Hell Bent (5 page)

Where does she come off acting like this? I just don’t get her. Sure, I might be a bit crazy showing up this time of the night, but what is behind her in-your-face behavior? She is going on the offense before the play is even called.

This is a night I will not forget for a very, very long time.

I
’m watching
him pull away from the curb, and my knees are shaking as I replay what just took place in my mind. Why in the hell did I do that? It feels like I am jumping into someone else’s mind and letting it run my body. I’m not a slut, not even remotely close. He doesn’t know that, though…I am blowing whatever chance I might have to know him better. At least, I had the decency to throw on a t-shirt. I like to sleep in the nude, but he doesn’t know that, obviously.

What the hell is the matter with me?

“
S
o
, what happened?” Milly is standing in front of my nursing station, not wearing scrubs. This means she is here because she wants to talk to me and is not on duty.

“What do you mean?” I pretend I have no idea what she is talking about. If I can help it, she will never know anything about the disgrace I am feeling right now.

“You know very well what I mean. Bryce calls us, not once but twice in the middle of the night, looking for your phone and address, and you’re going to stand there, calmly checking inventory and not tell me what happened?”

“He showed up at my door, drank a little soda, and then left.”

“I don’t believe you, Susie. Nothing with you is ever that simple.”

“I swear, Milly. That is all that happened. I went back to bed after he left. He wasn’t there for more than a few minutes.”

Milly’s head is shaking. She isn’t buying the story, but I really can’t make it any more glamorous than that.

“He didn’t…stay?”

“Nope. I invited him but he stood up and left. That’s it, I swear.”

Milly looks over her shoulder as if thinking someone must be listening and that’s why I am candy-coating my story.

“Milly…” I say, enunciating my words carefully. “That is all that happened. Get it?”

“I cannot believe you will not tell me—your best friend—what happened.” There is a hurt look on her face.

“Okay, Milly…he walked into my living room, threw me on the sofa, parted my legs, and fucked me until the alarm went off and I had to shower and come to work. That better?” I look her straight in the eye.

“Did he really?” She is so gullible, she is actually buying my story. A hopeful smile spreads across her face.

“Hell, no!” I say, exasperated.

“Shhhhh…” she cautions, holding a finger to her lips. “You will get into trouble with language like that.”

“Then leave me alone, will you?” I am growing impatient with her interrogation, and there really is no way I can tell her exactly the truth because I have no clue what it is.

She looks hurt. “Okay, be that way,” she pouts and leaves.

I watch her form, trailing down the hallway, and click my tongue in disgust.

“Hey!” I shout-whisper. “Meet me in the cafeteria in fifteen minutes.”

Milly turns, a delighted, naughty look on her pale face, and nods in agreement.

I shake my head, turn back to my work, and lock up before I head down to the cafeteria at the appointed time. There are few people here this time of the morning, and I can smell the luncheon special being ladled into the warming pans along the cafeteria-style line. It smells like some sort of stir-fry, which generally means they didn’t sell all the pork steaks from the day before and have given them a make-over. I make a mental note to eat salad today, but in the meantime, I grab a cranberry drink and see Milly waiting for me at a table on the patio.

I push open the door and join her. Twisting the lid off the bottle, I take a deep, refreshing drink, and then firmly snap it down onto the table’s surface.

“Well?” she prompts me, anxious to hear the details.

“Milly. I swear there is nothing more to report. He showed up, unannounced and un-welcomed, asked for a drink, I gave him a soda, he took two sips and left. It sounds spooky, I know, but I will not make things up just to satisfy your salacious need for gossip. Not going to happen. My life is private.”

“Of course it is,” she nods and leans in. “I just don’t buy what you’re saying. I guess Cam will have to get it out of Bryce himself,” she says in what she truly believes is a threatening voice.

“Go ahead. He will tell you the same thing,” I reinforce the story and let her know I am not intimidated.

She slams her dainty hand upon the wrought iron of the patio table in frustration. “Does he like you?”

I take another slurp and shrug. “How should I know?”

“Well, did he ask you out?”

“Nope.”

