Trouble (Orsen Brothers #1)

by Aubrey Watts

  “Hello?” I called out. My voice was hoarse and my throat felt like sandpaper. “Is anyone there?”

  If this was purgatory it was ten times worse than anything I could have conjured up myself.

  “Good luck,” a deep voice spoke up from beside me. I craned my neck to find the source and my eyes fell on a man stretched out in a bed a few feet away from mine. His arm was in a sling and his leg was extended in a cast. He was also covered in bruises.

  “Sorry?”

  He smiled at me and held up a small remote. “I’ve been buzzing for them for awhile.”

  “Oh.” I sat up straighter and brushed my sweat drenched hair out of my face. A sour feeling bubbled in the pit of my stomach. “Well would you mind trying one more time?”

  The man laughed and gave me a peculiar look. “Sure,” he said, “but don’t I don’t think they usually just ‘release’ people who try to…well you know…”

  “Excuse me?”

  He nodded at me. “Wait, let me guess, it was an accident?”

  There was no point in trying to make conversation with him. “Fuck off,” I said, rolling my eyes and tearing my gaze from his.

  He scoffed but continued to look amused. “What’s your name?” he pressed on, sitting up in his bed.

  I tried to ignore him but his eyes burned against my face.. “Venus,” I answered dully, craning my neck to look out the door. “God, are they really not going to come?”

  “Well, Venus,” he said with a slight smile, extending his arm that wasn’t in the sling to me, “I’m Stephen.”

  I sighed and gave his hand a quick shake. “So what happened?” he asked, getting right to the point.

  “Why do you care?” I bit back, freeing myself from his grasp. I couldn’t remember signing up for a game of twenty questions.

  “Hey,” he chuckled, “I’m just making conversation. If you want to know the truth, my pain level is at about a twenty right now. Talking helps.”

  I glanced at him again. He did look pretty bad. “Car accident,” he said, appearing to read my mind. “I was t-boned by a drunk driver.”

  My fathers face flashed through my head and I swallowed hard. “Oh,” I replied, softening. My eyes focused on a crimson smudge on the tile between our beds. Was it blood or something else? “I drank too much at my younger sisters graduation party. Blacked out, I guess.”

  He nodded slowly and ran his fingers through his dark hair, pulling slightly at his roots. I took in the surroundings between us. He was connected to machines too and his IV bag was close to running dry. The deep bags beneath his dark eyes told me that he had been here a lot longer than me. I sat up and adjusted myself, flinching at the sharp pain in my abdomen. Tears welled up in the corners of my eyes but I rubbed them away with the back of my hand, not allowing them to spill over.

  An Indian man in a white coat and baby blue scrubs entered the room whistling. Stephen nodded at him and told him to help me first. I smiled and thanked him, briefly meeting his gaze.

  “So how are we doing?” the doctor spoke up, removing the stethoscope from around his neck and pressing it against my chest. “You gave us quite the scare.”

  I nodded and swallowed hard, finding my voice. “I’m fine,” I answered, watching him jot something down on his clipboard. “But my stomach is really killing me. Is there anything you can give me?”

  He shook his head. “Some cramping is normal after having your stomach pumped,” he retorted, re-adjusting the stethoscope on his neck, “we want to give your body some time to re-adjust before we give you anything for the pain.”

  Stomach pumped?

  “Venus, the state of Washington requires us to admit anyone who attempts suicide on a mandatory psychiatric hold for at least twenty-four hours. Are you aware of this?”

  What the hell?

  “Sorry,” I spoke up, interrupting him, “but I don’t know what you are talking about. I’m not suicidal. This is a misunderstanding. It was an—”

  “Accident?”

  “Yes,” I whispered, feeling defeated, “It was just an accident.”

  “Well,” He answered after a few moments, the workings of a Middle Eastern accent surfacing in his tone. “Accident or not, what matters is your health and we’d like to keep you here a little longer to monitor you. Now, I see here that you have your mother down as your emergency contact, is that information correct?”

