Beyond Broken

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Beyond Broken Page 3

by Kristin Vayden


  “So you’re telling me to man up?” He raised an eyebrow. “Do you even understand what I’m going through here? I mean, really? Damn.”

  “I can’t tell you to do anything. I’m saying you should want to ‘man-up’ as you put it. I can’t do any of this for you. This is all you.” I shrugged, not at all surprised at his reaction. He was the alpha male, and certainly not used to a stranger invading his personal life. I don’t know what it was about him that made me so honest. It was like his gaze removed any filter I had, piercing my heart, removing all my common sense.

  “It would sure be a hell of a lot easier if—”

  “You could finish that sentence with any number of things, but none of them will help you. You made some wrong decisions. You’re paying for them. Here’s where you get to make a few right ones.” I clicked off my iPad and tucked it under my arm. “I’ll be back shortly to check on you. Stay on your feet as much as possible.”

  With that, I walked out of the room. If there was one thing Greyson Bentley needed, it was the truth. With me, he wasn’t going to get anything else.

  ****

  After the first few days of following much of the same routine, I arrived to find Dr. Solomon was waiting for me.

  “Miss Holton, I’d like to speak with you about our patient, Mr. Bentley.” His expression was serious and he motioned to an empty table and chairs nearby.

  I nodded and followed him, tucking a few stray caramel-colored hairs behind my ear that refused to stay in my ponytail.

  “I was just made aware that you were not briefed on Mr. Bentley’s case. For that I apologize. It was an oversight on my part, and I simply assumed Regina filled you in. Since I just checked on him and he’s sleeping, I’d like to take a moment to review his file with you.” At my nod he continued.

  “I take it you’re aware of his personal history…” Dr. Solomon regarded me with those crystal blue eyes as if I should know something.

  Ugh! I had completely forgotten to do any research.

  “Actually, I’m not familiar with any personal history, aside from what I was able to read in his file earlier. Although I must say, now that I think about it, the name sounds vaguely familiar.” I felt my brow furrow in confusion. Why hadn’t I realized that earlier?

  “Perhaps that is why you are best suited for this case then.” He pulled out his reading glasses and placed the bold black frames on his face while logging into his iPad. “Mr. Bentley is in his first week of detox from cocaine, among other things. You’ve seen the side effects of the withdrawals, and today it’s about the same. I expect that he’ll continue to have them for the next ten to fourteen days, depending on how his body reacts.” He shrugged and leaned back, regarding me with slightly narrowed eyes. “Cocaine, as you know, has a shorter period of detox than something like heroin. While Mr. Bentley will no longer need to be under the Center’s twenty-four hour care, he’ll still be required to attend group counseling and other therapy of that nature after his withdrawal symptoms are gone and he’s been discharged.”

  “Is there anything out of the ordinary I should be aware of?” I asked after a moment.

  “Miss Holton,” Dr. Solomon took off his glasses and leaned back. “There is one thing that concerns me. You see, while I’m sure you are aware of the erratic behavior and emotional volatility of someone in Mr. Bentley’s situation, I highly doubt you’ve ever experienced it from someone like him. You see, he’s the type of man who is accustomed to… getting what he wants. His determination to have you as his private care nurse concerns me because, though clearly weakened and suffering, Mr. Bentley is still quite compelling. I feel it wise to warn you against developing any attachment.”

  “I appreciate your concern, but I highly doubt—”

  “Please.” He held up his hands to halt any interruption. “All I’m asking is that you remain on guard because there is far more to that man than what you’ve seen so far.” He leveled a solemn look as he regarded me, waiting for my response.

  “I understand, sir.” I swallowed, a mix of fear and curiosity stirring inside of me.

  “Thank you, that’s all I ask. Now…” Dr. Solomon put his glasses back on and began to describe Mr. Bentley’s schedule for the day and where and when I’d need to assist him.

  “Thank you, Dr. Solomon.” I stood once he clicked off his iPad.

