Total pages in book: 171
Estimated words: 164705 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 824(@200wpm)___ 659(@250wpm)___ 549(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 164705 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 824(@200wpm)___ 659(@250wpm)___ 549(@300wpm)
“Yes.”
I didn’t hesitate. I wasn’t sure about a lot of things, but I was sure I wanted to see Oliver. That he would have, at least, some answers. Oliver was always my favorite place to come back to. He was the only address my heart had ever known.
“Bring him in.”
Chapter Thirteen
Oliver
Romeo Costa: Is it true what they say?
Ollie vB: Don’t act so surprised. You’ve seen me naked plenty of times. You know it can’t be shorter than twelve inches.
Romeo Costa: You spelled ‘eight on a good day’ wrong.
Zach Sun: Rumor has it you assaulted a woman working on the film Frankie interned on.
Ollie vB: Interned is an interesting choice of words.
Romeo Costa: What word would you use?
Ollie vB: Crashed. Terrorized. Lit on fire. Your pick.
Romeo Costa: Don’t change the subject. Who is she?
Ollie vB: Your sister-in-law, much to your chagrin.
Zach Sun: The woman you harassed. Frankie said you let her drive your Ferrari so you could stalk the woman.
Ollie vB: Frankie has been doing a lot of talking, I see.
Romeo Costa: Where are you, anyway?
Ollie vB: The hospital.
Romeo Costa: THE HOSPITAL?
Zach Sun: THE HOSPITAL?!?!
Ollie vB: She’s suffering from a concussion.
Zach Sun: Is this a good time to call your lawyers, Oliver?
Ollie vB: I was the one who rescued her, not hurt her. JFC.
Zach Sun: I’m calling them just in case.
Romeo Costa: I’m heading over to the hospital.
Ollie vB: No need.
Romeo Costa: I’m bringing Dal with me.
Ollie vB: Haven’t I suffered enough today?
Zach Sun: Not nearly. Do you need us to bring anything?
Ollie vB: I NEED YOU TO NOT COME.
Zach Sun: See you shortly.
Chapter Fourteen
Oliver
Jinx. Harbinger. Curse.
I brought misfortune to everyone I cared about.
Then. Now. Nothing had changed.
The legs of the cheap plastic waiting room seat clattered beneath me each time my heel bounced over the linoleum floor. I rapped my fingers on my knees to the rhythm of The Sleeping Beauty.
I should’ve seen it for what it was: a warning. I’d managed to go fifteen years without hearing it. Yet, the memory of dancing to it with Briar had resurfaced a few days ago at a party after a Monegasque heiress tried to lure me into a quickie in the bathroom of a well-known palace. The waltz came on, ruining the entire moment.
The clock above the reception area glared back at me.
Two in the morning.
A sigh sailed past my lips, fanning the scrubs top I’d nabbed from a passing RN. Even though I still wore my pitifully drenched jeans – the same ones I’d rescued Briar in – I didn’t feel cold. Thanks to the influx of adrenaline, I didn’t feel anything at all. Only the familiar whir of anxiety, excitement, and desperation that attacked my gut whenever Briar and I occupied the same zip code.
The paramedics had let me accompany her in the ambulance, probably because I, myself, hadn’t looked too hot. By the time we arrived, Briar had lost consciousness. The doctors had filed me into a separate treatment bay, checking my vitals and siccing two hostile nurses to fight me over ditching my shirt for something dry.
Since then, I’d occupied the corner of the waiting area on the seat nearest to Briar’s room. Here, they interrogated me, which went something like this:
Nurse: We can’t reach her emergency contacts.
Me: Her emergency contacts are two negligent flaming assholes.
Nurse: Nonetheless, we cannot reach them, but we’ll continue to try.
Me: Don’t bother. Her parents have been MIA since puberty. I’m practically her next of kin.
But was I? Better question: Should I be?
Two hours later, and I still sat in the same chair, waiting for an update.
Please don’t get into a vegetative coma. I fucking hate making big decisions. I can barely make up my mind about what I want for breakfast.
Tipping my head back, I banged it against the wall and shut my eyes. Hospitals depressed me. A potent mixture of bleach, antiseptic, and the indescribable scent of misery. A cocktail I’d grown quite familiar with over the years, sitting for hours outside operation rooms and intensive care units.
Through the pitter-patter of footsteps, phones ringing, and the staccato beeps of cardiac monitors, a door whined open.
“Mr. von Bismarck?”
I shot upright.
Doctor Cohen breezed past rows of seats, stopping just short of mine. For the most part, I took pride in not judging people by appearances, but if I had to choose a doctor to treat Briar, it’d be him. Bald. Wrinkled. Stern. For all I knew, he could be anywhere north of fifty-five and south of eight-three. Didn’t matter. So long as he wasn’t fresh out of residency and due for his first fuck up.
I used the armrests to push up to my feet, surprised by my own unsteadiness. “What’s up?”
“The nurses informed me you’re Ms. Auer’s next of kin.”
“Uh-huh.”
He thumbed through the many pages of his clipboard, eyes still trained on them. “Are you the boyfriend? Husband?”