by Hannah Ford
Hailey opens her mouth to say something, and my phone rings.
I reach into my jacket pocket, glance at Ryan’s name lighting up on the screen. I send it to voicemail, but it rings again immediately.
“What?” I growl into the phone.
“Eli,” he says, and I can tell from the tone in his voice that it’s something bad. I stand up.
“What is it? What happened?”
“It’s Dad. You need to come. Now.”
Chapter 4
ABIGAIL
I’ve never been in a hospital before. I mean, of course I’ve been in a hospital, like the couple of times when I’ve had to go to the ER -- once when I was seven and had pneumonia, and one time in high school when I broke my finger on the rock wall in gym class.
But I’ve never been in the main part of the hospital, the part where they keep the really sick people.
My mother, for all her crazy life choices, was remarkably healthy, and on the occasions she got sick, she would take Echinacea and copious amounts of Vitamin C until she felt better. She had no money or trust for doctors.
I had no older relatives I was close to, no grandmother with a stroke or grandfather with cancer to visit. In fact, according to my mother, we had no other family.
So being in the quiet, stark hospital is slightly disorienting, especially after the music and lights of Edge.
Elijah, however, seems completely comfortable here.
He drove from the club to the hospital like a bat out of hell, his foot heavy on the gas, rushing through yellow lights that had pretty much already turned red, taking turns so fast and reckless that he came uncomfortably close to pedestrians on more than one occasion.
If we’d been anywhere but New York, where people were used to that kind of insane driving and had honed their reflexes to jump back onto the sidewalk when needed, he probably would have killed someone. Or at least been pulled over.
“Eli,” Ryan says, meeting us as we step off onto the floor of the hospital where Elijah’s father is. Kira, his fiancé, stands a few feet away, looking anxious.
“Where is he?” Elijah demands, pushing past him. “Where’s the doctor?”
“He’s in dad’s room. But they’re moving him down to the ICU in a little while. The doctor wants to make sure that he’s being monitored around the clock.”
“He should already be being monitored around the clock,” Elijah says. “How the hell did this happen, Ryan?”
“How did this happen?” Ryan repeats, looking incredulous. When I’d met him at Elijah’s apartment last night, he’d seemed happy-go-lucky and chill, the kind of guy who never gave anyone a hard time and was in a perpetually good mood. But now he seems serious, and I have a feeling that the situation with his dad is the only thing that could bring that out of him. “It happened because you refuse to let him go, Elijah. Because these things are going to happen, because he’s lying there, wasting away.”
“I’ll sue the hospital,” Elijah says. “This is not standard of care.” He pulls out his phone as if he’s going to call a lawyer right now.
Kira and I exchange nervous glances, and I wonder if either one of us should step in and try to diffuse the situation. If so, it should probably be her, since Ryan is about to be her husband. Of course, I’m the one here with Elijah, and he seems like he’s the one who’s more likely to be explosive.
The whole time they’ve been talking, they’ve been walking down the hallway toward the room where I’m assuming they’re getting Elijah’s father ready to be moved to the ICU, Kira and I following a safe distance behind them.
When we get to the room, Elijah immediately starts demanding answers from the doctor.
I try not to stare at Elijah’s father.
I wasn’t sure what, exactly, I was expecting. I guess maybe I thought his dad would just be lying there, sort of looking asleep.
But it’s not like that at all.
There’s a myriad of tubes and machines hooked up to his body, including a breathing tube that’s attached to the front of his throat.
His skin is pale, and sort of hangs on his face, like it’s gone slack from lack of use. His eyes are open, which at first I think is maybe a good sign, but he stares off into space, his gaze fixed on nothing.
His mouth is open as if he was stopped from saying something midsentence.
“We should let them talk,” Kira says from next to me, and I jump, startled. She puts her hand on my arm to steady me. “I could use some coffee. Come with me to the cafeteria?”
We order vanilla lattes from the Starbucks downstairs, then sit down to drink them at a table in the hospital caf. It’s pretty deserted at this time of night, and the people who are here seem to be in varying stages of crisis.
An elderly couple sits talking quietly, their hands clasped, and a few tables beyond them, a harried looking woman sits, her arms on the table, her head bowed as she tries to sleep.
“Is he going to be okay?” I say, taking a sip of my coffee. “Elijah’s father? I’m sorry, I don’t even know his first name.”
Kira unwinds the scarf from around her neck and sets it down on the chair next to her, taking the top off of her coffee and blowing on it in an effort to cool it down. “Charles,” she says. “His name is Charles. And it depends on what you mean by okay.”
“I mean, what’s wrong with him exactly?”
“In general or tonight?”
“Both.” I realize Elijah probably won’t be thrilled that I’m asking Kira for information about his father, but if he didn’t want me asking questions, then he shouldn’t have brought me here.
“In general, he’s in a minimally conscious state,” Kira says. “After he tried to kill himself, when he was unconscious, the belt he used to hang himself snapped and he hit his head. Elijah found him and tried to revive him, but it was too late.”