“Did he ask about the wedding?”

“Nope.”

“Well, what
did
he ask about?”

“He just stood there and said almost nothing.”

“Okay, be that way.”

I shrug again, and she is tiring of the game. “I have to go,” she says.

“Okay, see you later.”

“Susie, I
will
find out what happened last night, and if I find out that you kept things from me…well…well…”

“Well, what? You will hate me until your dying day?” As soon as the words are out of my mouth, I want to cut off my tongue. How can I be so stupid? The look on her face says it all.

“Maybe even longer,” she says softly, tears in her eyes as she stands up and walks through the patio door to disappear down the hallway.

I hate myself.

I
t’s not
as if Bryce wants to ask me out or anything. In fact, other than the idea that he might want to fuck me, I can’t think of why he would come. After last night, he probably will never speak to me again. I think about how this makes me feel, and I have to be frank that I am not happy with the thought.

To be honest with myself, I am sort of looking forward to the wedding and seeing him again. I know it will be the one and only time, and that nothing will happen, but still it feels like being a Cinderella and looking forward to the ball.

He is really awesome looking, I admit to myself. The neck of his shirt shows the tattoos on his chest well. I feel the desire to unbutton that shirt and look all the way down to his…ankles, I finish my thoughts. Why am I so brazen? I never do things like that. And—I don’t even need a guy!

I keep my mind on business and throw away the bottle as I head up to the floor. The ward is almost empty; most everyone is discharging, and the night influx has yet to begin. I begin to inspect the rooms, looking for housekeeping assignments and, quite frankly, a quiet place alone to think.

I begin to think about the wedding I have always wanted for myself. There’s no reason to think about a wedding just now, but for some reason it is hammering my brain.

I don’t think I ever want to get married…but if I do (and a girl can fantasize now and again, right?), I want a wedding in a meadow. I want only the witnesses to attend, and there will be no chairs. I hope the day is warm and I can hear orioles nearby; the grass is waving in the breeze, and the sun is the only makeup on my face. Just him, the minister, the witnesses, and I…and God. All natural and honest. That is the way a marriage should begin. With absolute honesty.

I clamp the thoughts out of my brain. They only hurt because I know this is something that will not happen in my future. I am here for a purpose, and it includes Milly—that much is plain. No one else, though. Just Milly and me. She needs someone to take care of her when her lymphoma comes back, and I will be there.

M
y watch vibrates
, telling me that it’s time to close out my shift. The elderly man in the bed before me is closing out his entire life soon, so I linger a bit longer to relay some supportive words.

“Are you comfortable, Mr. Whitney?” I ask, and he nods slightly.

He has little strength remaining, and the realization that he can even acknowledge what I’m saying is surprising to me. I squeeze his hand, passing along a bit of reassurance that he is not entirely alone, even if he is. I wonder what it will feel like to grow old and die, to be alone and fading in a hospital bed somewhere. I know I will be alone because I have no intention that it will be otherwise.

I tuck the blankets around his spindly legs a bit snugger and bend to kiss him on the cheek, even though it’s against the rules. Rules are meant to be broken, I think as I leave and head to the nurses’ station to sign out. Even
my
rules.

I am heading out the revolving door of the hospital and notice that there is rain coming in. The sky is no longer a flat canvas of light blue, but has taken on a turbulent shade of dark blue-gray, textured against a wall of black. I start down the steps, tapping them lightly with my toes to create a familiar rhythm of descent. I try to make it a joyous sound, as if to erase the sorrow and pain that remains behind.

I pass the rows of reserved parking spaces for physicians and short-term guests and finally arrive at the employee lot. The wind is rising suddenly, and I love the feel of it in my hair. I adore violent weather, and the anticipation is the best part. I think it’s the idea that no matter how powerful man feels he is, there will always be a higher power to which he must answer. The evidence of this is now beginning to drop water in what feel like real buckets upon my head.

I pull open the door of my VW, glad for this once that it is so ancient as to discourage thieves, so there is no need to lock them out. Sliding onto the split, faux-leather seats, I grab for my keys in the pocket of my bag and slide one into the ignition.

