Lying Hearts (Hearts Series Book 1)

by Faleena Hopkins

  “O’Brien. Thank you.” I wait to sit back down until after he disappears through the door. I put my head in my hands and start to cry, all the suspense I’d been holding in rushing out of me. “Oh thank God. I was so scared he would die.”

  The older gentleman pats my back. “Now that he’s okay, why don’t you get cleaned up? Maybe go home and take a nap.”

  “You’re probably right. If he saw his own blood all over my hands...”

  “Right. That might be stressful. Not good to take the chance.”

  I stare ahead, sleep deprived and moving slow. “Right. Okay. I should go.” Looking around me, I realize I don’t have my purse. Tracing my steps in my head, I exhale and slink down in my chair. “I left everything in the bar. I have no way of getting home. It’s okay. I’ll stay here and wash my hands in the bathroom sink or something. It’s okay.”

  “You live in the city?”

  I nod.

  “Here.” He reaches into his pocket and takes out a twenty and a ten. “Take this. It’ll get you home.”

  “I can’t take your money! That’s very generous of you, but I can’t!”

  “Please. Accept the help. It will make me happy. I need to feel like… I’ve helped someone today.” He reaches for my hand and presses the bills into my palm.

  I stare at him, suddenly aware that he’s here for someone, too. “Your wife?”

  He nods. “She had a stroke.”

  I say on a gasp, “Oh! I’m so sorry!”

  He struggles to reply, looks away, and pats my hand, curling my fingers closed over the gift. “Yeah. Me too.”

  I look around and see there are others here, in varying states of need. We all wish we were somewhere else, and we’re all hurting. I hate hospitals. But what would we do without them?

  “Thank you. Really, you’re a good person.” I stand up and bend to hug him. He receives the hug and pats my back like the doctor did. “I’m Annie.”

  The weight of what he’s shared is heavily on him as he introduces himself. “Doug.”

  “She’s lucky to have you, Doug.”

  He smiles faintly. “I’m the lucky one.” This breaks my heart and I don’t know what to say. He looks at my hands again. “You’ll have to wash those before you catch a cab.”

  “They probably wouldn’t stop for this, would they?”

  “Probably not.”

  I head off to clean up. When I get back, he motions for me to come over. “I called you one. It should be outside any minute.”

  “You are so amazing. Thank you!”

  He humbly shrugs. “If you don’t help someone who needs it, what good are you? And it was just a phone call. You would do the same.”

  I take that in, thanking him again, and walk out of the waiting room, tired and hungry. Shower, you’ve got your work cut out for you…

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Brendan

  Waiting for a fucking answer and knowing what the hell is coming before she EVEN opens her mouth. Because I know women.

  Rebecca’s eyes flicker. “The owner of the bar?”

  “Yes, Annie. Is she okay?”

  “She’s fine. She looked fine. She was here an hour ago and I sent her home. I assured her I would take care of you.”

  I blink, anxiety sparked, but it’s so hard to speak. “You did what? What’d she say?”

  She pauses, barely moving, surprised. She stutters when she answers, “She said ‘okay.’ And she left.” Rebecca stares at me as I close my eyes shut tight. “I asked how she knew you and she said you just met, so I thought she wasn’t important, Brendan! I’m sorry, I…”

  The look in my eyes stops her from saying more.

  Struggling against the drugs, it dawns on me that I have no way to get in touch with her. I could call the bar, I guess. Will it still be open? Will it be closed after the burglary? Is she okay? I have no way of knowing.

  “Did you get her phone number?”

  “I didn’t. I’m sorry.”

  I close my eyes again. “I want to make sure she’s okay.”

  Holding my hand, caressing it like a mother would, Rebecca says, “She’s okay. She didn’t get hurt.”

  I pull my hand away and lay it on my ribcage, a mistake. I yell out from the agony, moving it lower until I find someplace tolerable. “Where’s my phone?”

  Rebecca stands and goes to the drawer where my clothes are. I hear cloth moving and figure she must be searching pockets. “There’s only your jeans here and your socks. They must have your shoes. Your shirt was probably torn up, right?”

