“Listen up,” my nurse says. “Elle doesn’t need this stress right now. I’m not allowing anyone who upsets her to stay in this room.”
“But I’m her mother!”
“I don’t care. She’s an adult, and she’s recovering from some serious injuries.” The nurse folds her arms over her chest.
Mom folds her arms right back. “She asked her father and me to stay close.”
“I needed you guys close when I didn’t know what was going on, and it meant everything that you were here,” I say. “But right now, I just want Chloe.”
The look of horror my mom gives me would be funny if this situation wasn’t so not funny. “You want us to leave?”
My dad rises from the recliner and folds up the newspaper he’s reading. “We understand, Ellie. There’s a hotel nearby. We’ll check in there, and you can call us if you need us.”
My mom turns the look of horror on him. Rarely does my father speak up, but when he does, he means business. She clamps her mouth shut and turns to me.
“Am I allowed to come visit tomorrow?” she asks in a wounded tone.
“I’d love that, Mom. And I love you guys. I’m just overwhelmed right now.”
My dad comes over and leans down to kiss my bandaged forehead. “We love you, too, honey. Rest up today.”
Tears of gratitude well in my eyes. My dad has always been my protector. He knows my mom in the same way I do. She has a big heart but can be a bit much.
“You’ll stay with her?” Mom asks Chloe.
“Yes, I promise. I can sleep in the recliner.”
After a sigh and a dejected expression she makes sure the entire room sees, Mom lets Dad put his arm around her shoulders and steer her out of the room.
As soon as the door closes behind them, I relax back against the inclined bed.
“Yikes,” Chloe mutters. “Momager in the house.”
“No kidding. I thought we were past all that.”
Chloe sits back down in her chair. “She feels helpless. I think she wants to feel like she’s doing something, you know?”
“Yeah.”
“You should have seen her when you were in the coma. She was practically climbing the walls. Interrogating the doctors about their qualifications.”
“Oh, no.” I cringe and close my eyes. “She didn’t.”
The nurse, still in the room, laughs. “She did. Apparently, she googled surgery techniques and asked for a sit-down with your surgeons to . . . I guess, interview them.”
My few notes of laughter are unsurprised but still amused. “I’m so sorry. She can be overbearing.”
The nurse waves a hand. “Nothing we haven’t handled before.” She approaches the table by my bed and lifts the pitcher to make sure it has water. “Elle, is there anything I can get you? Are you hungry?”
“Maybe some cranberry juice? And can I brush my teeth?”
“Sure can. Be right back.”
She leaves the room, and Chloe passes me her cell phone. “Colin’s been texting me every day to see how you are. He’s sent a dozen roses every day, too.”
“Aw, every day?” I look down at her phone and scan through the messages. “That’s sweet of him.”
“I stopped accepting the flower deliveries on the second day you were here. I’m saving the cards but donating the flowers to other patients here. There’s no room in here for all the flowers that are coming in.”
“That’s a good idea.” I look around the room. “Do you know where my phone is?”
“I’ve got it.” Chloe picks up her bag from the floor and reaches into it. “It’s charged,” she says, passing it to me.
“Thanks.”
I look down at my iPhone in its bright blue case and shake my head. I’m usually so attached to this thing, and I haven’t even looked at it for an entire week. It’s like I was gone from the world for most of that time.
“You think I should call him?” I ask, thinking out loud as I scroll through missed text messages from pretty much everyone who has my number.
“Colin?” Chloe asks.
“Yeah. We mostly text, but . . . considering I was in a coma and all . . . I don’t know, maybe a call?”
“You could try him. He keeps his phone off when they’re filming or when he’s sleeping. He’s been texting me at the same time every day, which is early afternoon our time.”
“Where is he filming, again?” I know I knew where he was before, but it’s one of the things I’m still foggy on.
“Brazil.”
I nod and set my phone down on the bed, my mind wandering from Colin to the reason I’m here. “Hey . . . did the police catch the guy who did this to me?”