Nothing happens. I try it again, first pushing the gas pedal to the floor to sort of prime it. Again, nothing. Shit! Back to the bag to grab my cell, and with another curse, I discover that it is dead—the result of no charger during the shift today. I normally work night shifts (because they pay more), but with Milly’s party I had rearranged my schedule, and then after Bryce’s unexpected visit, my getting ready for work routine was all thrown off.

I begin to scan the parking lot horizon for a familiar face, but realize I am the only fool stuck in the storm. Thunder joins in, and it is then that I pick up another sound. I turn to the passenger window and see someone knocking on the glass. I reach for the pepper spray in my bag and strain to see who it might be. The passenger door opens suddenly and I aim the spray, but a strong hand grabs my wrist with a deft movement, forcing the can from my grasp.

“Dammit, but you are a handful,” the voice curses, and a body slides in beside me.

I am amazed to see it’s Bryce.

“Where—” I begin but he interrupts me.

“I came to talk to you, but this time I will appreciate it if you will keep your panties on. It’s much easier for me to keep a clear mind,” he says in a mocking tone.

I blush, despite myself. “I know…I’m really embarrassed about that,” I begin.

He holds up his hand to stop my unrehearsed speech. “Let’s forget that and move forward, shall we?”

I nod, with relief. I sort of owe him one now and will keep my mouth shut until I find out what he wants.

“Car won’t start?” he says, and I squelch the thought that this should be so obvious. “C’mon,” he says, opening his door and motioning me out.

“I don’t want to get soaked trying to jump it,” I say with alarm.

“Just c’mon,” he says in a voice that is not asking.

I climb out, holding my bag over my head and follow as he bolts toward his vehicle. As I’m running, I wonder why people run in the rain…as if running through the down-pour minimizes its dampening effect. I suppose it is to get less exposure time, but am not interested in trying to calculate whether running decreases the amount of drops or simply deposits them more quickly. Math is not my best subject.

Bryce pushes open his passenger door, and I dive in, head first, and slam the door behind me. It’s warm and cozy in here and the leather is real. I can smell it, and it’s only a part of the very male scent that permeates the vehicle. I realize that men can smell very inviting when they are clean and well groomed—a definite contrast to drunks and patients with leaky bowels.

“I will have a truck tow your car in,” Bryce says in an authoritative tone despite my attempt at argument. “They’ll fix whatever is wrong with it and deliver it to your apartment. In the meantime, you’re going with me to dinner.”

For once in my life, I feel content not to argue and just nod. If feels strange, and I am wondering at my reaction. Bryce motions to the seatbelt, and I lock it into the clasp with a snap.

His manly hand with powerful knuckles grasp the steering wheel, and with a look over his shoulder, he masterfully backs up and snaps the transmission into drive with a single swipe. I am watching his profile as he checks his rearview mirror, and I can spy the top of another tattoo just under his starched, checked collar. My gaze is drawn again to the masculine hand on the wheel, and I feel a shudder go through me at the thought of that hand between my legs. There is a strange feeling in the air—and in my belly—and if I force myself to name it, I know that it’s what romantic folks call “chemistry.” The air is charged between us, and it looks like we are both having trouble breathing at a normal pace. Inadvertently, I slam my knees together and he notices, smiling.

“It’s about time you learn to do that,” he comments, and I can feel my face aflame with embarrassment.

“I thought we are past that.”

“We are, indeed.”

He guides the vehicle down the wet, slick streets with a commanding strength, and soon we are pulling into a parking lot that hugs a neon sign blinking, “Ma’s Diner.” It’s a retro-diner, and I realize the name is familiar to me from talk at the hospital. His choice of food is touching and thoughtful, certainly welcomed on this rainy evening. I am not much for gourmet, and the idea of a hot plate of homemade macaroni and cheese is calling my name.

Settling into a booth, he waves his hand at the waitress behind the counter, and she smiles in recognition as she nods. It’s obvious he is a regular here and a welcomed one, at that. Moments later, she is standing next to our table, two cups of steaming cocoa topped with whipped cream upon her tray. One is set before me, and I feel like a young child in anticipation of the savory, hot liquid.

