chapter Four
* * * * *
“This is an outrage,” Slade rages, his fists balled up on the crisp white sheets of his hospital bed. I take a deep breath and level my gaze at the rock star. It’s been forty eight hours, and the sheer intensity of his good looks has yet to diminish. It would be difficult to be stern with him, if it weren’t for the ridiculous things that fall out of his mouth every time he opens it.
“It’s absolutely against the rules,” I tell him, “There’s nothing I can do about it.”
“But it’s totally unfair!” he insisted, his full, firm lips pulled into a sexy pout. “This is a hospital, isn’t it? A place of rest and relaxation? Why are you running it like Gitmo?”
“Slade,” I say, “You can’t. Have whiskey. In your room.”
“But why not?” he moans, falling back hard against his pillows.
“You’re injured,” I remind him.
“Exactly,” he says, “I could use a little relief.”
“That’s what the morphine is for,” I remind him.
“It’s lost its edge,” he sniffs, turning his gorgeous face away from me.
“You’re not used to being told ‘no’, are you Slade?” I ask, sitting down in the chair beside his bed. He swings his eyes back toward me.
“I’m not,” he says suggestively, “Especially not by lovely young women like yourself.”
“You’ve never met anyone like me,” I smile.
“That...is a good point,” he admits.
We’ve been going back and forth like this for two days, now. My shifts at the hospital have been devoted solely to the care and keeping of our rock star patient. My supervisor, Dr. Kelly, has forbidden me to see any other patients, insisting that Slade’s routine recovery requires constant vigilance. It’s completely ridiculous, and I tried to rally against the situation at first. But I have to admit, I’ve started to enjoy the banter. It’s nice to talk to someone sharp for once, given that most of the people I deal with at work are either in critical condition, crazy, on drugs, or don’t have time for small talk.
“I thought I’d get off easy, watching you during the night shift,” I tell him, “I figured you’d be asleep most of the time, you know, like a normal human being.”
“You realize that I’m a professional musician, right?” he drawls, “I live between five in the afternoon and six in the morning.”
“Funny,” I say, “Me too.”
“We’re just meant to be, I guess,” he sighs, fluttering his eyelashes goofily.
I let a little giggle escape my lips. It’s impossible to stay annoyed with Slade for very long. It’s also impossible to get any sort of handle on what he’s thinking. In the short time I’ve known him, I feel like I’ve seen eighteen different aspects of his personality. I wish I could tell which version was the authentic one—then I could try and figure out how I feel about this patient of mine. For the time being, though, it’s just fun keeping up with his verbal acrobatics, crude though they may sometimes be.
“My shift is almost over for the night,” I say, “Do you need anything before I go?”
“Yes,” he says.
“Besides a glass of whiskey,” I tell him.
“I need you to stay,” he says.
“Stay?” I ask, “As in, for another shift?”
“Yeah,” he says, “The day nurse is no good.”
“Rachel?” I ask, “What’s wrong with Rachel?”
“She’s not as nice to look at as you are,” he smiles.
I hope I’m not blushing as I respond, “Rachel has been working here for ten years. She knows everything there is to know about everything.”
“But she seems immune to my charms,” he says.
“And I’m not?” I challenge.
“I don’t think you are,” he says, “Though you’re putting up a very good fight, I must say.”
“Why thanks,” I say, rolling my eyes. “Seriously, can I get you anything?”
“A kiss?” he asks.
“No,” I say.
“A French kiss?” he asks.
“Why would—? Never mind. I’m just going to sit here and wait until my shift is over. Let’s both just take a minute and be nice and quiet, so—”
The door flies open, slamming hard against the wall. I nearly jump out of my skin as I whip around to see what’s happened. My mouth falls open as I spot a motley crew of unwashed hooligans streaming into the hospital room. I recognize these people. They’re the ones I kicked out of the way when Slade first got here. I should have known they’d be back.
“Looking good, Slade!” howls the short, somewhat jowly man I spoke with in the waiting room while Slade was being admitted.
“You’re the manager, right?” I ask.
