Nashville 2 - Hammer and a Song (5 page)

“Thanks,” the manager says. He turns one on and shines it across the room.

I squint at the light, my eyes already adjusting to the dark. Thomas stands and offers me a hand. I get to my feet and say, “Can we go home now?” And I’m praying the tornado didn’t hit our apartment building.

Thomas flicks on the flashlight someone just handed him and says, “Let’s go.”

Holden and Sarah follow us up the stairs. It’s slow going with all the people in front of us, but we finally reach the top and walk out into the night.

A few street lights are on, others hanging limply from their poles as if they’d just taken a left hook. But that’s the least of it. The four of us stand staring at the wreckage around us. Cars that had been parallel parked in front of the bar now sit on their sides, front end, and some are even rolled over on their tops.

It’s like a giant lumbered down the street and picked them each up the way a toddler picks up toy cars, dropping them where he pleases when they cease to interest him.

No one says anything for a full minute, and then Thomas utters, “Good day in the mornin’.”

“Let’s go see if the truck is in one piece,” Holden says.

We weave our way down the sidewalk to the side parking lot where Thomas had parked earlier. Amazingly enough, every car in the square lot is exactly as it had been left. The funnel cloud had made a line of carnage straight down the street, taking complete mercy on anything to either side of it.

“Thank goodness,” I say.

“The only question,” Holden says, “is will we be able to get out of here?”

Thomas glances around and nods once. “I didn’t get her in four wheel drive for nothing.”

“You can’t just roll over other cars,” Sarah says, sounding a little dazed.

“Y’all hop on in, and leave the driving to me,” Thomas advises. And since we don’t have any other choice, we do.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Holden

CeCe and Sarah sit between Thomas and me, Sarah’s back ramrod straight. I can see CeCe’s trying her best not to touch shoulders with Sarah, but that’s pretty much impossible since we’re packed in here like books on a library shelf.

Sarah has her fingers entwined tightly with mine. I’m not sure if it’s because she needs the security of my touch or if she’s making a statement.

Not that CeCe appears to notice. She hasn’t looked at me once since we came out of the basement. Even so, there’s a cord of electricity between us that I feel and somehow know she does, too.

Thomas navigates the truck out of the parking lot and then rides with two tires on the sidewalk for a couple of blocks or so until we get around some of the vehicles that have been tossed along the street like toys.

A few people are standing outside shop doors looking shell-shocked. Thomas rolls down his window and throws out, “Y’all need any help?”

“We’re good,” a man answers back.

Most of the street lights are out, and it feels like a scene from one of those apocolyptic movies. The sky is still a heavy, gunmetal grey. We make decent headway until we’re a couple of miles or so from the apartment. A Range Rover sits at an odd angle in the middle of the street, the driver’s side door open. There’s no one else anywhere in sight.

Thomas brakes the truck to a stop, and we both jump out and run to the car. There’s a woman in the driver’s seat. She’s slumped to one side, unconscious. I realize then that it’s Lauren, my boss at the restaurant.

Sarah and CeCe run over to the car. “What happened?” CeCe asks.

Before I can answer, CeCe spots Lauren and says, “Oh, no.”

“Who is she?” Sarah asks.

“She owns the restaurant where we work,” I answer. I lean in to feel for a pulse in her neck, my own heart pounding so hard I can hear it in my ears.

The beat is there, and I feel a quick jab of relief.

“Should we try to get her out?” Thomas asks.

“I don’t know,” I say, pulling my phone from my back pocket and dialing 911. An operator answers immediately and asks what my emergency is. I tell her, and she tells me the wait may be fifteen minutes or more because of the tornado and the number of emergency calls it has generated. She asks if we can get Lauren to the hopsital.

“Yes,” I say. “Or at least I think so.”

“Call back if you can’t,” she says, and she’s gone.

I look at Thomas and CeCe. “We need to get her to the emergency room.”

