Tattooed Hearts (6 page)

The joke was on her
for listening to her heart. It was a freakin’ muscle for Pete’s
sake
,
its job was to pump blood, nothing else. Last time she’d
let a stupid muscle guide her. The ferry left the Vineyard, promising
a new beginning. She entombed her memories of Forrest in
thick-walled ice, closed her eyes and took in a deep breath of the salty air,
steeling herself to only think of her future. A future she would mold, build,
and direct without Forrest.

She was in char
ge, in command of her own mind, body, and soul. She now
walked into her own destiny, a destiny that lay squarely in her own hands.

Chapter Five

“The heart takes and gives life.”

Luc Desvareaux

Martha’s
Vineyard, Present day…

The soles of Forrest’s
running shoes hit the ground. Calves burning, breath forming clouds in the air,
he settled into the rhythm of his daily run.
You’re temporary, I don’t want temporary
. Exactly four months ago, he uttered
those words to Claire the nigh
t of Jason and Minka’s
wedding. They hadn’t spoken since. In the past, they always kept a rapport, no
matter where her singing career took her; he always received a text, an email,
even if it only contained her typical two words: Saying hello.

He’d respond
with the same or similar words and that would be enough
for them. But even that stopped. For years, they managed to ignore the strain
that existed between them, mostly for the sake of keeping the wolf pack intact.
They even trained themselves to be friend
ly with one
another, like the time he gathered the whole gang at his house for an impromptu
dinner. No matter what, they were friends, their circle ran small and tight.
Being raised as an only child compelled each of them to seek companionship with
one ano
ther.

So what Claire ripped
his heart apart ten years
ago
.
L
ike
any love-struck young man driven by anger and a crazy libido, he’d gone on a
quest to forget and heal his heart. It worked for the most part. Time
eventually petered out the anger, and he’d g
otten his
heart back. Well, half of his heart anyway. Frozen memories thawed and seeped
into his consciousness, but he paid no heed to his tormentors.

An icy blast of
February air congealed the last of his thoughts. He glanced over at his jogging
partner.
Even in the frigid weather, sweat soaked his
hoodie. “Still trying to make babies?” he asked between ragged breaths.

Blake chuckled. “No
success yet, but having fun trying. You’re the last man standing in the group.”

And
Claire.
Her existence in his life
wasn’t an option he could
choose to pass on.
 
The unofficial
sister of his longtime friend Jason, by default, she held a rightful place in
his circle. Besides him, the wolf pack as Adam labeled
them,
contained four others–Jason, Blake,
Adam, and Claire. No
w that all three of the other
guys were married, their knit had expanded to welcome wives and soon children.
He did a quick mental calculation
.
Adam’s
wife, Lily, was about six months pregnant. In spite of all the additions, their
circle managed to stay wh
ole. The bond between him
and the others was as strong as ever.

Except
for Claire.

The relationship
nowadays was a matter of necessity to not rock the boat. It hadn’t always been
that way. Morphed from friends to lovers, everything had been fine. Perfect.
Until that summer night when she uprooted
and hightailed out of town.
From that moment, a whole lot between them changed. Now
their communication had come to a halt. He told himself it was for the best. He
needed to let her go. She was temporary, a wildflo
wer.

He inhaled. Cold
winter air rushed in and out of his lungs in a mild burn, forcing him to keep
his breathing in tune with his steps. Forrest’s running shoes pounded across
muddy ground and patches of gray snow. Stark, bare trees with outstretched arms
gave them a full view of Lake Tashmoo, the body of water
where he often went
sailing,
and the view from his kitchen–now
nothing but a blanket of ice. Typically, he’d admire the calmness of the lake,
but today fighting the unrest feeling inside, he kept hi
s gaze straight ahead.

The path drenched in
glutinous muck for miles, an indication it still hadn’t recovered from the
couple inches of snow that touched the island two days ago. Wet dirt squelched
beneath his feet like the tentacles of an angry beast, spi
tting out mud.

“Hey, what’s the
problem?” Blake hollered, speeding up to Forrest on their midday run.

“No problem,” he
bellowed.

“Looks
to me like you got some demons chasing you.
Good thing I can keep up.”

Forrest continued in
silence. Puffs of moisture l
eft his mouth. Blake
chuckled.

“When was the last
time you spoke to Claire?”

“Four months ago,” he
answered, his breath hitched.

They rounded the bend
in the path, and the afternoon sun beat down on his forehead. With the back of
his hand, he wiped the swe
at of his brow. Sex, he
told himself
.
H
e
needed sex. Quickly he
flipped through his mental list of available women and groaned. His jogging
pace accelerated to a full sprint.

“Still dating…”
Blake’s voice trailed. “What’s her name?”

“
Kerry,
and no.”

“What
was wrong with this one?”