“That’s me,” he says, offering his hand to me, “Eddie Bayonne, pleasure to meet you.”
“I’m Julia,” I say, shaking his proffered hand, “I’m Slade’s night nurse.”
“He’s a lucky guy, to be taken care of by someone as lovely as you,” Eddie grins, holding onto my hand for longer than is necessary.
“I’m rather good at my job, if that’s what you mean,” I say coolly.
“Sure,” Eddie says with a wink. He crosses the room to Slade and leans over the hospital bed. “So what’s the story, big guy?” he asks, “You fixed yet or what?”
“Who knows?” Slade shrugs.
A man who looks like he could be Slade’s younger brother steps up earnestly. “What about the show in two days?” he asks, “Are they going to let you play? The fans are going to kill us if we miss another show.”
“This is Dodge,” Slade tells me, nodding toward the man, “Our guitarist. And something of an alarmist, as it would happen.”
“Do you blame him?” says a thick, shaggy man beside me. I recognize him from the waiting room as well. “We’ve all been worried about you.”
“Joe, I’m fine,” Slade insists. “Tell them I’m fine, Julia.”
“He’s fine,” I confirm, “A royal pain in the ass, but he’s going to be out of here soon I think.”
“Sounds like our boy,” says the lone woman of the group. I can’t help but give her a long once-over. I assume that this is Annabelle, the drummer of Flagrant Disregard. She’s got a good three inches on me, and probably about ten fewer pounds. She looks like some kind of nymph—with long, jet black hair and bright blue eyes. The features of her face are almost impossibly delicate, and even the simple cotton dress she’s wearing looks elegant on her.
I give my head a little shake, trying to dislodge the judgmental thoughts from my mind. Why am I comparing myself to this woman I’ve never met? It’s not like I have anything to prove to these people.
The four visitors take over the hospital room, perching on chairs and equipment, wherever they land on first. They’re chattering up a storm, filling Slade in on the buzz that’s been happening since his hospitalization. Apparently, some fan managed to get a video of the whole fight, and Slade’s brave defense of some young audience member against a few big thugs. The video had gone viral overnight, 50,000 views in 10 hours, and the few remaining tickets for the band’s American tour started selling out like crazy.
“Now you know what to do if ticket sales ever start to slump,” I say “Just get beat up and hospitalized, and you’ll be back on track in no time.”
“I wasn’t beat up,” Slade says, “I was overwhelmed.”
“I thought we could celebrate our sold out tour a little early,” Eddie says, grinning. He reaches into his coat pocket and produces a small bottle of booze. The band mates cheer and clap excitedly, but I lunge forward and snatch the bottle out of his hand. “Hey!” he cries, “That’s mine!”
“What is the matter with you people?” I demand, all but wagging my finger at them, “Slade’s recovering from internal bleeding. The last thing he needs is a shot.”
“Don’t be such a hard ass!” groans Joe, the thickset bassist. “Just a little sip of this sweet Kentucky bourbon is just what the doc…”
“No, that’s—hey!” I cry, as the guitarist Dodge pulls a cigarette out of his pocket and lights it up. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
“What, you’re telling me we can’t smoke in here, either?” he asks.
“Of course that’s what I’m telling you!” I cry, snatching the cigarette out of his hand and putting it out in the sink. “What planet do you people come from? There’s concentrated oxygen in these rooms, and it’s extremely flammable. Have you never been in a hospital before?”
“Not while I’ve been conscious,” Annabelle smiles, crossing her thin arms.
“I think you guys had better go,” Slade says, “Julia’s getting all steamed.”
“I’m not steamed,” I snap, “I am at a loss.”
“We’ll hit the road,” Eddie says, “We just wanted to tell you the good news.”
“Get better as fast as you can,” Dodge says, “We don’t want to cancel on the fans again if we don’t have to!”
“Don’t count on him being out by tomorrow,” I warn.
“Nothing wrong with hoping,” Annabelle says. She leans over Slade and gives him a kiss on the forehead. A hot rush of jealousy courses through my veins. I’m taken aback by the sensation, and for a moment I find it hard to breathe. What the hell is the matter with me?