My stomach turns, and I close my eyes, taking a deep breath in through my nose, trying not to think about how horrific that must have been.
Before I can figure out what to say, my phone buzzes with a text from inside my bag, and I rummage around for it, thinking it may be Elijah.
But it’s not.
It’s Hailey.
WTF was that about??? she writes, her accusatory tone practically bursting from the screen.
I type back a quick response. I’m sorry, Elijah’s dad is in the hospital and he had to go be with him asap.
“Sorry,” I say to Kira, looking back up from my screen. “Anyway, Charles…He’s not going to come out of it? The minimally conscious state?”
Kira shakes her head sadly. “No. At least, it’s extremely, extremely unlikely. He’s been like that for years, with no signs of progress.”
“Is he going to die?”
“The machines are keeping him alive. A feeding tube, a breathing tube. But if those things are removed, then yes, he will die.”
“And tonight?” The sick feeling in my stomach intensifies as I remember his eyes, just staring out at nothing, the slackness of his jaw, the gray tint of his skin.
“An infection started around his feeding tube. The doctors are worried it could spread throughout his body.”
“Shouldn’t someone have been making sure something like that doesn’t happen?”
“It’s not really something they can stop,” Kira says, taking a sip of her coffee and retightening her ponytail. “It’s just a complication that can happen. It’s not anyone’s fault.”
My phone buzzes again.
Hailey.
Again.
I’m not talking about you guys leaving. I’m talking about the attitude from Elijah.
I think about telling her what Elijah thinks, that she’s the one vandalized my computer and left the ruined dress and the fake blood. But I know she’ll freak out. I can’t decide what’s worse – if she thinks Elijah was giving her attitude for no reason, or if she knows he suspects her of doing something horrible.
I shove my phone back in my bag, deciding to
deal with it later.
“Why don’t they… I mean, if there’s no chance he’s going to come back, then what’s…I mean…” I trail off, not able to say the words.
Kira shifts on her chair. The older couple sitting on the other side of the room gets a phone call and rushes off, brushing past us, dropping their untouched sandwiches and mostly full coffees into the garbage.
“Why don’t they just take him off the machines?” Kira finishes for me.
I nod.
“Elijah has the power of attorney for Charles,” she says. “And he doesn’t want to let him go.”
Of course he doesn’t. “What does Ryan think?”
She looks away, her hand tightening around her coffee cup, her eyes shiny with tears. “Ryan thinks his father wouldn’t want to live like that. He says Charles was always full of life, that if he had the choice, he wouldn’t want to be kept alive in that way.”
“And what do you think?” I ask.
She sighs. “I think it’s extremely complicated. I can see both sides.” Her expression turns series as she studies me. “Can I give you some advice?”
“Of course.”
“This is a very sensitive situation, and it’s between Elijah and Ryan. So if I were you, I would try to support Elijah, but…it’s best not to get too involved.”
I nod. “That makes sense.”
But I know that what she’s asking is impossible.
Elijah is damaged forever by what happened to his father.
And being with him means diving headfirst into that damage and just hoping I don’t drown.
Chapter 5
ELIJAH
My brother and I have a screaming match at the hospital in a side conference room, out of earshot of the doctors. Although screaming match isn’t entirely accurate. Ryan screams. I listen in stony silence, knowing that if I let my anger out, it will be impossible to reign in.
It’s the same exact fight we’ve been having for years, and the outcome is predictably fruitless. He thinks I’m being selfish, thinks I’m crazy to keep my father alive in this state.
I think it’s not his fucking decision.
By the time the doctors and nurses wheel my father up to the ICU, his body pumped full of antibiotics that are trying their best to keep the infection from spreading, it’s all I can do not to punch the wall.
But the last thing I need is an arrest or stitches, so instead, I drive home even more recklessly than I did on the way there, only slowing down when Abigail begs me to.
By the time we get to the apartment, my body is wired tight with tension.
I pour myself a glass of bourbon, take it down in one long draw.
Abigail watches me carefully from a few feet away.
“Do you want to talk about it?” she asks finally, setting her purse down on the counter.
“No.”
“Okay, let me rephrase that. We’re going to talk about it.”
“There’s nothing to talk about.”
I pour another finger of bourbon, then take it to the living room couch. I sit down and close my eyes, inhale through my nose, trying to use slow breaths to calm myself down. It doesn’t work, of course. Meditation is bullshit.
Abigail sits down next to me and places her hand on my leg. As if by instinct, I reach out and take it, my fingers intertwining with hers. Her touch instantly has a calming effect on me. Something inside of me loosens, the place that was wound tight and tense giving way.
As long as you have her, you’re going to be okay.
The thought is shocking in its intensity as well as it’s uniqueness, and I have the inexplicable urge to hold onto it. My hand tightens around hers.
“How bad is it?” she asks, her blue eyes serious. “The infection?”
I look at her, my eyebrows raising.
“Kira told me.”
“Ah.” I reach out and take another draw of bourbon. “If it spreads, it could kill him.”
