“It’s time to wake up, flutterby. Come on, open those beautiful eyes for me,” he whispered. His voice was so close to my ear.
Pressure squeezed my hand. This was the most vivid dream I’d had in a long time… maybe ever.
♪ Back at One by Brian McKnight
Squeaking and click-clacking sounds added to the incessant beeping.
“Doctor, I think she’s waking up,” the heavenly voice said urgently.
“I think you may be right,” an unfamiliar voice said. “Ms. Clark, can you hear me?”
My eyes fluttered open. A strange man in a white jacket was peering down at me. I tried to shift away, but every muscle in my body protested.
“There’s no need to be afraid. You had a little accident last night, and you’re in the hospital. OK?” the doctor soothed.
I nodded, still confused. My eyes darted down, taking in every detail. Thin blanket drawn over my body. Metal railing by my side. Needle taped to the back of my hand. Machine with green wavy lines and changing numbers off to the side.
I turned to the other side, and my breath caught in my throat. “You’re real?” I croaked.
Tears shimmered in Dawson’s eyes as he nodded.
“Isabelle, I’m Dr. Stephens. Are you in any pain?” The man in the lab coat demanded my attention again.
“Some. But I don’t want to sleep.” I didn’t want to close my eyes in case Dawson was going to disappear.
“You’re a very lucky young woman. You have a concussion and some bruises. There’s also a cut on your head that had to have four stitches. Fortunately, nothing’s broken,” the doctor said in a calm voice. He settled the earpieces of his stethoscope in place and pressed the cool metal disc to my chest.
After moving it around to a few locations, he jotted a few things on the clipboard hanging on the end of my bed. “We’re going to keep you for a little while just to be sure everything’s OK. But I don’t think you’ll have to stay for very long. Dr. Thomas made us aware of your current treatment regimen and medical history. So, everything’s under control with your anti-rejection meds. The police want to speak to you about what happened last night. If you’re not up to it, I can stall them for a little bit.”
“No, it’s fine,” I answered and tried to eliminate the cotton mouth feeling. “But can I get some water first?”
“Absolutely. Just take it easy. And if the pain becomes too much, please call the nurses’ station.”
I nodded. The nurse, who’d remained silent next to the doctor, handed me a cup of ice water with a straw. I took a long, slow sip. It soothed the ache throbbing in my throat.
“I’ll be back to check in on you in a few hours.” The doctor walked out.
“I’m Anne, your nurse,” she said as she pressed a few buttons, adjusting my bed. Instantly, I was more comfortable.
“How’d you know I needed that?” I asked in awe.
She winked at me. “I’ve been a nurse for quite a while.”
Turning her attention to Dawson, she said, “Your friend is still across the hall. I’ll send him in later with some breakfast and coffee for you. You look like you need it.”
“Thank you,” he replied.
“Now, I’m going to let you stay in here, but don’t tire her out or cause any trouble. I don’t care who you are, I’ll throw you out if you compromise her health.” The stern look on her face brokered no arguments.
“Yes, ma’am,” Dawson replied with a salute.
“I’m going to let the detective come in now. If it gets to be too much, press the button. I’ll throw him out too,” Anne said with a smirk.
I giggled then moaned because of the pain.
“I’ll be back later,” she told me, patting my blanket-covered leg.
As soon as the door closed behind her, I turned my attention back to Dawson. The grin on his face made my heart flutter. There was a time in my life I thought I’d never again see that smile meant for me. His eyes flitted to the monitor.
“Your heart rate is rising,” he teased.
“That’s what your smile does to me,” I confessed.
“Guess I better stop grinning at you like a lovesick fool then. You need to stay calm.” His finger stroked the back of my hand, igniting tingles along my skin.
Before I could respond, a sharp knock rapped against the door.
“Come in,” Dawson called.
“Isabelle Clark, I’m Detective Martin. I’d like to ask you a few questions if you’re up for it,” he said, his tone all business.