The band members file out of the room, waving to Slade over their shoulders. I look around the room at the displaced equipment and tools, marveling at how much room a mere four people can take up in the world. I guess that’s what you get with musicians—larger than life personalities. Slade Hale is pretty good proof of that. He looks up at me with his hands folded across his chest. His eyes are gleaming with excitement.
“This’ll be our first sold out tour,” he tells me. I can’t help but smile at how happy he sounds. Like a little boy who got everything he wanted for his birthday.
“It’s kind of cute how stoked you are,” I tell him.
“Oh?” he says, “I’m cute to you, now?”
“Sure,” I saw, sitting down on the side of his bed, “You could say that.”
“Well I’ll be damned if this isn’t the best day in recent memory,” he says.
“You’re in the hospital,” I remind him.
“Still,” he says, reaching for my hand. Our fingers entwine on the bed sheet, and again I’m overcome by the warm sensation that gushes through me at our slightest contact. “Thanks for taking such good care of me,” he says.
“It’s...nothing,” I say, my words staggered. “I mean...It’s my job. To take care of people.”
“But still,” he says, giving my hand a squeeze.
“You...You haven’t been such a terrible patient, after all” I say, taking my hand back lest it catch on fire or something.
“Yes I have,” he laughs.
“OK, maybe,” I admit. “But I’ve had worse. At my last job, there was one woman who woke up in the middle of the night convinced that I was her daughter and that the year was 1960. She nearly strangled me to death. She got right up out of her bed and got me by the throat, screaming, ‘Elsie, you little slut’ over and over again.”
“That’s insane,” Slade said, “Do you have to deal with that kind of thing all the time?”
“Not all the time,” I say, “Not here, anyway. Now it’s mostly just stab wounds and car accidents.”
“God,” he said quietly, “I can’t imagine doing what you do every day.”
“It’s rewarding,” I say, “But I’m sure it’s not nearly as exciting as your life.”
“I’m sure it is,” he says. “You deal with life and death on a daily basis. You’re responsible for people’s very existence you know. What you do is actually important.”
“Music is important too,” I tell him, “A lot of people would say that a certain song or band saved their lives. Or at least changed them, in some way.”
“Has that happened to you?” he asks.
“Sure,” I shrug, “I’d say so.”
“What was the album?” he asks.
“You’re just looking for a new way to make fun of me,” I say, crossing my arms.
“No, I promise,” Slade says, sitting back up in bed. “I want to know what album saved your life, once. I’ll tell you mine if you tell me yours.”
“You go first,” I say.
“Fine,” Slade says, “Mine was Simon and Garfunkel’s concert in Central Park. My mom had a recording of it that I listened to over and over again while I was growing up.” I stare at him blankly, shocked into silence. “What is it?” he asks, “Not what you were expecting?
“No...” I say, “No, it’s just...It was Simon and Garfunkel for me too. The Central Park record.”
“You’re making that up,” he says, his eyes wide.
“No, I swear!” I say excitedly. “I used to listen to it in my room as I was falling asleep.”
“What was your favorite song?” he asks suspiciously.
“April Come She Will,” I say, without hesitation. “What about you?”
“The Sound of Silence,” he says, “Of course.”
We stare at each other in silence for a moment, neither us able to fully believe in this coincidence. I suddenly remember the exact sensation of listening to that album alone in my childhood bedroom. I remember being fifteen years old, not having yet grown into my curves, sitting in the window seat in a cotton nighty, and looking out over the treetops beyond my back yard. I remember how profoundly sad, and yet how beautiful that music was. It had made me want to settle down and explore the world, all at once. And now, over a decade later, I hadn’t done either...
“It’s a damn good record,” Slade said quietly.
“Yeah,” I agree, smiling through the nostalgic ache that had taken up residence in my heart, “Damn good.”
There’s a knock on the door, and I turn to see a graying, stern nurse looking in at us. Rachel’s arrived to relieve me of my duties. I stand up quickly and start toward the door to give her report.
“Hey,” Slade says. There’s an urgency in his voice I haven’t heard before.
“What’s up?” I ask, looking back at him expectantly.