  “Of course.” He gave me a boyish grin, showing off his white smile and strode away.

  I turned and glanced toward Greyson’s door.

  Who are you?

  I knocked lightly so I wouldn’t wake him if he were still asleep. After all, I had other rounds to make but his care was my priority assignment.

  “Come in.” His voice was weak, so quiet I almost missed it.

  I walked in quietly and regarded the room. All the windows were shut tightly and I knew by the smell that he had entered into the second stage of vomiting and more flu-like symptoms. With a fortifying breath, I strode forward and began to look for him. It took a minute for my eyes to adjust to the darkness, but soon I noticed light coming from the bathroom.

  “Hello? Mr. Bentley?” I called softly, knowing any loud noises would either cause anxiety or a headache.

  “Here. I’m here in hell. Do me a favor and find me a gun,” he mumbled against the tub as he leaned against it. The bathroom was spacious, reminding me more of a home than rehab center. But that’s what made Willow and Oak different; they approached the recovery with a setting that mimicked a home environment. Though right now, in Greyson’s state, I doubt he noticed.

  I cleared my throat and walked in. He opened his eyes slightly and watched me, but didn’t move.

  “No guns,” I murmured as I reached out. “I’m going to take your pulse then your temperature, okay?”

  “Fine. Do you have a knife?”

  “No,” I said as I counted on my watch. Still an erratic pulse.

  “Sharp object?”

  “I have nothing you can use to harm yourself, Mr. Bentley,” I responded with a professional demeanor, trying to be patient.

  “Butter knife from the kitchen?” He opened his eyes and gave me a pleading expression.

  “No, but thanks for the heads up. I’ll remove those, along with the forks. Anything else I should know about?” I stood and leaned back against the countertop.

  “Shit,” he mumbled, then with lightning speed hauled himself to the toilet and dry heaved.

  A basket of fresh towels and washcloths sat next to the sink. After selecting a washcloth, I ran it under the warm water. When he finished I handed it to him, watching his body tremble.

  “Thanks,” he whispered as he wiped his mouth and face.

  “When was the last time you ate anything, Mr. Bentley?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Drank any water?” I asked, my eyes narrowing.

  “Just to throw it back up? Yeah, not a good idea.”

  “Better than dry heaving. Your body will actually absorb some of it rather than cause you to become severely dehydrated.”

  “Do you always have to have a smart answer for everything? Damn annoying,” he muttered resting his head against the toilet seat.

  “No, not always.”

  “I can’t wait to see that.”

  “When did the vomiting start?” I asked, pulling out my temperature gage.

  “I don’t know. Probably about two a.m. Sorry, but I didn’t keep track of how many times I lost it,” he replied in a sarcastic tone. “I fell asleep in the bathroom then hauled my ass to bed around seven. What time is it now?” He rubbed his face and gave me a bloodshot gaze.

  “Eight-thirty.”

  He groaned and clenched his stomach. I reached for a glass and filled it with lukewarm water. “I have an idea. I’m not sure it will work, but if it does you’ll be in better shape than you are now.” He didn’t respond, so I just left, and headed to the main cafeteria.

  Sunshine poured through a bank of windows and splashed across the polished
white tile of the cafeteria. Breakfast was over and the place was deserted, so it was easy to locate the condiment counter. I grabbed a handful of salt packets, knowing I probably wouldn’t need that many, but better safe than sorry.

  “I’m coming in, Mr. Bentley,” I said as I entered his suite. He hadn’t moved from his earlier position, but his eyes opened slightly and watched me with a wary expression.

  “What’s with the salt?” His voice was thick from exhaustion.

  “Your current condition is a lot like the flu. An old trick is to drink salt water if you’ve been throwing up frequently. You’ll end up vomiting the salt water, but it will have balanced your stomach pH, and usually you won’t vomit again for a while, giving us a chance to hydrate you.” I shook the packet and emptied it into the water, swirling the cloudy liquid till it cleared.

