, the great physical sensations mixed with the gaping emotional void…and it
hurt
.  Just like it always did. 

And tonight was
extra special because he could a good, heaping spoonful of shame. 

What kind of
person thinks about another woman when they’re fucking someone else?

Apparently Nathan
was.

He and Christy
immediately and silently undid what they’d just done; each spending two minutes
in her bathroom cleaning up and arranging themselves into what they’d been
before. 

The awkward,
stilted silence lingered as Christy walked Nathan to the front door.  There was
no talk of him staying the night and he would have refused had she asked. 
Sleepovers weren’t his style.

Nathan crossed his
arms over his chest.  “Would you, uh, like to see a movie next weekend?  Or
maybe there’s something else you’d rather do?”

She smiled
timidly.  “A movie sounds fun.  Sure.” 

Then they stood
there, avoiding each others’ eyes, until Nathan turned and abruptly walked
out. 

Had Christy been a
different sort of woman, Nathan would have felt badly about their parting, but
he knew she didn’t give a shit. 

Or maybe she did. 

I should have
at least hugged her.  Or given her a kiss on the cheek, for Christ’s sake. 

Nathan backed the
Denali out of her carport and headed home. 

As he drove,
Nathan dragged a shaky hand down his damp face and wondered for the one
millionth time in his life if it was possible to be too fucked up to live. 
Maybe once a person was damaged beyond a certain point they were just not fit
to live a normal life. 

As a police officer,
he’d seen hundreds and hundreds of people so damaged it was clear they’d never
have any real happiness or chances at normalcy.  And Nathan had always been
hyper aware that he was no different.  Certainly no better and possibly even
worse than people he apprehended and sent to jail.  The only difference between
them was that Nathan didn’t break the law.  Ever.  And Nathan was a better
faker than most.  A straight face, tidy clothes, and a neat, well-kept house
and car went a long way, appearance-wise.  Some people just couldn’t fake it. 
And Nathan didn’t blame them for that.  He blamed them for breaking the law
and, for that, people needed to be held accountable.  But he never held the
damage against them.  Because he was one of them.  Always had been, always
would be.

The twenty minute
shower Nathan took when he got home was hotter and more thorough than
necessary.  Once the towel was neatly arranged on the towel bar and the water
glass he’d used was placed in the dishwasher, Nathan peeled back the hospital-cornered
gray sheets on his plain, natural wood bed and climbed in. 

And then he
climbed out.  Nathan dragged himself into his basement and unceremoniously
plopped himself down on the weight bench.  He pressed and pushed and groaned
and grunted until his gray cotton Nike shirt and black shorts were soaked with
sweat. 

The gaping, black
hole was still there, but it didn’t hurt as much.  Or maybe it did and he just
couldn’t feel it because of the adrenaline and muscle pain.  The shame,
depression, fear, and self-loathing were definitely still there; lurking around
the hazy perimeters of his consciousness; refusing to be contained or ignored. 

But
self-flagellation helped with that too.  It was much easier to hate yourself
when you were half-dead from exhaustion because usually you passed out before
things could get really ugly between you and yourself. 

Danny always
referred to Nathan as a Men’s Health model to piss him off and his sex partners
had never complained about his physique, but it wasn’t vanity or health that
compelled him to work out to excess.  It was a law-abiding, socially acceptable
way of punishing himself…of self-medicating.  Of creating physical of pain to
distract him from other pain.  No different from the cutters, the junkies, and
the alcoholics.  Nathan was no mental health expert, but it didn’t take Dr.
Phil to figure this one out. 

His muscles
screaming in agony and his hands bleeding and raw from using the bars without
gloves, Nathan took another shower.  He slathered his hands with Neosporin,
wrapped them in gauze, and climbed back into bed.  He stared at the ceiling
until exhaustion took over and he finally slept.   

***

If I don’t feel
better in a few minutes, I’ll call a sister. 

It was nights like
this Stella regretted not moving in with Fi and Kat.  They’d invited her, but
she’d wanted her own space.  Most of the time, Stella was with them at their
houses, Pops’, or here, but she sometimes she enjoyed having a little space and
time to herself after over a quarter century of having them two inches from her
face 24/7.  And she loved her little bungalow.  It was on a beautiful,
tree-lined street in a great neighborhood and had tons of character.

But it was also
empty at the most inopportune times.  Like 3 a.m. on a Saturday night.

Stella paced her
front room floor, totally oblivious to the rerun of
The Golden Girls
she’d turned on for background noise. 

Breathe.  Don’t
catastrophize.  Assume the best until you hear the worst.  

So she’d just
found a lump in her right breast.  It could be nothing.

Or it could be
cancer and I’ll lose your other breast.  Maybe your life, if it’s advanced.

Oh, God…

Stella rubbed and
probed the lumpy tissue until it became sore to the touch.

See?  It’s
sore.  Something is wrong.

Stella rolled her
eyes.

Or it could be
sore because I’ve been rubbing it like a magic lamp for two hours.
        Stella dropped her hand and forced herself to sit on the couch.  She
tucked her right leg under and bounced her left at an impressive rate. 

It killed mom. 
It could kill me too.  The younger you get it, the more aggressive it is. 

Stella chewed her
thumb nail.

I could do the
reconstruction.  But Dr. Aboud said there might be complications.  And I really
don’t want to go through all those surgeries.  But then I’ll have
no
breasts.