“...Nothing,” he smiles, “I’ll see you tomorrow. Tonight. Whatever.”
“I’ll see you,” I say, smiling back.
My legs wobble ever-so-slightly beneath me as I make my way out of the room past Rachel.
“No change I expect?” she asks rhetorically.
I glance back as she closes the door and approaches Slade, fussing over the state of his sheets and pillows. That ache in my heart is amplified as I walk away from the hospital room, out to where my car is waiting to take me home. I realize, as I start the engine, that the sweet, sad longing throbbing inside of me is something very much like lovesickness.
But that’s impossible...I try to reason with myself. I’ve only known Slade a couple of days. Surely, I can’t have feelings for him. He’s a patient. Not to mention a complete a*shole some of the time. Oh, and a skeevy rock star, to boot. I must be confusing my physical attraction for something deeper, that’s all. Those muscles of his would bamboozle even the most unromantic person out there. And if I’m honest with myself, I’ve always been something of a hopeless romantic. I try not to think about what all these warring feelings mean and I drive home to catch a few well-earned hours of sleep.
I stagger up my front stoop and let myself in. Gustav is waiting for me by the door, just like he always does, his big yellow eyes peer up at me inquisitively. I give him a good scratch behind the ears and head for the kitchen, to fetch a can of food for him. We’ve gotten into quite the regular routine, Gustav and I. I empty the food into his dish and slog up the stairs, at this point my limbs are aching for a little bit of rest. Without bothering to take off my scrubs, I flop down onto my mattress. I don’t even bother to get under the covers. My eyes snap shut, and I pull my eye mask firmly down over my face to keep the sun at bay.
As I lay there, halfway between waking and sleeping, I find my thoughts drawn inevitably toward Slade Hale. I let my imagination supply me with scenes of the two of us together, out in the real world. I imagine what his home must look like, how he looks without his clothes on. I let myself wonder what it would be like to run my hands along his firm chest, his well muscled arms, and those washboard abs. What would it feel like to run my fingers through his long, dark curls, look deeply into his endless eyes, and press my lips to his? How amazing would it feel to reach down and wrap my hands around his hard, bulging...
In what feels like the blink of an eye, it’s morning once more. I scowl under my mask, annoyed at not being able to remember any of the more illicit dreams my subconscious had cooked up the night before. For an instant before waking, I had imagined that I was actually wrapped up in Slade’s arms. But when I roll over, I see that I’m alone once more. As ever.
I crawl out of bed and prepare myself for work. Most days, getting to the hospital seems like a chore, but today I’m excited to head in. There was something about Slade’s demeanor the day before that had resonated with me. Against my better judgment, I let myself hope that the sweet guy who secretly liked Simon and Garfunkel was the true version of Slade.
I bid adieu to Gustav and all but skip out to my car. Drumming my fingers impatiently on the dashboard, I find that I can’t wait to be back at the hospital so that I can see Slade again. I’ll be on my best behavior today and give this guy a chance.
Penny’s already at work when I breeze in. She looks up at me and raises her eyebrows suspiciously. “Someone’s chipper this morning,” she says, “Did you get laid last night or something?”
“Not exactly,” I say, “Just in a good mood.”
“We’ll see how long that lasts,” she says. “Would you do me a favor and check in on the patient at the end of the hall? He took a bad spill down the stairs of his office building, and he—”
“No can do,” I say, “I’m on strict Slade Hale duty. Remember? Dr. Kelly doesn’t want me spending time with any other patients.”
“Didn’t someone tell you?” Penny says, her bright eyes going wide.
“Tell me what?” I ask, dark dread flooding through me, “Did something happen? Is Slade OK?”
“He’s fine, don’t worry,” Penny says, taking my hands in hers. “He’s been discharged, actually. I thought someone would have told you.”
“...Discharged?” I repeat. I pull my hands from Penny’s and rush down the hall to Slade’s room. I yank open the door and lurch inside, hoping to see his caddish, smiling face before me. But instead, I only see a perfectly made bed sitting in the middle of a pristine room. There’s no evidence that Slade had ever even been here. I sink down into the bedside chair and stare blankly at the place where he lay just hours before. He must have been let out during the day shift. I didn’t even get a chance to say goodbye.