  “Yes,” I muttered, deciding not to lie. What were the odds that Luna hadn’t already called her anyway?

  I sighed and looked over at Stephen. His eyes were glued to the television set mounted on the wall in front of us. It was on mute on some bad talk show, the kind they only ever replayed episodes of late at night, and it was clear that he was trying his best to mind his own business.

  What ever happened to doctor patient confidentiality?

  “So,” I spoke up, trying my best to sound normal despite the bomb that had exploded inside of me, “after twenty-four hours I can go, then?”

  The doctor nodded and capped his pen, sliding his clipboard back beneath his right arm. “Yes,” he answered as he reached forward to change my IV bag. “As long as we can determine that you are mentally sound enough to be discharged.”

  “Okay,” I breathed, rolling my eyes. “And what will that entail, exactly? I mean, how do you determine something like that?”

  The doctor hesitated and took a seat in the stiff armchair that separated my bed from Stephen’s. “Well,” he answered, changing out his bag as well, “you’ll meet with our on-call physiatrist in the morning and she’ll make the official call. If it was truly an accident, as you say, you should have no problem getting your release papers signed…”

  He looked back at me and pushed his glasses up on his bulbous nose, offering me a sympathetic smile. “But I can assure you, your overall mental health is our top priority.”

  He was starting to sound like some sort of infomercial.

  I looked over at Stephen again and this time he was staring back at me. He smiled at me, the corners of his lips curling upwards, his dark eyes gleaming.

  We married twelve months later. A quaint little garden wedding funded by his fathers campaign. The sky was blue that day—a rarity—but the forecast was grim and my hair quickly began to frizz up from the ever-looming prospect of rain.

  “You look beautiful,” Stephen whispered in my ear as he took my hand in his and led me onto the makeshift dance floor. The soft strum of an organ drifted through the night air as groups of people, most of whom I didn’t know, watched us sway across the courtyard.

  He wore an expensive tuxedo and patent leather shoes that kissed the tips of my kitten heels as we moved in time with each other, with his hands on my hips and mine pressed against his broad shoulders.

  I wore my hair in an elaborate style piled on top of my head, with a few loose curls framing my face, and my off-white gown brushed along the brick floor as the scent of expensive champagne wafted between us.

  I had consumed almost an entire bottle of Bollinger to get me through my nervousness. To everyone looking on, we were the perfect pair. And while marrying Stephen marked the end of one chapter of my life and the beginning of another, I still couldn’t fight off the nagging feeling in the pit of my stomach that told me it was too good to be true.

  For a moment, my eyes latched onto Luna’s and she gave me a sympathetic smile. She was standing on the sidelines taking pictures of the festivities. She, unlike my mother, acknowledged my uncertainty but supported me nonetheless.

  Even if I was making the biggest mistake of my life…

  “You aright?”

  Liam’s perplexed voice tore me from my thoughts. I blinked and looked around, regaining my composure. He leaned against the table and raised an eyebrow at me, brushing his dark hair back away from his face.

  “Sorry,” I said, waving a hand in the air. “Got distracted.”

  “Mind if I ask by what?”

  I shrugged. “My thoughts. It happe
ns from time to time.”

  He nodded slowly and took a sip of his coffee. A lapse of silence fell over us and we both distracted ourselves with our food.

  “So,” he spoke up, “you never told me what you do.”

  “Neither did you.”

  “True.” He laughed. “You’re difficult. I’ve always had a thing for difficult women.”

  A deep blush spread over my cheeks. I stared down at my lukewarm coffee and silently willed myself to regain my composure.

  “Anyway,” he continued, “I’m a miner.”

  “Mining?” I frowned and shook my head. “I didn’t know that was still a thing.”

  “Hey!” he scoffed. “I take offense to that. Just where do you think coal comes from?”

  “Sorry…”

  But he laughed and waved a hand at me. “Nah,” he said, taking another bite of his eggs, “I’m just messin’ with you sweetheart. I ain’t mining coal. I’m in the gold business.”