Stella buried her
face in her hands and tried to get a grip.

I’m alive. 
They’re
breasts
.  It’s not like they’re removing my brain, for God’s
sake.  Or my soul. 

For no good
reason,
he
popped into her mind.  As in,
what would a guy like him
think? 
And,
I bet he’d never be interested in a one-boobed woman, let
alone a no-boobed woman.

“Ouch.”  Stella
realized she was rubbing the lump again and stopped. 

Jesus, Stella,
who cares what
he
would think? He’s a womanizing BMOC who most likely thinks
you’re brawling white trash.  Or, more than likely, isn’t thinking anything
about you at all.

Mentally and
physically exhausted from it all, Stella finally popped a baby dosage of Xanax
and stretched out on the couch. Her brain eventually slowed down enough for her
to fall into a fitful sleep full of dreams of her mom.

Chapter
Four

“I don’t like the way
you’re speaking to her and I’m asking you to change your tone!” 

Nathan’s brain caught
up with what his body already knew. 

It was
her
. 

He bumped the round
metal button with the side of his fist and double doors whirred open.  Nathan
and Danny entered the corridor into St. Mary’s Emergency Room. 

Danny slowed his roll. 
“Is that…”  He leaned forward, squinting.  “Is that the same chick from the
other night?”

Yeah.  It is.

They’d gotten a call
about an officer needing backup and now that made perfect sense.

Except the gypsy was in
teal scrubs, white nursing shoes, with a hospital ID tag hanging around with
neck. 

A nurse. 

And here Nathan thought
she’d put someone in the ER and he’d been called to haul her off to jail. 

Well, with the way she
was getting in Detective Winchell’s face, that scenario might become reality
soon enough. 

“And how exactly was I
speaking to her?” Winchell asked, head cocked. 

“Like that!”  Stella
threw her hands in the air.  “She’s been through a traumatic event and you bust
in there barking orders and talking down to her!”

Nathan nearly growled
when Winchell grabbed the gypsy’s elbow and tugged her into a more secluded
corner of the ER.  But she held her own; yanking her elbow back and whipping
around to face Winchell, hands on hips.

“Traumatic event?”
Winchell half-whispered, half-hissed.  “She’s a drunk.  And a pill popper.  And
she nearly killed a bunch of people tonight.” 

“She’s also a
middle-aged mother of four with a PhD in Physics, a substance abuse problem and
mental health issues.  I’m not happy she was driving tonight, but I’m not here
to judge her.  I’m here to help her.”  Stella stepped closer to Winchell and
Nathan couldn’t help but admire the hell out of her.  There were guys in the
department who wouldn’t step up to Winchell that way.  “When she’s in your
custody, you get to treat her the way you choose – which will be like crap, if
I had to guess.”  Nathan almost laughed at the outrage on Winchell’s flushed
face.  “But right now she is
my
patient.  In
my
ER.  And until
you can treat with respect, I will not allow you to speak to her.”

Winchell’s reared
back.  “You…I’m sorry…
you
won’t allow…you…did you just say…you won’t
allow
…?” 

When Stella walked
away, Nathan thought Winchell’s head might actually explode.  “I want to speak
to your supervisor!”

Without breaking her
stride, Stella extended her left arm and pointed to a burly guy in teal scrubs
sitting in the nurses’ station.  “He’s right there.  Have at it.”

She strode toward the
curtained room Nathan assumed was housing her patient.  When she spotted Nathan
and Danny standing there, she stopped and glanced around like she was afraid
the swat team was about to descend on her.  “What are
you
doing here?”

“We got a call that our
colleague needed assistance,” Danny replied, grinning.  “Now I see why.” 

Nathan shivered when
she licked her bottom lip.  She answered Danny, but her eyes were trained on Nathan’s
face. 

He hated it. 

And fucking loved it.

“Well, he’s over
there.  Feel free to assist him.”  Her eyes narrowed on Nathan before she
pulled back the curtain and slipped into her patient’s room.

“
Oh, God
....” 

Nathan assumed the
husky, slurred words came from Stella’s patient.  There was a low moan then
quiet sobbing.  “I’m so ‘shamed…” 

A male voice, choked
and low, said, “It’s okay, honey, it’s okay…we’re gonna get you help.  It’s
gonna be okay.”

The sobbing grew louder
and the curtain was suddenly pushed aside.  A salt-and-pepper haired man walked
out and Nathan’s chest constricted at the pain on his heavily lined face.  The
expensive suit and loafers couldn’t cover up the broken spirit they housed.  It
was a look Nathan had seen many times over the past 32 years.

The man didn’t seem
surprised to see Danny and Nathan standing there.  “Are you going to arrest
her?” he whispered. 

Nathan cleared his
throat, hands on hips.  “Right now, concentrate on taking are of your wife. 
But we are going to have to get a statement from you.  Officer McDonough will
be right over.”

The man nodded, hung
his head, and wandered away.  Nathan turned to Danny.  “I’ll talk to the wife. 
See what you can find out from him.”  Danny left and Nathan paused, hand on
curtain.

Emotional scenes were
not his strong suit.  In fact, they might be his least favorite thing ever.  But
they came with the law enforcement territory.  Most people dealing with cops
are in some state of emotional turmoil.  But that didn’t mean Nathan was good
at it.  Efficient, maybe. Proficient, not so much.