  I refrain from telling her I wasn’t wearing one, and she won’t find my shoes unless she goes back to the bar. Suddenly I remember. “Oh no.”

  “What?” She turns around fast.

  “I left my jacket at the bar. My phone was in it. I can’t call Mark. Fuck.”

  She walks closer, standing above me. “I can call him. What’s the number?”

  I stare at her and we both realize it at the same time. “Who knows phone numbers anymore? You just hit the button and dial.”

  She bites her lips and shakes her head. “Right. Of course. A modern problem, isn’t it?”

  “Who did you tell her you were?”

  “What?”

  I shoot her a look. “Annie. C’mon. I know you had to tell her something.”

  Struggling to admit it, she straightens. “She asked if my last name was Wells. I told her yes. Then she asked if I was your mother.”

  I stare at her, knowing the answer before I ask the question. “What did you say to that?”

  She sighs. “I told her no, that I was your girlfriend.”

  I turn my head away. “Fuck.”

  “I’m sorry. I thought you just met her and she insulted me by thinking I could be your…”

  “I understand what happened. It’s just pretty much the worst thing you could have said.” I close my eyes.

  Getting all huffy, she takes a step toward the door. “You know what Brendan? Why don’t you get some sleep. I’ll come back later when you’re not so ungrateful.”

  “Fine. Whatever.” I hear the sound of her heels as she walks out, and the door closes behind her. I’ve got an image of Annie’s stricken face when Rebecca told her that. How she would have put it together that I made her promise she wasn’t lying to me about breaking up with her boyfriend. How I told her I hate cheating. And now here Rebecca goes and plants it in her skull that she’s my girlfriend. I know Annie’s no dummy. I bet when she suggested Rebecca might be my mother it was because she was hoping she was, because she knew there was no way she could be.

  Rebecca’s a woman of beauty, presence and grace. And while Annie’s beautiful, too, I know she doesn’t know it. It’s all over her face with how humble and easily surprised she is. How grateful for a compliment. There’s a freshness to her that I really, really like. But Rebecca? She can intimidate most people just by walking into a room. I’m sure Annie saw her and was knocked over. Especially when she wouldn’t have expected anyone to be here.

  Dammit. I push the button for the nurse. Within seconds one arrives, the benefits of being a gunshot victim and nearly dying. They keep extra close tabs on you, I would imagine.

  “Did you need something?”

  “Yeah. But instead I’ll have more drugs.”

  She pauses, unsure. “Are you hurting?”

  I close my eyes. “More than you can imagine.”

  “I’ll check your chart and be right back.”

  “Thank you.” I think again of what Annie’s face must have looked like when she left, how stunned she must have been. And how I have no way of telling her I’m not the shittiest guy on the planet. Turning my head toward the window, with my eyes still shut tight against the pain, I mutter, “Unbelievable.”

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Annie

  Patience: none. Hair: still damp, in a ponytail. When: an hour ago.

  Entering the Emergency Room, I’m all cleaned up and ready to
be at Brendan’s side when he wakes up.

  A nurse of Indian descent glances up from her paperwork and straightens in her chair, wearily sizing me up. “Can I help you?”

  Calm down, Annie. He’s okay. You’ll see him soon. “Hi. Yes. Can you please tell me which room Brendan Clark is in?”

  She looks to her computer screen and clicks on the keyboard, squinting slightly, which tells me she might need glasses but is avoiding getting them or maybe has left them at home. The observation is something to fixate on. If I don’t use it, I’ll go crazy waiting for her to find him. It’s taking a lot for me not to launch myself through the window and look him up myself, and she’s not even moving slow.

  Without looking up, she asks, “Clark?”

  “Yes. Brendan Clark. He came in last night. Gunshot wound?” I don’t know if that last detail will help her, but it might.

  She discovers his name and sits upright again. I prepare myself for the worst. She’s looking at me like she’s about to say something I don’t want to hear. Visions of him dying on the surgery bed while I was in the shower stab me.