“Can you take her vehicle, and I’ll head for the apartment to check on the dogs?”

“Yeah,” I say.

“Let’s put her in the back,” Thomas says. He leans in and lifts Lauren out like she’s nothing more than a cotton ball and places her gently on the leather seat.

“CeCe, can you ride with her?” I ask. “At least if she wakes up, she’ll know you.”

“I’m going with Thomas,” Sarah says, folding her arms and walking stiff-backed to the truck.

I start to go after her, tell her to come with us, but I honestly don’t feel like arguing right now. And I’m also afraid of what might happen if we don’t get Lauren to the hospital asap.

“Y’all get going. I’ll take care of her,” Thomas says, giving me a sympathetic look.

I get in the driver’s seat, glance over my shoulder at CeCe who is looking a little too pale, then throw the Rover into gear. I gun it for the hospital, reminding myself how to get there.

An iPhone is lying on the passenger seat. I pick it up and check the recent calls. There’s Case Phillips’s name and number.

I hold it up and flash the screen at CeCe. “Think we ought to call him?”

“Can’t hurt. Maybe he’ll know what might be wrong.”

I hit send, and put it on speaker, unable to believe I’m actually calling Case Phillips.

He answers on the first ring. “Hey, baby. Are you okay? I’ve been trying to call you.”

I clear my throat and say, “Mr. Phillips. This is Holden Ashford. I work for Lauren at the restaurant. We found her in her car, unconscious. My friend and I are driving her to the hospital, but we thought you might have an idea what could be wrong.”

“She’s diabetic,” he says with quick urgency. “She’s passed out before. There should be a kit in her purse.”

“I already looked for her purse,” CeCe says from the back seat. “There isn’t one in the car.”

“She never goes anywhere without it,” Case says, disbelieving. “Could she have been mugged?”

“It’s possible,” I say. “The door was open when we pulled up.”

Case lets out a string of curses and then says, “Keep me on the phone until you reach the hospital.”

“Okay,” I agree, and then put my attention on getting us there without wrecking.

I drive well over the speed limit, deciding I’ll take my chances with an explanation if I get pulled over. Right now, all I care about is getting Lauren to the ER where someone will know how to help her.

We’re there in minutes, and I pull up to the main door, hopping out and running inside. I’m still holding Lauren’s phone, and I let Case know we made it.

“I’m driving now. I’ll meet you there,” he says. “Oh, and thank you. Thank you so much.”

I click off the phone, realizing that he really loves her, the fear in his voice proof of it.

I flag down a nurse and tell her what’s happened and that Lauren is diabetic.

She grabs a gurney and follows me back outside where I lift Lauren out of the seat and place her carefully on it.

“Are you family?” the nurse asks me.

“No,” I say. “We found her like this in her car.”

“Is there someone who can give us a history?”

“Her—Case Phillips,” I say. “He’s on his way.”

The woman’s eyes widen a little before professionalism slips back into place. “Please direct him to the registration desk when he gets here,” she says, and then she’s wheeling Lauren toward the ER doors marked Restricted.

I let myself look at CeCe then. She’s still looking a little panicky.

“Will she be all right?” she asks, clearly needing me to say yes.

“I hope so,” I say and realize that’s the best I can do.

We find a parking place for the Rover and then walk back inside the hospital where we wait by a vending machine. In less than five minutes, Case Phillips runs through the main doors. I wave at him, and he walks over, his face drawn with worry.

“We’re the ones who brought Lauren in,” I say.

“Oh. Thank you. Thank you so much. Where is she?”

I point to the restricted door. “They took her in there. The nurse asked me to tell you they’ll need whatever information you can give them.”

“Of course.” He glances at CeCe and then back at me again. “You both look familiar. Have we met?”

“Sort of,” I say, not wanting to elaborate.

But his face lights with recognition and then slight embarrassment. He glances at CeCe and says, “Ah, sorry about that.”