She nods, taking this news in stride. She stays quiet, not offering me any kind of the platitudes people usually offer – it’s going to be okay, maybe it’s for the best, you should get a second opinion. Bullshit that means nothing. Instead, she leans her head against my chest, her hair spread over my shirt, her hand still holding mine. Her thumb rubs circles over my palm, and the gesture is somehow alarmingly intimate.
I know she must have a million more questions about my father, know she must definitely want to talk about what happened tonight before the hospital, how disastrous the time at Edge with Hailey and Will went. But she’s staying quiet about it for now, and I know she’s doing it for me.
I draw her to me, pulling her onto my lap, wrapping her up in my arms, loving the soft feel of her body. I lower my lips to hers, drinking her in, pulling on her lower lip, tasting her.
She responds to me, sliding her arms around my neck, opening her mouth, our tongues gliding against each other.
Her presence is a balm to me, a soothing to my soul, and again I think of that word, the ‘L’ word. I love you. God, I love you, Abigail.
Just the thought of saying the words out loud excites me, and soon I’m on top of her, my hands grasping at her shirt, pulling at the fabric as I slip it up and over her head.
I trail my tongue over her cleavage, her skin smooth and soft.
I lose myself in her curves, loosening the button on her jeans, pulling them off until she’s in just her bra and panties.
“Elijah,” she moans, breathless. “Elijah, Elijah.”
My name on her lips is like a prayer, and she reaches for my shirt, slipping her hands underneath, running them over my bare skin. I pull my shirt off and press back down on top of her, the swell of her breasts against my chest, skin to skin, as I begin to kiss her again.
We kiss forever, losing track of time and space and anything but the two of us, our legs tangled together on the couch, my hands in her hair. And for the first time in my life, it isn’t about getting off, it’s not even about the physical act of sex, but about the intimacy that comes from it. The connection between the two of us is like nothing I’ve ever felt, and I want this feeling of closeness and anticipation to last forever.
“I want you inside of me,” she murmurs. “Please, I…” She bites her lip, and I push her hair back away from her face. God, she is fucking beautiful.
“I want to be inside of you, baby.” My hands move to the button of her jeans.
“Elijah?”
“Yes, baby?”
She hesitates, biting her lip again before she whispers, “I love you” so quietly that at first I’m not sure I’ve heard her.
But the words immediately snap me back to reality, and I pull away from her as if I’ve touched a flame. Everything comes back into focus, as if I was looking at the world through a distorted lens which has now become blindingly clear.
Love.
She loves me.
No, no, no.
Everything inside of me rails against the word.
Love is for the weak, the desperate, those with no control over their emotions. Flashes of my father’s husk of a body flash bang through my mind, imprinting themselves on my brain. I told myself I would never, ever let myself get lost in a woman the way he did.
And until this, until her, that promise has been easy to keep.
But she’s worked her way under my skin, into my heart, crawling into my soul and making me feel things I thought I wasn’t capable of, things long buried inside of me, things I thought were dead.
I look at her, her eyes blue eyes wide, innocent, waiting for my response.
Jesus Christ.
I was about to fuck her without a belt, without a whip, without anything.
Even when I’d been soft with her before, there’d always been something, even just my belt around her wrists. I hadn’t even considered there was any other way.
So even though there’s part of me that wants to wrap her in my arms, gather her close to me and kiss her while I slide slowly inside of her,
I shut that part of myself down.
“Go upstairs.” My voice is cold.
“What?”
“You heard me,” I growl. “Go upstairs to the playroom. And wait for me there.”
I make her wait ten minutes.
I need her out of my presence, out of my space, because she’s driving me insane and I need to get my shit together.
When I get upstairs, she’s waiting outside of the door, still in just her bra and panties. Her skin is flushed, her lips swollen and bee strung from the kissing we did downstairs. Her hair is in a tangle around her shoulders, her breasts straining against the material of her bra, the fabric cutting into her skin.
“Elijah, you don’t have to… I mean, I wasn’t expecting you to say it back. That’s not what it was about. I just…I felt it and I wanted to say it.”
“Do you always say everything you feel?” I ask, accusing.
“No.” She shakes her head, biting her lip.
I press my hand to the sensor, opening the door. “Go inside. To the middle of the room, and get on your knees.”
She does as I say, but I can see the slight hesitation in her movements.
Once she’s on her knees, I walk to the cabinet on the side of room. I choose two instruments – a small anal plug, and a series of nylon ropes connected by chains that will bind her, forcing her legs apart.
“Climb onto the bench,” I demand. “And stay on your hands and knees, ass in the air.”
She does, and I walk to her, looking down at her. I cup her chin in my hand, turn it to me, then loosen my belt, pull out my cock and press it to her rosebud lips. I push past the seam of her lips, into her mouth, letting her get me wet, her saliva mixing with my precum.
“Suck my cock.”
She does as she’s told, her lips and tongue working together as she milks my shaft. I was already rock hard, but the way she’s working her mouth makes me even harder, so hard I almost want to come in her mouth. Instead, I pull out of her mouth with a pop, then slip the ends of each nylon rope around her wrists, then tie each corresponding end to her ankles.