  “He’s in room 323… but visiting hours aren’t until three o’clock, so you’ll –”

  “Visiting hours? Is that all?” I smile reassuringly like it’s no big deal. “I’ll come back. No biggie. But…” I look from left to right with my finger pointing toward nowhere and everywhere. “I really need to use the bathroom. That time of the month, you know how it is.” I roll my eyes at the cross we all have to bear, and smile again, my eyebrows up and pleasant. “Which way is it?”

  She clocks me, scanning my face to see if I’m full of shit or not. Still unsure, she rises out of her chair, leaning out the little window to guide me with the point of her green-polished fingernail. “It’s down that hall, first door on your right.”

  “Thanks so much. Love your nail polish.”

  Her hand flies up to be inspected and admired. “Oh, thanks! I wasn’t sure about this color, but I think it’s fun.”

  “It is. It’s so great. Okay – have a good day!” I tap the counter, a bar habit.

  “You too!”

  Distract them with flattery, I hum to my inner impatience and step away to leave her to her paperwork. Behind me is the waiting room and the sight of it unexpectedly disarms me. It looks like a room full of seated zombies, complete with exposed, gaping wounds. The TV’s on silent, but pale and tired people stare at it like I did, desperately needing the distraction. I guess I looked like this.

  I scan for Doug, but he’s not among the faces. Is he with his wife? Did he go home? Did she? Will I never know what happened? It’s so strange how someone can come into your life, have an impact, and then never be seen again. I silently send a prayer up that they’re okay, that she survived the stroke somehow. That she isn’t in pain. That she isn’t paralyzed.

  I have to see Brendan and I have to see him now. My blood picks up speed. The green-nailed nurse’s head is down in her paperwork again and I don’t want her watching me, so I slip past quietly. My rubber-soled sneakers make it easy to slip right past the unisex bathroom without drawing attention to the fact that I’m not going in.

  From the second I turned the key and walked into my apartment, all I wanted to do was get back here. I have never showered so fast in my life. I couldn’t even bring myself to take the time necessary to dry my hair, and as I raced to put on clothes, I repeated the mantra, look your best. He deserves that after what he did for you, so that I could focus on something that would ease my heart.

  Slamming the elevator button repeatedly, I whisper to it, “C’mon. C’mon. C’mon!!!” The loud ding almost gives me a heart attack and I leap through the doors before they have a chance to fully open. I don’t know if a nurse would be so cruel as to chase me down for sneaking up to his room, so I furiously hit the button before she catches me – just in case.

  The doors shut and I exhale, leaning against the wall with the bar pressing into my back. A sliver away from freedom, a hand reaches in. I stare at it – a man’s hand – and the desire to jump forward, hit the button, and cut the damned hand right off, is pushed down and pushed down hard. I have to see his face, at least once. I can sit in the room with him until someone finds me breaking the rules, for hopefully all day and all night. I’ll do my best to make that happen.

  A man in a lab coat steps in. He’s about thirty-five or so, wearing glasses and a pleasant smile. “Hi.”

  Smile or no, he is the enemy.

  I nod curtly and suck on my lips. He reaches to press a button. I’m staring at his finger. Please don’t push ‘3.’

  His fingers hover for a second as he checks his phone. Please don’t push ‘3.’ Please don’t push ‘3.’ He pushes ‘4,’ and steps back to wait. Good. I’m getting closer to the goal. We both stare at the rising numbers lighting up. I’m successfully appearing calm, like I belong here. He looks over. “You here to see a relative?”

  I point to my ears, and shake my head.

  His awkward smile is instantly apologetic. “Oh, you’re deaf. Sorry. I don’t speak sign language.”

  I stare at him like I still don’t understand and he looks away, unsure of what to say. I’ve distracted him with this. I’m beginning to believe that, like a stealth ninja, I will successfully sneak into Brendan’s room. The third floor lights up and angels start singing, Run, Annie, run!

  “Have a nice day,” he calls after me as I scoot past him. Then he says to himself, more quietly, “She can’t hear me. I’m an idiot.”

