“Hello.” A nurse in Hello Kitty scrubs pushes a cart of medical crap in and she obviously has to work to hold her smile as she assesses me and Logan. There’s small stuffed animals clinging to her stethoscope and the cart and it dawns on me... “I’m in the pediatric ward?”
“Ironic, right?” Shit-eating grin still there.
“I’m not a child!” I shout.
And Logan loses his grin and storm clouds descend over his expression. “You’re right. You’re not.”
The nurse quietly walks over to me, scans my arm bracelet with a device, scans something on her cart, and before I realize it, she’s pushing something into my IV. Coldness spreads up my arm, a strange taste enters my mouth, and my head snaps in her direction. “What did you give me?”
“Your uncle and doctor want you to rest.” Condescending pity eyes in my direction and panic is a chaser to whatever she put into my bloodstream.
Wetness burns my eyes as I slam my fist against the mattress again. She stays silent as she messes with my IV machine, changes out the saline bag, then wipes her name off my nurse’s board and writes somebody else’s name and like the other adults in my life—she leaves.
I fight to keep my eyes open. Logan’s in danger. I’m in danger. Logan’s in danger over me. I can’t sleep, but even if I’m awake, if someone walked in here now, there’s nothing I could do. I have no weapon, I’m weak, I’m a sitting duck and now Logan is too...over me.
Another slam of my fist against the bed and I cover my eyes with my hand in case the wetness should try to spill over my cheeks.
Fingers over my hand fisted on the bed and I shake my head. I don’t deserve this contact. “Go away.”
“I can’t,” he says almost in apology.
“You can, but you’re too stupid to do it.”
“Crazy,” he corrects. “My IQ scores invalidate your claim for stupidity.”
I snort and want to kick myself that I permitted his humor to break through my anger. What’s worse, he’s not kidding. The boy is brilliant and totally crazy.
Logan keeps his fingers over mine and somehow, without realizing it, I have threaded mine with his. His hand is warm, the skin slightly rough in places, and I immediately think of Logan working on cars with Isaiah, him crouched over home plate daring the runner to take him out as he tries to score, and the one time Logan brought all of us to Bullitt County because Chris needed help baling hay.
I didn’t do anything more than sit on the bales and order everyone else around, but I remember watching Logan. His shirt off, his back glistening in the summer heat, the way his muscles moved in this fluid way and how my stomach flipped whenever he’d glance in my direction.
These hands belong to someone who’s strong, who’s physical, who’s loyal and protective and I hate that I permitted myself the luxury of becoming his friend. Stupid. I was stupid. “I didn’t mean to jack up your life.”
“You didn’t.”
“I did.”
“My life was jacked up before we met.”
Silence. More silence. So silent that even my own thoughts no longer disturb me. So silent that I hadn’t even realized my eyes had closed.
“Do you want this life, Abby?” he whispers. “If you had the choice would you walk away?”
I turn my cheek into the cool pillow, toward the lovely deep sound of his voice, and don’t bother trying to open my eyes. There’s no hospital room, we’re back on Chris’s farm. The sun was shining then and it was a warm blanket over my body. “If I could, I’d run.”
“But you need the money for her, don’t you?”
I nod and my voice sounds far away. “She was in a nursing home and they hurt her, stole from her...” I swallow then lick my dry lips. “I love her so I brought her home.”
“We’ll figure it out,” he says, but before I can argue a crackle of a bag and something soft is tucked into the crook of my elbow. “I bought you a bunny.”
My lips lift and I can almost feel its little nose sniffing my skin. “A real bunny?”
“Yeah.” But his tone is so light that I can’t tell if he’s kidding. “It’s real.”
A real bunny. I curl into it and toward Logan and let myself drift as Logan swipes his thumb over my hand in a slow rhythm. In the same rhythm as my breaths out and then my breaths in. In and then out. Over and over again until my thoughts fade and then there’s just sun, my bunny, and Logan.
Logan
Rachel: How is Abby?
Abby slept the entire time I sat with her at the hospital. She stirred, readjusted, but her hand never left mine. At times, her grip tightened. Other times, I was the one holding on. I’m grateful to be too exhausted to analyze it.
Me: Tired.
Rachel: How are you?
The same as Abby. Good.
Rachel: Are Isaiah and West overreacting?
Isaiah and West forbade Rachel to come anywhere near the hospital. Don’t blame them. Considering Abby was shot and I could have been hit in the cross fire... No. Don’t get ideas of riding solo. We’ve got enough on our hands without additional problems.
Rachel: You sound too much like them.
I’ll take that as a compliment.
The elevator doors open and I step out onto the main floor of the hospital. It’s one in the morning and West is on duty again. My head pounds. Could be a combination of my sugar level, exhaustion, and my messed-up eating and sleeping patterns. I’ve got to rein this in soon or I’ll end up in bed next to Abby.
“Logan,” calls a guy to my right and I glance over, but keep walking. I’ve already talked to the police—twice. Once at the scene then last night as I was leaving. This is starting to become a bad habit.
He catches up with me before I reach the double glass sliding doors. “I’m Officer Monroe. We met last night.”