“Sure. I’ll tell you what I remember.” I tried to shift myself higher, needing to feel less helpless than being confined to a hospital bed made me. When I winced, Dawson jumped up to help.
“Better?” he asked when I settled back into position two inches higher than I was previously.
“Yeah. Thanks,” I mumbled.
Detective Martin perched in the empty chair by my bed. “Isabelle, what do you remember about last night?”
“Um… I was at the LO concert. When the concert ended, I went backstage with my… ah… Dawson. We’ve known each other since we were kids.” I didn’t know what to call him now.
“OK. Then what?” He jotted in his notepad.
“While Dawson was showering, I got a call from Charles Strong—”
“Who’s Charles?” the detective interrupted.
“He’s the owner of the gallery where I have an art show coming up,” I explained.
“And what did Charles want?”
“To tell me…” Tears filled my eyes as I remembered why he called. “To tell me that someone wrecked some of my artwork for the exhibit.” My beautiful pieces maliciously marked, torn, and damaged. Why would someone do that?
“After Charles called you, what did you do?” he questioned.
“Um. I called for a ride. And I wrote Dawson a note. I didn’t want him to worry when he found out I was gone after he got out of the shower. I don’t remember anything about the car ride. Just that I was worried about the damage since my show is coming up.” My fingers played with the edge of the blanket.
“That’s OK. Does Charles normally work at the gallery in the middle of the night?” the detective asked.
“Not usually, though artists work strange hours sometimes. But the cleaning crew doesn’t come in until really late. They’re the ones who found the door unlocked where I’ve been storing my finished pieces. They called Charles. Once he got there and assessed the damage, he called me.” Cotton filled my mouth. I reached for my cup. Dawson held it up for me to take a slow sip.
“When you got there, what did you find?”
“Two of my paintings and two of my photographs were damaged,” I choked, a tear leaking out. Dawson whisked it away with his thumb.
“How many pieces of artwork were in the storage room?” the officer asked.
“Dozens. Why?” I didn’t understand his line of questioning.
“And only four pieces were damaged?”
“Yes.” I frowned. “Why?”
“Can you describe the pieces? Did they have a common thread?” he asked without answering my question.
“One of the photos was of a surfer emerging from the tunnel of a wave. The other photo was of Dawson’s band, Lyrical Odyssey. Both pictures were cut to shreds.” I shuddered as I recalled their current state.
“And the paintings?” the detective prodded.
“One depicted a line of fans waiting to get inside the concert venue for one of the band’s shows years ago. Each fan in line was covered in red paint… Well, except for a fan at the front of the line. She had pink hair and held a helmet. The other painting was of a young boy handing a bouquet of flowers to a young girl. Only their hands were visible. That painting was shredded like the photos, and the word MINE was painted across the top.”
“So, different settings, different subjects, nothing to connect them,” the detective mused.
“Maybe they were just the ones closest to the door?” Dawson offe
red.
“No. The photos were stacked on the table by the door with other photos. And the canvases were in the far corner,” I explained.
“OK. Do you remember anything from when you left the gallery?” Detective Martin asked.
“I walked out and was about to call Dawson to come get me. Then there was this roar behind me. Before I could turn around, something knocked me to the ground. Then my head hurt and—”
“And what?” Detective Martin seemed eager to hear what I had to say.
“And before things went black I saw a motorcycle drive down the sidewalk.” I frowned. That couldn’t be right.
“Do you remember anything about the motorcycle? Or the rider?” the officer continued with his questions.
“The bike was black, I think. And the rider was a woman.”
Detective Martin leaned forward in his chair. “How do you know the rider was a woman?”
“Long, pink hair was flying out from the back of her helmet. I mean I guess it could’ve been a guy. A small guy. But with the hair, I just thought woman.” I shrugged and motioned for Dawson to hand me the cup. He didn’t, but he did hold the straw to my lips so I could drink some more water.