  With my back to him, I look left and right, deciding which way to run. Is Room 323 this way or that? Thinking I can’t hear him, he calls out, “You’re ridiculously pretty!”

  Surprised, I spin around. “Really? Thank you!”

  His eyebrows fly up and the doors close.

  Oh. Oops. “Sorry! I had no choice!”

  Room 313. If Brendan’s awake, what does he remember? Room 315. Has he been as tormented as I have by images from last night? Room 317. Does he wish he’d never come back? Room 319. Is he wondering if I’m okay? Room 321. Is he even thinking of me at all?

  Room 323

  I stand in front of his door, breathing deeply to prepare myself for whatever I’m about to see on the other side. I’ve never seen someone I love after they’ve undergone surgery. I have no idea how he’s going to look, what I can expect, and I want to bring him light and hope, not fear and worry. I want him to know I’ll help him get better and stay by his side if he wants it, and leave if he doesn’t.

  Truth? I’m scared. I’m not sure how he’ll feel when he looks at me. I might be a reminder of what happened. He might just want to be alone. Some men like solitude when bad things go down. The ‘man cave’ isn’t a joke. I know this from my years with masculine Christiano, and he and Brendan have one thing in common – neither of them is feminine in any way. Besides, Brendan just thinks I’m some girl he met tonight. Someone to put behind him to make this memory slip into oblivion…and me with it.

  Will he do that?

  Annie, you can’t stand out here forever. Suck it up. Be brave. Put your hand on the knob and turn the damn thing.

  I open the door and hold my breath. It sticks in my throat when I see what awaits me inside. I freeze, very fucking confused. There’s a woman here. Why? Gorgeous, shiny dark hair cascades down her slender back as she leans forward in her chair, holding his hand and stroking it.

  My flickering eyes cut to Brendan’s face. He’s unconscious, his skin unearthly pale. My heart shatters at the sight of him this vulnerable and weak. All because of me.

  The unexpected and stunning woman turns around in what should be my chair, and stands up with all the grace of a professional ballerina. With one pointed and sweeping glance she scrutinizes me from top to bottom then back again. Suddenly I wish I’d dried my hair. This ponytail feels silly and these Converse sneakers are too young, too boyish next to her. The high-quality flowing hang of her gray slacks and black blouse, plus the expensive look
of her heels, all scream that she’s rich. Old-money wealth. The stuff I know nothing about. Her almond-shaped brown eyes are highly judgmental and she’s standing by him with the comfort of someone who’s done it a thousand times. Fuck.

  I am the first to speak, but all I can mutter is a single syllable.

  “Hi.”

  Hearing the deadness of my voice, I glance to Brendan again. I don’t like how this woman is looking at me. And the truth is, she’s in my way. I want to kiss him and thank him for what he did. Reluctantly, I look back to her and size up my options. It’s very clear she’s not going to let me near him. What the fuck.

  She raises one eyebrow ever so slightly, as though she’s practiced and perfected how to shut someone down with this one subtle movement. “Can I help you?”

  Yes. You can move.

  Suddenly I remember. “Oh! I’m so stupid. Are you Mrs. Wells?”

  She’s very surprised by the question, but the elegance with which she holds her neck high and long, doesn’t shift in the slightest. “Yes.”

  “The hospital thought I was you.” Hoping against hope, I add, “Are you his mother?” Instantly I realize I shouldn’t have spoken so soon. I should have said ‘sister,’ because her eyes steel. I open my mouth, about to apologize, but she interrupts me.

  “I’m his girlfriend.”

  Oof. A hammer-punch to the stomach robs me of speech. I look down, breathless and dizzy. My mouth opens and closes. I’m trying to speak, not to stand here like this. I try again to say something, anything, to ask questions or scream, WHAT??!

  All that comes out is a choking noise.

  “Who are you?” she asks, stepping to her left and blocking my view of his face on purpose.

  Looking around the room – at her body blocking him, at the heart monitor, at the dark TV screen – my eyelashes flap like frantic butterflies caught in a fatal web.