I’m unreasonably disappointed by Slade’s sudden departure. Of course he’s been discharged, he was good to go once the bleeding had stopped and honestly he could have gone home yesterday. It’s not like he was ever going to be a part of my life beyond our few days of knowing each other. I don’t know why I let myself dabble in fantasies of being Slade Hale’s friend...or God forbid something more. I’m sure that whatever chemistry I felt with him was just his natural charm working me over. He probably took on sparring buddies like me wherever he went.
I suddenly felt embarrassed by my little crush. At first, I thought I’d be able to turn my nose up at Slade, and write him off as an a*shole man-child. But in the short time I’d known him, I felt like I’d gotten through to him on some deeper level. For a tiny sliver of a moment, it felt as though we’d connected. Am I totally crazy? Does everyone who talks to Slade for more than a minute have the same feeling? Probably that’s it. He’s a celebrity, after all. I’m sure that all kinds of people tend to fall into his orbit.
Still, I’m remarkably sad to see him go. I feel his absence like a physical loss. Even if he won’t remember me a week from now, I feel like I’m missing out on something now that he’s gone. I must have a screw loose, or something.
Penny comes rushing into the room after me, starting at me from the doorway. There’s a look of troubled concern on her face, and I watch as comprehension begins to dawn. “Oh, Julia...” she says.
“Yeah,” I shrug, trying to laugh away the disappointment.
“You got attached, didn’t you?” she asks.
“I suppose I did, a little,” I say.
“Well, we all have favorites from time to time, don’t we?” she says helpfully.
I nod, forcing a smile onto my face. I have a long shift ahead of me, after all. It’s not like I can just pick up, go home, and mope for a while. I have a job to do. I pick myself up off Slade’s abandoned hospital bed, and give it one more long look. I can practically hear his laugher echoing off the walls when I listen closely enough, see his cunning, handsome face against the stiff white pillow. I shake my head, trying to scatter the memories of him from my mind, but they don’t want to budge. I’m almost alarmed by how strongly I’m reacting to his absence. We only spent two days together, after all, it’s not like I’m losing the love of my life, here.
Penny and I walk back out into the ER, assuming our posts once more. I put on my best airs of being collected and calm, hoping that if I fake it long enough, it will just start to be true. Penny’s monitoring me, I can tell—trying to gage what’s going on in my head.
“I guess he’ll get to play that show tomorrow night now, huh?” she says.
“Who?” I ask dumbly.
“Oh, come on,” she says, rolling her eyes. “You know who. Wasn’t there some concert that he wanted to play?”
“Oh. Right,” I say, “I think I remember him talking about that.”
Of course I remember him talking about it. He’d nagged me about it the entire time he was here. I’m happy for him, that he gets to play the show like he had so badly wanted. But part of me wishes, selfishly, that he was still here with me. How messed up is that—a nurse wishing for someone to get worse rather than heal? I’m glad that no one can read my thoughts right now. That certainly wouldn’t go over well with the doctors.
“You should go see it,” Penny said suddenly.
“The concert?” I ask. “No...I don’t think so.”
“Why not?” Penny demands.
“Can you see me at a rock concert?” I ask, “They’d all think I was a narc or something.”
“You’d be fine. We could dress you up like a dirty hippie and send you on your way,” Penny says, bopping up and down on the balls of her feet.
“I’m sure it’s sold out anyway,” I remind her.
“He’d make an exception for you,” she smiles.
“You’re delusional,” I tell her, smiling back.
“Takes one to know one,” she says.
Our attention is grabbed away by a newly admitted patient, and from that moment on the shift starts to fly by. One emergency after the other comes our way, and for a while I’m almost able to forget about Slade Hale. Almost. But even as I’m in the thick of the job, I can feel him in the back of my mind, waiting for me to pay attention again. How long is this going to go on, anyway? I do my best to block out thoughts of my rock star and do my job. The effort of it all makes the hours zoom past.