She shakes her head. “Don’t worry about it.”

By now, people are starting to recognize him. There’s some pointing and murmurring, a couple of giggles.

“Do you two have a ride?” he asks.

“We can get a cab,” I say.

“No need. Take the Rover. We’ll get it later.”

“No, really.”

“I insist,” he says. “And Lauren would as well.”

“All right,” I say, still reluctant.

“I better get them what they need so I can see her.”

“Sure.”

“Thank you both again.”

He heads for the registration desk, stares and smiles following him. And if it weren’t a hospital, I’m sure people would be asking for autographs.

CeCe and I walk to the parking lot with a few feet of space between us, silent.

I unlock the Rover and slide into the driver’s side. For a moment, I think she’s going to get in the back again, but she opens the passenger door with some reluctance.

“I don’t bite,” I say.

“Hm,” she says on a note of disagreement.

I back out of the parking lot and pull onto the street, the Rover engine an expensive sounding low rumble.

“I hope she’ll be okay,” CeCe says, looking out the window. “My mom nearly died once like that.”

“I’m sorry,” I say, glancing at her. “Were you there?”

“I found her when I got home from school.”

“That must have been scary.”

“It was,” she says.

“Do you miss her?”

“A lot.”

“What about your dad?” I ask.

“He’s never been in the picture.”

For some reason, this surprises me.

“Your parents?”

“Divorced. My mom actually lives in London.”

“Do you see her often?”

“Not very.”

“And your dad?”

“He’s in Georgia. We pretty much try to avoid each other.”

“That’s sad,” CeCe says and then looks as if she wants to take it back.

“Yeah, it is,” I agree.

“Is it anything that can’t be fixed?”

“Probably.”

She wants to ask more. I can feel it. But I guess she senses I don’t want to talk about it. We’re quiet for a few moments, and then I say, “CeCe?”

“Hmm?”

“About Sarah.”

“Don’t. Please,” she says, holding up a hand. “You don’t need to. It’s not like I didn’t know you had a girlfriend.”

“I didn’t mean for this to happen,” I say. “I’m not a guy who does that kind of thing.”

“And I’m not a girl who does that kind of thing. So we need to forget about it.”

“I want to,” I say. “I just don’t know if I can.”

She looks at me then, and I see the quick flash of longing. It echoes inside me, and I swing the Rover off the street into a parking place. I turn off the engine, and we sit like this, staring straight ahead while I tell myself I’m being an idiot. That I should drive us both home. Now.

That doesn’t explain why I turn to her, slip my hand to the back of her neck and pull her to me. I don’t know who kisses who first. But it doesn’t really matter. I can’t think of anything else. I don’t want anything else. Just her mouth beneath mine. And those sweet, soft sounds she’s making, blocking out any other thoughts.

She slips her arms around my neck, and even with the gear shift between us, we manage to melt into one another. I’ve never wanted anyone in my life the way I want her now. I can’t separate the want from my heartbeat, my breathing; it’s so much a part of me.

It’s no surprise that she’s the one to pull away first. She opens the Rover door and jumps out as if it’s the only sure ticket to safety. I sit for a moment, my eyes closed as I force myself to rational thought.

I let a few moments pass, then get out and walk around the vehicle where CeCe is leaning against a big round oak tree.

“We know better,” she says.

“I don’t deny that.”

“That won’t happen again,” she adds, and I can’t tell if she’s trying to convince me or herself.

“CeCe—”

“You have someone in your life,” she goes on as if I haven’t spoken. “As long as that’s the case, we can’t be.”

I know she’s right. I want to argue, disagree, throw out excuses. But there really aren’t any. “I’m sorry,” I say, the words limp and meaningless.

We stare at each other for a string of seconds, and I feel like I’m about to lose something I never knew I was looking for. I jab the toe of my boot into the sidewalk, and wish I had an argument to stand on. But I don’t. And we both know it.