She wasn’t Claire.
He’d dated a fair amount, but those women did nothing for him. Not one could
ever live up to the time he spent with Claire. Lord knew he’d tried to move on,
and hoped the memories would fade. They hadn’t. It di
dn’t
matter that their time together had been a fleeting couple of months. She still
managed to brand his heart, just like that stupid infinity tattoo they’d gotten
together a decade ago, forever marking them.

When the small wooden
pedestrian bridge and his
orange
Jeep
came into view, Forrest and Blake slowed their pace to a jog, cooling down from
the vigorous run, until they came to a stop.

“Nice run,” Blake
said, barely out of breath.

“How did we do?”
Forrest
referred to the app they usually used to
track their miles. His calves burned, that should mean something.

Blake checked his
phone and smiled. “You ran like a maniac today.” He shoved the phone in
Forrest’s face. “See for yourself.”

Forrest eyed the scree
n. They averaged a mile every six minutes, a total of ten
miles in one hour. “Good stuff.”

“Do we have time for a
few pull-ups?”

Blake was the king of
pull-ups, an excruciating core exercise Forrest long concluded he hated but
loved the result. “Let me
check.” He opened the
driver door of his Jeep and grabbed his phone sitting by the drink holder for a
quick time check. Immediately, he noticed the three missed calls from his
mother, and a text message from Peter, a fellow doctor who worked the ER.

Repor
t to the
hospital.
STAT.

His gut tightened.
Mrs. Kane, one of the island’s favorite senior citizens, was battling Lyme
disease. She was due at his office for a checkup. He wondered if she had taken
a turn for the worse.

“What’s going on?”
Blake asked in t
he background.

Forrest held up a
finger. Brows creased, he hit the code to retrieve his messages and froze.

Forrest, your father’s been in an
accident. Come quick.

Similar words were
repeated two other times. In each voice mail his mother’s speech became m
ore and more urgent.

“I
gotta
go.” He was already sliding in the car, his heart thudding
in his chest.

“What’s going on?”
Blake reached for the door, concern in his voice.

“Dad was in a car
accident. Peter sent me a text to get there ASAP.” He checked the
text message again for a timestamp. That was twenty minutes
ago. As a doctor, he knew a person’s condition could quickly deteriorate in the
span of five minutes. Shit.

“I’ll meet you there.”

He shook his head.
“Not necessary.”

Blake’s phone beeped.
He peek
ed at the screen and smiled.
“Ovulating time.”

“Go home.”

“All right, but send
me a text as soon as you get there.”

* * * *

Forrest swerved the
Jeep into an empty parking space, jumped out and bolted toward the entrance.
His heart pounded to the beat of his feet racing against the pavement, only one
thought swarming through his mind.
Please let Dad be okay.

He avoided the revol
ving door and shoved through the manual entryway, taking
the flight of stairs by two, three even, until he reached the reception area.
An older woman probably in her early seventies sat behind the desk. Damn it,
she must be new, as he didn’t recognize her.
Her eyes
grazed up, and grew wide at his untamed appearance.

“Forrest Montgomery
Desvareaux, my father, Luc, is here.” He jotted down the French names, first
and last for her to avoid any spelling confusion. He knew the process. She’d
ask him to spell his
last name at least two times
before looking it up on the computer. Writing his name down took away at least
two minutes.

She scanned the paper
where he’d just written his father’s name. As she typed, each click scraped
across his raw nerves. He bit back t
he anxiety
swimming through his veins, willing himself to be patient. After a few attempts
at what he guessed was typing his name properly, she looked up, pity on her
face.

“ICU,” she said in a
low tone. “Third…”

Her voice faded behind
him. He already kne
w which floor. He might have his
own practice but he worked closely with the only hospital on the island. Within
seconds he was by the elevator, punching the UP arrow again and again until the
door slid open. Mind racing, he hit the number three with a tre
mbling hand. As the door closed, he grabbed his phone and
thumbed
ICU
to Blake. Intensive Care Units catered
to patients with the most severe and life-threatening illnesses and injuries.

After what felt like
hours, the hollow ping announced he’d reached hi
s
destination. The elevator door opened and he stepped onto the quiet floor. For
a minute he stilled, letting the strange feeling that he was here this time not
as a doctor but as a son settle in before walking to the nurse’s station.

“Hey.”

He turned to G
wen, the pretty nurse who’d dated Adam once upon a time.
She touched his shoulder, a compassionate touch. He recognized it. As a doctor,
he was all too familiar with the bedside manner reserved for people losing a
loved one soon. He’d done the same on a fe
w
occasions.

“Is it too late for
surgery?” he asked, needing to know.

Gwen cleared her
throat, a sign of nervousness. His heart clenched.

“Has the neurosurgeon
seen him?”

“Yes.”

A deafening silence
settled between them for a beat. But the doctor in him got
the message
,
it
was too late.

“Third
room on your right.
Your mother and Charles are there.”

Charles Montgomery was
Jason’s father, his parents’ best friend.

“Thanks, Gwen.”