“That’s because Jimmy didn’t reset it,” I grind out, glaring at him over her head. “He didn’t lock the door either.” The guy has enough sense to look ashamed by the slip up.
“Shit,” he says, as he looks around, looking at everything except for me now. “Sorry.”
I shake my head, gritting my teeth against a swell of annoyance. “Where is she?”
“She’s still in the bathroom,” Jimmy says. “She won’t open the door.”
Before I can even respond to that, Kim’s grabbing a hold of me, towing me down the hallway toward the main bathroom.
“Can you pick the lock or something?” she asks, a slight tremor in her voice. “She’s talking, but …”
“Kim,” I say, cutting her off, but keeping my tone as gentle as possible. She’s stressing, on the verge of all-out panic, and that’s the last thing Piper needs right now. “Jake Cruz was right behind me. Why don’t you go on out there and meet him. Give him the package, yeah?”
She looks at me with shock. “But Piper …”
“She’s gonna be fine,” I say firmly. “Go on and meet Cruz.”
She hesitates, silence consuming the hall for a second, before she finally nods and slowly turns away.
“What can I do?” Jimmy asks.
My response is immediate. “Go get her a glass of water. She’s gonna need it.”
He heads to the kitchen without a word, his footsteps hurried, and as he goes, I turn to the bathroom door, lift my hand, and knock.
Piper
“Go away,” I growl, cracking my eyes open and glaring at the door.
I swear between Jimmy and Kim, my headache is never going to break. Their constant knocking, constant worried shouts and questions are only making the pounding in my head worse.
I’m lying on my back on the floor—the cool tiles are a welcome relief against my heated skin—with a damp, now lukewarm, cloth on my forehead.
I’m about to close my eyes, when the thumping on the door comes again, louder this time, more demanding, and my eyes snap wide open. “Open the door, freckles.”
Vance.
I close my eyes at the sound of his voice, cringing. He sounds worried and pissed off. Really pissed off.
Sighing, I drag myself off the floor, using the toilet seat and towel rod for support, and trudge across the room, moving far slower than I want to.
It takes a few seconds of fiddling with the lock, turning the little button in the knob this way and that, before I finally manage to get the door open.
Vance stands on the other side in the hallway, his expression drawn tight with concern. He doesn’t say anything right away, his gaze raking over me, taking me in from head-to-toe, before blowing out a long breath. “Piper …”
“I told them not to call you,” I say, my voice coming out small. I sound like I’ve been eating glass, my throat raw. “I know you have better places to be, more important things to be doing than babysitting me.”
“You’re sick,” he says incredulously, his dark eyes piercing into me. “Really sick. This is exactly where I should be.”
I look at him with disbelief. I don’t have a clue how to respond to that. I feel too awful, too tired, to even process it.
“Come on,” he says, moving in close and wrapping an arm around my waist. “Let’s get you changed and back to the hospital.”
I don’t protest. I don’t think I could even if I wanted to. I’m drained. Completely and utterly wiped out. And the truth is, I don’t know what’s wrong with me.
Hangovers don’t last this long.
A mild concussion wouldn’t cause these effects.
The hospital is exactly where I should be.
My vision blurs and my body burns as I shuffle down the hall toward my room, using Vance for support. He helps me over to the bed, leaving me there as he goes to my closet, pulling a clean tank off a hanger, and black yoga pants from the shelf, and hands them to me, before stepping out, giving me privacy to change.
Gripping the bedframe to steady myself, I struggle to get my clothes off, and the new ones on, letting out a stream of silent curses before I finish.
Vance is standing at the door when I emerge, a glass of water in his hand. “You wanna try to drink something?” he asks, offering it to me.
I shake my head, wincing at the movement. “That’s probably not a good idea.”
He frowns at me, but he doesn’t push it, wrapping his free arm around me, and helping me down the hallway.
Kim and Jimmy are standing in the living room, hovering. They both look anxious, and I try to placid them with a reassuring smile, but I don’t really think I pull it off.
There’s a man with them that I don’t know, standing back a little, closer to the door. He’s tall, about the same height as Vance, with dark brown hair and dark brown eyes, dressed in jeans, a sea-green tee, and there is a badge and gun clipped to his belt at his right hip.
He brought the detective with him?
“You ready to go?” the man asks in a deep voice, his eyes scanning me over, much in the same way Vance’s had.
“Yeah,” Vance says, handing the water off to Jimmy, and taking my purse from Kim. He reminds them to lock up and set the alarm when they leave, not giving either of them a chance to do anything but nod, before he’s hustling me out of the house and helping me into an unmarked police car.
The drive to the hospital is not fun. I lay across the backseat of the cop car, my head in Vance’s lap. All I want to do is close my burning eyes, just rest them for a second or two, but I swear, each time they drift shut, Vance feels the need to ask me another question.
He’s rambling.
He’s trying to keep me awake.
He doesn’t believe that I’m just tired.
It isn’t long before Cruz pulls to a stop in front of the emergency entrance. He exchanges a few words with Vance, something about heading to the station with the envelope and calling when we need a ride, and then Vance is helping me out of the car and taking me in.