  “Seriously?”

  He nodded. “Started with my pops when I was about fifteen or sixteen I think. Anders did too but he never much took to it. I love it though. It ain’t easy work but that’s what gratifying about it.”

  “That’s cool,” I said, genuinely meaning it. “Can’t say I’ve ever met a gold miner before…”

  “What about you?”

  I hesitated. “Me?”

  “You work don’t you? Or let me guess—” He gave me a slow once over and my heart skipped a beat. “You’re one of them pretty stepford wife types afraid to get her hands dirty…”

  “I am not!” I retorted.

  “No?”

  “No.” I shook my head and bit down on my bottom lip. I wasn’t about to tell him that I made the bulk of my money letting my mother write contrived books about me. “I…I’m a lab technician at the university.”

  “Yeah? That your life dream?” His blue eyes burned against my face. I frowned, taken slightly aback by the impersonal questioning. No one had ever asked me that before.

  “No,” I whispered, looking out the window and gripping my mug. I flicked my tongue over my lips. My mouth felt suddenly dry and the coffee wasn’t helping. “I guess it wasn’t. I majored in English. My mother always said it was a worthless degree—which is kind of pessimistic I guess—coming from a relatively successful author. But it turns out she was right.”

  I was rambling. It was something I only ever did when I was nervous. I snapped my lips shut and kept my eyes focused on the rain.

  “You wanted to write books?”

  I shrugged and drained the last of my coffee from my mug. “Yeah. I won a few short story competitions when I was in high school…”

  “So why don’t you then?”

  I frowned and met eyes with him. “I don’t know,” I managed, “I guess I just haven’t found the time.”

  “You should,” he said. “You said your mother is successful at it. Seems like an inherited thing.”

  “Hardly.” I chuckled. “I said successful. Not good. She has a ghostwriter actually. This guy up in Seattle. She just sends him her notes and he does the rest…”

  “What are they about? Her books I mean.”

  Damn he was quick…

  A lump surfaced in my throat. That was the question I was dreading. “Um.” I waved a hand in the air. “Just psychology related stuff. She’s a therapist.”

  Liam nodded and changed the subject. Maybe he noticed I was uncomfortable. “How old are you?”

  “Guess…”

  He scratched the dark scruff on his jaw and thought for a moment.

  “Nineteen.”

  I raised an eyebrow at him, cocking my head to the side and folding my hand beneath my chin. “I’m flattered…I think. But no…I’m twenty-six.”

  “You’re still a baby.” He laughed. “I’m forty-two.”

  “What?” I exclaimed. He really didn’t look a day over thirty. “Seriously?”

  “You look surprised…”

  “Just a little,” I said, trailing my thumb along the edge of my mug. “You don’t look much older than me…”

  Liam smiled. “I’ll take that as a compliment,” he said, cracking his knuckles and leaning back against the booth.

  I latched and unlatched my hands beneath the table. I couldn’t stop thinking about Anders and his wife. The whole thing was unbelievably sad. “How long was he in prison?” I spoke up, chewing the inside of my cheek. “Your brother I mean…”

  “Oh,” Liam said, suddenly serious. He rubbed his neck and thought it over for a few moments. “Four years. He was sentenced to do twenty but because of good behavior and the fact that the murder weapon was never found…”

  I nodded, not entirely sure how to respond. The rain began to fall even harder and hit the glass in heavy sheets. Liam stabbed a fork into one of the syrup-drenched pancakes on his plate and shoveled it into his mouth. I did the same with mine, taking smaller bites.

  “Tell me something,” he spoke up, pointing at me with his fork. “Did you love him?”

  I frowned. “Who?”

  “Your husband.”

  “Oh.” I cleared my throat and flicked my tongue over my lips. “I don’t know. Does it really matter?”

  He shrugged and reached forward, securing a loose strand of hair behind my ear. His fingertips were sticky. I swallowed hard when I felt them graze against my cheek. “It should,” he breathed, his eyes burning against mine.