“Hmmm, pink hair like the woman in your painting. Interesting. We’ll confirm hopefully with the surveillance footage from the business next door. Is there anything else you can tell me?” the officer asked, closing his pen.
I shook my head. “Not that I can think of. Sorry.”
“Well, if you think of anything else, give me a call,” he said as he stood and placed his business card on the bedside table. “I hope you recover quickly.”
“Thank you.” I shook his hand carefully.
“Yes, thank you, Detective,” Dawson said, offering his hand to the officer.
Once the detective was gone, I slumped down in the bed. The short interview wore me out. My eyes fluttered closed for a moment.
“You’re tired. I should go and let you rest,” Dawson murmured, pressing a kiss to my fingertips, then lacing our fingers together.
My lids flew open. “No. I mean, I am tired, but I don’t want to sleep. I want to talk to you. Our night was cut short. We have so much to talk about. So much unresolved,” my voice was whisper soft and weak.
“And we will. There’s time for that. Later. But first, I have a question for you about the pieces that were damaged. The photo of the surfer, was it the one you took of me during the band’s first West Coast tour?” he asked, concentration playing on his features, drawing lines where there shouldn’t be any.
“Yeah. How’d you know?” I reached up with my other hand and smoothed the skin between his eyes, pressing the lines away. I wanted to touch him more, but the IV taped to that hand constricted my movements.
Worry painted his handsome face again. “And the young boy giving flowers to the young girl, was that the one you did of us wearing the red thread bracelets?”
I nodded.
“Izzy, I’m the common denominator in those pieces that were destroyed.” He cradled my hand in both of his. The warmth of his skin seeped into mine, soothing me while his words created a chill of fear.
“No. That can’t be. I mean, yes they’re all tied to you. But there are no faces in the Gift of Flowers painting. And your face isn’t easy to make out in the surfing photo either. The fans waiting to enter the concert could be fans anywhere.” I was grasping, not wanting Dawson to be the connection.
“And your building was vandalized,” he whispered. He lifted one of his hands so his fingers could drag through his hair. “What was painted on the side of your building, flutterby?”
My mind was foggy. “I can’t remember exactly. Something about he’s mine and slut.” I closed my eyes and tried to recall the graffiti message.
“And written on your painting was ‘he’s mine’?” Dawson prompted.
My heart hammered. “Yeah.”
“There’s something I need to tell you…” his tone of voice made something inside me freeze in terror.
“I have a stalker. Have had a stalker for years apparently. But I didn’t find out about it until we left the record label. Seems our fan mail was screened to remove any crazy stuff. Plus, we never really saw the bulk of the letters once we actually started getting fan mail,” he said. His gaze dropped to our joined hands. With a light touch, he ran his finger over the design of my thumb ring, now standing stark against my pale skin, not hidden by the metal one I usually covered it with.
I drew a deep breath. “And you think your stalker destroyed my art?”
He nodded, shame keeping him from meeting my gaze. “And vandalized your building and tried to run you over last night,” he mumbled.
“What? You think it’s connected to my accident?” I hadn’t even considered the accident being anything more than an accident.
He looked at me briefly. Pain all over his face. “I think it’s a possibility. And that scares the hell out of me. It’s very likely that I’m the reason you got hurt. That your work got destroyed… That someone tried to kill you.” His head dropped to the mattress next to mine.
“You can’t blame yourself,” I whispered, reaching to run my fingers through his hair.
“The hell I can’t. You wouldn’t have been targeted by my stalker if I wasn’t still in love with you. If I hadn’t made it known to the world that you still owned my heart. She came after you because she sees you as a threat. For some sick reason she thinks I belong to her. I think I need to keep my distance from you,” his voice trembled with the suggestion and his muscles tensed.
“What?” I croaked. I’d just gotten him back. He couldn’t be leaving again.
“At least until she’s identified and caught.” He turned his face towards mine.