We did. He’s late twenties, not dressed in uniform, and looks like the clean-cut younger brother of that crazy guy from Pirates of the Caribbean. I shove my hands in my pockets and wait. This guy was good enough to give me a lift to my truck and has kept his mouth shut on the diabetes since we talked. I can give him a few more minutes.
“I take it back,” he says. “I’m a detective now.”
“Congrats.”
“How’s your friend?”
“She was shot. How do you think?”
He studies me in this pensive way and then scans the room. “I know we’ve talked to you already, but I’d like to show you some pictures. See if you recognize anyone.”
The muscles in my neck tighten. Damn. Walking this tightrope is getting tougher and tougher. Isaiah talked about understanding where I stood on things. On Abby. On the drugs. Messed-up part, I’m more confused now than I was before and these police conversations aren’t helping.
We walk off to a vacant area of waiting-area chairs and he pulls out his phone. “Past twenty-four hours have been tough. Been trying to figure out who was the target and who was caught in the cross fire. Have you seen any of these people before?”
I think of Abby lying in that bed, cradling that stuffed bunny, and the elderly woman waiting for her granddaughter to return home. He shows photo after photo and I do nothing more than shake my head no. Not once do I have to lie and I’m not sure if I would if I did notice someone. Abby needs to see there are legit options.
He keeps swiping through photos. Some mug shots. Some not. “Searched you on Google. Congratulations on winning the baseball state championship this year. I played some ball back in high school, but I could never stomach catcher. Too many bats being swung near my head for my taste. Do you know this guy?”
“No.”
“You’re a good kid, Logan. The type I want my son to grow up to be. The last two guys, you sure you don’t know them?”
I shake my head ag
ain. I’ve never seen any of these people before in my life.
“See this guy?” Detective Monroe flips back to a picture of a guy about my age. He has blond hair, a big grin, too baby-faced for people to take seriously. “He died of a heroin overdose last week.”
My eyes snap to his and without changing his expression he flips to the last photo. “And this guy was shot in the head last night, execution style. I had to tell his mom and his brother. Hardest thing to do is tell someone that the person they love isn’t coming home.”
I take a step back and swallow the nausea crawling up my stomach. The girl who busted out of the alley, the one covered in blood, screaming...was that her boyfriend?
“Why are you telling me this?”
“Because Abby doesn’t remember anything. Because you were our only chance at finding the people responsible for what happened in the alley. People were hurt. People died.”
I point toward the elevator, toward Abby. “You don’t have to explain that to me.”
“Is that right? Because you and your friends have been watching her 24/7 since she arrived and the only other visitor besides the old man who has custody of her is this guy.”
Detective Monroe shows me a picture of Linus. “We know he’s connected to something bad, which means the girl you and your friends care about might be connected to the same bad thing. Maybe he’s pumping her for the same information we need. These people kill. Whether it be through what they sell or by putting a bullet in someone’s brain—they’re killers. If you saw something, Logan, they’re not above hurting you or someone you love. They’re not above hurting Abby again.”
He pockets his phone and draws out a card. “Take it. You might need to call me.”
I accept the card, he leaves, and I drop to the waiting-area couch. The card contains his name, his number. What does Abby sell? Did it kill that kid? Is Abby a killer?
The world was easier when I was able to ignore Abby selling drugs.
“Hate the sin, not the sinner, isn’t that what good people say? Or are you asking yourself at what point does the sin overtake the sinner?” Linus eases into the chair next to the sofa. “I’ve seen that look before. It’s the type people have before they snitch.”
I’m beginning to understand why Isaiah keeps a safe distance from this part of Abby’s world.
“Since the good detective showed you pictures, I’m going to show you a few of my own.”
“What makes you think I’ll help you?” I maintain eye contact, not at all scared of whatever he has to offer.
“Because Abby’s in danger until we find who shot her.”
“I don’t know who shot her.”
“And you’re full of shit. Even if you don’t, you saw something. I need to know what.” Linus turns his phone to me and on the screen is one of the guys who I spotted running before Abby was shot. Another slide of his finger and there’s guy number two. Neither is the guy I saw leaving Abby’s alley. “Did you see either of them?”
“It was dark and all I cared about was finding Abby.”
Deadpan is the only expression this guy owns. “Real Boy Scout, huh? You don’t want to tell me, then tell Abby. She knows how the game’s played. If you’re bent on being Abby’s savior, do me a favor, get her out of town. Less babysitting on my end.”
Without another word, he gets up and leaves. I stare at the detective’s card. Isaiah asked how solid I am on where I stand on this. I’m firm on Abby, firm that she needs help, but I’m not sure if the help Abby needs is help she’ll accept.
Abby
I lost one week of my life in the hospital. One week of sales. One week of summer. One week of seeing my grandmother. I’ve never been so bored and restless in my entire life.
A quick check of my clothes and I step out of the bathroom. Isaiah leans against the wall next to my bag of stuff I collected throughout the week. Clothes sent in from Rachel, books from Isaiah—the good slutty kind and I would have given another day here to see him walk up to a counter to buy those—and sitting on top of the bag is my state-fair-winning prize for being a good little patient, the bunny Logan bought me. His name is Francis and Francis doesn’t like being inside a bag. He’s very demanding for something with furry ears and full of fluff.