Within minutes, I’m stashed in a little room, waiting for the doctor. Vance doesn’t talk, but he stays with me, standing by my bed and holding my hand, his thumb stroking up and down along my palm.
He’s stressed.
I can feel it, thick and suffocating in the air.
I try to think of something to say, anything to break the silence, but I’m drawing a blank, my brain too muddled with pain.
When the doctor finally comes in, it’s a welcome distraction from the silence, until he pokes and prods at me enough I wind up threatening him with bodily harm if he asks me one more time if something hurts. I don’t think he truly takes me seriously, though, because he laughs, telling me he wants a CT scan and blood work done before he leaves.
And then, silence descends once more.
My mind wanders, my thoughts going over my upcoming deadlines, wondering if I’ll be able to complete the covers in time, and I consider calling Jimmy to see if he can search for potential images, or maybe even set up some quick custom shoots for them.
Then, I think about last night, about dancing at the bar and the way Vance watched me, and how he wanted the song to be played again just so I’d keep dancing. I don’t think I’ve ever felt so pretty before. So wanted.
I let out a small laugh, the act, only managing to fuel my pain. “I can’t believe I’ve waited three years for you to ask me to dinner and I’m missing it.”
He chuckles, although it comes out strained. “Rain check?”
“Yeah,” I say, smiling. “As soon as I’m out of here.”
He squeezes my hand. “It’s a date, freckles.”
The silence comes once again, except this time, it isn’t as tense, isn’t as smothering. He’s more at ease, standing beside me.
It’s comfortable.
It’s nice.
A few minutes later the nurse comes in, sticking me with needles and taking my blood, before wheeling me away.
Vance
&nb
sp; Piper snores, soft, cute little sounds.
It’s a little after five in the evening and I’m sitting in the visitor’s chair in her room, legs stretched out, crossed at the ankles, and arms folded over my chest, watching her sleep. She looks so young, so innocent in sleep, her features relaxed and a small smile playing at her lips.
They decided to keep her overnight. The CT scan was all clear, but all the vomiting and the killer headache she’s suffering from is a cause for concern, and they want to keep her under observation and get some fluids into her.
I’m still not sure I understand exactly what’s wrong, but from what I got, it sounds like a mix of everything, the perfect storm. Mild concussion, hangover, and stress causing her to vomit, leading into dehydration, which caused the severe headache, dizziness, and more vomiting.
They hooked her up to an IV, the line running from her right arm and leading to a machine that’s pumping a clear liquid into her, and they gave her a shot for the pain, which promptly knocked her out about thirty minutes ago.
Before she passed out, she made me promise to stay with her, saying she didn’t want to be here alone.
I agreed. Of course I agreed. There’s nowhere else I’d rather be, and the smile that lit up her face when I promised her I’d be right here when she woke up was fucking phenomenal, like I was giving her the best goddamn gift she could get.
Sighing, I drag my eyes away from her and pull out my phone. I fire off a bunch of text messages, letting everyone know she’s okay and that we’ll be staying here for the night. I get a bunch of messages back almost immediately, all with a similar glad she’s okay response.
I read them all, then delete them, before putting my phone away and leaning back in the chair, shifting around, trying to get comfortable, but it’s hard. My muscles ache; I’m stiff and sore from last night.
I’m considering getting up and finding a nurse—maybe I can get a mild pain killer or muscle relaxant or something—when my phone buzzes in my pocket with a new message. I fish it out, tapping on the screen, and pull up the message.
Jase: We found something.
Chapter Eleven
Vance
“It’s ...” I stall, searching the image clasped in my hands. “An arm with a crappy tattoo.” I glance at Jase and Wes, lifting a questioning brow, as we stand in the hallway at the hospital, just outside Piper’s room.
“No,” Wes says and pauses, theatrically leaning over and glancing down at the photo. “It’s an arm holding a tire iron, sporting a very descriptive tattoo.”
Descriptive? I laugh once, looking at him incredulously. Descriptive is definitely not the word I would use.
My eyes fall back down to the blown-up print, scanning it over. The photo is slightly blurred, a still shot from the security video at Constant Pub, showing a partial arm, and a hand clasped around a tire iron, near the tailgate of Piper’s truck. It’s male, judging by the size and muscle definition along the forearm, and the tattoo is simple, one of those pre-made pieces picked from an album all tattoo places have.
There’s nothing special about it.
Nothing overly unique or descriptive.
“It’s a heart with some chick’s name in it,” I grumble.
“No,” Wes declares again, this time drawing the word out, smirking at me. “It’s a heart with some chick’s first and last name in it. See ...” He snags the image from my hands, holding it up in front of me, and points, underlining each name with his finger, reading them off. “Trixie Starr. Two names. First and last.”
I let my head fall forward and rub between my eyes where a headache is starting to form. When Jase said he found something, I thought it was something good, something useful. Not some fuzzy photo of a partial arm with a shitty tattoo and a few scars.
It’s frustrating.
Downright maddening.