She pulls out her pad and looks to me. “Do you have macaroni and cheese?” I ask, hopeful.

“The best in the DC,” she nods, smiling.

“Make that two,” Bryce chimes in, and she disappears, leaving a wink in his inner space.

“So, who is Ma?” I ask, knowing that he will not be able to answer and I will have won the first volley.

“Ma Spencer,” he says, surprising me. “She lives down the street from my mother and is known as the best cook around in three counties. She is from Ireland and uses old family recipes. In fact, I understand that some are stolen from neighbors, and every so often, one of their young men show up here demanding a share in the business in payment.”

“Really?” I ask, amazed that he knew this and that I am losing my surprise advantage.

“No, not really, but you seem to have a fondness for bullshit,” he cracks and looks to see how I am taking this. “Actually, Ma is Vincenzo Busollini. He is from Sicily and trades heroin out the back door. The mob uses this place to launder cash.” His tone is matter-of-fact, and I call him on it.

“Bullshit!” I comment abruptly, aggravated at his condescending tone of voice.

Just then a man approaches the booth.

“Vincenzo!” Bryce exclaims and holds out his hand. I can feel my mouth drop open, half in protest and half in disbelief.

Vincenzo bows briefly toward me, taking my hand and pressing it to his blubbery lips. “On the house,” he murmurs, looking me deeply in the eye and winking.

“Thanks, Vince,” Bryce responds, “but the lady is with me.”

Vincenzo frowns, kisses my hand once more for good measure, and lets it gently drop to my lap. “Of course, Bryce,” he says with a mocking charm and semi-bows again before walking off to disappear between the swinging doors to what I assume is the kitchen.

“How…?” I begin, and Bryce just shrugs. I can tell this conversation thread is dead.

“Don’t ask,” he orders, and again, I feel a compelling restraint to be silent.

I change the subject. “You are following me,” I challenge.

“Yes,” he replies in a matter of fact tone.

“Why?”

“To give you a chance to clear your reputation,” he responds tartly, stirring the cocoa to cool it.

Again, I watch those fingers and again, I shudder within.

“Clear my reputation for what?” I protest.

He looks at me over the brim of his cocoa and finally says in a low voice, “Do I really need to say it?”

I droop a bit, chastised and say quietly, “I guess not.”

“There. That’s better,” he resolves and nods to the waitress as she arrives with two plates, heaped with steaming hot macaroni and cheese. “Thanks, Bec,” he says, and she beams.

I pick up a napkin and spread it over my lap, reaching for the saltshaker. He nabs my wrist again and says, “No! You won’t need it,” in a commanding voice, and I feel as though my foot is caught in a trap.

“Why are you so bossy?” I ask.

“Me? Miss ‘Fuck me and get it over with?’” he reminds me in the words that ring familiar from the night before.

“Okay, two points. May I remind you we are past that?” I hasten to add.

“Now we are,” he blithely asserts. “So?” he prompts.

I look at him in confusion, trying to sort out the sequence of aborted comments and make some sense of what we’re talking about.

“So, what?” I respond.

“Are you going to apologize?” I can tell he is mocking me, and I choose to refuse the bait.

“Nope,” I pop back, taking a bite of the delicious cheesy concoction and feeling its soothing warmth slide down my throat.

“You will,” he says in a tone that says it doesn’t bode well. Again, I choose to ignore him and continue eating.

We eat in silence and as we stack our plates, indicating we’re ready to leave, Bec waves goodbye. Evidently Vince is serious about the meal being on the house. I wonder why a drug dealer is treating the man before me but decide it’s probably something best left unknown. Besides, he probably made that up to tease me.

Once again in his cocoon of a vehicle, Bryce drives another direction from where I live. “Where are we going?” I ask.

“To my place,” he answers calmly.

I protest with an indrawn breath but his hand goes up to stem my outrage and again, I’m strangely compelled to be silent.

Whatever Bryce has in mind, I will not allow myself to lose my composure, I promise myself.

I hope
…I add as a mental afterthought.