Chloe’s expression answers my question. Her lips are set in a grim line.
“Not yet. There was DNA recovered from . . . from under your nails, actually, and they were able to identify him. They still want to talk to you when you’re up to it. They know who they’re looking for, and I saw on the news that he was spotted in Nebraska.”
I breathe out an unexpected sigh of relief. So he’s far from here. That’s something.
“Elle—” Chloe’s voice breaks as she says my name. She looks down and clears her throat.
The nurse walks in right then, bringing me juice with a straw in it and supplies to brush my teeth. Since I’m in no shape to get out of bed, I have to swish with a drink of water and spit into a small plastic barf pan. But it feels amazing to have clean teeth again.
As soon as the nurse leaves the room, Chloe takes a deep breath and meets my eyes. “I want you to know how sorry I am,” she says, her voice thick with emotion.
I hate seeing her so upset. “You have nothing to be sorry for,” I say firmly. “Don’t make yourself—”
“I do, though. If I had just gone into that bathroom with you—”
“Chloe, no. Don’t do this to yourself.”
She brushes tears away from her cheeks. “I should have been there. I’ve been with you long enough to know you should never be alone.”
“But I’m the one who chose to go in there alone.”
She shakes her head, and I can see from her expression that this is tearing her up inside. The pain in my leg seems to be getting worse by the second and I’m feeling worn out already, but I can’t let this subject drop.
“Chloe, the guy who attacked me . . . he’s not right.” My heart pounds as I say the words. “He’d been following me for a while. And if he hadn’t gotten me in the bathroom, it would have been somewhere else.”
“But I could have been there. I should have been. I just think constantly about how close I was, just doing stupid shit while you were . . .” She stops talking and puts a hand over her mouth, a sob breaking free.
“You didn’t know.” I want to hug her, but I can hardly move. “Please don’t feel guilty. I’m the one who wanted to go in there alone, and if you’d been with me, he might have hurt both of us.”
“I was so scared, Elle. You were . . . It was really bad.”
She’s so shaken up that I can tell I was lingering between life and death. I’d suspected, but now I know.
“Were you the one who found me?” I ask softly.
She shakes her head and looks at the floor. “It was a guy named Justin. He saw Gary Beasley walking out of the bathroom and told the cops he didn’t like the look of him. He carried you out to wait for the ambulance, and—”
“He rode here with me, in the back of the ambulance,” I murmur. “I don’t know how I know that, but I remember.”
“Yes, he did. I wanted to go, but they left so fast . . .”
I close my eyes in a half cringe. “This guy Justin . . . did he go to the press?”
“I don’t think so.”
For the first time, the gravity of what this means to my career really sets in. “How bad is the news coverage?”
Chloe shrugs. “You don’t need to be worrying about that.”
“Just tell me. Is it everywhere?”
“No one’s leaked details of your condition.”
“But there are reporters chomping at the bit, right?”
She smiles. “Elle . . . reporters are chomping at the bit to cover you changing your hair color, so . . . yeah.”
“At least I’m safe from them here.” I lean back against my bed.
“Do you want me to find the guy who saved you and make him an offer? I could have Shawn draw something up today.”
My attorney Shawn has drawn up confidentiality agreements for me before. But the thought of him and some stranger discussing the details of my near-death is too much.
Fuck this guy Gary Beasley. He’s taken so much from me already, and now I have to consider paying people not to sell the story to the press. Do I pay off the paramedics, too? The hospital staff?
“No,” I tell Chloe. “If he wants his fifteen minutes of fame, let him have it.”
“You should rest. We can talk more later.”
I hear Chloe sit down in the recliner and then silence settles over the room. It’s nice, because right now, I don’t want to talk to anyone about anything.
Justin
IT’S STILL DARK OUTSIDE when I turn off the alarm on my phone and roll out of bed to go for a run. Since I’m at my desk doing research most of the day, I like to get in a workout before work.