  “That’s your great idea?” he asked in a mocking tone.

  “Yes. If it works, you can thank me later. If it doesn’t, then well, you’re no worse off, are you? In fact…” I handed him the glass and he stared at it dubiously. “…it will feel much better to actually vomit something rather than just wish you could.” I leaned back against the counter again and waited.

  He took a little sip. “It tastes like shit.” He made a disgusted face.

  “Most medicine does.”

  “Fine.” He gave me an annoyed expression but drank the water, wincing the whole time.

  He handed me the glass. “How long will it take?”

  “My best guess is anywhere from five to thirty minutes.”

  “In hell,” he mumbled. “Whatever you say, just add ‘in hell’ to the end of it. You know, like when you read a fortune cookie and you tag ‘in bed’ at the end. Only this is hell.”

  “Or not.” I clicked on my iPad and began to enter in his current information.

  “What. Is. Your. Problem?” He bit off each word.

  “Do you want me to feel sorry for you? Treat you like a delicate doll and make a big scene over your aches and pains? What do you want me to do?” I asked, setting my iPad down and crossing my arms.

  “I don’t need your sympathy.” A scowl darkened his features, giving him a menacing expression.

  “I didn’t offer it.” I said, shrugging.

  “Good. I don’t need anything from you, from anyone.” He sank against the side of the tub and heaved a large sigh.

  “Okay. But—” I cut myself off. No good would come from my next words.

  “But what?”

  I could see he was eager for my words, wanting a chance to fight and be angry.

  “Nothing. How are you feeling? Is the nausea beginning to—”

  “What?” he shouted, throwing the washrag at the mirror directly behind me. It landed with a splat on the blue tile of the countertop. “Don’t sit there with your better-than-me shit and tell me it’s nothing. You have something to say, say it.”

  His chest was heaving under his emotional outburst. His gaze was angry, but there was a vulnerable edge that confused me.

  “Mr. Bentley—”

  “Greyson,” he ground out as he rubbed the back of his neck.

  “Greyson…I, er, tend to speak without thinking. In this case, I actually stopped myself from speaking out of turn. I don’t know you or your history aside from what’s in your medical chart. I don’t know your personal struggles or what led you down the road that brought you, quite literally, to your knees. But I do know that you’re feeling sorry for yourself, and complaining about your situation will not benefit you or anyone else. You’re suffering, yes. But it’s a consequence of the choices you've made. And sadly, you’re paying dearly for making the wise choice and quitting the drugs, but that doesn’t eliminate the consequences for the poor choice you made in the first place to use them. For you to seem… surprised at your discomfort and pain is… surprising.” I released a deep breath and waited.

  “You don’t know me.”

  “You’re right. I don’t.”

  He opened his mouth to speak, but his eyes grew wide and rather he barely made it to the toilet before he lost all the salt water he had just drank. I took out a new washcloth, making a mental note to request more from housekeeping, and ran it under the warm water. I handed it to him again and he took it.

  “Go,” he whispered.

  “Away?” I finished.

  He nodded, directing a hateful glower in my direction. “Now.”

  With another shrug, I picked up my iPad, walked out of the bathroom and then out of the suite. Guilt washed over me. There had been no grace, no mercy in my words, but my head warred against my heart over what I should have done differently.

  Greyson didn’t strike me as the type who was open to any opinion other than his own. Could I have been kinder? Definitely. But if I had, he likely wouldn’t have understood. Judging by his reaction, he comprehended what I said, but even more clearly, he didn’t appreciate it. I shook my head and went to attend my other patients, making a note to visit housekeeping and then check back with Greyson in a few hours.

  ****

  Sometime later, I knocked on his door once more, hoping he had calmed down since our last encounter. “Hello? Mr.— er… Greyson?”