“It sounds like a stripper name,” I say, glancing back up.
“Exactly.” Wes wiggles his eyebrows up and down. “I’m all for tracking this chick down.”
Jase groans, and I snort out a laugh.
“Who the fuck would tattoo a stripper name on their body?” I ask needlessly, knowing neither of them will have an answer.
Wes shrugs, exchanging a look with Jase. Jase merely shakes his head.
“I sent a copy of it to Cruz before coming here,” Jase says. “I know it’s not much, but this shot with the tire iron is enough to get their asses in gear and seriously look into the string of vandalism she’s been dealing with. He’s gonna run it through the system, see if he gets any hits on the tattoo or scars.”
“Doesn’t mean we can’t put boots to the pavement and do a little investigative work,” Wes grumbles under his breath, folding his arms over his chest.
Jase cuts him a look, his eyes sharp and speculative, and Wes meets it head on with a harsh glare of his own.
Interesting.
Either Jase has had enough of this conversation, or I missed something over the last few hours.
At the moment, I’m too tired, too stiff and sore, to ask about it.
“Did Cruz say anything about that package she got?” I ask, shifting against the wall that’s propping me up, straining my stiff body as I settle against it once more. Everything is aching, my arm is throbbing, my bruised up ribs are screaming for rest, and I’m trying my damnedest to hide it.
“He’s sent it to the lab,” Jase says. “We should hear something by Monday at the latest.”
I nod. “Let’s wait him out then. See if he comes up with anything.”
“Sounds good,” Jase agrees, and then pauses, letting out a long breath as he looks straight at me, eyes narrowing as he takes me in. “You should go home. Get some rest.”
Shit.
I guess I’m not hiding my discomfort as well as I thought.
My response is immediate, though. “Can’t. Promised Piper I’d stay with her.”
We all stare at each other in silence for a moment and I see the shock and subtle amusement wash into their features. Jase mutters a curse under his breath, shaking his head.
“Holy shit,” Wes says. He laughs and shakes his head, too, smiling genuinely. “You’re really doing this.”
It’s not a question, but I respond anyway. “Of course I’m doing this. I told her I’d be here when she wakes up, so that’s exactly where I’m gonna be.”
Jase laughs, flashing both dimples as he grins at me. “That’s not what he means and you know it.”
I do know, but I say nothing, letting out a resigned sigh instead.
Jase and Wes stare at me.
And stare at me.
And stare at me some more.
Their expressions are curious, their eyes boring into me inquisitively. I get the sense that neither of them are going to let this go.
“Jesus Christ,” I mutter and sigh as I rub my hands down my face in frustration. “Are we really gonna have this conversation now?”
Wes shrugs. “Can’t think of a better time to do it.”
I can.
I can name plenty of better times than now. About a million and one better times, actually. Times that don’t include me waiting around a hospital, aching and tired and miserable, for Piper to wake up.
Silence hangs between us.
I know what they’re looking for, but I don’t know what to say. I want to lie to them, tell them it’s nothing. It would be the easiest response right now, and I like easy, but fuck, they’d see right through me.
They always do.
“Don’t really know what I’m doing,” I finally say. “But I’m here and I like being here.”
Jase snorts out a stunned laugh and clears his throat. “You’ve been keeping your distance for years. What changed?”
What changed?
Everything.
Nothing.
I don’t know.
I’m quiet for a moment, contemplative, as I look around the busy hallway, considering how exactly I’m supposed to respond to that. I near
ly tell them it was a nasty bout of jealousy that spurred me on to finally make a move, but thankfully, my tired brain has enough sense to keep that morsel of information to myself. Jase and Wes have known Piper a long time, just as long as me, and I’m certain hearing that I jumped in without thought over something as absurd as jealousy will only piss them off.
They like Piper.
They’ve looked out for her in one way or another since they met her.
And I’m certain that’s exactly what they’re doing now.
But the thing is, I’m not really sure what I’m doing with her.
I don’t know where this is going, or even exactly where I want it to go, but I do know that I sure as fuck want to find out.
I’m done holding back with her.
Done watching from the sidelines, waiting for … something to happen.
Hesitating, I straighten up, grimacing at the stab of pain that shoots through my ribs as I shove off the wall and fold my arms over my chest. “I don’t have a clue what I’m doing here,” I say again, shrugging my shoulders. “But whatever this is, I’m all in.”
Wes laughs again, this time with a sharp edge to it, and Jase’s eyes narrow as he tilts his head, shaking it slowly, his jaw clenching and twitching.
Shit.
I guess they don’t like my response.
“You better figure this shit out quick,” Jase says quietly, a clear warning in his tone. “She’s a nice girl and she sure as fuck doesn’t need you screwing things up in her life more than they already are.”
I nod. Message received.
“Good,” Wes says, his easy smile pulling his lips up. “It’s about damn time you got your shit together.”
I can’t help but laugh, because he’s right, it is about damn time, but I don’t humor him with any further response. “You guys should get out of here,” I say. “Nothing more we can do tonight.”
Wes nods, pushing off the wall. “You need anything from your place?”