There’s a missed text on my phone from last night at 10:35 p.m.
Angela: Hey . . . wanna hang out?
I feel a pang of regret that I missed it by going to bed early, but it fades fast. Angela is a physical therapist I’ve taken out a couple of times, and she’s sexy as fuck. She’s pretty, laid-back, and easy to talk to. I like her, but there’s something missing. I don’t think about her when we aren’t together. I still look at other women. And while I can tell Angela wants more than our casual arrangement, I don’t, so I guess I need to let her know that.
She’s almost too easy to talk to. Every joke I make is “hilarious,” she’s available every time I ask, and she offers herself up as a booty call anytime I want. I prefer women who view themselves as a prize. A woman I can fuck after the first date is good, but a woman who makes me wait for it is intriguing.
From my weather app, I can tell it’s cold outside, so I wear warm pants, two shirts, and a hat for my run. The industrial smell of the city hits me as soon as I step outside. There’s more scenery here, but I like my morning runs in Lovely, where I can smell the cinnamon rolls at the bakery when I pass it before sunrise.
It’s not Angela I’m thinking about as I log five miles, but Elle. The news is still filled with speculation about her condition. I thought the reporters would eventually get sick of not having anything substantiated, but it seems to have made them even more frenzied. Media trucks are camped out at the hospital Elle’s in, but some reports are starting to circulate that she was moved somewhere else or will be soon.
Crazy as I know it is, I need to lay eyes on her. Just once. I need to see for myself that the woman who nearly bled to death in my arms is alive and well. I figure I’m on a list with millions of people who want to see her right now, though.
I’ve called the hospital a couple times, but I got shut down immediately. And even though I know the same thing will happen if I show up there, I have to at least try. If I don’t, who knows how long thoughts of Elle and the attack will keep me up at night. If she gets moved to another hospital, I’ll have no shot at seeing her.
After my run, I take a hot shower and dress in a dark suit, white dress shirt, and red tie. After a stop for a quick breakfast at a café, I pass the cluster of reporters and news trucks in a roped-off area and head into the main entrance of the hospital.
The reception desk stretches across a wall in the open lobby, which is flooded with light and has a large fountain. I approach the woman sitting there, who gives me a friendly smile.
“Good morning,” I say, smiling back. “I’m looking for Elle Tyler.”
Her smile drops away, and she points at a sign propped up on the desk. It says all media inquiries must call hospital communications staff and lists a phone number.
“I’m not with the media, ma’am,” I assure her.
She arches her brows skeptically and eyes my suit.
“I’m an attorney.” I pat the pockets of my suit jacket and pants, trying to think of some way to prove my identity. “My Missouri bar ID card,” I say, taking out my wallet, removing the card and passing it to her.
She lowers her brows, shakes her head, and hands the card back. “Even if you aren’t a reporter, I can’t help you. No one is allowed admission to that wing.”
I blow out a breath in frustration. “Sure, I get that. You can’t have strangers coming in here and getting to see her. But I’m not really a stranger.”
Her brows are back in the air. “You know her, huh?” The receptionist’s tone is loaded with disbelief.
“Uh . . . well, you might say that.”
“Might?”
I give her my most charming smile. “If you could just call her room and ask? Maybe?”
She lets out a hum that’s half grunt. “I can call her people. Who should I say is here?”
“Justin Lockhart, ma’am. And, thanks.”
A light of recognition flickers across her face as she picks up the phone cradle. “I saw you in the pictures. You’re the one who rescued her.”
“Not really. I just got her to the ambulance.”
She smooths back her dark, gray-streaked curls. “You should have told me who you are, sweetie.” Someone answers the phone, and she turns her attention to them, telling them my name.
By the way she says, “Okay” and “Thanks” to the person on the other end of the line, I can’t tell how the call went. I shift my feet, hoping for the best.