“No, Daw. You can’t. I can’t lose you again. Please.” My fingers gripped his tightly, like that one touch could anchor him to me.
The monitor started to beep like crazy. “Shh, calm down, flutterby,” Dawson cooed, running his fingers across my cheeks. He stared into my eyes. “Do you want them to come sedate you?”
I forced myself to draw deep, even breaths. I didn’t want to be knocked out. I was too fearful that he’d be gone when I woke back up.
“Can you hold me please?” my voice was weak, but I didn’t care. I needed to be in his arms. To feel safe and loved.
♪ Last Shot by Kip Moore
“Scoot over,” he ordered as he lowered the railing on his side.
Wincing internally, I inched over until I was next to the cool metal railing on the other side. Gingerly, he eased onto the narrow mattress with me. His arms opened wide, and I wasted no time settling into the safe haven they provided. It would be a lot harder for him to sneak away with my head resting over his heart.
“Rest now,” he whispered into my hair.
“I’m scared,” I admitted.
“I know you are. I promise I’m going to find out who’s doing this and make her pay,” his voice dripped with venom.
“That’s not why I’m scared.” I picked my head up and looked him directly in the eyes.
“It’s not?” Frown lines marred his brow.
“No. I’m scared if I close my eyes and go to sleep, you won’t be here when I wake up.” His features began to blur as my eyes filled with moisture.
“Oh, Izzy.” He sighed in defeat and squeezed me tightly to the hard planes of his body. “I wouldn’t sneak away like that. I’ll still be here when you wake up. I promise. But I’m not promising that I won’t have to put distance between us for your safety. I have to do what’s right. I’d die if anything happened to you because of me. Don’t ask me to risk your safety.” His eyes begged me to understand. To give him permission to go.
I didn’t want to argue with him, but I wasn’t ready to concede. “Can we talk about this later? I’m getting a little tired.” I knew it was sneaky using my current state to table our disagreement, but all was fair in love and war. Right? And I was in a war to reclaim my love.
<
br /> “Sure, flutterby. We’ll talk later. Rest now.” His fingers stroked my hair.
My eyes drifted shut beneath the soothing motion. “I hear your heartbeat,” I mumbled.
“It still says Isa-belle, Isa-belle. Stubborn thing still hasn’t learned a new tune,” he said with a chuckle.
“Not even after all this time?”
“Not even after forever. I love you, Izzy. Only you. Only ever you.”
“I love you too.” I sank into sleep with the comforting warmth of him beneath my skin and the rhythm of his heart singing me a lullaby of love.
♪ A Thousand Years by Christina Perri
Chapter 12
Dawson
Even with all the crap going on with my stalker and trying to launch a new record label, all was right with my world as long as Izzy was in my arms, her heart beating in time with mine.
Once her breathing evened out, I withdrew my cell phone from my pocket, careful not to disturb her. I shot off a quick text to Joe.
Me: Can you come in here and talk while Izzy sleeps?
His reply came in the form of the door to her hospital room easing open. He treaded silently over to my side of the bed. With a grace that should’ve been impossible for a man of his stature, he eased onto the chair I’d slept in.
“How is she?” he whispered.
“Tired. Scared. Sore.” I sighed.
“Why is she scared? Did you tell her what you suspect about your stalker?”
I hadn’t had to voice my suspicions to Joe about who was behind the damage to Izzy’s artwork or her accident. Joe shared my worries.
“I did tell her. But that’s not why she’s scared. She’s afraid I’m going to leave her.” I dragged the fingers of my free hand through my hair.
He chuckled with a nod. “She always was perceptive.”
“Yeah, too damn perceptive for my own good. You know why I’m considering putting distance between us. You know it kills me to think about it. But I have to. For her.” Why could no one understand that it might be necessary in order to keep her safe?
Songs of the Heart: Lyrical Odyssey Rock Star Series Book 3 Page 15