  My heart did a somersault in my chest. Was he aware of the affect he was having on me? “Well,” I managed quietly. I tore my eyes from his and bit down on my bottom lip. “I guess I did once…

  “What about you?”

  “Me?” he questioned with a frown, stretching his arms above his head. Two tattooed biceps came into plain view beneath his cotton t-shirt.

  “Any women in your life?”

  “Nah,” he said, lighting a cigarette and taking a slow drag of it. He offered one to me but I shook my head. Was smoking even allowed in here? I didn’t think so, but he didn’t seem to care either way. “I ain’t really the dating type…”

  “Oh,” I responded with a nod. At least he was being honest. “Right…”

  A smile etched its way across his full lips and he met eyes with me. The way he was staring at me made me hold my breath. No one had ever looked at me that way before.

  “But I guess there’s always room for an exception,” he breathed, exhaling a wave of smoke from his nostrils. “Ain’t there?”

  “Yeah.” I nodded slowly, my eyes never leaving his. “I guess so…”

  Chapter 14

  —

  “Thanks for the ride,” I said, tilting my head to look at him, “and for the breakfast.”

  He nodded and smiled at me, reaching across the console and grabbing hold of my hand. “I…” he started, rubbing his throat. He seemed to have trouble coming up with the words. There was something endearing about it—a guy like him not knowing what to say.

  “I’m glad you came,” he said after a few moments, his eyes never leaving mine.

  “Really?”

  “Yeah.” He nodded. “You ain’t quite as tight around the gills as I thought.”

  I laughed and let go of his hand, pulling my hair back away from my face. “Well, thank you,” I said. “I appreciate that.

  Something flickered in his expression. It was clear that he wanted to say something but he seemed to think better of it. I tore my gaze from his, focusing on the grey scenery around us.

  “Its nice to have someone to talk to,” he spoke up, “Anders is really all I have these days…but he ain’t much the same as he used to be.”

  “No?”

  “Nah.” He shrugged and lit a cigarette, rolling down his window.

  “Well I don’t mind listening,” I said, sensing the tension in his voice, “In fact I pay someone a lot of money to do just that…”

  “Yeah?”

  I nodded. “I go to two therapists. One is my mother so tha
t’s just—” I tossed my hands in the air and he laughed. “And…the other is this woman who thinks prescription drugs are the answer to everything. I don’t even think she really listens to what I’m saying half the time…”

  “I listen.”

  My breath caught on my throat. I studied him as he smoked, taking slow drags and exhaling through his nostrils. A few loose strands of hair stuck to his face and his clothing was damp. But it only made him all the more sexy. “What?” I whispered, finding my voice.

  “To what you’re saying.” He waved a hand at me and nodded. “I listen.”

  “Oh.” I looked down at my hands and blushed. “Well…thank you...”

  He laughed and looked back out the window, tracing his calloused pointer finger over the moisture on the glass. “So, Venus,” he spoke up, changing the subject, “Tthat wasn’t a date—which you made very clear—but if I did want to ask you on one…”

  “Yes?”

  “What would you say?” He glanced over at me and I chewed on the question for a moment. On the one hand, he was way more likable than I expected. But on the other, I was still a very married woman.

  “I don’t know,” I managed.

  “Come on,” he urged, giving me a soft nudge in the shoulder. “Breakfast was good right? Let me take you out on a date. I’ll wear a clean shirt and everything. We’ll drink wine…you can tell me why you stopped wearing your wedding ring…”

  His voice was quiet yet disarming.

  “Ok,” I breathed. “But don’t call it a date. It’s not a date.”

  “Right.” He held up his hands and ashed his smoke out the window. “Just two people getting dinner together.”

  “Right.” I climbed out of the car and approached mine, pausing to look back at him.

  “I’ll call you,” he called out to me, giving me a wink. “I programmed my number into your phone.”

  I frowned and fished it out of my purse, flipping through it until my eyes fell on his name.

  He was good.