She stares at me, a stern expression settling over her plain features.
“You were in really bad shape, Mr. Tate. Very bad. You should consider yourself lucky. Your heart stopped twice and CPR was performed. You’ve been heavily sedated to allow your system to return to normal after all of the stresses of the overdose. You might notice some tracheal tenderness and some soreness around your ribcage. You had a breathing tube and several of your ribs were cracked during CPR efforts.”
I stare at her dumbly.
“I died?”
She nods. “Apparently. But you’re not dead now. You’ve been given a gift, Mr. Tate. You should think on that. I’m going to go call your doctor.”
She turns on her heel and leaves, her white tennis shoes squeaking on the floor.
I’m completely stunned.
I fucking died.
And now that she has brought it to my attention, my ribs do hurt. Fucking A. I groan as pain shoots through my midsection. And then I remember the crumpled up note in my hand. I look at it, at the bold, scrawling handwriting.
My father’s handwriting.
Pax,
I almost couldn’t help you this time. I called in my last favor. The next time you mess up, you’ll be serving time.
Pull yourself together. If you need help, ask for it.
I think you should move to Chicago, so you can be nearer to me. I’ll help you in any way that I can. Just because you have money, doesn’t mean that you don’t need emotional support. You can’t do everything alone.
Think on it.
And stay out of trouble.
-Dad
I fight the urge to laugh because I know it would hurt my banged-up ribs. What the fuck ever. The idea that my dad thinks he can offer me emotional support is too hilarious to take seriously. I don’t even think he has any emotions, not anymore. Not since mom died. She took the human side of Paul Tate with her.
I toss the note in the trashcan, but it bounces off the rim and lands on the floor. Shit.
I consider the notion of trying to get up and get it, but decide against it. I’m too sore and it’s just not that important. Housekeeping can pick it up later.
However, before I can think any more on it, the tip of a shoe appears next to it. My gaze flickers upward and finds a girl standing there. She’s staring at me with clear, green eyes and she’s holding a vase of flowers.
And she’s fucking beautiful.
My gut immediately tightens in response. Holy shit.
She’s small, with long dark hair draped over one shoulder and clear green eyes framed in thick black lashes. Her skin is bright and glowing. And why am I noticing her skin when she’s got such a great rack? I fight to keep my eyes away from her full, perky tits and focused on her face.
She smiles a wide, white smile. A gorgeous kind of smile.
“Hi,” she says softly. “I didn’t know you’d be awake.”
There is gentle familiarity in her voice, as if she knows me.
I’m confused. How fucked up had I been? Do I know this girl? My instincts say no. She’s not the kind of girl I tend to hang around. I usually keep the needy ones around, the ones who are willing to do whatever I want, just because I can give them what they need.
This girl is not one of them. That much is blatantly apparent. She reeks of sunshine and wholesomeness. It’s foreign to me. And fascinating.
I cock my head.
“I’m sorry. Do I know you?”
The beautiful girl blushes now, a faint pink tint along the delicate curve of her cheek. I immediately have the urge to run my fingers along the color, although I don’t know why.
“No,” she answers and she seems embarrassed. “I know that this is probably weird. But I’m the one who found you on the beach. I came the other day to make sure that you were okay. And then I wanted to bring you some flowers because your room seemed a little bare. I’m an artist, so I love color. And now I seem like a stalker, don’t I?”
She’s rambling. And it’s cute as hell. I smile. And as I do, I feel like the Big Bad Wolf and she’s little Red Riding Hood. My, what big teeth I have.
I smile wider, especially when I realize that she’s even wearing a dark red shirt. And it’s stretched tightly across her perfect rack.
“It’s okay,” I assure her. “I like stalkers.”
Her head snaps up and her eyes meet mine, her gaze startled. I have to laugh again. Something about her seems so innocent. She’d truly be startled if she could hear my thoughts about her smoking hot body.
“Thank you for the flowers,” I tell her, chuckling. “They’re nice. You’re right. The room can definitely use some color. You can set them over there if you’d like.”
I motion toward my empty dresser. She moves in that direction, stopping to pick up the crumpled note from my father.
“Is this trash?” she asks innocently. I nod and she drops it in the wastebasket.
“Thanks,” I tell her. “That’s just where it belongs.”
She looks puzzled, but she doesn’t question my words. Instead, she places the flowers on the dresser, then sits in the chair next to me. And stares at me.