  No answer. After opening the door slowly, I poked my head in and scanned the room. The housekeeping staff had cleaned it, and a light scent of lemon hung in the air. Greyson was sprawled out on his bed on his back with one foot hanging over the edge. The anger and tension in his expression were absent as he slept. Rather, while his jaw was covered in stubble, giving him a dark look, he appeared more relaxed and free. Covering my mouth, I stifled a chuckle at the odd way his dark brown hair stuck up in crazy directions. But nothing took away from the perfection of his face. In that moment I could almost imagine him whole, healed, and past the pain that gripped him so tightly.

  “It’s not polite to stare,” he mumbled then rolled over. After blinking a few times, his gaze focused on me.

  “I wasn’t staring, I was evaluating.”

  “Do you ever switch off the ‘nurse’ button?” Blowing out a long slow breath he raised an eyebrow.

  “When I’m at home.”

  “Remind me to visit you there.”

  “Remind me to never give you my address.”

  At this he chuckled, the sound was deeply masculine and alluring. It caught me completely off guard.

  “I knew I liked you.” He sat up in bed and stretched. His arms were long and lean, with several tribal tattoos covering his biceps. His stomach was tight with ridged muscle, and his shoulders bunched when he relaxed then rolled them. Averting my eyes, I pulled out my iPad, thankful for his surly demeanor and moody behavior. It was easier to be around him when the attitude overshadowed the perfect body.

  “Thanks, by the way.” His soft words caught me off guard.

  “For?” I glanced back to him. He was on his side, propped up by his elbow. A slight smile teased his full lips.

  “The salt water worked. As much as I really hate to admit it.”

  “You’re welcome.” My face heated and I glanced back down to my iPad. Blood roared in my ears blocking out the sound of him rising from bed.

  “Taking notes on me?” His voice was close, too close and I glanced up into his eyes as they studied me.

  “Yes, actually.” My heart jumped at the unfathomable emotions swirling in his eyes. I told myself it was because he startled me, nothing more.

  “All the women do.” He winked and walked to the closet.

  Cue attitude. I was thankful for the remark as it eliminated any slight attraction I felt.

  “Or so you think,” I responded with a grin.

  “Or so they say.”

  “Do you think you can stomach anything to eat? For sure you need to drink something.”

  He began to take off his sweatpants and I quickly turned away, a blush heating my face.

  “No food, yet. I’d kill for a Red Bull right now.”

  “That’s a no on the Red Bull. How a
bout water?” I offered, still turned away.

  “You’re no fun.”

  “I never said I was.”

  “She has a point,” he mumbled. “You can turn your innocent little head around now. I’m decent.”

  “Thank you. I’ll be back soon with your drink.”

  “A nurse and a waitress.”

  “An attitude and… wait. That’s all you’ve got,” I responded with a smile and walked away.

  “Shit, I’ve got more than that!” Greyson called out just before the door closed behind me.

  Chapter Three

  When I got home that night, the first thing I did was grab my laptop.

  “How was work?” Bekah asked as she plopped on the couch next to me, offering me a bag of chips.

  “Interesting. Hey, have you ever heard of Greyson Bentley?” I asked carefully. I knew I couldn’t disclose to her who was under my care.

  “Like, Greyson Bentley, the rich and famous one? Or the guy with the same name that works at Java Jumper down the street?” she asked, watching me curiously.

  “The famous one…” I opened up my browser and began to type his name into the search engine.

  “If you meet him, let him know I’m single.” She winked and got up, heading to her room.

  Immediately my computer was overloaded with images of Greyson. I clicked on the Wikipedia link and began to read.

  Greyson Smithsonian Bentley, CEO of Bentley International Transports and Jetliners.

  Okay, that was not what I expected. Greyson, a CEO? I tried to wrap my head around it, the idea of Greyson in a power suit. The control idea was easy to grasp, but everything else, was just too much. I continued to read.

  At the untimely death of his father, Silas Bentley, Greyson Bentley assumed control over the large international company. He has continued the legacy of his father by maintaining the profitability of the company with only one dramatic drop in stock prices over the course of five years.

 

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