Isaiah gestures to the wheelchair. “They’re pretty serious about you riding in that thing on the way out.”
“Linus has boys watching me in the hospital. I’m pretty set on walking out on my own two feet. I’ve got a public-relations nightmare on my hands and I need to prove I’m strong.” I pause to suck up the courage to eat my pride. “Thank you for watching over me when I couldn’t protect myself.”
“I owe you. Always will.”
“You’ve done well for yourself.” I offer Isaiah a sad smile and the same sad smile is reflected only in his eyes. “You’re a far cry from the boy I first met years ago.”
“You could change, Abby.”
“Oh, Isaiah, you really are cute.” I wink. “Have you considered becoming an inspirational speaker? A guidance counselor, maybe?”
His lips tilt up then fall back down.
“After this,” I say, “consider your debt paid.”
He’s a long way from the hungry boy I met in a Dumpster when I was throwing out trash for my father near the strip mall at his friend’s bar. I shared my dinner and lunch with Isaiah for weeks. Then I convinced my uncle Mac to hire him for the car shop when Isaiah was a scrawny mess still in middle school. He bloomed from the pity of a boy into the man that won the girl he loves and makes bank working on custom cars.
One week in a hospital, a lot of time to reflect. Logan could have been killed because of me and I’m not okay with that. I’m nowhere near okay with that. The idea of him dying creates a black sludge in my veins and constricts my chest and my hand grabs for my throat because I feel like I can’t breathe.
Isaiah pulls on his lower earring, which means something’s eating him—like probably whatever was stuck up his ass that caused him to become all legit.
“Spit it out. Angst pisses me off.”
“Logan thinks he’s picking you up.”
“He does.” I turn to the small mirror over the sink. Should have asked Rachel for makeup. I’m not a cosmetics type of girl, but I look like the leftovers from a vampire feast.
Rachel.
The pain strikes fast and deep and I bend with the impact, holding on to the sides of the sink to stay upright. It’s that internal feeling like I’m falling. Off a cliff, from an airplane, into an abyss. “Have you told Rachel yet?”
“I did what you asked with Logan, but if you want to break Rachel’s heart, you’re going to have to do that.” Isaiah does that damn brooding thing.
I roll my eyes and face him again. “You’re the one who didn’t want me to become her friend. Their friend. If I remember correctly, you told me to back off of all of them—Rachel, West, Logan.”
“I told you to be careful. There’s a difference. I don’t have a problem with you being their friend, I have a problem with you being a drug dealer.”
“Because it makes me evil?”
“Because it makes you miserable,” he snaps and the bitter smirk that’s always on my face when Isaiah and I go head-to-head disappears.
“You think I like watching you die? And I’m not talking about seeing you recover from a bullet and you in pain. You’ve been bleeding out since you sold your first baggie. You think you know me?” He shrugs his shoulders. “You do, but I know you, too. You can pretend all you want that you’re a ghost, but I know what’s inside you. I know who you really are.”
I swallow the lump forming in my throat and I have to blow out air to find the girl who doesn’t care. “Thank you for setting up Logan for me. It’ll make it easier on him for the conversation to have come before what’s a
bout to happen than after.”
Months ago, I gave Isaiah explicit instructions that if my work life spilled over into my attempt at a personal life that he was to run off anyone who I had poisoned with my presence. Isaiah kept his promise, at least with Logan, and had a little chat with him in a bathroom downstairs.
“Don’t think it worked like you wanted. He’s determined to stay.”
My fingers flex as I recall how many times I woke up this week to Logan by my bed, holding my hand, his thumb caressing the sensitive spot right inside my palm. Tingles enter into my bloodstream just at the memory. The good type and I have no idea how to shut them off.
Hurting Logan will kill the good feelings. Hurting Logan will be like slicing up what’s left of my already shriveled soul. “He won’t feel that way after he figures out I’m gone and when you’ll tell him exactly who I left with.”
“That person be me?” Linus walks into the room and I swear the temperature drops fifty degrees into the negatives.
“Did your mother know she was giving birth to Satan’s spawn or was she shocked when you popped out?”
I once again gain that hint of a smile I often mistake as one. “Let’s go, Abby. He doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”
Feeling like someone is ripping all my flesh from my body, I cross the room, gather my things and tuck my bunny between my arm and my body. I stare at the empty chair as tears burn my eyes and my lower lip trembles. How do I say goodbye to my best friend?
“I need two minutes with her,” Isaiah says in this low tone that not many people argue with. When there’s no movement behind me, he becomes a drill sergeant. “Now.”
“Two minutes,” Linus says and then retreating footsteps.
I sniff and switch my gaze up to the ceiling, hating that the view is blurry.
“Don’t do this, Abby.” There’s a hitch in Isaiah’s voice. “You want to push Logan and West and even Rachel away, then do it, but don’t push me away.”
I inhale deeply and when I turn to look at him the smirk fails as the corners of my mouth tremble. “Who says this is about you?”