“Someone is coming down to see you,” she says. “If you go down the hallway to your left and wait by the elevator, she’ll meet you there.”
I thank her and head toward the hallway, nearly there when a voice calls out, “Justin!”
I stop and turn toward the woman running up to me.
“Justin Lockhart?” she asks breathlessly.
She’s a tiny twenty-something, maybe five foot two, and her eyes are sparkling with interest as she looks up at me.
Before I can even answer, she says, “I knew it was you! I knew it! My cameraman owes me ten bucks.”
A reporter. I should have known. With a groan, I turn back toward the hallway.
“No, wait!” she calls from behind me. “If I could just get one quote . . . please?”
When I don’t respond, she keeps trying. “Are you here to see Elle? How’s she doing?”
She’s chasing after me, and I’m grateful for the security guard who stops her when I get to the hallway. I hadn’t even considered that reporters would recognize me from the photos taken as I waited for the ambulance.
I’m shaking my head in disgust as I stalk down the hallway, and I’m caught off guard when a blond woman calls out my name.
“Mr. Lockhart, over here.” She’s standing beside the elevator, looking toward the hallway with a wary expression.
I remember her from that day at the Marquis. She was the one who called the ambulance and stood next to me crying as I waited for help to arrive.
“I’m Chloe Michaels. Elle’s assistant.”
After a quick nod, she pushes the “up” button on the elevator. When the doors open, she gestures for me to follow her inside.
“Did any reporters see you?” she asks as soon as the doors are closed.
“One. But a hospital security guard stopped her in the lobby.”
“What did you tell her?”
“The reporter?” I give her a puzzled look. “Nothing.”
“Nothing at all? Or nothing important?”
“Nothing at all.” I clear my throat. “So how’s Elle doing?”
Chloe shoots a side-eyed dirty look at me. Then she just stares straight ahead at the elevator door.
“
Can I see her?”
She sighs softly. “I don’t think it’s a good idea.”
“Then where are we going?”
The elevator doors open, and she steps out. “To talk.”
She leads the way down another hallway, and we ride a second elevator. We end up in a small room with a round table and four chairs. There’s a dry-erase board on the wall with a rudimentary drawing of some medical procedure.
I pull out a chair and sit down across from Chloe. She folds her hands on the table and takes a deep breath.
“We all appreciate what you did for Elle more than I can say. You saved her life. And we’re grateful you haven’t gone to the media.”
I shake my head. “I’m not that kind of guy.”
“Well . . . no one thinks they’re that kind of guy, but the more time that passes with no information about Elle being released, the more media outlets will be willing to pay for it.”
“It’s not about the money,” I assure her. “I’m not thrilled with the reporters hounding me night and day. I’d never bring them down on someone else.”
“They followed Elle’s every move before, though. Always have. And this . . .” She gestures a hand in the air, searching for words. “She’s safe here. Protected from scrutiny she doesn’t need right now.”
“I understand.”
Chloe holds my gaze across the table. “Everyone here who has anything to do with her treatment has signed a confidentiality agreement. Even the person who cleans her room.”
I nod. “I’m an attorney. I get it.”
“She has a smartphone. And if I let you go in there, and you tell anyone about—”
“I won’t.”
“You might not even do it on purpose,” Chloe says, her tone rising with impatience. “But if you tell a friend you saw her, that friend might tell someone else, and . . . that’s how information leaks. I’ve been with Elle for a while now, and I’ve seen it happen on small stuff. With this . . .”
I can tell from Chloe’s helpless expression that she means well. She wants to protect Elle.
“You want me to sign something? I’ve got no problem with that.”
She sighs heavily. “You’ll have to. But even then . . .”
I lean my elbows on the table and offer her a reassuring smile. “I’m not an opportunistic asshole. I’m not here to gape at her. It’s just that I haven’t been able to get her off my mind. The news reports all say different things—”
Hidden Depth (Lockhart Brothers Book 4) Page 4